Raethe sits on a small crate near the bow of Shallya’s Mercy, staring intently north by northeast. After months of travelling through southern Europa and even into Araby, he has the sense that his destination is finally within reach. Not that the extended journey hasn’t been somewhat agreeable. In truth, Raethe reflects, he has enjoyed the distractions of strange landscapes and cultures. Following Kal on foolhardy treks through all manner of strange places in search of fortune and fame was a somewhat welcome change from the constant feeling of fighting for one’s life against insurmountable odds every day. Unfortunately, all of these travels, all of these busy ports of trade, bustling cities, and even the caravans and adventuring parties only served to underscore just how much he doesn’t belong anywhere. Raethe took a deep breath and quietly acknowledged that this disassociation was mostly a product of his own lack of direction. For nearly twenty summers he had absolute clarity of purpose, and a preternatural sense guiding him from place to place as if beacons were being lit to mark his path the whole way. It was time to get back to business, but regrettably, he was now at the mercy of the wind, and worse, the whimsy of his friend and captain.

He smiles and takes some perverse pleasure in that the longer Kal delays the more Marlena will torment him until he is able to deposit her someplace safe. Especially now with the conjurer onboard holding her imagination captive. Raethe is sure he will ask her to stay in his “home port” while they make the journey further north, but who knows if she will have any of that. Raethe chuckles just the slightest bit.

Not a moment too soon, he hears Kal give the order to get underway. With that, the journey up river has finally begun. Raethe spends the next several days mapping out the trip in excruciating detail to himself, as if obsessing about every inch of the voyage will somehow propel them faster… “the Volga River will take us north from Odessa… the first bend comes about fourteen miles… and we will have to drop anchor six or eight hours outside of Arkangyl… should only take two or three weeks…”

Raethe salivates at the prospect of finally getting some solid answers to the burning questions that never seem to end, though the thought of traveling so close to home brings a sense of trepidation.

A few days out from port the Mercy was approached by a small river faring skiff. It flew unfamiliar colors, and was crewed by half a dozen manling rabble. They hail the ship, and Kal is nice enough to oblige a quick negotiation for a toll to proceed up river. They say they come with Vasilli’s authority, and that he controls the northern leg of the river, as well as all trade passing through “his” territory. Raethe resists the urge to scuttle their small ship and drown everyone on it just for slowing them down when they are so close, but Kal loves to feel like he is brokering every transaction in Europa, so they talk. Eventually, Kal decides that their toll is too high, and that we will take our chances with Vasilli’s “armada.”

Shortly after the lookout spots smoke rising up over the horizon… a signal. Since surprise and diplomacy are now out of the question, the ship erupts in flurries of activity to prepare for whatever this Vasilli has in store.

The river bends, first east, then back west. It forces us to slow our pace… the perfect spot for an ambush. Vasilli has a small fortification on the west bank of the river, and we would soon learn that there were several bowmen in the brush on the east bank. The attack was fairly well coordinated, but executed by amateurs… Amateurs who had no idea what they were in for.

By the time the main sails of the three pirate skiffs were in plain view it was too late. They had an advantage tactically: numbers, flanks, and catapults that would make themselves known from behind the small earthen barricade… They were in big trouble.

Since it was dark, and the Mercy’s crew skilled, the catapults had a hard time finding their range, and even with the bowmen using flaming pitch to pepper the hull with fiery arrows, the elements and the gods favored the Mercy. In a matter of moments, one of the skiffs was set ablaze by the wizard from Araby. Whoever survived the fire threw themselves overboard and either swam for shore (a tough swim for most) or toward one of the two remaining skiffs… bad idea.

Soon fires erupted on the second skiff, and then the third. One of the skiffs was helped to the bottom of the river by the bow of the much larger Estallian caravel. Dorak called on the many blessings of Thorain to douse the fires pelting the starboard side of the Mercy, and Khalid again called on the elements to obliterate the catapults before they inflicted any meaningful damage to the ship. In the wake of all of this carnage, several skiffs carried reinforcements down river toward the battle, but they quickly thought better of the plan, and pulled ashore. This wasn’t a fight, it was a slaughter. Vasilli would have to do much better than that if he wanted his cut of Kal’s stores.

All through the battle, Raethe watched as his companions and the crew of Shallya’s Mercy routed the brigands under Vasilli’s flag. Anxious to get into the fray, but not so overcome by bloodlust as these were certainly not worthy foes. They deserved to burn, and drown, and live with their cowardice as they fled. They were not worthy of feeling the thunder of the Stormhammer.

