Froggacuda's Weblog

They came to Opar individually, from all corners of the continent, and never left. Today you can see pieces of their work throughout this part of the Land. It was ten years ago that the Temple of Elemental Evil reared its head again, and the fortress-sanctuary that was the master stronghold cast its Evil spell over the good people that walked the earth.
An unknown priest founded a small temple on the river that flows North to the Inland Sea. Halfway between the seaport of Klin’Shai and the village of Opar, this temple brought forth a town in little time. The majority of Khasvana’s inhabitants were unsavory types, from brigands to Humanoids: Bugbears, Goblins, Orks and others. The Temple began a new project: their future home and sanctuary, one that reflected their growing power and the multitudes of new worshipers. Materials were brought from many locations, and the craftsmen worked through the night every night for three years to complete the structure. Khasvana profited from traffic to the Temple, and the Temple welcomed anyone caring to stay in Khasvana. At least, many more persons came to Khasvana than ever left the town.
Merchants passing through Khasvana started relaying reports of brigands sacking whole caravans, then of Humanoid bandits riding as far as Klin’Shai to pursue those who managed to escape. Nearby Opar was silently taken without resistance by a force of Bugbears from the quietly captured Moathouse of the Baron Karza. The Temple network expanded to Klin’Shai, and the capital of the region, Chardonnay. For three years, the Temple was the true force behind the politics of Chardonnay, before a letter was passed to the wrong guard. From the guard, the letter reached the hands of the Count of Chardonnay, and three days later, a force of Calvary was dispatched to the Temple gates.
The Calvary never returned, and several despicable murders later in the capital, the Count decided to send North for assisstance, which he did receive. An army of heroes descended upon the Temple of Elemental Evil, and, after laying siege to it for two weeks, they broke the gates in the wall and the hideous brass doors, flooding the Temple. The leaders of the expedition, perhaps even the Count himself, may only know what went on in the Temple in those last minutes of the battle, but speculation has it that several Demons appeared in order to defend the Temple from “desecration”, and when they fell, a Being from another realm was awakened…and released.
Despite the Beast’s protections and strength, the Heroes drove it back into the Temple, sealing it shut with mighty magics, and, it is rumoured, the seal of St. Cuthbert himself. The organization that surrounded the Temple was systematically destroyed, and the sealing was supposed to be the death-blow for the Evils that drove the Temple from the dreams of madmen to a reality. But Evil is a more resilient foe than ever you think. Seventy five years later, a party of common adventurers, questing for gold and treasures, explored the ruins of the Karza Moathouse. What they found led them straight to the adventures that left these scars upon the landscape, these fortifications around Opar, and this time of peace upon the Land.

They had conglomerated in the Tavern of the Inn, the Queasy Centipede, in Opar. One by one, they assembled mysteriously, out of the dust of the road and the shadows of the nearby hills, as adventuring types are wont to do. Sometimes it is as if they can smell it, or feel it in their bones. I watched them all from behind the bar, cleaning my countertop while listening to them, and observing them.
Truly the first adventurer to appear did not appear to be an adventurer of any kind. Father Ezekiel Dowland was a new acolyte at the Church of St. Cuthbert in Opar, and was a favorite of the Monsignor of the Church, Isiah Crowley. Sean Murdoch was the first adventurer that I spotted, though. He came from Chardonnay to assist Rufus Gamboa and Burne Thappalgesic (the local representatives of the Count) with the construction of the Keep that was to strengthen Opar. He would be, I guess, their sergeant. Father Crowley took a liking to him immediately, and they would have long religious debates in the Tavern over foamy mugs of homebrew.
Boomclad Rockbottom the Dwarf was unmistakably an adventurer, but his gold was as good as his thirst was unquenchable. He was the first creature to have bested the local Brewmeister ever in liquid combat. They, of course, became good friends and re-enacted their epic battle nightly except for Sundays.
Cormac Mac Cain arrived soon after Sean Murdoch; they were old friends, I guess, and Cormac soon became a favorite in Opar, tracking through the woods and wilderness nearby and bringing back to town game and resources. His courting of farmers’ daughters, however, was not as appreciated by the locals.
Abu Dabu Dabu Day, the Bendarian, was some sort of magician in his own land — I just called him a Wizard. He was passing through one day, and he decided to stay to do some studies. He liked tea, really hot, and I had to keep a kettle going for him almost night and day.
Kleptus, the thief, although nobody ever caught him, was as good as his name might suggest. He said he was a Merchant from the Little People, but what a Halfling Merchant was doing with no goods to sell and no money to buy them, I’m not sure. Anyways, he grafted to the party quickly, smelling treasure.
Yorl the Wanderer was a Monk of St. Cuthbert, travelling the roads and preaching the faith. Happening upon Opar, he conversed with Monsignor Crowley, asking for a period of rest and meditation, and a simple cell to reside in in the Church. He was usually found at the Church itself, but would come to the Inn with Father Dowland upon occasion.
Miss Natasha made quite a wake when she arrived; she was a headstrong young lady who had studied quite a bit of magic, and was defying her father by “going out” to adventure. Pretty, she wheedled her way into the graces of the bar patrons rather easily.
Sister Tourmaline Ness came down from the slight hill that the Church of St. Cuthbert rests on once, and since then, has returned many times, competing with Abu Dabu Dabu Day for the Chess Crown of Opar, a title which she herself devised. A Priestess of our lord St. Cuthbert, Tourmaline was another young member of the flock who had been sent from Chardonnay to Opar for a stint of duty.
The last member who joined the adventurers setting out for the Moathouse was Iolo the Minstrel. After receiving a smaller monetary appreciation than he expected from the customers here at the Inn, he decided to accompany the adventurers to see if he could increase his funds.

One Saturday evening in the Tavern, Iolo overheard the conversation at one of the front tables. Since he wasn’t receiving any attention, he quit playing, stepped down from his stool, and wandered over.
“What’s the latest tally on the caravans, Sean?” asked a red-haired woodsman.
“Well,” began Sean Murdoch with a gaelic lilt, “Two more Merchants in the past week have reported seeing the signs of raids on the road.”
“What are the signs?”
“Burned wagons, tracks, broken merchandise,” Sean replied to the red-haired man, “Cormac, something is preying on these caravans. It isn’t even a laughing matter now.”
“My question is this,” said a slim man dressed in travelling clothes, “Where are they taking all of their acquired merchandise?”
“Abu?” Sean directed the question at him. The Oriental Man looked to Father Dowland, who nodded.
“Father Dowland has graciously allowed me some time in the Library at the Church of St. Cuthbert,” Abu began, “I found two possibilities.”
“Let’s have ‘em, jerky,” growled the Dwarf, Mad Dog.
“One: the Swamp to the South-East has long been a favorite of thieves and brigands in this area,” stated the Wizard.
“That’s the obvious place to look, Abu,” commented Natasha.
“Two,” Abu continued, “There is an old road to the town of Khasvana, which lies East of here. This road passes through the Swamp, and also, the old Moathouse of the seemingly extinct Karza family. It is here that I surmise the bandits are operating from.”
“Well, where in the Swamp is it?” questioned Boomclad. Abu turned to Father Dowland, who brought his chair down to the floor and removed his pipe from his mouth.
“We don’t know,” he said, “The maps of this area that we have do not show it — many do not show the old road at all.” He paused to sip his brew. “The last time that the Karza Moathouse was occupied, it was occupied by the servants of the Temple of Elemental Evil, some 75 years ago.”
“Pardon my intrusion,” Iolo interrupted, “But I came to this lovely town because it was on one of the maps I carry, and I happen to remember that this ‘Temple’ you speak of is on this map…”
The occupants of the table looked at each other, then cleared a space for Iolo, who was searching through his pack. Lifting out a wooden scroll case, he looked around at the unfamiliar faces around him.
“Hi,” he started, “I’m Iolo. I’m an entertainer most of the time, but I can be handy with a sword if you’re going to the Moathouse.”
“Iolo, I’m Sean Murdoch,” stated the older gentleman dressed in green, “I’m also a representative of the Count of Chardonnay. Nobody is going to the Moathouse until I, or Rufus, the Chief, says it is a worthwhile expedition to make.” Iolo smiled sheepishly.
“Sorry, just asking,” he said, opening the case, “Here’s the map.”

