by Daniel Heck
You awake to hear the clash of metal and grunts of pain and exertion from just outside your door. It is dawn. You rush outside to find that Wyver, Grindle, and Bartleby, along with a small group of armed soldiers, fight for their lives with a cordon of animated skeletons, commanded by men in black and red robes.
We’ve been found…
You draw your axe and shield, and jump into the fray with a yell. You hack the skull of one skeleton clear off its body, then duck a sword swing before disarming a second undead. You find Wyver among the commotion, who crouches and casts a spell of some kind. Some nearby vines grow and wrap themselves into, through, and around two skeletons’ bones, entrapping them for the time being.
“What is going on?” you shout.
“We don’t know,” Wyver shouts back, “We had moments ago approached to within yards of your home, when we were ambushed.”
“How did they know you would be here?”
You notice a familiar face among the attacking corps. Her jealous scowl telling all, Roghet stands within a pocket of relative calm, mud still streaked down her cheeks, staring at you and the new king.
“May my spear drink of your traitorous blood,” she taunts.
With that, she charges her former love, whose back is turned.
There’s too much din going around you to shout to get his attention. You don’t have much choice but to intercept her, since the safety of the king is at risk. But a tiny part of you feels responsible, even guilty, for her rage.
What do you do?
I attempt to kill Roghet outright.
I try to only subdue her instead.
After considerable deliberation, you outline to the abbot a plan to post a trio of crossbowmen at each major tower, plus monks with slings behind most of the hillocks. He nods and follows your orders, issuing movement commands down through the ranks, until everyone is armed and in place. You take a post high atop one of the towers, so that all are within earshot.
Now, you wait. And wait some more. You wonder for several minutes what Bartleby and Zander are doing in order to fulfill their portions of your mission. All is silent.
Then, the pounding of paws against ground meets your ears. You look up, and see in the east a few dozen halfling riders wearing black bandannas and riding burly dogs, who barrel toward the monastery at a full sprint. Each bandit also sports a wicked-looking scimitar at his waist.
“It’s the Brotherhood, all right,” the abbot says.
“Now!” you shout. “Open fire!”
A smattering of bolts and pellets pelts the countryside, although a delay in a few shots indicates that some fighters hadn’t loaded yet. Even the shots that go off early sail yards over the heads of the bandits, whose sheer speed has already put them nearly upon you.
“Regroup! Everyone descend to ground level!”
Your men punch and trip and pull several bandits off their dogs, cutting off much of the onslaught. Within, the abbot himself grabs a quarterstaff and, breathing heavily, composes himself to fight. The strongest three halflings yelp and shriek like banshees, press forward, and bash through the temple doors as easily as if they were made of matchsticks.
“Grab whatever you can find!” shouts the leader, a scrappy-looking male wearing a set of spiked armor across his shoulders. The others comply, stashing fruits, meats, weapons and assorted miscellany into their packs. The monastery’s defenses scramble to keep up.
“Cease this!” the abbot shouts. “We mean you no harm. We will give you whatever you want. Just leave us alone.”
“Quiet! The Brotherhood is unstoppable!”
The leader slashes at the abbot with his scimitar, and the latter backs away several steps, but regains his footing. He swings his weapon wildly, catching the halfling in the arm. You would help, but two unmounted bandits have trapped you in a corner. They hesitate as you swing your axe around your head, but hold their ground.
More bandits pour through the doors, and some begin to chop at the compound’s infrastructure. A supporting beam cracks and gives way, and an entire section of wall collapses onto three of your men. Meanwhile, the abbot climbs onto and then over a table, using it as cover as the bandit leader attempts to close the distance.
“Come here, monk-ey-man! I ain’t gonna hurt ya!”
An enemy lunges at you, but you dodge the strike, grab the halfling by the wrist and twist hard, then bash its arm at the elbow with your shield. The bandit screams in pain, just as you hear a similar yell from somewhere within the temple. His friend’s eyes widen, and both quake for a moment, and then run clear out of the monastery and into the horizon.
“That will teach you punks a thing or two,” you grumble.
You turn toward the center of the room, where the abbot lay on his back in the dirt, with a gaping blade puncture in the middle of his chest. You approach and lean over him with a heavy heart.
“I am sorry,” you say.
“It matters not now,” he professes, his tone peaceful. “My time has come, but I will be born again. Take what you need of me, and go.”
You scan the area. Looting continues, and more men fall by the moment, but no one notices you. You hastily pull your vial from your belt pouch, allow several ounces of the abbot’s freely flowing blood to fill it, and secure the opening with a cork.
As you run toward the wilderness, you pass by Paddy Coberfitch one last time, who, even while fighting, flashes you a look that says again, ‘you think you know everything, don’t you?’
I leave the mess behind as quickly as possible.
“It sounds as if your compound’s strengths lie in melee,” you theorize. “We shall have to take a slight risk in letting them get close, but a concentrated defense should keep them at bay.”
The abbot nods with enthusiasm, and issues orders through the ranks until fighters with staves and shields cover all sides of the compound two-deep. You post only one man in each tower, each with a crossbow. You join the men by the temple doors, conscious of the expense of being unable to issue orders from above.