So he stood, seething, but not at his current enemies. Raethe could “see,” standing on a crate near the forward mast, the long road, the wastes, the forge fires, and the ghosts of the past, and those of the future. They would be very near his home soon. Every step, every gust of wind took them that much closer to the atrocities of his youth, and the forgotten wonders of his once celebrated clan. These thoughts, these visions weighed heavy on his heart and mind. Still, with each passing day, the air was fresher, colors were more vibrant, and he could smell the fragrant evergreens as though he were walking through the pristine woodlands outside his homeland. Even the food he ate tasted better. If he didn’t know better, he would swear that he was feeling joyful… but he did know better.

Still, despite his inner protests, something swelled inside of his heart and it was not the all too familiar fury that would so often consume him. So as the battle wore down, and the crew set to repairing any damage and setting the riggings, Raethe made his way back below decks to his small corner of the ship. Clearing aside the mound of cargo nets that he used as a bed, Raethe retrieved his pack and began setting a few items to the side. Careful that no one had followed him downstairs, he removed a large bundle and placed it gently on top of the nets. Meticulously he removed the thick leather straps which buckled in back, and then unfolded the thick white fur that held the precious contents within. The fur was as white as newly fallen snow, and still cold to the touch, and as he moved the flaps to the side his eyes were fixed and he was taken back in time for moment. He could not will himself to ignore the waves of nostalgia he felt. Could his road ever lead back there? Could he ever look upon the halls… no, never. Raethe shook his head violently as if trying to recover from a brutal strike. Still, even he had to admit that there was something in the air that made him long for those days again.

The feeling was quickly washed away as he heard the door of the hold swing open. Raethe carefully repacked the bundle, and replaced the contents of his pack. A nervous looking deckhand (who had so obviously drawn the short straw) came cautiously down the stairs and began looking frantically around the small reserve cargo hold. “Sorr… sorr… sorry, but I… I… need a…” Raethe just snorted and ignored him, and soon the runt found a small barrel of tar. He snatched it up as fast as he could, and made haste up the stairs to begin his repair work.

Raethe placed his furs on top of the netting as a makeshift pillow, pulled off his steel shod boots, and settled in to get some rest. They would pull in to port in a few hours, and he intended to waste no time getting to Arkangyl.

Kal stands outside “The Gentle Anvil” and presses his hand on the door. The shop is small but quaint. It’s a cottage style house/store front with strong stone walls and a peaked hutch above the door. The roof is red and green slate, with large double windows in the front for showcasing work. The rest of the cottage is home; two large bedrooms, a smallish kitchen and few rooms for “special” projects. Kal stops for a moment and takes a deep cleansing breath. He’s wearing his “finest” (This is his usual dress except for a deep scarlet sash along his waist). The billowing smoke from one of the three smoke stacks tells the tale. She’s hard at work as usual. The old door gives way and hits the brass bell hung behind it…

“One minute” a woman’s voice comes from beyond the front counter; it’s a deep, sultry tone that’s augmented by the Russ accent. Kal takes a moment to look around the store, “She’s been busy… and gotten better.” He thinks to himself. The shelves are littered with all manner of creation; hammers, tongs, shields, knives, swords and an absolutely stunning buckler above the door. The quality of the work ranges from very good to sheer perfection.

He picks up the rapier hanging on the wall and looks down its edge; it’s balanced, keened and of exceptional quality. But still not as good as his twin blades, Agatha and Abigail, he still has yet to see their equal. They were her masterpiece, the works that got her accepted into the master’s guilds. The first woman to ever reach that level… this means she’s twice as good as most of the men already in the guild.

Ashka walks into the room, she’s about 4’6” and light skinned with dark almond shaped eyes. The description Kal always spun to his shipmates was “Eyes & hair as dark as coal and skin as white as clouds on a perfect day, a waist that I could fit in my hands and a bust that I couldn’t reach my arms around. Her love is like the sea; some moments calm and still like a cool breeze on a hot night and other times she’d capsize you for the crime of looking at another woman. That’s my port, that’s my Ashka”. His descriptions almost made most of his crew fall in love with her but they knew that she was sacred ground for him.