Iolo spread the map out on the tabletop. The old road was plainly on the map, and the Karza Moathouse was halfway between Opar and Khasvana. But what drew their attention was the strange writings around a dark icon at the Eastern edge of the map, near Khasvana, and the river.
“Hold it flat, Boomclad,” said Sister Tourmaline.
“I am,” retorted the Dwarf, who was nearest the writings, “I don’t like what I see here.”
“Hold still for a moment,” said Natasha, rising out of her chair and standing over the map. Passing her hands over the parchment, she closed her eyes. Her palms glowed blue briefly, and her eyes snapped open. “Holy Fire of Brigit,” she exclaimed and backed away, “That thing is really magickal!”
Father Dowland was mouthing words to himself, and his hand unconsciously crossed himself. “…and the Evil which cannot be killed shall be chained by curses and prayers to false Gods, but that is not dead which can eternal lie…”
“Do not read any farther, Father Dowland,” interrupted Yorl the Wanderer, a monk clad in a brown cloth robe, laying his hand on the priest’s, “There is a breath of foul air that has entered the Inn.”
Father Dowland snapped out of his reverie long enough to watch the letters that he had been translating pouring off the parchment and the edge of the table. A dark sepia-colored stain spread from the Icon of the Temple to envelop the nearby Khasvana, and, as Murdoch pointed incredulously, a pseudopod of the color snapped out to encompass the site of the Moathouse. As suddenly as it had started, the activity within the map ceased; the edges of the parchment rolled together with a snap, and Iolo thrust it hastily into the wooden case.

“I told you, “ said Sean Murdoch angrily, “I saw the damn lettering sliding off o’ the paper like somethin’ unholy, sir.”
Rufus Gamboa looked sideways at his partner, an Enchanter, Byrne. “What do you think?”
“Heard of it happening before, Rufus,” Byrne gestured with one hand in the direction of the chainmail-clad commander of the Tower.
“Alright then,” Rufus turned back to Sean and Cormac, who were standing before him on the top level of the tower, “What do you two want to do about it?”
“Well, sir,” Cormac stepped forwards, “There’s a couple of adventurers chafing away in the Inn over yonder, and I thought it would be nice to have them along if we were to head over into the Swamp South o’ here.”
“And, Rufus,” confided Murdoch, “The Church o’ St. Cuthbert seems to have a couple of volunteers who wouldn’t mind swinging their cudgels.”
Rufus raised an eyebrow. “Hmm…good point,” he rumbled, “Alright — get your provisions together. I’ll throw in some gold so you can afford a couple of mules or something. Full report when you come back, and don’t endanger yourselves.” Rufus turned his back on them, and went back to his rosters and reports. Cormac and Sean descended the stairs of the Tower and exited the structure to the platform in front of it. Raising a long arm, Cormac signalled a thumbs up to three figures down the street. Waving back, they turned and trotted up the trail to the Church of St. Cuthbert.

“Not all three of you,” stated Monsignor Isiah Crowley firmly and waggling his finger between Father Dowland and Sister Tourmaline, “One of you two priestly types, and Yorl can go to protect you, probably from your own folly.” Father Dowland and Sister Tourmaline turned to face each other, each wearing a stubborn look.
“I’m your superior,” said Father Dowland.
“I beg to differ,” retorted Sister Tourmaline, “Exactly how are you putting that?”
“Please Father Crowley,” begged Yorl to the Monsignor, “Settle this dispute before they come to blows. I do not want to have to immobilize them.”
Father Crowley put down his quill and carefully removed his glasses, turning to the pair of arguing clergy. “Enough!” his voice rose above their clamor and echoed through the hall of the church, “Why should I let the both of you go to the Karza Moathouse to be maimed or dismembered or killed, both at the same time? Give me one good reason.” He glared at them angrily.
“Rufus is letting Sean Murdoch and Cormac Mac Cain go,” Yorl put in quietly. Father Crowley gave Yorl a questioning look, verifying this new information. He sighed and put his head in his hands. Speaking from the depths of the front of his robe, he warned them. “Be back in a week, and say all of your dailys before you go.”
Outside, the three worshipers of St. Cuthbert slapped hands and grinned at each other. Looking down to the green before the Inn of the Queasy Centipede, they spotted the other adventurers, and waved at them excitedly.

“Looks like we have the fanatics on board,” grumbled Boomclad the Dwarf, carving his name on a post in front of the Inn.
“I think you have observed right,” commented Abu Dabu Dabu Day, shielding his eyes to look up the hill.
“Well, time to go pack,” said Kleptus cheerfully, carrying a pair of wagon hubcaps.
“I’m going to go bargain for bottles in quantity with the bartender,” sighed Natasha, carrying her little pink umbrella topped dacquiri back into the Queasy Centipede with her, “See you all around moonrise?”

