by Drew Hayes
Spinning around, the wolf tried to race toward another, narrower opening in the trees. From there, it would escape and stalk these creatures through the night until they grew tired and slack. Then it would feed, with perhaps a bit more relish as the pain in its side ached. First came the escape, however.
That plan came to an abrupt halt as another figure stepped into the gap the wolf was heading toward. Unlike the shining one, this one stank of stronger beasts, the red monsters that sometimes killed all they saw and left only blood behind. This creature wore that hide like it was her own, and nasty as the scent was, it paled in comparison to the smell drifting from the weapon in her hands. It was dark, stained, and every instinct in the wolf’s lineage screamed at it to run from that smell as fast and as hard as possible. Digging in its paws, the wolf slid to a stop, eyes and nose still trained on the terror before it.
It was this distraction that allowed another of the creatures to slip in close. It moved so silently the wolf might have mistaken it for one its own kind. The sharp tang of metal on metal echoed at the last second, but by then, it was too late. A blade carved through the wolf’s back, causing its back legs to go limp, drowning out all thoughts of escape in torrential waves of pain. Letting out a snarl, the wolf snapped its jaws more for form than necessity. It had lost this fight, that much was already clear, but it would still strike until the last bit of strength left its body.
“Fifth wolf in two days that’s come after us,” said the one who’d slipped in behind the wolf, already too far away to strike. “We need to do something about this before one of them catches us by surprise.”
“I was actually going to bring that up at dinner tonight.” These noises came from a small one the wolf had missed amidst the chaos. It was crooked and tiny, easy enough prey that the wolf could have snapped it up and run off before the others were any wiser. “In the meantime, can someone please put the poor thing out of its misery? I fear my daggers will just add more pain to the end.”
“Guess that’s my cue.” The one who stank of blood-beasts and wore their flesh stepped forward, hefting the dark instrument up into a kill pose. She muttered new noises, ones like the chittering of the smaller green creatures the wolf had hunted many times before, then swung downward.
Just before the blow connected, the wolf heard its killer mumble one last thing: “We really need a damn archer.”
* * *
The fire crackled as Thistle drew in the dirt. The remains of their recently killed wolf roasted on a spit. Most of it had been picked clean already, as Timuscor the knight, Gabrielle the barbarian, Eric the rogue, and Grumph the wizard had gobbled down the meat ferociously. Mr. Peppers—the boar Timuscor had adopted—was also present, though he seemed content to munch on grass and wild roots. When the first wolf had come to their camp, it had almost seemed like a blessing—everyone was so weary of scavenged vegetables and small game. But then the next one came and the next. By this point, they were all getting a bit weary of wolf meat, to say nothing of the toll of endlessly worrying about when one would finally succeed in sneaking up on them.
At least they were drawing near to civilization once more. The increased animal activity was the first giveaway, along with seeing more travelers on the roads. Granted, as wanted fugitives from the kingdom of Solium, a kingdom many in the party considered home, the party usually had to duck down or leave the kingdom road to avoid such fellow travelers, but it was heartening nonetheless. It had been weeks since their last stop at a trading post for fresh supplies, and many times longer since they’d departed the cozy peace of Briarwillow. True, Briarwillow was a town now populated almost exclusively by the undead (and a few mages doing lots of study on the situation), but they’d still had ample gifted cooks and bakers who’d made the stay more enjoyable.
Standing up to his full height–not that it was much different from that when he was hunched over—Thistle the paladin clapped his hands together. It was a habit his traveling companions were well aware meant his work had been completed, so they rose wordlessly from their seats to see what he’d been drawing.
It appeared to be a roughly-drawn map showing the road they were on, a vast circle labeled with the word “Camnarael,” and several other roads branching out in all directions, one of which led to the word “Baltmur.” Since that was their destination, it seemed obvious why Thistle had labeled it, though no one was entirely sure why he’d bothered making the map in the first place. They all knew they were heading to Baltmur; it wasn’t like they needed to be reminded.