“Kal.” She says in a low tone… “Ashka” he replies with affection in his voice. She walks slowly to him and looks up at his face, her eyes getting a bit glassy at his return home. “Ashka, I’ve mis” SLAP. His face burns from the sting of her hand. Kal knowing what is about to come next instinctively puts both hands up to his head and begins to protect his precious face like a weary boxer in the 10th round. After about a minute or so of hitting and apologizing, he grabs her roughly by the waist and does the only thing he knows how to do to stop a rampaging woman. The Kiss. (Kal has written several chapters about “The Kiss” and its effects, it is his secret weapon and more powerful than any magic) She immediately stops hitting him for that brief moment. Once the kiss is completed, he looks at her expecting the slow release of air and fluttering eyes… only to receive… another slap. He holds his face almost hurt at her stubbornness… her anger breaks immediately; she touches his face gingerly and smiles… “Let me get the kettle on”. As she saunters into the next room, Kal rubs his sore face and says softly… “Good times… good times”.

Kal spends the next hours speaking as he does, quickly and wildly. He explains the tail of the Seabecks and the cursed earth of the southern town. He tells wild stories about orithopters, white arrows the never miss, the golden sexton and more. Ashka hangs on every word… instinctively knowing what’s an exaggeration and what’s the truth. She’s the only woman (before Marlene) that ever could. He tells her of the new travelers he has met. The Slayer Dwarf, his friend and bodyguard, a good man who he feels worried for and saddened by his plight. The Priestly Dwarf, a comical fellow whose armor is a sight to behold and who words bring charms. The Human Wizard, who’s polite and soft spoken and controls flames, earth and all manner of creature, Then… the girl.

“I have to tell you something…I’ve taken in a stray” “What do you mean?” Ashka’s eyes narrow both in curiosity and female concern. “When we were at the town, where the chaos taint was, there was a young girl, she needed looking after and well… I took on the job” SLAP “NO NO NO it’s not what you think! Stop hitting me!” The sounds of beating continuing unit finally… “Well what DO you mean?” Kal takes a deep breath and begins to explain it… The fact that her family was killed in front of her, the fact that she needed him and how much she reminded her of someone else… like a sister or daughter, that he’d long forgot. When he finished, Ashka looked at him and tilted her head in the way she always did. She had an uncanny way of knowing the difference in his truth, tales, stories and lies. She knew it was true. “I think I share you enough…. But when do I meet her?” “Now” he replies.

Kal walks to the door and opens it, he gestures to someone outside and a few moments later Marlene, comes to the door in a pale green sundress, and her hair tied back in green velvet with matching slippers. For the first time she looked like a beautiful young women. Her hair blond and skin bronzed from the months on sea, her body lithe and young, she nodded her head and tired a polite bow. A blind man could see her uneasiness, her hands behind her back and her eyes darting about the room. Kal began the introduction: “Don’t let the nervousness fool you… she’s an unholy terror. Her name is Marlene. Marlene meets Ashka”. The two women look each other up and down and begin to dissect each other as only women do. The temperature in the room actually drops 10 degrees.

Marlene thinks to herself; “Short little thing. My only port, my harbor… HA he’s had a lot of harbors since I’ve been aboard the Mercy, “but this is where I call home”… she made the twin blades, the singing blades. Humph… she’s fat. Frankly, I don’t see the big deal “

Ashka thinks to herself; “Frail little human girl looking for adventures with her dashing “father figure”, better be father figure…. I mean come on Kal, what’s next? Taking in kittens? Frankly, I don’t see the big deal”

Kal thinks to himself; “Wow. This is going really well”

The three sit and Kal begins to talk, telling stories and going on. Explaining the way things are and adventures he’s had with each other. For each of the stories staring the mischievous, clever and strong Marlene, Ashka’s teeth grind, eyes narrow and forehead dampens. For every story staring the beautiful, gifted and fierce Ashka, Marlene shifts in seat making half smiles and rolling eyes.

And for the first time Kal stops talks…. Silence. For those of you know don’t know: Kal is a brave man, some would say foolhardy. He has been caught with 4 twin sisters in a night and talked his way out of it (and more). He has seen his near death and glimpsed at the gods. However, in a room with the two women he loves… this awkward silence and tension has him afraid. Very Afraid.

At the same time in low serious voice…. Ashka “Kal…” Marlene “Can you give us a moment alone” Ashka & Marlene “Girl Talk”

As he is ushered out of the room his blood begins to crawl and sound of the door closing behind him sounds like a long dull thud of a mausoleum door.

Behind the door two women that love the same man in very different ways begin circling each other. “So… you’re Ashka, frankly I expected more. HE talks about you like you’re an angel” says Marlene coolly. “Funny.. He never mentioned you at all” snaps back Ashka. “Well… we were busy” retorts Marlene eyebrow raised.

