Beste vrienden en medeburgers,

De laatste weken is er in de stad grote onvrede ontstaan over een aantal voorstellen die thans ter stemming voorliggen. In het bijzonder de invoering van een zattemanstaks heeft de gemoederen bijzonder beroerd. Het schimmige sujet dat zich der Flügelmeister noemt, beweert dat dit een schande is. Hoe durft men u, zo bezweert u deze rattenvanger, uw laatste pleziertje te ontzeggen en meer nog, uw enige bron van healing, nu de tempel bijna is vernietigd? Een terechte vraag, me dunkt, maar het antwoord dat deze kwade genius u biedt, is onbevredigend. Meer zelfs, het is misleidend. Want zedig zwijgt hij over de hand die hij had in de vernietiging van de tempel en het aanlengen van healing potions met urine. Als een sfinx zwijgt hij over de winst die hij opstrijkt elke keer u een Flügel of Gratch drinkt. Als de dood zwijgt hij over de zieke kinderen en de vrouwen die sterven in het kraambed terwijl u uw soldij opdrinkt in zijn tempels van onlust en ontaarding. In stilte hult hij zich terwijl hij u meevoert in dronken slavernij. Waarom zijn we allen naar dit verre land gevaren dan in de hoop op een beter leven voor ons en onze kinderen? Waarom dan zouden we de ene hardvochtige leenheer ruilen voor een ander?

Vrijheid zonder gematigdheid onderwerpt ons aan onze eigen dierlijke demonen. Ik vraag u uw vertrouwen te leggen in mezelf en mijn ambt. Weersta aan de lokroep uit de duister en de schaduwen. Want de recente geschiedenis leert ons dat daar het Ondode Kwaad heerst dat nooit slaapt en zich voedt met de zielen van verdwaalde lammeren.

De oplossing voor onze problemen is niet de vergetelheid die de drank ons kan bieden, maar een terugkeer naar de waarden en normen van onze voorouders. Daarom stel ik voor de eerbiedwaardige instelling van de Comitia in ere te herstellen. Deze vergadering van alle burgers zal niet alleen agendapunten en wetsvoorstellen aan de Raad kunnen voorleggen. Ze zal ook na een democratische verkiezing een stemgerechtigd lid naar de Hydra Council kunnen sturen die de belangen van de kleine man kan behartigen. Als Praetor zal ik dit voorstel niet alleen volop steunen, meer zelfs ik verbind er mijn politieke lot aan vast. Indien dit voorstel niet wordt aanvaard door de Raad, zal ik mijn mandaat als Praetor neerleggen.

Bedenkt, mijn medeburgers, mijn vrienden, mijn kinderen, dat in de Chaos enkel de Machtigen heersen. Enkel onder de Heerschappij van het Recht zullen we waarlijk Eenheid krijgen en verdeeld zullen we ten prooi van vallen aan de hordes Ondoden en Demonen die ons omringen.

Cahal, centurio without centuria, was walking the streets of ‘New Shairra’, as the colonists called their new city, for lack of a better name. People walked in a wide arc around him, for they could sense his mood was even fouler than usual. No wonder: first that crazy Hydra charge last night, killing all of his men before they even had a chance to react (the ‘Shame of Erymia’: what a bunch of losers!), and then being pulled out of his bed by the inquisition for ‘interrogation’! A painful experience, that. After tonight’s battle, they were looking for a traitor, someone who had given information to their undead enemies about their strengths and weaknesses. And, Cahal admitted, being the only survivor looked pretty suspicious.
Finally, Sandar Silvermaul told his men to release him: since most of the enemy leaders had also survived the slaughter of their units, it might as well co-incidence (or even something like the rules of a universe in which named NPC’s were much more likely to survive). Indeed, only 2 of the 5 liches had been slain: one killed by Tjikka and its own hybris, the other cut apart by Tarwyn’s soldiers, the ‘Sharp Swords’. The others were probably hiding in the tunnels below the city, with their last -and probably most powerful – minions. Not a comforting thought… The inquisition should deal with that problem first, Cahal muttered, instead of ‘questioning’ honest soldiers! Well, one thing was for sure, that inquisitor Cormac would never have to pay the Malsing Tax: he had max ranks in profession: torturer!

