Session 6: Sometimes the enemy of my enemy IS actually a friend.

Returning to the Prancing Palomino the heroes return to find a celebratory air in the taproom, which is now filled to capacity accept a table now reserved for the popular gladiators. The Innkeeper, patrons and serving staff all eager to please the newly won heroes.

Vognar feasts to celebrate, while recalling the fight and situation to Kyle and petting Tajzh proud of her accomplishments. Thistle writes in his book of alchemy also eating but oblivious to Vognars cheerful excess, meanwhile Lythar and his wolf spend some time together.

Returning to his room Vognar finds his mastercrafted leather pack chewed up by Tyl, inebriated the large Ulfen urinates on Lythars pack in retribution and collapses on the bed as the others sleep some place different for the night.

The following day Lythar and Tyl leave the city in pursuit of natural surroundings together, while Thistle and Kyle go to see Halgrim in pursuit of his fine work. Lythar before leaving in the morning gives Vognar gold for his wolf brothers’ nervous destruction of the pack, the big man feeling guilty does the same for Lythar.

Thistle and Kyle decide to go talk Barvin Freth into allowing the cleric to join his friends in tonights performance, the half-elves’ silver tongue convinces the shrewd arena master that Gorum would be pleased, agreeing to the deal. Thistle wisely scoots the duo out of Barvins office before Kyle oversteps his bounds; regrouping with the others at the inn to discuss the upcoming fights. Unfortunately a remedy that Thistle gave Vognar made him feel good at first but soon caused him to feel so fatigued he slept the day away.

***

The heroes are spread out, each at one door that enters the arena as a previous gnoll gladiator champion stands center of the sands basking in his fans accolades.

Huge oak and iron-banded doors yawned open with a groan revealing the blond Ulfen who even at six and half stones tall was dwarfed by the immense gnoll who slavered and chorted with a hyena-like laugher.

Vognar although rash was no fool, smartly choosing to stand his ground and circle his opponent, motioning for the gnoll opponent to come to him, while gauging the danger of the cruel gladiator.

The crowd began to boo, hiss and throw things into the ring, the great human would not be rushed, wondering if he could free Lythar before the big gnoll crushed his skull with his greataxe. Realizing his friends might never be allowed out till he was down Vognar rushed the gibbering gladiator in hopes he could mortally damage the creature before he moved on to his friends.

A roar of excitement filled the air as the Ulfen, new armor gleaming in the fading light, rushed forward, his sword held in a high guard, swung with all his might at the deceptively agile gnoll who dipped just under the attack but cut the big human and laughed mockingly.

Blood-filled Vognars’ eyes a red haze of fury and hate as his arms and chest swelled with primal might, roaring to Gorum the barbarian swung again and again the gnoll barely dodging each blow and giving the blond Ulfen a series of wounds that went unnoticed by the enraged warrior. Finally the gate allowing Lythar to enter opened, wasting no time he ran to aid his orodae companion, cutting the big gnoll, distracting it to allow Vognar to connect his keen great sword with the gnolls thigh, with an overhand chop, severing the femoral artery the gnoll bled out in moments, from a gushing wound, covering the Ulfen with the hyena-like creatures blood.

Roaring and cheering the crowd was pleased, women tore their clothes at the site of Lythar and money rained from the stands.

The group was given almost two hours to recuperate while other arena events played. Kyle, Lythar and Vognar gathered their winnings from wagers they had placed on themselves and planned to place for their next match.

Thistle quietly abstained, silently observing the location of the guards and wondering how he might break out the other oppressed creatures below.

The finale the heroes stood in the center of the arena, backs to one another to the north a large dark haired barbarian with a great axe perhaps one of Vognars kind, to the south a lizard man shaman strode forth hissing as he walked. East a huge wolf man standing almost eight feet tall body restrained by arena guards holding long chains, last to the west a group of goblin archers chanted and gestured rudely at the heroes.

No surprise Tazjh sprung into action first, closing the distance after looking for approval from Thistle the creature pulled a hangnail and hurt its claw screeching in anger and pain.

Lythar whispered to all to not attack the wolf man, Vognar dubious but trusting his elven friend headed north to the dark haired warrior like himself. Kyle and Thistle did battle with the lizard man stabbing, casting and throwing things at the wicked reptile.