* * * *
The crescent of the waxing moon hung suspended over the jewelled tapestry of the night sky as they reconvened in the Inn of the Queasy Centipede. A Merchant caravan had come into town at dusk from Chardonnay, the city to the North West, and the traders were circulating among the patrons of the tavern and common room, plying their smaller wares, striking deals, and gossiping about another trade group they had discovered along the road, burned to the ground and dead bodies liberally strewn about.
“This is the guy you want to talk to,” Boomclad slopped his ale in the direction of Sean Murdoch, who had just entered the Inn with Yorl the Wanderer in tow. Striding to the bar in his greenish-black chainmail, Murdoch clapped Cormac Mac Cain on the shoulder and gestured to Abu and Natasha at the end of the long oaken bar.
“Let me see the ring with the spiked skull on it,” said Boomclad, looking through the selection that the Merchant displayed before him, “No, the bigger one…the one with the spikes that could do some damage if you hit somebody with it. My cousin Stonehold Ironfist deserves a token Hallows-tide present, now that I think about it…” Kleptus rudely bumped into the dealer while passing behind him, spilling some of his wares, and apologized profusely.
“By my stars! I’m terribly sorry, mister,” he exclaimed, and bent with the Merchant to retrieve his goods. The Merchant counted his wares quickly, and Kleptus pulled up a bench to the table.
“Could I buy you a drink for my clumsiness?” Kleptus interrupted the Merchant’s count, “You need one after seeing such grisly carnage on your way to Opar.” He nodded sympathetically to the Merchant.
“Well…,” the Merchant thought for a moment, then shrugging, acquiesced and sat down.
“Yeah, alright,” continued Boomclad without a pause, studying the ring he was holding in his thick fingers, “Cheap Suloisian craft, but Stonehold’ll never know. I’ll give you a couple silver for it.” Money exchanged hands, and the Merchant ordered a glass of wine from the barmaid, who winked at Kleptus knowingly.
“What was that?” growled the Dwarf, pointing over his shoulder at the retreating form of the young girl. “She a friend of yours?”
“She doesn’t like beards,” replied Kleptus, counting coins from one purse to another.
“Gentlefolk,” interrupted Sean Murdoch, setting down his ful flagon on the tabletop with a thump, “Set for the mornin’?” He sat down, making room on the wooden bench for Natasha and Abu, who were hotly debating the existence of some magickal book from the aeons of the past. Cormac shouldered his way through the bar patrons with the Bard Iolo behind him.
“Almost all here,” said Iolo merrily, “Just the representatives from the Holy House on the Hill left.”
“Mister Murdoch?” the Merchant directed his question at the grizzled warrior.
“That’s right; may I ask your name?” replied Murdoch, turning to face that end of the table.
“Well,” the Merchant started, “I’m Sander from the Boscollis trading caravan that came into town this evening, and we saw something rather disturbing on the road on our way from the capital.”
“What, pray tell, was that?” asked Cormac, dropping onto a bench across from Murdoch and the mages. Looking from one man to the other, the Merchant continued.
“We came upon a caravan from Chardonnay which had been attacked and slaughtered. The wagons had been burned and sacked. There were at least ten guards who had been killed. Their thoats had been cut — it was awful…” he trailed off.
“We heard of this from a rider from the Hillside Communities who came in yesterday evening,” said Murdoch; Cormac nodded as well.
“But the raiders either suffered no losses, or they took the time to remove their dead…” the Merchant went on.
“Typical of a successful raid — leave no clues,” commented Boomclad.
“…except for one,” said the Merchant, “And he wasn’t what we expected from a bandit in the badlands between Chardonnay and Opar. It was a Bugbear.” Murdoch and Cormac exchanged glances, and Boomclad sat up in his chair.
“A what?” the Dwarf asked, “Did you say that you saw a Bugbear?“
“A dead one, yes.”
“Can you give me an idea of where this caravan attack took place?” queried Murdoch.
“The second high pass on the road,” thought the Merchant out loud, “Right when it starts to drop into the that narrow wash before Killian’s Spring.” Sean looked over to Cormac.
Cormac brushed his long red hair out of his face and wrinkled his brow, “That runs East, then South to the old Druid wood. The West side bottoms out into the valley after a couple of miles — nowhere to go from there.” He looked back at Murdoch. “Cancel the expedition, chief?”
“No, I just want all of the details,” replied Murdoch, “Rufus will want to know and maybe speak with the caravan leader.”
“I also found something interesting next to the…” Sander was cut short.
“I am the leader of the Boscollis group,” stated a man in a reddish brown robe and a metal mask which covered his face, “From what I examined at our very brief stop at the site of the demise of the Clovenhoof Merchants, I would say it was the work of bandits on horseback. They fled to the West; I followed the prints of several horses away from the horrid mess beyond the turn in the canyon. You are, sir?” The robed one gestured at Sean Murdoch, who rose to his feet.
“I am Sean Murdoch, sergeant-at-arms of the garrison here in Opar,” replied Murdoch, facing the man squarely, “May I ask your name…sir?” Boomclad put his drink down on the table, and Natasha and Abu grew quiet.
“My associate here,” said the stranger, laying his hand on the Merchant’s shoulder, “Derives his share of the profits from selling merchandise. I see that he is procrastinating in his duties. That makes me a disappointed employer.” He inclined his head for a response from the Merchant.
Rising quickly, Sander arranged his wares and struck off into the crowd with them. The masked person watched him depart, and then turned back to the table. “I am sorry if my boy offended you or disturbed your meeting,” he said in a friendlier tone, “It is the first time he has seen something like that. He is city-folk.” He set a small wooden box on the table and opened it, revealing a number of rings and other pieces of fine jewelry. “I hear that you are adventuring to the abandoned Karza Moathouse, yes?”
“Actually, we’re going to Klin’Shai to compete in the Maximum Karnage competition,” said Kleptus, polishing a golden ring, “Who exactly did you say your employer was?”
“I am Kulkas,” the ocher robed man turned to face Kleptus, “And my employers are my business, friend.”
“Well, that would be rather useful information for my report to the Commander of the Garrison,” Sean Murdoch stated matter of factly.
“I am sorry if I have sounded angry,” Kulkas apologized smoothly as he returned his attention to the standing Warrior, “It has not been the easiest of days. I am a member of the Kien group from Chardonnay. I would appreciate your attention in keeping the roads safe, as I would think your employer, the Count of Chardonnay, would. It directly affects our livelyhood.”
“That is our job,” replied Murdoch evenly, “Accurate and detailed reports only help us track down brigands like these. You, then, did not see a Bugbear, as your ‘employee’ stated he saw?”
“I saw a badly burned half-Ork’s corpse,” said Kulkas helpfully, “That a city boy would easily believe to be a Bugbear. Would you care to examine some of these fine items?”
“I certainly would,” said Natasha from her seat, “Could I examine the silver one with the inset obsidian chip?”
“Of course, milady,” Kulkas said, bowing a little, “In fact, please take it as a gift of my appreciation of your beauty.” He plucked the ring from it’s place in the velvet-lined box and swept around Sean Murdoch to place it on her finger.
“Ooooh!” said Natasha, holding her hand out at arm’s length, admiring it, “It’s wonderful! Thank you masked man!”
“It is my pleasure, milady,” returned Kulkas, “May it bring you good fortune on your journey to the Karza Moathouse.”
Yorl the Wanderer materialized out of the crowded patrons watching a heated game of darts and waited to catch their attention. Sean beckoned him to take a seat.
“Where is Father Dowland and Sister Tourmaline?”
“They are waiting for you at the Church,” Yorl inclined his head meaningfully at the door.
“Again, would you like to peruse this array of fabulous gifts and keepsakes?” Kulkas flashed the contents of the box around the table.
“Lemme see that fat gold chain,” Boomclad pointed. Yorl leaned over to speak to the Dwarf.
“I hear that Father Crowley is about to try his ripened Double Stout Homebrew, Boomclad.”
“Whoa! Forgot I had to go to confession tonight!” Boomclad began drinking his Ale noisily. Sean Murdoch turned to Kulkas.
“I think that Rufus, the garrison commander would like to speak to you personally tomorrow,” he said cryptically, “Please make it your duty to find him at the Tower. I must attend to some affairs with my associates here.” Turning, he strode towards the door. The remainder of the party began to get out of their seats. Natasha chewed the ice in her Margarita and took Cormac’s offered arm. Abu followed through the crowd in Boomclad’s wake. Kleptus was the last one to leave the Inn, and he handed a worn leather wallet to Kulkas as he was leaving.
“You dropped this, sir.”