Now, you wait. And wait some more. Your mind wanders, and you wonder for several minutes whether Argent reset his magical traps, or whether he changes them each time someone conquers them. An image of Fedwick flashes in your mind’s eye once again. All is silent.
Then, the rhythmic thump of galloping mounts meets your ears from somewhere in the distance. You look up, and see in the east about twenty-five halfling riders atop burly dogs, wearing black bandannas and barreling toward the monastery at a full sprint. All are armed with unsheathed scimitars.
“The Brotherhood have arrived!” the abbot says.
From above sail three crossbow bolts, two of which hit targets square in the chest, who fall with a grunt. Their dogs whine in confusion for a moment, then dash off in random directions. The remaining bandits are already almost upon you, such is their speed.
“Hold!” you shout, “Do not meet them in the middle!”
The bandit leader, a scraggly youth wearing spiked armor, shouts a charge to bowl you over, just as ten more of your volunteers wrap around the compound from the other sides and close in. As he bolts in your direction, you switch from a defensive position to an open one. Two monks flanking you hold a staff between them and counter-charge; the halfling’s momentum carries him headlong into the weapon, which clotheslines him off his mount and onto his back.
You smirk at the men. “That works, too,” you admit.
The battle escalates, even as you now have the clear advantage in numbers. Quick as they are, the bandits prove only a small challenge, and those that you manage to disarm flee. The final five stubbornly fight on, but your men slay them without mercy, and by the end, you have also taken another three prisoner. A quick inspection reveals that your militia has suffered only a few injuries, without a single casualty.
The abbot approaches you. “Brilliant work, my friend,” he says. You notice a large gash in his arm, and order a volunteer to fetch a dressing for the wound.
>
“I am surprised,” you comment, “that you joined the fray.”
“A true leader does not put himself above his men, for we are all made of the same ki. An energy that pulses through us, that has driven us toward a communal victory this day.”
You smile, proud.
The volunteer returns with a large spool of gauze, but the abbot asks him to hold off for a moment. Without a word, the abbot extends his open palm toward you. It takes a moment for you to understand, but you retrieve your vial from your pouch, and give it to the abbot, who holds it under the trickle of blood on his arm for several moments. When it’s nearly full, he gives it back to you and allows the volunteer to do his work, while grimacing a bit.
Since they are busy, you cork the vial and prepare to depart. Just as you turn away, the abbot calls one last time, “Sir dwarf,”
You turn back.
“Thank you,” he says. “And good luck to you.”
All in a day’s work…
Write down the keyword BLOOD.
Pride swells within me as I travel.
You inhale until your lungs might burst, then let loose a long, warbling yodel that echoes against the snowy mountainsides. In answer comes an ear-piercing squawk, and within seconds, a gigantic gryphon swoops into the nook and lands on the opposite side of the nest with barely a sound. It steps toward you, flaps its wings and tosses its head about. You notice something different about it than you expected: a long crest of white feathers that stretch from its forehead to the base of its neck.
The male, you realize in panic, I’ve attracted the father!
You glance behind you, at the passage.
Best keep the escape quick.
Despite your fear, you brace yourself as you jump forward. You almost touch the nest, then hop back again, hoping to lure the beast to within your natural reach. Confused, it squawks again, and mimics your actions. As you hold a hand outstretched, you establish eye contact with it, and for a long moment, it seems to want to hold on to that connection for dear life.
“I won’t hurt you,” you say.
It squawks a third time, this time a long, plaintive wail, and holds very still. You step toward it, and reach for the very tip of its right wing.
You grab hold of a feather, and yank.
The gryphon lurches backward with shock in its eyes, pounds the ground with its claws, and roars a challenge.
“Gotta go!” Clutching the feather, you duck a tremendous swipe from the creature, and run back toward the cavern. You hear it bite at you from behind, once, twice, and on the third time feel its beak nip the seat of your pants, but are able to dive to safety, putting many yards between you and the creature before looking back again. The gryphon pokes its head into the tunnel, calling out, but cannot fit inside. With a whine, it slinks back to near the nest, hunched over, but does not sit upon the eggs.
It seems to take forever to wind your way back down through the mountainous passages. Assuming Bartleby’s estimate of two weeks holds, Fedwick currently has less than five days to live. You reassure yourself that you have enough of a buffer, that nothing will stand in your way, and that you trust your companions will fulfill their portions of the mission.
Or will they?
These thoughts and others fill your otherwise uneventful journey back to the City of Storms. Security at the city limit is laxer than ever, and everything appears normal, until you reach Argent’s compound. The moss covering the boulder appears to have been pulled aside recently, and there is no one here but you.
You scratch your head, and look about.
I expected to be the last one here, not the first…
Curiosity gets the better of you. You light a torch and enter the tunnel with caution. The walls and floor somehow seem damper than usual, creating an oppressive atmosphere.