Lythar spoke words of comfort and friendship to the wolf man explaining that his people where friends of his and if he would help the heroes they would not attack him. Grinning the big wolf ran north to aid an unknowing Vognar. The already wounded Northman gladiator was ripped to shreds by the wolf creature much to Vognars’ indigent frustration.

Tazjh and Thistle killed most of the goblins as Lythar and Kyle finished off the lizard man. The Elven warrior warned Vognar not to kill the wolf-creature as the two locked themselves into a mock wrestling match that Vognar won to the surprise of all.

Victorious the group was again showered with money, food, promises of sex and praise by the arena fans.

Kyle freed the wolf creature named Gron with a spell of Cayden, arena gaurds rushing to stop the big wolf from escaping. The heroes had completed their oath to the arena master, Lythar, Kyle and Thisltle bartered for Grons freedom paying with their own winnings.

Heading to the inn the group decides what to do to get Gron home safely so that the drow do no capture him again and sell him to Barvins men. Meanwhile Thistle and Kyle go back to the arena after closing time, hoping to free the remaining slaves below.

To be continued…

The Herd

A chill wind gusted about the stable's double doors, picking up stray pieces of straw and whirling them about. Fairly well kept tack swung slightly in the cool breeze, metal links and buckles of bridles, breast collars, stirrups and reins clacking quietly. A loose board in one of the stalls gave a faint thump. Valdish pricked his ears, his gray-black nostrils blowing softly, scenting the air. He wondered where the stable boy had gotten off to.

For that matter, where was his master? The big man with pale hair like his. No, not like his, he thought, turning his neck to rub an itchy spot just behind his left foreleg. Valdish's hair was white as snow, except for his black mane and tail and the hair of his lower legs which deepened from a charcoal gray to the sooty black of his hooves. The man's hair was a pale yellow, like dried grass in summer.

Grass! Valdish dropped his head and nosed about the floor of his stall. He found a bit of hay he'd overlooked and nibbled it thoughtfully as the wind gusted again. There was something on the wind! Something that foretold of danger approaching, of flight and combat. Absently, he struck first one front hoof then the other against a board of his stall. He nickered with satisfaction at the solid 'thunk' of the blows. His master would be pleased, he was sure. It seemed important to the big man Valdish learn to do this.

He stopped, dropping both hooves back to the ground at a low nicker from his left. The gray fey one, Mos Shol, regarded him mildly, ears forward, his black tail swishing idly. Valdish nickered back, dipping his head and the gray one returned the greeting. They both looked toward the double doors as the wind gusted through again, a stuttering tremble amidst an eerie calm. Almost simultaneously, the skin of their withers shivered. They looked at each other, nodding in apparent understanding.

Valdish turned to his right, leaning his head over the wall of his stall. The pony filly lay sleeping. Valdish stretched down his head, nudging her on the neck with his nose. He whickered and she lifted her head, yawning sleepily, then laid her head back down. Valdish laid back his ears, stomping a hoof imperiously, and with a louder whicker, gave her a sharp nip on the rump.

Daisy lurched to her feet with a squeal of outrage. Ears laid back, she rolled her eyes angrily. She gave the wall of the stall a half-hearted kick, but it still rattled the board.

Valdish nickered an apology, but the little pony turned her back to him. Giving an exasperated blow through his nostrils, Valdish nosed about until he found an apple he had nosed under some straw for later. Picking it up carefully in his teeth, he tossed it to her. It struck Daisy on the shoulder, bouncing to the ground near her hoof. She sniffed it briefly, then turned her head away, sulking.

Valdish waited, his tail swishing patiently. Mos Shol watched with quiet amusement. In a few moments, Daisy's head swung back and she picked up the apple and ate it. She ambled over to touch noses with Valdish, nickering her thanks.

The wind stirred again, rattling through the stable more insistently. This time, all three looked toward the doorway. Valdish nickered low in his chest. Mos Shol and Daisy answered him. They were ready to go. Something was coming.

To be continued...

Cursed - Part 3

Sharalae gingerly pressed a dampened bit of cloth to her side, low along her right flank, wincing with a soft hiss at the sting. After a moment, she pulled the cloth away, pleased when she saw it was not overly stained with blood. The Siavaedi arrow had just grazed her then, and as far as she could tell, it did not appeared to have been poisoned. She breathed a sigh of relief.