At the Church of St. Cuthbert, Monsignor Crowley greeted them and led them to the pews at the front of the sanctuary. Father Dowland and Sister Tourmaline were waiting, poring over a few worn scrolls that were stacked at their feet. Looking up as the rest of the adventurers entered, they set their work aside and rose to their feet.
“So Father,” said Boomclad rubbing his hands, “I heard that your homebrew was ready!”
“Well, yes it is,” Monsignor Crowley glared at Yorl, who seemed not to notice, “Might as well celebrate getting three of my staff members lost in the Swamp before they leave, eh?”
“I thought we were supposed to meet at the Inn,” Kleptus spoke up, as Halflings are wont to do.
“I had another Margarita coming,” complained Natasha.
“We came across some interesting news,” said Father Dowland firmly, sitting again in the front pew, “Or, as is probably more appropriate, he came across us.”
“What are you talking about, Father?” queried Cormac, sliding into a seat and resting his forearms on the back of the pew in front of him. The other members arranged themselves in seats, Boomclad and Kleptus sprawling on the stone steps leading up to the simple altar to St. Cuthbert.
“He came from around Weedwood, near Klin’Shai,” said Sister Tourmaline, “He is exhausted and not in any condition to talk, but he himself is rather a surprise. I would almost say a shock.”
“I think he is doing okay,” a voice came from the side of the room, where a teenage boy in a green and brown tunic was shutting a side door, “He needs to rest badly.”
“This is Lentos of the Vines,” Monsignor Crowley introduced him, “An apprentice to old Jaroo the Druid in the Oak Grove to the South of town here. He is the one who found Rex and brought him here when he mentioned my name.” The adventurers exchanged looks.
“Who is Rex?” asked Kleptus.
“Rex is a Lizard-Man,” stated the Monsignor, “And he is an old friend of mine from the Ssleestak tribe on the river Taanesh South from the Inland Sea. He has the unique ability to speak in the Common Tongue, a talent which has made him the representative for most of the tribes in that area. I met him in Klin’Shai, when I was delivering a message to the Bishop of the Church there; he was negociating a trade agreement with the Lord K’Tinga Como Val.”
“I have heard you mention him before once or twice,” said Father Dowland.
“You’re friends with a Lizard-Man?” said Boomclad incredulously, “I thought they were savages.”
“The Lizard-Men believe the same of Dwarves, I’m sure Boomclad,” quipped Kleptus.
“Rex is a trustworthy individual,” continued Monsignor Crowley, unperturbed, “We have done the best we can for tonight; now he needs to rest. He is not in the best shape; in fact, several of his wounds seem to be from weaponry. I would guess from this, and the fact that he has journeyed so far, that something is awry South of Klin’Shai. I would guess that Rex isn’t going anywhere for about a week.” The Monsignor seemed genuinely concerned.
“Can we speak to him,” spoke Sean Murdoch; Cormac Mac Cain looked like he seconded the question.
“Perhaps in the morning, before you leave for the Moathouse,” replied the Monsignor.
“One of the few things that he said does concern us,” said Father Dowland, “Though indirectly. From what little he said, I understood that his tribe was attacked by a force of Humanoids. They were led by a priest in black armor who ‘called down the Elements’ upon his people. The Priest, during the melee, kept shouting the praises of ‘the Temple’.”
“Meaning the Temple that was on the map today?” asked Iolo, rustling through his pack.
“Though impossible,” said Monsignor Crowley, “That was what first came to me, also. The Temple of Elemental Evil was sealed many years ago by the Power of our Lord Himself, St. Cuthbert. But, if I remember history right, their priests were able to command the Elements to suit their own purposes.”
“Used correctly, the Elements can be most punishing enemies,” said Abu Dabu Dabu Day darkly, “The Temple of Elemental Evil was a great woe to the balance of Natural Forces in the Land.”
“This is true, Abu,” replied the Monsignor, inclining his head towards him, “But the Grace of St. Cuthbert himself has blessed the ruins of the Temple, and nothing escapes the eyes of our Lord.”
“Except maybe your home brewing setup, eh, Monsignor?” asked Kleptus.
“What does this have to do with the Moathouse, Father?” Boomclad turned his attention to Father Dowland.
“The Moathouse was the first major strike that the Temple made in their ascension to Power, seventy five years ago according to the Booke of Galstephus,” Father Dowland picked up a scroll and read from it, “‘The Temple of Elemental Evil, in the highest moments of it’s glory, firmly dictated the policy of Chardonnay, it’s military influence extending the length and breadth of the land by threat alone; and, when the dust had settled from the breaking of the gates of the Stronghold, the nefarious tentacles of the Temple had been unearthed in three other nearby Lands, notably those that had sent their Might to aid the Count of Chardonnay against the Temple’.” Father Dowland closed the scroll carefully and looked around at the company, scanning the expressions on their faces. His eyes came to rest on Sean Murdoch’s grizzled face.
“So,” Murdoch started slowly, “Are we all still going for a little vacation at the abandoned Karza Moathouse?”
There was a moment of silence, broken by a voice from the door Lentos came through:
“It iss in your besst interesstss to invesstigate the Moathousse,” said the tall Lizard-Man who bent low to clear the doorway, “My people are no more; perhapss yourss are the next.” Rex moved to a pew and slid into it heavily. “I wass returning from Klin’Shai when I met sseveral of my Kin fleeing an unknown assault. They told me of the desstruction of sseveral tribess; they were of my own village. I arrived cautioussly to find a black-mailed Priesst curssing my people’ss home, crushing the Ssacred Idol of Bokrug and killing the lasst of the defenderss. The Warriors were Orkss and Goblinss — almosst a hundred of the sslthiss vermin. They left, heading Wesst through Weedwood, and away to the Ssouth.” He sank back against the hardwood pew and blinked his yellow eyes at those assembled.
“Shouldn’t you be in bed?” chided Sister Tourmaline. Rex managed to smile, and flick his forked tongue out at her in tired defiance. Turning from Rex, Monsignor Crowley spoke, glaring at Yorl.
“Well then,” he said, grumbling a bit, “Not to confirm popular rumor, but I am about to harvest a new batch of homebrew. Anyone for a nightcap?”
Several hours later, the candles in the Church went out one by one, and the party members stumbled loudly down the hill to their accomodations in pairs and groups of three. The moon hung higher in the nighttime sky, and silvered the edges of the buildings.

Fires raged everywhere upon the battlefield; their garish light illuminated for hundreds of yards and the flames licked almost to the velvet of the dark sky. Smoke roiled in choking clouds between Human and Demi-Human defenders and the masses of enraged Humanoids literally slaughtering them. The cries of the dead and dying, mixed with the roar of the fires, were deafening. Blackened bodies and equipment lay strewn across the field where the fires had passed; a singular pillar of flame began to approach, burning with Demonic delight at each new corpse. Within the inferno, two faces could be identified: one was that of an old man with glee in his eyes and long fingernails made of flames like knives; the other was nothing but a pair of eyes on either side of a massive tentacle which sometimes twisted through the carnage, sometimes writhed skywards with the flames. Their hideous laughter carried the point of view upwards and away, to where it could be seen that miles of land was burning, and whole towns were being engulfed by the fires that illuminated the clouds of black smoke in the heavens.