When you reach the puzzle room, you wish with all your soul that you had been faster. Argent and Zander lay on the floor. The wizard is clearly dead, eyes closed, his skin already turning white, and his silver robes stained with immense amounts of blood. Zander lay on his side, motionless, but is also wounded, and groans in obvious pain.
You close the distance and kneel over him. “Zander! Thank the gods you’re alive. What happened here?”
“I was able…” he wheezes, each breath difficult, “to get the blood… and return…”
“Who attacked you?”
“I tried… to fight… undead assassins… too many…”
“We need to get you to a healer,” you say as you lift the ranger up. Bartleby would do, but is nowhere in sight.
Argent was a fool, you conclude, to stay here. As one of the only people in the nation with the knowledge to destroy the Black Rose, he could have employed the entire royal guard and still been a vulnerable target. And yet, you could not have afforded to stay behind.
The only question that remains is: What now?
Better opportunities await you. Try again!
Go back to the previous choice, or…
Restart from the beginning.
The hour grows late, and your legs and back ache. You estimate that your party cannot reach the capital before dawn, even if you push through the night.
“Shall we attempt to find shelter along the way?” you ask.
Bartleby asks, “Will these orcbloods even rent us a room?”
“You forget,” Crolliver chides, “that as far as most here know, I still work for the church. I can say that you are with me, if our robes aren’t enough to protect our true identities in the first place.”
Another hour passes before you encounter a small village just off the main path, the name of which you have never heard. A decrepit wooden building sits in the center of the main avenue, with a sign hanging by one of two hooks that reads ‘The Ugly Pigeon.’ From it rings the sounds of simultaneous, deep-voiced conversations. The three of you exchange glances, but trek onward, as it appears to be the only inn around.
You enter by the faint light of two oil lamps flanking the door. Every humanoid in the room is an orcblood, and they all stop what they are doing. Most are armed and armored. Their stares bore holes into you, and several tense moments pass.
Bartleby breaks the silence, “So… have you heard this one?’ he says, “A priest, a lackey, and a dwarf walk into a bar…”
Crolliver rolls his eyes. A slender female tromps out from behind the counter toward your party, and scans every inch of you.
“I keep this inn,” she declares through a cheekful of tobacco, “What do you chumps need?”
“Have you any vacancies?” you ask.
The woman considers for a moment longer.
“Have you the silver? Five per night.”
With that, the surrounding patrons return to their business. You pay your fee, and each settle onto a cot within a sparsely-furnished room. The walls stand bare, and cobwebs pervade the upper corners.
“Lovely accommodations,” Bartleby remarks.
“At least they chose not to keep us in some sort of communal bunk,” you note. “This way, we can discuss our plans in relative privacy.”
“For now, let us retire,” Crolliver requests, adding as he brushes a spider off his tunic, “…to the best of our ability.” You weigh the likelihood of learning anything new from this point forward.
You wake with a start, to the bash of a body against wood.
Someone repeatedly rams the door from the other side, straining the multiple locks and chains to the point where they hold by a splinter. Bartleby and Crolliver sit up, and draw weapons.
The door gives way, and through the entryway bursts a tall, square-jawed human in black and red robes. He sees Crolliver, shouts “Nowhere to hide now!” and points a black talisman in the lackey’s direction.
Thinking quickly, you tackle Crolliver, and your momentum carries you both to the floor in a heap as a beam of crackling energy shoots from the talisman, over both of your heads. Bartleby dashes behind the man, closes the door, grabs the man’s arm and
twists it behind his head in a bar-style lock. You stand, retrieve rope from your pack, close the distance and help press the man against the wall. You tie his hands, rendering him harmless within a matter of seconds.
“What do you want with us?” you ask him.
“Is it not obvious?” Crolliver remarks from the floor. “The church thinks I’m a threat!”
The attacker says nothing.
Perhaps what we need, you think, has come to us, rather than us going to it.
You shove the man into a corner, where he falls onto his face, then rolls onto his side. “What is the meaning of this?” you demand. “This must have to do with more than just one lackey.”
The worshipper looks up at you with a silent, sadistic grin.
You pace back and forth, nervous irritation rising. “Do you understand what we’ve been through? The sheer nerve of it all. For a church that has too few numbers to prove a threat, you sure seem to pop up wherever and whenever it is most inconvenient!”
Two hard knocks ring on the side wall, and you realize you’re disturb other tenants. You hesitate, but speak to the worshipper further, this time in a hoarse grumble: “Do you know just how destructive you fools are? Could you undo what you have done, if you wanted to?”
An idea strikes you. “Would you spare Fedwick, if you received something else, something more valuable, in return?”
The man’s smile disappears. He still says nothing.
“No bargaining, eh…” you mumble, as despair mixes with anger, “After all, I can’t… make you talk.”
Bartleby and Crolliver exchange glances.
Just as you turn your back upon the man, he intones, “What a fool…”
You stop in shock, and wheel around. “Excuse me?”
“Your friend,” he hisses, “Of the Canterbury clan, was he not?”
“How do you know that?”
The worshipper emits a slow, evil chuckle. “You truly are even more oblivious than you appear.”