Over the course of the next 10 minutes insults are thrown about and then silence. From outside the door Kal sits patiently hoping they find a common ground. And then… he hears it. It starts as quiet “CLINK” and then another and then another…soon the sounds of metal on metal pitter pattering like rain on a tin roof. Swordplay. Kal tried to open the door and find it barred from the inside. After a minute he sits back down and waits, his eyes glazed over and questions swirling in his head:

“Are they actually fighting in there? Ashka is going to kill her… Maybe. Maybe Marlene… I mean their both pretty good and almost no ones’ as fast as Marlene but Ashka is an angry little thing. I mean ok ok ok…. If I was placing bets…. 0-9 Ashka… hmmm maybe not. I guess it would depend on what weapon their using. Marlene with twin curved knives… wait we left them in the ship. No… I know she snuck them in… I should of frisked her and Ashka… well she’s got a bloody arsenal in their! Oh man. This is bad. Should I knock? No no no let them work it out… work it out?!? Am I mad?!?”

He stands up. He sits down.

“Hmmm probably better for ME not to get involved… I mean I might accidentally hurt someone… OR more likely one of them will gut me. I should stay. I mean… I’m pretty important.”

He stands up. He sits down.

“Ok… these are the women I love.” He bangs on the door loudly “BOTH OF YOU KNOW LET ME IN.” His tone is defiant & scolding; any hardened man on the Mercy would bow and do as their told with such an order. Twin voices from the room “STAY OUT OF THIS AND SIT DOWN.”

He sits. He drinks rum quietly. He waits.

Inside the room, insults fly back and forth like daggers, each comment more hurtful then the last. Then it happens, someone (and as the narrator of the tale… I’ll never say who) takes it a bit too far… first a push and then a slap and then someone reaches steel. Ashka stands a mace in hand, the haft of it pulled up to her chin, like a samurai from the east. Marlene’s twin blades curve against her forearms both he hands in a boxer’s position ready to snap out. The combatants lash out at each other; each one skilled in their own disciplines.

Marlene dancing around the room, moving over obstacles with easy and Ashka taking perfectly timed controlled and powerful swings. They both narrowly miss each other and when they do strike the wounds are superficial. This continues for a time until…

Ashka “Truce.” Marlene “What?” Ashka “Truce on one condition and tell me the truth… have you and him ever…” Marlene “NO! (Said with both horror and disgust)... He’s Kal” Ashka “Sword father” Marlene “I guess so” (In a low and thoughtful tone) Ashka “Ok then… we’ll work this out on our own. He says that you WANT to learn.” Marlene “Yes, Everything.. but here with you?” Ashka “There’s no better teacher” Marlene “You? Would you? Why?” Ashka “Then I will teach you for a time” Marlene “What if I don’t want to there’s a whole world out there and I’m not going to live forever…” Ashka “And you’ll live a lot shorter if your not trained or armed properly” Marlene “… did you really make the singing blades?” Ashka “I did.” Marlene “Their amazing.” Ashka “I know” (She smiles) Marlene “So will your long knives… we’ll start on them tomorrow” <long> Ashka “He loves you” Marlene “You to” Ashka “SO what does he do out there that I’m not supposed to know about…”

Kal sits outside staring at the door and then an even more sinister sound is heard through the door, two girls giggling.

That night was lonely one for Kal. Ashka clearly felt that having a young woman in the house meant intimate movements. And after a long cold shower, the next day the three find themselves talking about what is to come over breakfast. Kal explains what they need to do while they are here and both girls look at him with disapproving eyes. They worry for him so and yet he pushes on, it is the only cruelty that he will ever burden them with but it is quite a load. Ashka warns him of the roads… roads where men lose their minds and never return. The “Lost Road” they call it. But this is Raethe’s quest and Kal made a promise to bring him there.

Kal then show’s Ashka the twin blades, her eyes widen as she sees the long scratch running down Agatha’s side. She explains that to repair it would be a mistake. It would ruin the integrity of the blade. Then she lifts the swords and turns white…

Ashka “What have you done to them?” Kal “Nothing… why?” Ashka “Their different… I don’t know how but they are” Kal “What do you mean?” Ashka “Their light and move more…. On their own.” Kal “I though it was me getting more and more used to them but something is different isn’t it” Ashka “It is, what made the scratch?” Kal “A beast. A Chaos Lord” Ashka “Hmm… could the metal be tainted… could the blades….” Kal “That’s not possible both are changed, why would they both be affected?” Ashka “The blades are sisters. They are from the same ore, the as much family as blood kin. Look on Abigail…” Kal notices for the first time a slight ripple in the steel… only Ashka could have noticed it. It mirrored Agathas wound. Kal “Wow. Is this even possible?” Ashka “It shouldn’t be but it is.”