She took stock of her provisions, wondering if she should risk doubling back to see if there was anything she could scavenge from the scene of the recent fracas in which she had inadvertently found herself. Whatever House Sha'nul was up to, they were really in over their heads now! Sharalae didn't know what in the Seven Hells the creature she had seen with the drow raiding party had been, but she suspected it was some sort of outsider, one she was not familiar with. Whatever it was, it, and several others like it, had made short work of the contingent of Siavaedi the raid group had encountered, despite the mages the elves had had with them. One elven wizard, her arcane auras almost blinding Sharalae's magic sight, had abruptly toppled over during the battle mid-cast, apparently struck dead by some tremendous unseen power.

The drider snorted, shaking her head. The drow raiders had been overkill, following behind their strange fearsome allies, taking what scraps were left. She had been following her former people, but lost their trail, and had instead picked up the track of the Siavaedi, only to be caught in the middle when the drow attacked. She was fortunate to have escaped relatively intact, the drow soldiers thinking her to be on their side as they had driders with them, giving her time to scuttle away through their ranks relatively unopposed. But of course, the fool Siavaedi had shot at her as she retreated. A wry smile flickered across Sharalae's lips. She supposed she couldn't blame them.

Resettling her quiver across her slim obsidian shoulders and arranging her cloak comfortably, she picked up her bow. Sharalae decided it would be worthwhile to revisit the battlefield. Raelona would be in a hurry whether she found what she was searching for or not, she reasoned. There was the off chance something of use might have been overlooked and left behind.

*****

A light rain fell as Sharalae prowled about the battleground, deepening the already dark night. She was grateful for the additional cover as well as the cover of sound. However, she knew that particular sword cut both ways and remained alert and watchful for any others who may have for whatever reason chosen to return.

Oddly enough, it was from one of her own people that she acquired something useful. Noticing an unusual glint in the mud, she pressed the tip of one pointed black leg in the trampled muck and uncovered what turned out to be a drow hand apparently severed during the vicious combat. One of its fingers bore a ring, a rather plain band of silver adorned by a single cabochon of hematite. Removing it, Sharalae examined it closely, allowing the rain to wash away the last bits of grit on it as it lay upon her palm.

She slipped the band onto a finger of her left hand and a short phrase whispered through her mind. Startled, she looked down at the ring in amazement, then concentrating a moment, uttered the phrase. Feeling a strange sense of vertigo for one brief second, she realized her perspective had changed. She no longer stood as tall. Looking down, she saw a pair of shapely dark legs descending from her rounded hips, ending in dainty feet standing barefoot in a muddy puddle.

Lifting her hand before her face, she eyed the ring now adorning her slender finger. She smiled. "How interesting," she murmured. "Now all I need is to find some pants and boots that fit."

To be continued...

Shyr Paes (Wolf dream)

It was not good here. The silver gray wolf growled, unsettled, as her claws clacked softly on the wooden floor. She paced restlessly about the small room, occasionally giving the various furnishings a cursory sniff. From time to time she would go to the door to paw at the gap beneath it, whining softly. Continuing with her agitated patrol, she paused to inspect the leather packs resting on the floor near the beds. They smelled strongly of the strange two-legs in whose company she now found herself.

One pack, smaller than the rest, smelled of the little two-legs, the one who had spoken with her, oddly enough, the one who commanded the strange cold-blood. She liked how his pack smelled and pawed at it with determination until she could thrust her nose within. An assortment of earthy aromas tantalized her nostrils and she snuffled deeply for several moments, her tail wagging with pleasure. The scents brought her vivid images of the forest and earth and running free, but there were other smells, too. Smells of the two-legs and their strange sprawling dens. She wuffed to herself and snorted, moving on to one of the larger packs.

The first one smelled of the largest two-legs, or reeked, rather. It was heavily stained with his sweat and grime. The scent of the young Da Wa'ya, the pup, was strong upon it, too. The wolf chewed on the leather a bit, rubbing her head against the pack, in a effort to cover the scent of the pup's with her own. Finally satisfied, she left it, the flap and strap a bit mangled, and moved on to the last pack.

Now this one...she pawed at it, then sniffed it thoroughly, her tail wagging slightly. This one belonged to TreeWalker, the other one who had spoken with her. He puzzled her. He seemed to be a two-legs, and yet...he wasn't. There was something of the Wa'ya about him. A sense of freedom and wildness the other two-legs lacked. And he had shown her the Wa'ya were his brothers and sisters. She found it hard to believe, but she had seen it, it must be so.