Sean Murdoch handed the still-sleeping Halfling up to Boomclad on his pony; he unceremoniously slung him over his saddle and hoisted his mug of Ale.
“And we’re off!” the Dwarf said hopefully.
“Here they come,” Iolo pointed at the three forms coming around the hill of the Church of St. Cuthbert on horses.
“Now we can depart, old Dwarf,” replied Murdoch. Boomclad grumbled something to Moradin, his Deity.
The party made it’s way South and East, along the road that led to the nearby town of Khasvana, long known as a haven for brigands and thieves, but they turned at the crossroads, continuing along the Old Road; the one that had been used during the occupation of the Karza Moathouse when it was first erected.
Kleptus was complaining about his headache when they first saw that the road entered the Swamp. Slowing down as they drew near to the gnarled trees and boggy ground, Cormac Mac Cain signalled a halt and gave his reins to Murdoch. Dismounting, Cormac jogged ahead and disappeared into the mist that hung like shrouds on a clothesline between the twisted trees and the gloom of the marshland.
“This Wood is quite unhealthy,” commented Abu, touching a nearby branch with his slender fingers.
“Maybe it doesn’t get enough exercise,” said Kleptus rather sullenly. His head hurt.
“There is, like, no wind at all,” said Natasha, “It was quite breezy just a while ago, on the plains…”
“That greasy fog stuff gives me the creeps,” growled Boomclad, chopping a stunted sapling into flinders idly with his battleaxe.
“Could you please not murder that young tree, Boomclad?” implored Abu, offended at the destruction of a defenseless oak.
A piercing whistle hung in the air for a moment, then Sean Murdoch spurred his mount into the Swamp, along the road. The rest of the party followed more cautiously, and came upon Murdoch and Cormac standing before an abandoned wagon that was halfway sunken in the ooze of the Swamp. As the party left their horses and joined them, murky bubbles rose, making blurping noises, and the wagon sank deeper into the muck.
“What irresponsible individual would park a perfectly good wagon there?” said Kleptus, enraged at the loss.
“Remains of one of the raided caravans?” queried Father Dowland.
“Look at that,” pointed Tourmaline with her mace, “Arrows stuck in the side.” Two rough arrows projected from the wood of the wagon several inches above the unreflective Swamp.
“Orks,” said Cormac grimly, “Pretty advanced ones at that.”
“How can you tell, Cormac?” Iolo asked.
“The fletching,” started Cormac, then seeing the puzzlement evident in Iolo’s face, “The feathers on the end of the shafts — they’re hand made, and it looks like from carrion-eating birds. Surely Ork arrows.”
“Phew!” Natasha dusted herself with Patchouli, “This place is gross.”
“Something is moving on the other side of the road, friends,” Yorl tapped his fingertips together questioningly. Murdoch pointed quickly at Boomclad and Cormac, who each circled around the horses from different directions. The voice of the Dwarf rose from the mist:
“Priests of the Bald One, your services are required.”

A small campfire and three blankets later, the party was assembled around the small figure of a shivering Halfling. Kleptus was interrogating him in their mother tongue, and, from the tone of it, he was not being too nice.
“What do you have so far, Kleptus?” asked Boomclad testily. Snorting in contempt, the Halfling turned away from his blanketed kinsfolk.
“He says his name is KornFlake and that he is a Merchant from Chardonnay. He was “sleeping” and he woke up to find that his caravan was being attacked by Orks.”
“Where was he coming from,” interrupted Sean Murdoch, “And where was he going to?”
“Klin’Shai to Chardonnay,” replied Kleptus, “By way of Khasvana and Opar.”
“Chalk up another casualty for the Merchants,” said Sister Tourmaline, “This little Hobbit needs rest and a hot meal.” KornFlake nodded his agreement vigorously.
“We’re not going to go too far now — it is bloody well dark in here,” noted Murdoch. The rest of the party looked around a little bit surprised.
“I thought it was midafternoon,” said Iolo incredulously.
“Better set up camp,” grumbled Boomclad. Natasha began directing Iolo and Cormac about, flashing her brilliant smile at any resistance, and Abu began to find his cooking gear. Murdoch was studying the sinking silhouette of the Merchant’s wagon, and turned back to KornFlake, who was warming himself by the fire.
“How many wagons were with you, sir?”
“There were three, and we had fourteen guards!” stammered the Halfling. Kleptus spat a Hobbit obscenity from the horses, where he was going through someone’s pack. KornFlake looked his direction, then continued.
“We knew of the dangers, but the trade in Khasvana has been very sporadic, and prices for goods that do come through has tripled.”
“Tripled, you say?” Kleptus walked under a horse towards the fire and looked interested.
“Kleptus, find a good place to tether the horses,” Murdoch directed him pointedly. The Merchant duly led the horses to a nearby stand of trees and began measuring their leads out, whispering calculations under his breath.
“Isn’t fourteen guards a lot of arms for three wagons, Kornflake?” asked Father Dowland, fiddling with his tobacco pouch.
“Well…” started KornFlake nervously, who looked around at the party, who was waiting for his answer, “We were carrying expensive goods.”
“Such as…” Abu said casually, hanging a kettle over the fire.
“Weapons and armor,” KornFlake burst into tears, “And now I’m ruined. RUINED!”
“Serves you right for sleeping, you dingbat,” muttered Kleptus.
“That’s enough, Hobbit,” Murdoch swung around to face the Merchant, “Or else I’ll let Boomclad play shot put with you, and see how far he can heave you into the Swamp.” The Dwarf grinned and cracked his knuckled for effect. Turning back to the Hobbit, Murdoch awkwardly put his arms around KornFlake, who was near hysterics, and soothed him as best as he could. Natasha mouthed “How cute” to him over KornFlake’s shoulder, and Sister Tourmaline beamed at him. Murdoch frowned sourly and tried to disengage from the weeping Halfling, but KornFlake clung to him and buried his face in his tunic.
“There, there now,” Murdoch said uncertainly as the rest of the party supressed snickers, “You’ll earn it all back.”