“I’ll bite,” Gabrielle said eventually. “What is this?”
“In simple terms: a map, though I’m sure you were already aware of that.” Thistle stretched his small arm out, gesturing to the drawing and pointing at the space between themselves and Baltmur. “In more useful terms: this is an illustration of the problem our group is currently facing. To be blunt, there are two paths open to us right now. We could go north, sticking to the outskirts of the capital—” Here Thistle tapped the circle labeled Camnarael “—and eventually making our way to the lone road through the mountains that leads to Baltmur. Or we could go through Camnarael and take the road from there.”
“Seems obvious, doesn’t it?” Eric bent down, examining the map, trying to figure out what he was missing. Thistle wouldn’t have brought the issue to the group’s attention if it was this easily solved. Coming up with nothing, he pressed on. Someone had to get the wrong thoughts out of the way so Thistle would explain. “If we stick to the outskirts, we’ve got a straighter path and lower risk of running into anyone who might be working for King Liadon.”
The king of Solium was not known for his good temperament or willingness to forgive. Though they’d encountered no agents of his since fleeing the dungeon where he’d sent countless adventurers to die, none of the group was foolish enough to believe such people weren’t out there. He had a reputation for hunting down even the paltriest of deserters, and such folk hadn’t escaped with an artifact of unfathomable power—Eric and his friends had.
“Aye, that does make it a more appealing route,” Thistle agreed. “But therein also lies the problem. Once we reach the road to Baltmur, our terrain will change considerably. Though I’ve never been there myself, I know the reputation well enough: largely barren lands with little in terms of vegetation. The things that live there are tough, hungry, and known for preying on adventurers. Much as I dislike these wolves, which we’d have to deal with all the way to Baltmur’s road, keep in mind that they’re a far sight kinder than what’s waiting for us when we begin that leg of the journey.”
“We’ve managed so far.” Grumph generally wasn’t prone to pride, but in the many weeks since they’d left Briarwillow, he’d seen his friends grow constantly stronger: dispatching monsters meant to make them into dinner as well as training hard every day. He himself had been working tirelessly with the tome his teacher in the mages’ guild, Dejy, had provided. Grumph was slowly becoming more than just passable as a wizard.
“And while that has been good for us overall, it has also taken a toll, old friend.” Thistle paused, looking around the group. It was normally considered poor form to be as blunt as this situation demanded; however, given the circumstances, he felt it was a necessary overstep. “If I may speak frankly: we’re all feeling the cost of the road. Constant travel is leaving us weary. There is never enough sleep and rarely adequate food. You have all pushed through with miraculous fortitude, but the simple truth is that eventually, fatigue will win out. We need to rest. True, genuine rest, even if only for a few days. More to the point: we’d be far better equipped for the trip to Baltmur if we had some actual supplies. Remember, the hunting will be scarce, and everything we do encounter will be eager to see us dead.”
“Getting supplies is easier said than done,” Eric remarked. “The gold from Appleram has taken us this far, but between travel supplies, fresh horses, and getting our equipment mended along the way, we’re beginning to hit the edge of our financ
es.”
If anything, Eric was being generous in his assessment. What had seemed like an impossible amount of gold was down to only a few coins, enough to perhaps afford lodging at an inn; though, in a place as expensive as Alcatham’s capital, they might only be able to manage a single night. And wolves, while filling to the belly, generally didn’t wander the forest with sacks of silver tucked beneath their jaws.
“Are we doing something wrong?” Gabrielle was hunched down over her pack, having wandered a few feet away from the map while Eric and Thistle talked. “When Grumph and I traveled with Fritz, she rattled off prices for her wares in the thousands as if they were some paltry sum, and then acted surprised when I almost choked at the cost. I got the impression that most adventurers have more coin than we do. So far, we’ve stolen an ancient artifact and destroyed part of a god’s divinity, yet I’m down to three gold and five silver.”