The morning goes on for awhile and the three of them clean the table and sit be the fire. The two girls curled on either side, Kal wonders if this home. In his mind the conversation begins: “Could I leave the sea for this life? Would it get boring? Wouldn’t it? Ashka and I would fight, Marlene would get old and leave. Why can’t I just bottle this moment?” He kisses both of their foreheads and slowly pulls himself from their sleeping embrace.

He sits at the table and begins to write a note to them both:

Good morning my ladies, I need to go now for a few days. I have promised Reathe that I would walk the lost road with him. Don’t worry about me losing my way, I have my lighthouse in both of you and I will never be adrift again. I love you and will be home soon. Kal.

The door opens and closes quietly as slips outside into the cool air

The following chronicles a part of one of the more famous quests of a mighty dwarf that once lived in Norska. Though he passed over a millenium ago, his legend lives on…

“21st of Buckmont, 18,506 Anno Drannorae.”

“Once again my feet lack the familiar feel of earth and stone. Once again my dreams dictate my direction, and I’m off with a group of strangers towards Russ – towards North. Once again the wind, sea, and sun dance upon my face, and my eyes fix to the lost city, to the fallen Holdfast, to the Eastern Mountains. It has now been twenty years since I first dreamt of these places… and I remember them like it was yesterday. My visions get stronger, and I can feel the tension in my bones. I hope, no, I know, that this is where I’m meant to be. They didn’t understand, but my fate has been decided the day I picked up the shield and armor – the day I met him.”

“We sail for a few days with favorable winds, or so the crew tells me. I know enough to stand out of their way, and I take this time to practice with my axe and soak in Thoraín’s blessings high in the sky. We have a brief skirmish with would-be pirates, but our captain fired his guns once or twice and scared them away. And like that we reach our first stop – a smaller town by the name of Hamelin. It is mostly a restocking port, though there is enough trade here to satisfy a common merchant. I take this opportunity to set my feet on the ground, and examine the workings of my Ruus cousins. Their craft is magnificent: swords, shields, axes, you name it – each done with a true master’s hand. I doubt these humans appreciate my race’s dedication & skill, but such is the way of the world. They have coins, and that’s enough ‘appreciation’ I guess.”

“The captain seems to have run into an old friend of his – a fellow pirate/privateer known as Captain Ramius. They banter for a bit, we have a pleasant supper with him, and they exchange stories. I took this opportunity to learn about my odd dwarfen companion – Raethe. Law of Cordiality had been satisfied, and now it was time for proper introductions. To my surprise, he refused to speak of his clan or origins. I don’t know much about his kind – the ‘savage’ dwarfs of Ruus so to speak, though I can’t imagine them being too different from our Norska barbarians. It is odd he hides his true self. It is… undwarfen. I could see anger flicker in his deformed eyes. I can see he’s been… touched. It does not shock me as it would others, for I have seen my share of it. I don’t know what to think of him. But he travels where I travel, as does the outlander, and the captain of our ship. So long as they stay out of my way, we’ll get along just fine. I’m a fairly easy going dwarf and it takes a lot to anger me, but nobody better get in the way of my quest, or they will suffer the same fate those goblins did in Karak Ild twenty years ago.”

“Next day we resume our journey and head towards Odessa, a large port and outpost for the Russ dwarfes. It is high summer, and the ships are now coming with dwarfen wares frequently. I can’t wait to see my cousins. I can’t wait to see the old world. It takes us five days, and again we have good winds, and no trouble on the water. On the fifth day we reach the city, and it is large, by human standards. Captain Deigo takes some unusual precautions here, as if expecting trouble, and if I’m not mistaken he might have even locked up his niece from venturing within. Not my business and I do not interfere with his affairs.”