Yorl awoke to the sound of distant thunder. Rising silently from his bedroll, he moved out into the road to survey the sky. Abu was on watch, unaware that Yorl had risen. Stirring the fire gently with a stick, Abu chanted quietly over it, making delicate prayers to to Elements. Yorl walked quietly to the small warm space of the fire, the only place that the moist grey tendrils of ground fog did not settle in, and laid his hand on Abu’s shoulder.
“Friend,” said Yorl, “Did you hear thunder just a few moments in the past?”
“I thought I did, indeed, Yorl,” answered Abu, rising and placing the stick in his sleeve.
“Something wicked this way comes,” said Yorl ominously. The newly born wind plucked lightly at their robes.
“Wake Cormac Mac Cain, Abu,” directed Yorl as a flash of heat lightning illuminated the camp for an instant. Abu moved across the road to where the Ranger was slung in a hammock between two trees. Yorl sniffed the air, smelling the ozone, then strode to the horses to calm their questioning whinnies.
“Heat lightning, Yorl,” said Cormac from behind him after a minute. Turning, the Monk saw that Sister Tourmaline had also risen, and was shaking her head.
“Sister, what do you think?” Yorl asked her. Cormac and Abu turned to face her. Wrapped in her blankets, Sister Tourmaline closed her eyes and took a deep breath of the stirring stench of the Swamp. After a moment of quiet as the three Men watched her, her eyes snapped back open.
“I don’t know…” she started as a firm gust blew through the bent trees, swirling the mist into eerie shapes, “There is something wrong. Maybe we should wake Father Dowland…”
“He is here,” said Sean Murdoch, walking from the firelight and gesturing at the form of the Priest near the blaze, “We all are waking easily tonight.” The snores of the Halfling and the Dwarf across the road brought quick smiles to their faces, soon replaced by expectation as the Father drew near.
“Something is going on. I can feel it in the air,” said Father Dowland, “It is North and East of us now, and it does not seem to be moving. That is all I can discern for now.” Another flash of dry lightning flickered across the clouds massing overhead.
“I can sense that from the Land itself, Father Dowland,” Abu agreed, “The Breath of the Air is tainted with Magicks that are unnatural.”
“Wake the others,” Sean Murdoch gestured to Cormac and Yorl, who returned to the fire to do so, “I want to hear what Lady Natasha has to say.”
Five minutes later, Natasha was throwing bits of pickled animals into the fire, and singing quietly over the undaunted flames. Iolo unstrapped his lute and began to accompany her, hesitantly at first, then more sure. Natasha glanced over at his efforts and smiled, nodding her encouragement. After another minute, the Enchantress fell into a sort of trance, and pointed towards the dark hills that rose over the swamp to the NorthEast.
“I see a canyon, and a dark forest within it,” she said in a monotone, her face slack, “There is a clearing, with a great fire in the middle…creatures are dancing around the flames gesturing and…oh Zagyg…they’re throwing people into the fire! They’re still alive…!” Her face drained of color. Cormac stepped towards her; Murdoch seized his forearm and shook his head negatively. Iolo continued to play her melody softly on his instrument.
“They are Orks…” Natasha continued, her voice growing deeper, “They worship the Old One from the North…the sacrifices are still coming…Halflings now…they scream as they burn…they keep adding wood because their blood is putting out the fire…”
Yorl moved away from the campfire and looked North; Cormac joined him so he did not have to look at Natasha’s ill pallor.
“Somebody stop her…” mumbled Kleptus, who, in his horror, did not notice that KornFlake was clinging to his arm with wide frightened eyes. Natasha’s voice took on a resonance that belied her slim frame.
“They drum to awaken something from an age-old sleep…they are summoning something to them…there is an awful Priest whose armor is slick with the blood of captives…there is a Necromancer with a garland of freshly harvested skulls…they are chanting…Iä…Iä…Hotep Khandan Sudaram…”
A flash of heat lightning flickered across the campsite, followed by a close crackle of thunder. Iolo looked around at the party as they stood entranced by Natasha’s display. The wind lifted his cap from his head and sent it spinning into the Swamp. Natasha turned from the campfire and raised her hands Northwards.
“Iä, Iä, vaprak dominus Dagon thoth ghandruis vlemminak,” shrieked Natasha to the hills. The shocked Bard immediately quit playing and gagged at the blood pouring from her mouth. As Natasha collapsed towards the fire, the sturdy arms of Boomclad Rockbottom caught her and carried her to a nearby bedroll. Sister Tourmaline immediately attended to her, seizing Boomclad’s handkerchief to mop the stream of crimson that still flowed from her mouth.
“You don’t know where that’s been,” Kleptus commented without much effort at humor.
“Father! She’s lost a lot of blood!” said Sister Tourmaline as Natasha coughed and tried to sit up. The Sister firmly pushed her back down and turned her head to the side. Father Dowland held her down as she vomited blood. Cormac stood nearby, looking as if he wanted to help. The wind grew stronger, and became more constant, bringing the smell of wet grassland with it.
“It is raining out in the fields,” commented Abu; Yorl nodded his head in agreement.
“Only a matter of time, now,” said Murdoch, looking into the thick eddies of fog that obscured the sky, “We’d best be prepared for it. Find somewhere where we can sling a tarp. There’s two of them under my saddleblanket.” Murdoch turned to Father Dowland. “Can we move Miss Natasha?”
“In a minute, Soldier,” said the Priest. Sister Tourmaline had her eyes closed in prayer, and her hands on Natasha’s chest. The Enchantress’s body was engulfed in a warm white glow, and she seemed to regain some color and relax. Sean turned to Cormac and barked a command at him.
“Cain! Find us some shelter…now!” Cormac seemed to wake, and then grabbed his swords in one hand and dashed down the road. The rest of the party was hurriedly packing their gear on the horses.
“KornFlake, you’re going to have to pull your own weight now,” Murdoch knelt to look him in the face. The unfortunate Halfling attempted to smile and burst into tears again. Murdoch rose and placed him on his horse.
Cormac returned a few minutes later, shaking his head. “I’ve got a solid piece of land and a couple of big rocks,” he reported to Murdoch,”It’s into the swamp a little ways…”
“It’ll have to do now,” replied Murdoch grimly, “Won’t it?”

They led their horses after Cormac Mac Cain, down the road and to the North, into the Swamp. At first, some thought this was foolhardy, but Cormac’s uncanny sense of where the solid land was and where the marsh was deceptive was comforting, if not incredible. In the frequent flashes of crooked heat lightning, wrapping around the formidable shape of great thunderheads above them, they could see the point that Cormac was heading for: a small rise in the swamp which was crowned with three large stones.
The first drops of rain pelted them like sling bullets as they led the horses into the shelter of the three grouped boulders. The stone was moss-laden, and each one rose over 15 feet in the air. Several hardy oaks stood near the granite blocks in the small clearing, and an old campfire ring made of rocks blessed the middle of the site.
“Horses over there; Kleptus and Boomclad,” directed Murdoch after surveying for a moment, “Cormac, Yorl, Abu — get those tarps strung between those two trees. Water is going to come down that rock face, so trench it away from the ground we want dry.” The Priests were getting Natasha down from her steed and tending to her.
“What can I do?” asked Iolo. Murdoch looked the youth up and down.
“I don’t know…” said Murdoch, chewing on a short pipe, “What can you do?” He seemed to think for a moment. “Look around this campsite carefully, into all the nooks and crannies. Make sure there is nothing unusual. Then report back to me and I’ll find something else for you.” Iolo scampered off, and Murdoch looked around once again. “That ought to keep him busy.”
Ten minutes later, there was a small fire going right outside of the makeshift tent, the rain had started to come down in sheets, Natasha was resting on her bedroll and Iolo was nowhere to be seen.
“I’m going to go look for him,” stated Cormac stubbornly, “He’s lost in the Swamp.”
“No,” Murdoch dissented, “I don’t want two people lost in the Swamp.” Iolo stuck his dripping head in the tent and blinked the water out of his eyes.
“I think I found one of your unusual nooks, Mr. Murdoch,” said the soaked but excited Bard, “In fact, it even has a door built into it!” Cormac shrugged at Murdoch, and Sister Tournaline smiled to herself at the Bard. After a short-lived argument, Murdoch decided that Cormac, Iolo and Kleptus would go look at the “unusual crevice”; they were to return in no more than 10 minutes. The three of them dashed out into the pouring rain, and the remainder of the fellowship listened to the tattoo of the drops on the tarps above them.

After sliding halfway down one side of the hill into the Swamp, whose water level was quickly rising, and working their way back up again, Iolo led the other two through a tall but narrow crack in the rock.
“Well I’ll be damned,” Cormac Mac Cain shook his hair out of his face in front of a large wooden door set into the darkness of the rear of a chasm that cut through the back of the rock that the party was camped against. “There’s room enough in here for the horses even.”
“Do you think we should open the door?” asked Iolo fearfully.
“Of course, my boy,” said Kleptus, stepping up to the lock and peering through it, “I think I even have the key somewhere in here…” The Merchant began rummaging through his waist pouches.
“Cormac, do you think so?” Iolo turned to the Ranger, who was frowning and rubbing one hand over his jaw, thinking.
“Let’s see if Kleptus has the key,” Cormac said sarcastically after a moment, watching the Halfling pull a thick piece of iron out of his bag and jam it into the lock. After a few grunts and curse words from the Hobbit, there was a rusty clunking sound. Kleptus stepped away from the door and bowed. Cormac raised an eyebrow.
“I’m just lucky, that’s all,” the Hobbit said self-depreciatingly. Cormac strode towards the door and looked at the handle. After a moment, he seized it and pulled outwards, his muscles bulging. The door swung outwards, belching forth a torrent of bats and revealing a dark square.
“Lamp?” asked Cormac, holding out one hand and not looking back. His shortsword had appeared in his other hand. Kleptus quickly struck up a lantern and handed it to Cormac. “Stay here.”