Cahal was too busy counting his remaining fingernails to notice the crowd gathering before him. He bumped straight into a bunch of craftsmen, all reading the sheets of coloured paper a young nobleman was handing out. He recognized the fellow as Obald the Fifth, a drunken fool who just always happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Just like himself, actually. Cahal’s interest was picked. “Hey, you there, undersized broadarse! Read it for me, and be quick about it.” The Dwarven fellow with a sad excuse for a beard looked familiar, somehow, but as he started reading aloud, Cahal’s thoughts soon went elsewhere.

“Dear Friends, who love a beer after work,

Many things they promised us:
We would get a new chance in Ademorra
We would earn lots of money, without a mad proconsul stealing from us
We would be free to live a good life
We would be able to fight for the things we believe in
We would be equals and able to drink together in the local pub…

Alas, it were all lies…
We work like dogs and even in the weekends, malsing is considered a crime!
Taxes all around, the big ones take all the silver and we get nuts! Easy money? My ass!
And even a good fight is out of the question most of the time, for there is just not enough healing!

Al of this could be endured, because the weather was fine here and after every day of hard labor for our superiors, we could at least enjoy a beer in the evening sun.
But now, some ‘decent’ people have decided, from their ivory tower, to rob us of our only pleasure. Should they have listened to their men, these new Diokleses would not walk in broad daylight amongst hordes of angry men out for their blood!

Not that I would advise as such, of course (though it would be perfectly understandable to do so!).

Be warned! Be prepared!
Refuse! Resist!

Your friend,

der Flügelmeister"

Ormund took another paper, this time written in Erymian.

“Moat’n an den toog,
Binnenkort staat een pintje drinken in dit heerlijke terrasjesweer gelijk aan een heuse GAS-boete, van wie anders dan die fu’ers van d’ inquisitie. Vanaf morgen kunnen we allemaal, man, vrouw, baby, kind, hond, neger, monk… zonder pardon aan een gruwelijke bloedproef onderworpen worden, om te zien of we een levensgenieter zijn en af en toe na een harde werkdag een pintje drinken! Kan dit verdomme zomaar?!
Deze spuiten zijn bovendien niet hygiënisch, stel dat een aap of -erger nog – neger hier een gevaarlijk virus in ’t bloed heeft, wat dan????

Daarom: laat dit niet ongemerkt voorbij gaan en verzamel allen daar waar de stemming plaatsvindt.
Kom allemaal af, voorzien van een pintje (wie weet je laatste ooit!!!!!!) en grote spandoeken, om je mening te tonen aan die pipo’s van de Hoge Raad (‘wie ontneemt me een pintje?’, ‘door wie kan ik mezelf niet meer healen?’, ‘wie ontneemt het volk zijn stem en zijn plezier?’, ‘Tempel=bodemloze put. Stop de geldtransfers!’ )
Eis een open stemming, zodat we zien welke van onze leiders ons laatste pleziertje wil afnemen! Eens zien of ze dan nog buiten durven te komen zonder een +5 hat of disguise!

Tot dan,

Uw vriend aan de toog,

Der Flugelmeister

PS: Wel een ordelijke betoging: Ik wil geen anarchie hè :p"

As Ormund stopped reading, Cahal realized three things:

• All others had left
• He and Ormund were standing alone amongst the piles of pamphlets, that is, alone except for two patrols of inquisitors
• Once again, he was in deep shit…

(Short report of every unit, shortly after the battle. Documents to be used during the evaluation of each unit during the next Hydra Council.)

Alchemists: Poisoned and defeated before the arrival of our leader, Dore. Half of our men survived.

Gnome Researchers: “Ni sjappen, hè kutmongol! Als zo ne lieleken droak in uw gat komt bijten, gaat gij dan blijven rondmalsen met 15 liter gif in uw lijf? Dat ziede van hier! Wijle rap de tunnels in, drank gaan halen voor de afterparty!” (roughly translated: bloodied and fled from the battlefield)

The Sons of Baldwin: “Our great – and illiterate – leader Khoban once again saved the day. all Allies dead or fled? Attacked from all sides, outnumbered, wounded, bloodied, drunk… it made no difference. Hit after hit. Critical after critical. THIS IS…COBAN!”