“Again, the feel of earth & stone – old stone, brings a smile on my face. This time I head out wearing armor instead of tunic, though such precaution among cousin dwarfs may be excessive. I head straight for the gem cutter’s center, and soon enough I find it. My cousins do not seem to appreciate my presence; until they find out I’m selling gems, not buying. I take this opportunity to learn about the ‘fallen’ Karak. Many take offense to that, as they should by dwarfen custom, but I need to know, and though it pains me to ask, I eventually find a dwarf willing (and greedy) enough to learn all I need to learn. He tells me about a fallen Holdfast that apparently some madman is trying to reclaim. That is a very strange thing indeed. We trade, and having enough coin to conduct all the necessary affairs, I conclude my business.”

“I know Captain Diego doesn’t want us to take much time in the city, but I cannot skip this chance to visit the Temple of Thoraín – I know there’s one here, and sure enough, after asking a few dwarfs I find it in the center of town. I sit there for a few hours. I chose a perfect spot – right where the sun comes through the window and warms my face and hands. I sit there, loosing myself in the moment, paying homage and giving thanks to our gods. I dream there, fading in-and-out of consciousness, hearing cheering voices in the Halls of Thoraín, and seeing the smiling faces of ancient dwarfs. I do not know why they talk to me. I do not know what Thoraín has in store for me. But I look forward to it. I leave a gem on the altar and head out.”

“Eventually all dehydrated and sweaty I make my way back to the ship. The crew eyes me with suspicion, undoubtedly hearing the distinct sound of gold coming from the box I carry. But pirates as they are, they can clearly see my axe, and I doubt many would like to taste its business end. Eventually my other companions return from the city too. I presume they too took this opportunity to learn of our destination. I look forward to hearing what they have learnt, and sharing what I know. Maybe together we can piece together enough information to get me to where I need to go. And as the ship’s sails fill and the water begins to move, I fix my eyes North-East once again…”

From the journal of Captain Kal Deigo

The day began like any other… an angry mob, a flurry of blows and not enough rum. Although there seems to be some extra since Raethe stopped drinking (Although his disposition hasn’t changed much). As we stepped into the local watering hole, The Crow’s Nest, I noticed that there seemed a bit more tension than usual for these parts. It seems that some of the local reavers had been seen nearby and the locals were getting nervous. (As usual, they had the unpleasant habit of raiding the town and plundering all the good stuff.) Just, after I slipped the bartender a piece of eight in exchange for a local legend about the Book of Amunra, I heard the inevitable sound of alarm bells ringing aloud, and then shortly after, carnage. I pulled out Agatha & Abagail and turned to see Raethe already out the door. Here we go again..

---

I know, I’ve written about Raethe before but I wanted to take moment to explain how disturbing the last change has been… his teeth. We were above deck one night and all of sudden I hear a sound like a cat being sweet talked by an Ork. The screaming went right through me… and when it subsided (and after I drank a baby’s weight in rum). I came down into the hold to see Raethe, his teeth looking like a tyger and his mouth pouring blood. I had to pull the men off the life boats and convince them he did it to himself (I said it was a “Dwarf Thing”), but I’m not too sure what’s going on, except that now he doesn’t drink. (And I’ve started keeping honey water in my other flask just to keep him happy in a pinch.). I’m worried for him.

---

ANYWAY,

We fight our way through this rabble of poor press-gang sods, killing those who need killing, scaring those who need scaring and sparing the rest. I actually felt kind of bad and let one make it into the drink. The problem is, Shallya’s Mercy (my blessed ship), was out in the harbor and I’ll be dammed if I let anyone else get to it. I hoped that Dast (my boswain) and Jackson (my first mate) kept the ship and Marlena safe. In the middle of the fray I saw something that seemed out of place, a ball of fire rolling around the streets (I’ve been here before and never seen it so it must be new…), as this thing is rolling around, I see a man simply directing it with his finger. Wizard. Crap. Then I see another oddity, a dwarf dressed in the most perfect IRON armor I’ve ever seen. Well, you guessed it, by the end of the fight these two come over to see who else… Raethe. My personal killing machine AND weirdness magnet.

The Wizard is Khalid Arib al Kashif (Gods bless you), seems nice enough to talk to, once the town guard finished kissing his ass. (All magic-folk are treated like kings… I’m sure Raethe and I killed more than he did, though, we’re just not as flashy… well Raethe isn’t) Apparently, Khalid is a not only a man of magic but of maps. He was also looking for a library, but he didn’t know where it was. As far as looks go, he’s a man of the sand. Ashen skin and swathed in cloth, he carried a few tomes and has air of dignity about him. As for the fire ball, he’s powerful alright and I haven’t met too many weavers but few are to be trusted, but there was something different about him. Apparently, he’s looking to go to Ruus and if he’s willing to beef up my maps, he’s more than welcome aboard the Mercy.