The look that passed between Grumph and Thistle was telling, and Eric was about to call them out on whatever tidbit the pair was hiding when another voice spoke first. It was Timuscor, defying his generally quiet nature for an occasion other than talking to Mr. Peppers.
“We’re not taking any quests. My days before your group are admittedly fuzzy, but I know that was a big part of them. Go to the local tavern or guard station, find out what was causing trouble, handle the issues, and collect a handsome reward. Strange, though, that there was always something to deal with. You’d think we’d have come upon a peaceful town at least once or twice.”
“Let’s call it the curse of being an adventurer, rather than delving into the more existential possibilities,” Thistle suggested. “But Timuscor has struck the nail dead center. Though we’ve been training our bodies and skills to their fullest, our status as fugitives has kept us from taking on quests in exchange for gold. As a result, our funds—and equipment, if we’re being honest—have fallen behind where we might like them to be.”
Amidst the armor and weapons they carried, only Gabrielle’s axe, Eric’s sword and armor, and Thistle’s belt were still in good condition. The axe was simple enough to account for, as it was relatively new and visibly magical, and Eric had learned enough about sewing from his mother to mend the veilpanther armor, already so much like cloth. His sword was a curiosity, but as an inheritance from his paladin father, the reason it never wore down was most likely divine protection or some manner of imbued magic. As for Thistle’s belt, the contraption simply held well, even as often as he drew his daggers from it—a fact for which he was dearly thankful. Once he lost the power to call his weapons back, they might end up in dire straits indeed.
“So… do we quest? I mean, how do we quest? Just pick a direction, aim for a town, and hope they’ve got some well-paying problem we can deal with?” Gabrielle asked.
“Camnarael is our best bet,” Grumph rumbled. It was often hard to pick up tonal differences in the rough growl of a half-orc’s voice, but they’d been traveling long enough that his reluctance was noticeable by the entire party.
“Aye, that it is. In fact, it’s because we’re nearing Camnarael that I brought this to the group’s attention.” Thistle pointed down at his map, waving his hands in an expanding pattern, as if he were trying to get a grip on the massive circle labeled with the capital’s name. “You see, Alcatham’s capital is more of a conglomeration of various towns and lands than it is a single city. Unlike Solium’s capital, which was built to be defensive and impregnable, Alcatham’s was created to unite an area that had... let’s call them unexceptional diplomatic relations. True, once you get into the central city proper, things would look more like Solium, but the main difference here is that the center serves as a hub. That’s where the citizens gather for trade, travel, and of course, quests.”
“All centered right there,” Grumph added, tapping the circle in its middle. “No need to run around.”
“Smart.” Timuscor leaned over the map, taking in what Thistle and Grumph were saying. Though he wasn’t as quick as some of the party’s nimbler minds, he could get where they led him eventually, so long as there was a bit of patience extended during the more complex bits. “Normally, you’d have to go to each town to see the available quests, but if it’s all in one spot, then every adventurer can choose the challenge and reward best suited to them.”
“I get it. We ride into town, check to see if there any quests that we can handle and that pay well, then do them and buy enough supplies to make it to Baltmur,” Gabrielle said. “Just one thing, though: going into the central capital of Solium’s nearest neighbor seems like a really great way to get spotted by someone working for Liadon.”
“It’s risky,” Eric agreed. “But so is trying to press on to Baltmur with inadequate supplies. At least if we survive Alcatham’s capital long enough to do a few quests, we’ll be better equipped to deal with anything Solium sends. Your demon armor and axe are doing well, but the rest of us are running thin. Even I can only patch my veilpanther hide for so long.”
“Neither path is safe; the one that is the least dangerous is a matter of perspective,” Thistle told them. “Even assuming we don’t meet an agent of Liadon, questing is still dangerous in and of itself. We would hardly be the first group of adventurers to overestimate our capabilities and pay with our lives. Whatever choice we make, it needs to be as a group. Last time we followed my hunch, it led to quite a bit of complication, and while I don’t think Grumble is guiding my every inclination, I have learned the value in group decision-making.”