Growling irritably, she dragged the pack over to a corner and laid down, curling her body around it, draping her paws across it possessively. She sniffed it some more, as if the scents alone could help her understand, but she was none the wiser. She yawned, exposing strong, sharp white teeth, and dropped her head to her paws. Her eyes drooped sleepily. She was feeling better after finally getting some food and water, but she was still very tired from her ordeal. She shifted a foreleg, whimpering softly when the movement aggravated a still painful bruise. Her lips lifted in a silent snarl as she drifted into sleep and remembered...

...running through the woods, the crisp, cool air of night in her nose, moonlight glimmering off her fur, the feel of good earth and leaves beneath her silent paws. She was in pursuit of a small deer and gaining on her prey when a soft hissing noise came to Tyl's ears. The deer unexpectedly floundered and the wolf smelled blood scent. She came upon the young buck thrashing on the ground, a strange straight stick protruding from his torso just behind his foreleg. Tyl sprang upon him, grabbing him by the throat, her teeth biting through his neck. Warm blood sprayed across her face and buck struggled no more.

She lifted her head to the moon, preparing to howl her thanks to the buck for his sacrifice, when several two-legs descended upon her. She had only seen them from afar before, always cautiously giving their kind a wide berth. The chase of the hunt and its excitement had made her careless. They made strange guttural noises and approached her. She snarled, laying her ears back, as two menaced her from both flanks with long sharp pointy sticks and the other held up what appeared to be several strange-looking vines twisted together.

With a practiced flick, the two-legs hurled the vines over her. She tried to dodge out of the way, but the spears of the other two-legs forced her back. The net fell over her and the more Tyl struggled, the more entangled she became.

Making their strange grunts, they closed about her. One of the spear bearers attempted to pick her up, his hand coming too close to her snapping jaws. He screamed as Tyl sank her teeth into his flesh, his skin tearing as he jerked his hand away. Tasting his blood upon her tongue, Tyl snarled again as the bitten two-legs crouched nearby uttering a string of sounds, nursing his wounded hand.

The one who had thrown the strange vines uttered several short sharp sounds, showing his teeth as he glanced at the injured two-legs. Turning his gaze to Tyl, he hefted a club, then brought it crashing down upon her.

She snarled, then yelped, then she knew nothing...

A jolt brought the world back to her. Tyl found herself in a small square cave made of thick sticks spaced closely together. She barely fit in it, the bars pressing painfully against her battered body. She tried to stand and found she could not. She became aware of something heavy about her neck. She shook her head and pawed at it, but it would not come off. It smelled faintly of earth and stone, but a strong sense of the two-legs permeated it as well as the strange linked circles that fell from it and clanked upon the floor of her cage. Growling, Tyl attacked the bars, but they were also made from whatever strange stone encircled her neck. Her teeth proved useless against them. A two-legs passed nearby, rapping her sharply across the muzzle with a whip handle and she ceased her attacks, curling up into a sullen ball as tightly as she could.

Her cage rested on the back of a wagon which stood clustered among several others wagons, all bearing some sort of items, boxes, bolts of cloth and the like. A few, like hers, bore animals--some pigeons, chickens, dogs, even snakes and lizards, their cries and calls joining the growing din made by the two-legs as more and more of them appeared.

Some little two-legs approached Tyl's cage, poking her with sticks, laughing when she snarled at them savagely. This only served to cause them to torment her anew until her fury became so great she attacked the bars with slavering jaws, heedless of how the metal hurt her teeth. She was hungry, sore, but even more, thirst seared her throat like fire, none of the conditions doing much to improve her demeanor. When a big two-legs finally came and drove the little ones away, Tyl snarled at him, too. He merely laughed, rapping his club against the bars in warning, so she subsided, lying back down to wait.

A night and most of the following day past. By now, Tyl was weak with hunger and thirst. She didn't even bother to snarl or move when little two-legs appeared again to tease her. Late in the evening, a strange two-legs came to the wagon and stood making odd sounds to the one who occasionally chased the little ones away. The stranger stepped close to her cage. He stared at her and Tyl mustered up a snarl, trying to rise to her feet. The two-legs bared his blunt teeth at her, and nodding, tossed a leather object to the other two-legs that clinked when he caught it...