The dwarf warrior is Dorak. Who is the cheeriest Dwarf I’ve ever met and considering his nickname is “Grimface”. At first I was hoping this would rub off on Raethe, but after the little bastard tried to take my cabin as his room, I’ll make do with my surly fang-face. Well, I got a good look at his armor and it is something special. I think it’s one of the masterworks. Maybe he made it or maybe it’s an artifact, but there’s something there, I can feel it in my bones. I know a piece of art when I see one. He’s also looking for passage to Ruus but he’s got gems. He game me a perfect opal for a journey on the Mercy. Oh and apparently he’s looking for a dwarf hall. Something high and thin… It reeks of magic too, I bet. As for his look, the iron armor is 100% engraved and immaculate. He the biggest dwarf I’ve ever seem, just under 5ft.

So, this is my new motley crew. We’ll make passage to Ruus and I think they’ll be good to have around if my seafaring elven friends show up OR if any of the golden come looking for their sexton…

It is months after the survivors of the island have gone their own ways. The exiled prince has fallen in with pirates, and their captain travels upriver to play the merchant game, for the prince needs coin to fund his return to nobility. They meet, by chance, with another survivor, the changeling halfling, now a forester. Brought together by the summons of a merchant, August Seebeck, and charged to deliver timely cargo to a sleepy vale town in the heart of the Empire, in the glen of Dan’Dannock. For protection the merchant hires another bolt from the past, the doom-spoken barbarian, plucked from the ether, it seems. The gathering of pirates and past acquaintances draws the eyes of the mad one, the witch-hunter, and he too links his fate again to the group.

Together, they drive hard towards the vale, as rainclouds gather. The forest is strange and dark. They are beset by oddities, by animals run mad, touched by horror, but they make it through. They are met by Seebeck’s brother, the Reverend Jules, who offers them a new, important task (and hefty purse). There is something wrong in the forests of the Glen. They must cleanse the grounds where Seebeck will build his church.

A tempting offer for the barbarian, they all agree and immediately set out and find horror waiting. Sacrifices and madness, creatures from legend, creatures of corruption. The party wins through again, and the grounds are to be reclaimed. The rains themselves come to begin washing the grounds clean once more. They find a map of sorts. Mutilated cattle and smallfolk and a clear indication there will be more. And locations, many locations, picked out in what they hope is merely red ink.

The group splits and rejoins, each attempting to learn more in their own ways. And the rains continue unabated, soaking everything and everyone. Even Jules has no answers, as his simple task has uncovered something far more invasive and mature.

Clues lead the group to a ranch, bereft of life. There they find new horrors, more of the freakish beastmen, and a strange man in strange baroque armor. A desperate fight, close quarters and give-n-take, but the group wins through, a few new puzzle pieces in their possession. Over all the rains wax and wane, but the skies never clear.

They continue trekking through the spacious vale uncovering more and more signs of evil, of chaos overtaking the order of everything. The witch-hunter reports that Dan’Dannock itself is no longer safe, that angry mob rule now presides over sanity, and blood flows freely. Other witchunters have entered the area and seem hell-bent on purifying the only way they have been taught: fire.

Weeks of traveling, uncovering more foul fanes, more beasts and their handlers. The group spies what can only be a flying machine. And worse, the machine, a thing of dwarfish daydreams made real, has spied them. An encounter with another armored man, if man he be, and his compatriots, one stooped, hunched thing bearing a terrifying weapon of flame. The exiled prince scored a lucky hit on this bringer of death and it exploded in flames and gouts of smoke. These beings were transporting a wagon, another item of insanely detailed and baroque colors and designs. The prince was drawn to it, compelled nearly against his will to enter it and ransack it.

There is a sealed cask, filled with some mysterious oily black substance was an arrow. A gleaming white, rune-scribed arrow. With the rains turning into a downpour and the howls of more creatures echoing in the woods, the group gathered up what it could and fled. The captain and the witch-hunter, having sussed out the map and its patterns, have deduced where they must go to at last understand the events occurring here. Surely there must be a reason, which Reverend Jules agrees with, as he joined the party now as suddenly and as mysteriously as his family seems to do everything. He binds their accumulated wounds and grants them wards. He warns them that nature itself fights with them against this evil, that the rains are an attempt to cleanse, and that should the rains cease, it would mean the end of nature’s valiant effort to exist. With this news and the company of Jules, the group is truly no longer pestered by the things running mad in the forests themselves, animals gone berserk and tainted with foulness.