“I vote for Alcatham’s capital,” Timuscor said. “Don’t ask me to explain why, but I feel as though we’ve fallen behind somehow. My instincts say we need better equipment before undertaking such a dangerous journey, and that seems like the best way to get it.”
“Capital,” Grumph echoed. Though his own gear was actually doing well—spell books were enchanted to be extra durable—he could see the fraying edges of his friends’ equipment and bodies. They needed to regroup and re-gear in order to face the road to Baltmur with rested bodies and ready minds.
“I’ll say capital, too.” Gabrielle resisted the urge to touch her axe, a habit she’d fallen into with her previous weapon. That one hadn’t burned at the slightest contact, though, nor had it tried to fill her mind with violence and anger. Even knowing they were walking into danger, she kept her hands away from the axe until it was needed. In a way, the cursed tool had been a blessing, as only now was she beginning to realize how often she’d reacted to things by reaching for an implement of violence.
“The capital works for me.” Though Eric didn’t say it out loud, he’d been hoping the decision would go this way. Being a rogue in the forest —even an improperly-trained one—made it tough to be especially useful to his friends. In a city, there would be alleys to sneak down, locks to pick, and all manner of methods he might use to pitch in.
“Leaving me for last. I also agree that we should head for the capital,” Thistle said.
Timuscor coughed loudly, and then pointed to his feet, where Mr. Peppers was standing attentive. “You forgot someone.”
“Aye... of course.” No one was entirely sure what to do with the boar that had been summoned yet refused to turn back into mana. It was a strange creature, always a little too bright for anyone’s comfort, but Timuscor had bonded deeply with the animal, and no one had the heart to begrudge him a pet. “Mr. Peppers, which path do you vote for?”
Thistle hadn’t actually been expecting a response, which made it all the more interesting when the boar trotted across Thistle’s map and plopped down directly in the middle of the giant circle, obscuring the word “Camnarael” completely.
“Guess that makes it unanimous,” Eric said. “We’re off to the capital of Alcatham.”
Chapter 3
“Are we going to find a way to open the chest?” Tim was all but bouncing up and down with excitement at the announcement of the new module, clutching the character sheet of Timanuel the paladin so tightly that it was crumpling alon
g the edges.
“Well, that depends on you as a party and the choices you make,” Russell told him. “This is a pretty dense module. There are a lot of options to take that lead down all sorts of paths, but they’re designed to be time-sensitive. If you choose one quest over another, by the time you get back, the second quest might not be there anymore.”
Broken Bridge had taken an ambitious, unusual step with this latest module by implementing something as realistic as lost opportunities. In most modules, the party could follow a quest to the end, and then take the next in the line, and so on. This one was designed to take away certain paths as they made their choices. True, the GM could always elect to ignore the rule, but Russell actually agreed with it. He liked the idea of opportunity cost, something he’d never have thought to introduce yet that undeniably added a certain weight to the party’s choices. Besides, somewhere in his gut was a feeling that if he didn’t play the module as intended, he would never get another one.
“It’s an interesting mechanic,” Bert said. Easily twice as wide as anyone else at the table, at a glance Bert seemed like the kind of guy who’d have stuffed all the SS&S players into a trash can rather than supporting the party as Wimberly, the gnome gadgeteer. Those broad muscles only concealed the dedicated, crafty mind Bert possessed, however; no one at the table—Russell included—spent more time studying the rules and planning for potential battles. “We’ll have to make our choices carefully.”
“I favor any quests that take us back to the forest. Gelthorn is uncomfortable in the city for too long.” Alexis had made some progress in speaking audibly when out of character, so at least now the whole table could hear her, even if they did have to strain a bit. It was always strange to see the shift when Alexis faded away and Gelthorn stepped in: the mousy brunette all but vanished under the powerful personality of the elven forest warrior.