Where did this come from?
The five met at the foot of the largest house in town. It had been built in stone, with the savings of the people of the land, many decades before. It was a great thing for a town so small. The youngsters always looked upon it in awe. The elderly called it their shame. The ruling council had lived and ruled from there ever since. And it was the council the five adventurers had come to meet.
"The council, titles, titles, summons you, brave sorcerer, blah, blah, murdering goblins, etcetera, great service. Gold. Sounds about right?" Shedinn read aloud.
"It checks with mine, ser." Claidheamh retrieved a folded piece of quality paper from his pocket. "Except for 'wild ranger'. They went to the trouble of checking us."
"Heh," grunted Ugarth. "Ya not 'brave' like the mage. Well, mine says gold on it too, so Imma get it."
The ranger thought wild was just as good, for someone who didn't know him. "Let Thoradin do the talking when we're in. They're like to listen to the good reputation."
____________________________________________________________
"My name," began an old man in a richly decorated war room, "is Troyas. I preside over Brindol and the next few miles of the Elsir Vale." The war room hadn't been used in a long time, or so said the dirty chairs and dusty wall carpets. Noone knew what had gotten into these peaceful farming people to build such a display of power. Elder Troyas continued: "Yesterday, someone defending the North bridge found this." He snapped his fingers, and a man that had so far stood to the back opened a chest and retrieved something from it.
"Do you know this banner?", he asked.
Noone knew. "Two centuries ago, the Vale was raided by a warren called The Red Hand of Doom. They claimed freedom, conquest, and other such nonsense for a bunch of goblin. See a connection here?"
It wasn't hard to see. "Are they back?"
"We have to think so. We have found a letter in one of them. Allow me." The elder pulled a crumpled paper from his sleeve. In the broken goblin dialect, it was closer to a manifesto than a call to arms. It did incite a revolution, calling the Vale theirs and naming the human settlements "gold-centered swines", too big an expression for the limited goblins. The letter set Rivenroar as their home base, and was signed (!) Sinruth.
"Rivenroar?", the ranger asked.
"A castle, atop the mountains. Been empty until now. Something happened there, years ago. No survivors, and noone cared enough to investigate either."
"And we are to clear the goblins and end this?" asked Thoradin, very tactfully.
"It is said you were good enough for an ogre. Yes, I expect you to take on a goblin revolt. There will be gold, and fame."
Brindol was in a part of the world were fame was as useful as nipples on a breastplate. A large expanse of corn and grazing fields, framed by a set of mountains on each side, fame wasn't like to go far. Coin, though, was coin.
___________________________________________________________________
The mountain road was tiring, but not as dangerous as one would expect from a revolting country. Having a ranger in the party helped a lot, as everyone would come to agree. East was always East, instead of circles. Wild animals were deftly avoided, except when the stomachs began growling. A seven-hour trek seemed almost short with all the stories. Thoradin turned out to have been a famous guard, until he took a wrong turn and fell from grace. After three years in jail, he took the vows, and said he was now a different dwarf. Claidheamh had never met his parents. Brought up by a mountain clan, he was great with the twin swords, so set out to make a name for himself. Shedinn liked fire. His egg had been bright red with orange streaks, even though his scales grew to be of a coppery shade. He also liked funny little poping goblins. Ugarth and Occam were not the chatty type, but still laughed when Thoradin would sporadically get a boot stuck under a root.
It was without incident that the party got to the summit. It was a large plateau, big enough for a city, but the ground was barren. Dark grey earth spanned the lenght of the oval mesa. In the easternmost corner, a great shadow loomed over the mountain.
SoW e03
This episode is dedicated to The Goat, who didn't make it due to budget constraints (also, sense).
This episode is dedicated to The Goat, who didn't make it due to budget constraints (also, sense).
The five met at the foot of the largest house in town. It had been built in stone, with the savings of the people of the land, many decades before. It was a great thing for a town so small. The youngsters always looked upon it in awe. The elderly called it their shame. The ruling council had lived and ruled from there ever since. And it was the council the five adventurers had come to meet.
"The council, titles, titles, summons you, brave sorcerer, blah, blah, murdering goblins, etcetera, great service. Gold. Sounds about right?" Shedinn read aloud.
"It checks with mine, ser." Claidheamh retrieved a folded piece of quality paper from his pocket. "Except for 'wild ranger'. They went to the trouble of checking us."
"Heh," grunted Ugarth. "Ya not 'brave' like the mage. Well, mine says gold on it too, so Imma get it."
The ranger thought wild was just as good, for someone who didn't know him. "Let Thoradin do the talking when we're in. They're like to listen to the good reputation."
____________________________________________________________
"My name," began an old man in a richly decorated war room, "is Troyas. I preside over Brindol and the next few miles of the Elsir Vale." The war room hadn't been used in a long time, or so said the dirty chairs and dusty wall carpets. Noone knew what had gotten into these peaceful farming people to build such a display of power. Elder Troyas continued: "Yesterday, someone defending the North bridge found this." He snapped his fingers, and a man that had so far stood to the back opened a chest and retrieved something from it.
Noone knew. "Two centuries ago, the Vale was raided by a warren called The Red Hand of Doom. They claimed freedom, conquest, and other such nonsense for a bunch of goblin. See a connection here?"
It wasn't hard to see. "Are they back?"
"We have to think so. We have found a letter in one of them. Allow me." The elder pulled a crumpled paper from his sleeve. In the broken goblin dialect, it was closer to a manifesto than a call to arms. It did incite a revolution, calling the Vale theirs and naming the human settlements "gold-centered swines", too big an expression for the limited goblins. The letter set Rivenroar as their home base, and was signed (!) Sinruth.
"Rivenroar?", the ranger asked.
"A castle, atop the mountains. Been empty until now. Something happened there, years ago. No survivors, and noone cared enough to investigate either."
"And we are to clear the goblins and end this?" asked Thoradin, very tactfully.
"It is said you were good enough for an ogre. Yes, I expect you to take on a goblin revolt. There will be gold, and fame."
Brindol was in a part of the world were fame was as useful as nipples on a breastplate. A large expanse of corn and grazing fields, framed by a set of mountains on each side, fame wasn't like to go far. Coin, though, was coin.
___________________________________________________________________
The mountain road was tiring, but not as dangerous as one would expect from a revolting country. Having a ranger in the party helped a lot, as everyone would come to agree. East was always East, instead of circles. Wild animals were deftly avoided, except when the stomachs began growling. A seven-hour trek seemed almost short with all the stories. Thoradin turned out to have been a famous guard, until he took a wrong turn and fell from grace. After three years in jail, he took the vows, and said he was now a different dwarf. Claidheamh had never met his parents. Brought up by a mountain clan, he was great with the twin swords, so set out to make a name for himself. Shedinn liked fire. His egg had been bright red with orange streaks, even though his scales grew to be of a coppery shade. He also liked funny little poping goblins. Ugarth and Occam were not the chatty type, but still laughed when Thoradin would sporadically get a boot stuck under a root.
It was without incident that the party got to the summit. It was a large plateau, big enough for a city, but the ground was barren. Dark grey earth spanned the lenght of the oval mesa. In the easternmost corner, a great shadow loomed over the mountain.
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