Resigning from the Day Job

Somewhere in Northwestern Tarlanor, 3rd March 1655

Surrounded and doomed, the last member of the Peloric party stood firm, his slender sword appearing hopelessly outmatched against the brutal power of Gorfang's maul and black sword. He nonetheless managed to wound the orc before the maul smashed into his chest, crushing his ribs and killing him.

Spinning, the orc strode across the room to the archway leading up to the High Priest's crypt, scene of so much strife in the last couple of hours. There, Eloy and Uruk were shoulder-to-shoulder battling with the two exoskeletons that had come down the stairs (disturbed by Méabh, though the others didn't know that). Each had damaged one somewhat, and Uruk had been painfully bitten for his troubles.

Gorfang waded in, mace and maul flying and smashed the spidershells almost casually to dust. Silence fell, and the party turned to the interesting business of looting the bodies. Except for Eloy, who turned and dashed across the Hall of Bones and down the flight of stairs the Good Party's rogue had fled down.

Sorting through the loot, they found several items which Méabh's Detect Magic revealed as magical; a ring, a chain shirt, a suit of half-plate, a shield, a silvered dagger, a breastplate and fiive potions. Gorfang donned the ring and got Méabh to hit him with the dagger; when he bled, he took it off again and discarded it. After some discussion, the following distribution was made:

While the others sorted their loot, Gorfang took the slain elf paladin Enamion and nailed him to the wall. As his head was seperated and the walls were stone this took some effort and was a messy process, but overall he was happy with the results.

Meanwhile, Eloy went down the stairs after the rogue, finding himself at the bottom of the flight looking into a side-crypt 30' square. The floor was scattered with smashed caskets, dust, fragments of rock and the occasional bone - but no rogue...

Carefully he looked around, checking the lower section of the steps for traps but finding nothing. Puzzled, he walked into the crypt to investigate - and received the impact of eighty pounds of plummeting rogue in the middle of his back. Some instinct got Eloy's arm up just in time to take the blow aimed at his head. The rogue hit the ground and rolled away like a ball before Eloy could hit him, coming to his feet with a throwing knife cocked. The warrior charged at him, but the rogue threw the knife and ducked away around the coffin as Eloy cursed another wound. He spun, just in time to meet another knife coming the other way; he tried desperately to catch it but only succeeded in shedding more blood. Again his quarry tumbled away and again he was wounded, but this time he noticed that the rogue was down to his last pig-sticker. Grinning, Eloy closed, shrugging off the next wound, and struck home with his sword.

Gathering again, the companions took stock of their options. They'd explored these tombs and, interesting and profitable as they were, had had quite enough of them. All had a distinct desire to seek the comforts and facilities of civilization, and the decision was taken to head for the nearest town of any size.

This, it emerged after some thought, was Lossal in Tarlanor, around ninety miles south of their probable location. Once the capital of the lost land of Sinval, it had been rebuilt and repopulated in the years after the slaying of Varkar Barduric. Still rather rural, it was a centre for Tarlanor's agricultural market and thrived on the trade that brought, although it was some hundred miles or so from the nearest Tellaran Road.

Currently, it was a place of some turbulence. The Governor, Bardrum, and Pokkyr, head of the Mageguild hated each other, and tried to undermine each other at every opportunity. Velg’Nin of the mercenaries' guild and Annavyr of the Deathstrikers monastry maintained a balance while they waited for one of the others to slip.

All this, hearsay and half-remembered, was of little interest to the adventureres. For a variety of reasons, they wanted a city, and Lossal was the closest. Resolved on visiting it, they headed for the exit from the tomb at Hightower.

As he passed the last resting place of the High Priest of Morglas - whose name he now read off as Vyruru - Gorfang wrenched the golden blazon of Shushkrah off the wall with a grunt. Even for the mighty orc, a hundred pounds of gold was a significant weight, and he was very glad to put it down by the time he reached the entrance hall.

Patiently waiting there was Shamlakh, Gorfang's warg mount and companion. Curled up and asleep, he was surrounded by bones that suggested he had managed to find a snack or two while he was waiting. He greeted his master with enthusiasm and the rest of them with his usual guarded tolerance, and followed the bipeds outside into the sunshine.

Outside, they found their own horses patiently waiting... and also the horses of the Good Guys. Several of these were better than the horses the PCs had brought with them, and saddles were swapped around. Méabh approached a horse that particularly took her attention. It was pure white, caparisoned in fine blue leather with silver bells, and had a jaunty, intelligent air - almost certainly an elf horse and probably the mount of the paladin Enamion. Méabh cut the bells and decorations off it, swung her own saddle and bags onto it, and mounted up. Why had she chosen this horse? Was it an intrinsic affinity? She wasn't sure....

Slung among the saddlebags was a battleaxe, which her skills told her was clearly magical. She scratched her head for a moment; why had the paladin entered the tombs with just his greatsword while leaving an enchanted weapon with his horse? Idiot. She hefted it a couple of times, but it wasn't her kind of weapon at all, so she handed it on to Eloy.