One last desperate race through days of rain and growing populations of beastmen and cultists and the group found itself approaching a great green, from which a tremendous clamor rose. Hordes of beastmen gathered there, along with a huge population of captured Glens-folk! The leaders of the town, merchant, militia, and small-folk alike, all pent up behind pickets surrounded by slavering beastfolk. And far to the North, at the edge of the greensward, a huge back gibbet-altar, with a tremendous beastman presiding over its constructions.

Plans were quickly laid and an ambush was launched. The barbarian, as ever, in the van, quickly challenging the host and gathering their attentions, as the others moved to support him or circumvent the mass entirely, their focus being the huge shadow with its back to the hangman’s fane. Against his own better judgment, the pirate captain charged shoulder to shoulder with the barbarian, as the forester and witch-hunter preyed from the shadows. Even with their matchless skills, they were too few against far, far too many.

Until the outlaw prince gave in to the voice in his mind and drew the white arrow.

Whenever he fired, another white shaft would somehow be close to hand, and wherever he fired, he slew. The horde reacted immediately, sensing that some power greater than them had arrived, and it fueled the barbarian onwards to further slaughter, for his foes grew fearful. But alas, even his prowess was not enough to slay them all. The others attempted to protect the outlaw as best they could, knowing his survival was their own, while the forester crept off to free the folk of the Glen. But the thing at the far side of the clearing knew this too, and strove to cease the hail of white arrows at its source.

It was this point that the captain, lost in the tumult made his move. He had sidled his way near to the hangman’s fane and strove to grapple and kill the beast priestling. Gruesome were the wounds he inflicted, and gruesome where the wounds he received, but his blood bought the group precious moments to cleave the ranks and close on the darkling pirest. As the pirate fell to the dirt, his life’s blood splattering against the edge of the altar stone, the priestling found itself staring down the flight of the final white arrow. The prince did not miss.

The forester had managed to hew through the beasts guarding the townsfolk and they quickly turned on their captors and the rout became a slaughter. Even Reverend Jules made good, as he was able to heal the barbarian and aid the pirate enough so that he WOULD indeed live to walk from the field of battle. The witch-hunter quickly assumed command of the folk and they worked diligently to slaughter all foes, and purify the very grounds with Sigmar’s flame. Their work would last long, long into the night, and into the weeks and months ahead, but they would do so in favorable weather.

When the hangman’s fane burned, the rains finally, at long last, ceased falling.

The initial meeting and adventure. Disimilar folk bound together by fate onto a ship sailing west to France. Home for some. Adventure for some. Death for some. A priest on a pilgrimage. A bounty hunter and his outlaw captive. A thief sentenced to hang. A young wizard running away from something. Two sullen dwarfs sentenced to conscript duty at Deau Vere. But the ship never berthed. Attacked by some mysterious forces, every soul onboard, even sworn enemies, united to fight for their very survival as the ship was torn to pieces beneath their feet.

They awoke, some 8-10 souls, the only members of the ship’s register left, on the sandy shingle of a deserted island. Wreckage and storm clouds the only company. They quickly realized they were not alone, though, as the sun set and things began to happen.

Each survivor struggled to survive on this bleak island, and each struggled also against their own minds, reliving the past, dwelling on the twists of fate, the bounds of love, the cruelty of despair. Each survivor crawled from the sea a marked man for one reason or another, and as they progressed inland, they began to realize that perhaps there was less random chance at play then any could guess at. Thieves were once princes, healers were once killers, and killers were once innocent.

Things progressed as the island was explored. Abandoned villages, freakish denizens, desperate battles all lay before the intrepid band of cast-offs. Voices from the immediate and long-forgotten pasts. Hordes of creatures, seemingly without end. And the wings of dark things filling the night air every evening. The way out was made clear at length. A ziggarat stands in a shallow valley on the island. Ancient and more than ancient. Peopled by ghosts and the foul creatures an old race devolved into. Gods moved on the island, toyed with it, watched the playthings struggle, and danced on their black altars. The ziggarat held the key, the escape, the exit.

Not all the survivors made it. Some fell so that others might go on. One rejected all revelations, all understandings, and persevered to the point of insanity. And one chose to stay. But after harrowing battles and frightening confrontations… some returned to the world, to Europa and all the rest. They lived to see tomorrow and to perhaps make sense of what they’ve learned and lived through. A pity that is not all that returned.