Tyl twitched and snarled in her sleep, remember the ensuing battle that occurred when she was released from her cage to be taken away by the two-legs that had bought her. The battle that had left her beaten, muzzled and chained to be dragged to the horrible den TreeWalker had helped free her from...

There, she had been caged anew. The cage was somewhat larger, but was flanked by cages containing other beasts most foul--filthy Sku Wa'ya, the hyenas, and tainted Ne Wa'ya, the worgs. She was given some water, which she drank thirstily even though it was tepid and brackish. But she was given no food and one day, when she was dragged down a tunnel of this miserably wretched den and released into the strange big clearing, she ran down the screaming little two-leg female she found there with a swiftness fanned by starvation. Even the loud cries of the multitude of the two-legs encircling the clearing did not distract her from her meal.

Tyl did not understand hell in the sense that humanoids and other sentient races did, but if she had, she certainly would have thought that was where she was. She was not fed. Her only meals came from her conquests in the arena. Many times, she was so badly injured from the fights, she was unable to eat anything before she was dragged back to her cage. In a way, this was a mercy. Tyl didn't really wish to feed on most of the creatures she fought...

Tyl jerked and awoke with a snarl, springing to her feet. The room was dark and cool. Her ears twitched at faint sounds of two-legs coming from beyond the door. She padded over to the window, searching the sky for the moon, but if it was there, it was obscured by darkness. Her hackles rose and she whined low in her throat. She wished TreeWalker would return. It was not good here. Something bad was coming. She knew it.

Cursed - Part 2

The smell of elven blood came to Sharalae's nostrils, warning her to caution, yet exhilarating her at the same time. Despite the large form of her lower body, her eight legs picked their way nimbly through the undergrowth. Skittering swiftly along, she reached a clearing and paused, hesitant to leave the comforting shadow of the surrounding trees. She had only found her way to the surface earlier in the afternoon and had not dared to brave the blistering light of day. Only when the sun had set and night had fallen had she gathered her courage to venture out.

Fearful of the brilliance of a pale moon or the sharp, bright glint of stars she had heard so many frightening stories of, she held a slender, exquisite dusky arm before her face. Tentatively, she peered up at the night sky, but no moonlight or starlight seared her vision. Above her was only a blanket of darkness.

She smiled, comforted. Perhaps the stories she had heard had been only that--stories. And that was fine with her--the daystar was terrifying enough. Looking about she noticed several dark forms scattered about the clearing in a haphazard manner. She watched them for some time, but seeing no movement, she approached the nearest warily. Using two of her arachnid limbs, she turned the body over, revealing one of the sources of the blood smell.

An elf male lay before her, his glazed eyes still wide in shock, pale skin even paler in death. A crossbow bolt protruding from the gap between his leather chest armor and his shoulder guards and the dark slash across his throat bespoke of the manner of his demise. Sharalae did not need to examine the bolt to recognize the work of her people.

A strange symbol, a roughly rectangular shape containing an abstract flame within, bedecked the circular clasp of his cloak. A leather pouch lay open on the ground nearby, apparently tossed there after being emptied by the elf's killer. A plain, but serviceable dagger was still belted about his waist. Removing it and slipping it about her own hips with a sigh, Sharalae moved on to examine another Siavaedi corpse.

By the time she was finished, Sharalae had found some leather armor, a belt, a cloak, a water skin and even a little food. She found a bow and quiver as well, with enough arrows to last a bit if she was careful. She had never been particularly skilled with either weapon, but grimly told herself she would learn, and learn quickly. It was either that, or die.

She cast about, looking for the trail of her brethren, noticing how the packs tied to several strange four legged creatures, also slain, were all open, their contents strewn about the site. Had Raelona found what she was looking for? Or had they gone away empty-handed? Did the elves know about the books? Did they know what had been put into motion and what was coming?

Picking up the trail, Sharalae scuttled once more into the trees, feeling better now that she was armed and armored. It made little sense she knew, her current form was capable of considerable defense, but Sharalae was used to wearing armor and carrying weapons, and old habits died hard.

She shivered, not entirely from cold, pulling the cloak tighter about her. She would give anything to be able to speak with the traitorous Siavaedi if only to learn what they knew, so she could warn them of House Sha'nul's plans and betray her betrayers. But there were centuries of hatred and war between the Siavaedi and her people.

And old habits died hard.

To be continued...