He examined it carefully. The shaft was a pale ash, and the head an unfamiliar and peculiar metal, very bright and highly-polished. The whole thing had a wholesome appearance; but despite this, Eloy took it and added it to his equipment.

Gorfang was considering butchering a spare horse for dinner - there were few things he preferred to horse meat - when Bog caught his eye. He called the little creature over.

"What do you want to do?" he asked the healer. "We're not going back to Dagaren's caravan - would you like to come with us?" Bog considered. "I won't get back to caravan alone," he mused. "Safest travel with strong warriors, heal warriors, warriors look after Bog. You go to city? I got gold now," he jingled a pocket-full of loot from Hightower, "buy ingredients, make Boom Boom." Lynien looked at him. "It's all right," she said, "you won't have to buy your ingredients. We'll do that. After all, we benefit from the results!"

Bog was taken aback for a moment. Then he grinned. "Very good! Very good! Then Bog comes with you." he declared.

The little Gorfang had known about the Fae Mhor before this suggested that items of their equipment was prone to dissolve in the sunlight. It was with some trepidation, therefore, that he drew Veldrin Sk'aal and held it out.

The black sword lay in his hand, unaffected by the light. If anything, the reverse was true; the light seemed to fall into the blade and be consumed - little if any was reflected. Rather impressed and very relieved, the orc sheathed the weapon.

Lossal, Tarlanor, 6th March 1655

Three days later the small city of Lossal came into view as they crossed from plainlands into cultivated farmlands. The journey had been uneventful, apart from a day of rain on the fifth which had driven the party into travelling in skirmish fashion, due to the combination of wet orc and wet warg, a potent and sinus-clearing ambiance if ever there was one...

it appeared to be market day, and traffic through the northern gate was quite brisk; peasants coming to market, merchants gathering to trade, and other more general travellers. As was normal in Tarlanor (and Dalaghendor), a significant number of the people in the streets were lizardfolk. As the party passed the gates, one of the two guards looked Gorfang over rather suspiciously. The volatile orc reined his horse and stared down at the man. "What are you looking at?" he demanded. The man was a little taken aback. "We don't see people of your race very often," he said. "And do you have a problem with that - human?" snapped Gorfang.

"Not with one mercenary among so many others, no," responded the man evenly. "We'd prefer not to see orcs arriving in hordes, though." Gorfang glared at him. "You never know," he said, "I think I like this town. Maybe I'll come back with some friends."

Riding on into the city, the companions began to consider what they wanted to do first. Gorfang, as ever, had no doubts, and made a bee-line for the first alehouse he clapped eyes on. The ladies, however, were of a different opinion and wanted somewhere nicer ... somewhere with a bath. So the party split up, with Lynien and Méabh heading into the better-heeled districts, and Gorfang, Eloy, Uruk and Bog plunging into the Blue Knight tavern.

The Blue Knight was busy... in fact, heaving. Despite this, Gorfang had little difficulty reaching the bar. While not a few of the human and lizardman mercenaries who made up the bulk of the clientele were taller than him, few had the orc's massive shoulders or sense of brooding menace. Reaching the bar, he looked around in interest as Eloy caught the barman's eye and ordered three ales. When they arrived, Gorfang and Uruk slugged them down and immediately called for more, but Eloy paced himself; the human was well-known for his moderate drinking.

Reassured by the quality of the beer, the companions booked themselves a couple of rooms, and Bog gratefully retired upstairs; travelling by horse was tiring for the little crossbreed. Gorfang eyed Eloy's nursed mug of small beer, and dug a dusty bottle out of his pack. "Here, try this instead," he said, pouring a generous shot of dwarven whiskey. Eloy sipped it, coughed a little, and conceded it was excellent... but stuck with his small beer.

Dawn was breaking by the time the three sought their beds.....

Across town, Lynien and Méabh had halted their horses in front of an inn whose board heralded it as the Bull and Elephant. From the outside it looked more like a minor nobleman's town house, and only the inn-board and open doors gave a differernt impression. Encouraged, they went inside.

The barkeep was a female lizard named Eliil, and she greeted them enthusiastically, serving them drinks and making them feel welcome. "Do you have rooms with baths?" asked Lynien. "Oh, yes," Eliil replied proudly, "we have three baths, two general ones and one in the master suite - two rooms adjoining a private bath and dressing room."

"We'll take it," said Lynien. The suite was charged at three gold per day; Méabh handed over six for the first night, and explained that the extra was for assurance that anyone coming in looking for them would not be told they were here.

The rooms proved very spacious and comfortable. After Lynien had checked for traps, secret openings, and spyholes, and Méabh had ascertained that the nearest magic was several rooms away, the pair settled in and relaxed. Méabh sent down for dinners in the room, and Lynien sank into the glorious hot bath with a contented sigh, watching the accumulated muck of three weeks in the saddle and half a day in a hole in the ground float away.