“Is Natasha making any noise?” asked Sean Murdoch over his shoulder as he stood at the edge of the tarp watching the rain coming down like hammers. Most of the rest of the campsite was close to being washed away; huge torrents of water coursed from the rocks, and the trees sluiced water from their boughs. Lightning played across the clouds like skeletal hands, bringing the hills to the North into view: only a few miles distant. Sean thought he could see the smoke rising from the Unholy fire that he believed Natasha had witnessed.
“No she isn’t, Sean,” said Sister Tourmaline gently, “She’s sleeping as far as I can tell — she hasn’t said a word.” Noting Murdoch’s lack of response, she added a question: “Why?”
“Nothing,” Murdoch replied, then, thinking better of it, motioned Father Dowland over, “What do you see out there, Man of the Cloth?” The wind seemed to ignore the existence of the tent and chilled them. Again, lightning lit the far hills and the sea of misty trees between here and there. Boomclad Rockbottom joined them at the edge of the tent.
“Been a while since those three bailed,” he mentioned.
“I’ve got a bad feeling about something out there in the Swamp, Father,” Murdoch continued. The Priest nodded, and Boomclad stuck his head out into the rain to look around. A bolt of lightning flashed across the sky, and Boomclad shakily withdrew his head.
“Down below,” he said cryptically as he backed towards his battleaxe. Murdoch hefted a large mace and peered through the bars of rain and out into the Swamp. Father Dowland gripped his silver starburst, the graven Holy symbol of his office, and waited for the lightning.

The lamplight played over a small, rough-hewn chamber that was thick with dust and debris from the walls and ceiling. In the middle of the room was a large table that was cut from the living stone of the floor. It seems this cavern had been improved, and the door fitted into the opening. High in the cavern, there were small barred windows dripping rain, presumably for ventilation; a small fireplace of sorts was visible in the side of the chamber, where a fold in the stone obscured Cormac’s view. Kleptus pushed his way past Cormac, and began his rounds of the room, looking into everything.
“Be careful, Kleptus,” warned Cormac as the Halfling disappeared around the corner beyond the fireplace. Iolo crept in from outside, shivering.
“Check this out, Cormac,” Kleptus’s voice echoed from around the corner. The Ranger walked around the table, pausing to note a small and dusty stack of firewood next to the hearth, and Iolo, who was making funny sounds in his throat and following him like a shadow.
Around the corner was a pile of dusty goods: timber, crates, barrels, pieces of wilderness clothing, and a few moldering suits of leather armor. Kleptus was wrestling with a ladder that was lashed together out of pieces of a tree.
“Help me with this, you two,” he grunted as he tried to place it against the wall under one of the small streaming windows. Cormac placed the lamp on the stone slab.
“There’s no time for that, Kleptus,” he said, walking towards the Halfling, “We’ve got to get the rest of the party in here.”
“I know,” Kleptus rested, halfway there, “They’re on the other side of this wall here. I think I can yell to them, and they’ll know we’ve found shelter.”
“Alright,” said Cormac, grasping the ladder, “Good idea — which window?” Kleptus thought for a moment, and then pointed to one of two on the back wall. Cormac hefted the ladder and moved it to the window, holding it from shifting. The Halfling climbed it and peered out into the rain.
“Shoot. I can’t see anything from here. There’s an overhang. Try the other one.” Cormac dragged the ladder impatiently to the other grate, leaning it against the wall and holding it firmly still. Kleptus again nimbly mounted to the barred window, shielding his eyes from the gusts of rain that blew inside on the shrieks of the wind.
“C..C..Cormac?” Iolo waved behind him to try to get their attention, “Kleptus, who is that at the door?”

Skeletal figures were slowly groping their way up from the fog shrouded trees at the base of the hill that the stones stood on. Bones rose from the Earth, knitting together and standing upright. The skeletons of dogs, rats, and other creatures weaved their way through those that were bipedal, though they were not clad in rusted armor and wielding old weapons, as some of the others were. The moans of the unpredictable wind became those of the legions of Undead monstrosities that staggered from the Swamp before Boomclad, Murdoch, and Father Dowland.
“This is your department, Father Dowland,” said Boomclad, holding his axe rather limply, “I’m just plain terrified.” Murdoch tore his eyes from the rainy night and looked back at the others meaningfully.
“You’d better get ready to move Miss Natasha,” he said grimly, “The best thing I can think of is getting on top of one of these rocks right about now.”
“Sean Murdoch!” the disembodied voice of Kleptus came on the wind, “Look at the back wall of the stone, above the tarp.” Exchanging a glance with Boomclad, Murdoch strode to the dripping stone that they had camped against. Lifting the tarp, and getting a face full of collected water, Murdoch grasped the hand of the Halfling, coming from a small hidden grate high on the wall.
“How do we get there?” said Murdoch quickly.
“Around the rock to your left,” Kleptus replied, “There’s a passage to a doorway. It’ll cost you 5 gold to stay the night apiece.”
Turning away from the wall, Murdoch pointed at Yorl as a peal of nearby thunder shook water from the canopy. “You lead, then the Sister. I’ll follow with Kornflakeand Abu; I’ll carry Natasha,” he paused and looked at Boomclad.
“Yeah, yeah,” he said resignedly, “I’ve got the big axe.”
“By Saint Cuthbert,” said Father Dowland, who was watching the progress of the Undead with an expression of horror, “Let us go now.”

“Who’d you talk to?” Cormac asked Kleptus as he climbed down the ladder.
“Murdoch, of course,” replied the Merchant, “He always seems so stressed out. Where’s the Bard?” Iolo hit the wall next to them hard, and slumped to the ground in a daze. Cormac whipped out his weapons, turning to face a gigantic Undead monster, a half-rotten Ogre corpse, animated by some Evil Power. A dagger from Kleptus spun lazily into it’s chest, seeming to have no effect at all. The door to the chamber swung shut with a boom, and the scattered wind waved the ribbons of the Ogre’s pelts and hides like banners.
“Stay there, Halfling,” said Cormac, advancing slightly and keeping his eyes on the massive Skeleton, “Hit it from behind with everything you’ve got.” He began to circle to his left, drawing the attention of the creature past Kleptus, and the still unmoving form of Iolo. Kleptus slowly crept back up the ladder. The creature staggered slowly in a circle to face Cormac, who was pointing a longsword and a shortsword at it menacingly. Skipping forwards, Cormac stabbed it twice in the chest and deftly bounced back to his defensive position. The Skeleton roared and towered to it’s full nine feet. Bringing it’s fist around, Cormac narrowly avoided the Skeleton’s blow by slipping under it and chopping his shortsword into it’s side. An unexpected backhand threw Cormac Mac Cain into the side of the chamber with a yelp of pain; Kleptus, seeing his opportunity, unbalanced the ladder towards the Skeleton and rode it heavily into it’s back. Driving a dagger into the back of it’s head, Kleptus dropped to the floor and rolled away. Slipping over to Cormac, he helped him sit up.
“Can you still fight?” Kleptus inquired worriedly, “I hit him with all I had.” The Skeleton was still turning, looking for it’s attackers.
“Methinks I can,” Cormac shook his head clear; his weapons made grating sounds as he stood up.
“What now, O great Ranger?” said Kleptus as he watched the skeleton face them and growl gutterally. They leapt apart as a bony fist drove into the wall between them. Cormac waved his swords in the thing’s face as Kleptus ran underneath it, slashing at it’s legs. Cormac tore rotten flesh from the side of the Ogre’s head with his longsword as he ducked another huge swing.
“Frankly, we need the Priests,” the Ranger answered as he parried with all his might.

Father Dowland took a deep breath and looked back one last time. Murdoch had his shield strapped to his arm and Natasha slung over his right shoulder. Yorl and Sister Tourmaline were moving by the left side of the shelter and out into the rain. Boomclad stepped outside with his axe in his calloused hand. Abu shooed Kornflake after the Priestess and looked back at him. Father Dowland sought to remember the words of his learnings, and stepped forth into the lightning-lit storm.
“Begone! Foul creatures of Darkness and Despair, thou art a mockery of what beings you once were. Evil spirits, desist! Thy presence shall disturb the Wrath of the Starburst Crown!” Father Dowland lifted his Holy Symbol, closed his eyes, lifting his head into the rain, and prayed to Saint Cuthbert. Boomclad, several paces downhill from him, dispatched his first Skeleton with a sweep of his mighty axe.
Rays of light burst from the hand that Father Dowland had clenched around his Holy Symbol, piercing the first two rows of Skeletons in their chests. Energy exploded within them, knocking them apart, and to their knees. Looking back at him incredulously, Boomclad finished off a pair that was coming around from the right side.
“Well then,” the Dwarf said as he pointed the to the left, “Thataway”.

A Skeleton leered out of the shadows of a tree between the rocks at Yorl the Wanderer. Two well-placed snaps of his foot later, the mass of bones lay crumpled in a heap. Others groaned around Yorl as he skidded to a stop in the darkness near the outside of the rock. Sister Tourmaline was right behind him, carrying her mace in her hand…

Placebo was running away again. Rounding a corner, he ran into a solid wall of plate armor and bounced off. He couldn’t draw his rapier because his hands were full of seemingly useless items of obvious monetary worth, but what an Elder of the Land (a title he had been awarded due to his association with the semi-legendary Sir Robin Fowlfeather) was doing with a set of platinum fireplace tools and an armload of crystal goblets was a question to be asked at a later time. The wall of plate mail spoke.

“Placebo where have you been? The Humongous and I need you.”

“Look here K’Tinga,” Placebo interrupted quickly, “I…was minding my own business and these four thugs tried to jump me.”

“Right,” said K’Tinga disbelievingly. He was another valiant hero who adventured with Sir Robin, a half-orc who was particularly good at shooting people with a ridiculously heavy crossbow that shot four quarrels. He hefted it now and stepped around the corner.

Three men with drawn weapons were moving down the street towards the corner that K’Tinga had stepped around. They paused when they saw him, but continued towards Placebo, who had appeared behind the armored shoulder of the half-orc.

“Shoot them!” squealed Placebo, hitting K’Tinga awkwardly with the fireplace poker. K’Tinga half turned to Placebo.

“I don’t just shoot people I’ve just met.”

“Yes you do! Now shoot them!” K’Tinga and Placebo glared at each other.

“Come on, tough guy. This stuff’s worth a fortune! I can smell it,” Placebo said confidentially.

Placebo was a swarthy bald Black man with a myraid of useful skills that included pirating, lock picking, yelling obscenities, climbing, thieving, and getting into trouble. He was, however, a fast friend of K’Tinga’s, and K’Tinga was usually the best at translating Placebo’s gibberish into understandable language. K’Tinga lowered his crossbow.

“Hey, pig boy!” yelled one of the advancing men from about ten yards away where he had stopped and hefted a large mace, “Get out of the way so we can slaughter the slave.” Now it is true that orcs do resemble pigs, but K’Tinga was quite civilized in his own unique way, and he never liked being called “pig boy”.

“Slave? Slave!” said Placebo, outraged. Racism in the Land was often heard but seldom practiced. “Hey, he called you a pig boy.”

K’Tinga lifted the crossbow and fired almost casually. “Stick around.” The man stumbled backwards under the force of the quarrels and was pinned to a haywagon. He dropped his mace; his jaw went slack. Blood poured from the rent in his chainmail. Placebo gave the other two men-at-arms the finger.

K’Tinga turned the crossbow at the remaining men. The design of the crossbow was such that there were two bowstrings, each string firing a set of two quarrels. There was a bottom rack and a top rack; the top rack was empty, but two more deadly bolts gleamed in their grooves below.

The men looked at each other; they seemed to come to an understanding, but one ran forwards brandishing his broadsword while the other one took off running back the way he had came. The first one skidded to a stop and looked around helplessly. K’Tinga motioned with the crossbow and he threw down his sword, disgusted, then pointed at Placebo.

“That’s our merchandise; he just walked in and stole it!” The man looked angry as he walked over to the man pinned to the wagon. A small crowd had gathered, and they let him through.

“Placebo,” K’Tinga started to speak.

“I thought it was the Thieves’ guild again,” he said in a small voice, “Anyone could have made that mistake.”

“Where’d the guy go?” asked K’Tinga, searching the crowd. He wasn’t to be seen; the crowd started to disperse. A merchant was pulling the arm of the dead man, trying to dislodge him from the side of the cart. Wading through the crowd, a big man in brightly colored tights pushed the merchant aside gently and yanked the man away from the wagon. Dragging the man under one arm, he waved to the merchant who bowed his thanks, and walked over to K’Tinga and Placebo.

“Is this your work, K’Tinga?” said the Humongous, dumping the body in front of them. Placebo knelt down and started searching through the man’s pockets, tearing the armor open and sifting through his tunic. His smile grew wider as he held up a slim shining gold necklace and three silver earrings. Placebo’s ears were already pierced seven or eight times each, and they were loaded down with expensive jewelry.

“That’s my necklace!” shouted a woman. She ran over to Placebo and tried to wrest it from him. He shrugged her off easily and she fell to the ground sobbing. The Humongous helped her up; K’Tinga scolded Placebo.

“I had to pawn it to that man,” said the woman through a veil of tears, “He said he would take my children if I didn’t pay him.” A gaggle of small dirty children gathered around their mother’s skirts. There were three or four, all girls, the oldest about thirteen; she looked brazenly at Placebo.

“Hey, these are mine, fair and square,” said Placebo petulantly.

“Wrong,” stated K’Tinga, “They’re mine.”

Reaching over and closing his mailed fist on the jewelry, he carefully gave them back to the woman. Placebo looked hurt for a moment, and then started picking up the stolen goods. The thirteen year old scrambled over and helped him pick the goblets up, loading them into his arms as he stood there.

“Hey, thanks!” he said, in a better mood, “Humongous, give her a couple of coins for me.”

Placebo turned and started away with his cargo. The Humongous looked at K’Tinga and grinned; K’Tinga looked puzzled, and then gave the Humongous a pouch of coins. He bent down and gave each of the girls a golden coin, then gave the whole pouch to the mother.

“Please save some of it,” advised K’Tinga, “And stay out of trouble.” The family scurried away, parting with many words of thanks. The two men turned and followed after Placebo, catching up steadily as he had to stop ever now and again to pick up a fallen cup.

“Why’s you smile at me like that?” asked K’Tinga suspiciously, “And why’d you give her the whole thing?”

“Aw, they needed it,” said the Humongous, “And a small bag of gold was worth seeing that little girl take Placebo’s big fire opal ring, y’know the one on his pinky finger?” K’Tinga and the Humongous laughed together and helped Placebo distribute his load evenly.

“Hey guys,” he asked, “Why’re you laughing?”