Clerics: “Formed a single unit and followed Praetor Cornelia and that Evil Priest Brïna. Gathered up with the army, used our healing on wounded monks and soldiers and then disengaged. The undead burned down what remained of our temple, however. Someone even blew up the cellars!”

White Power: “What a great day! First, we took down a whole flight of Manticores in a few seconds. Whimps! Then, checked the temple – or what was left. Losers! Joined the final battle around the Inquisitor’s Headquarters. Bloody wankers with a stick up their ass! Slightly wounded by ghouls, but kept on shooting undead, hydra’s and Manticores. Too bad there were no niggers to fight!”

Silver Shields: “Good thing Armac memorized a few Sending spells. Killed the manticores, than joined the last battle. Always in the front line. Severely wounded by several undead units, but victorious.”

Very Special forces: “bombarded by Manticores, but joined up with our leader Cornelia and ran to the workshops. Killed the Hydra’s and saved the monk’s asses. Rallied to the inquisitors and prevailed through superior force of arms.”

Sharp Swords: “Joined up with Cornelia. Made our name true, cutting though Hydra’s as through a cake. All hail Tarwyn! Veni, vidi, critical!”

The Happy Few: After the massacre at the docks, the few who escaped the maws of the hungry Hydra’s think about changing their name to ‘the Not So Happy Very Few’. Commander Riovan is furious because that upstart brat Coban has once again stolen his glory.

The Shame of Erymia: (first words by Centurio Cahal, the only survivor) “Godverdomde losers! Afgeslacht voor we ook maar iets konden doen. Typisch dat zoiets nu mij weer moet overkomen. Maar van die vuile overlopers zijn we af. ‘t Woar’n oal Fu’ers”

Undead Hunters: “Lots of undead to hunt! Once again, people can see who’s the backbone of our colony: the Army and the Inquisition!” (PS: “We’re still looking for a leader. A reliable man or woman, preferably able to channel positive energy and/or equipped to fight undead. Magic abusers not wanted.”)

Cormac’s Inquisitors: “after a faint, that drew away Sandar, we found ourselves surrounded by no less than four units of undead, and we were still being bombarded by Manticores. Sandar returned, but with a horde of hungry Hydra’s on his trail. Then, things got ugly. Flanked and forced to abandon our headquarters. The enemy got in and stole the cursed Black Sword, destroying whatever they could. You cannot believe how much damage can be done in 18 seconds! Lost half of our men, but it was a worthy sacrifice. We would gladly give up all of our lives to keep our colony pure and free from monsters, undead, demons, freak races, heathens and magic abusers!”

Sandar’s Elite Inquisitors: “Lured away, but returned and took our enemy by surprise. Nobody expects the Kernian Inquisition! Attacked countless times, but survived with barely a scratch. Fear, fire and disease, they are nothing to those who walk in the Light of the One God.”

Free-lance craftsmen/GG: “Realised immediately it was a hopeless fight. Lured the Hydra’s to the inquisition, but underestimated their speed and their ferocity. Only a few of us survived the slaughter. Many of us are missing, amongst them our beloved leader Senator Orrin.”

Silent Snake craftsmen: “tried to take out the Hydra’s, but every attempt an utter failure. Second-in-command Arias disappeared. Got healed a bit and kept to the periphery of the battle. Moving fast, avoiding direct confrontation, barely staying alive: Pampy Style!”

Ormund ‘Firebeard’ voelde zich niet op zijn gemak onder de spiedende blikken van een veertigtal inquisiteurs. Ze mochten zich dan wel ’Cornelia’s Undead Hunters’ noemen, een inquisiteur was en bleef een inquisiteur! Hij herinnerde zich al te levendig de afgelopen twee weken, weken vol ondervragingen door Cormac, de rechterhand van Sandar Silvermaul. Hij dacht dat hij er de eerste dagen alles had uitgegooid wat hij maar kon over zijn occasionele dronkenschap en die volgepiste healing potions, maar die Cormac bleef maar doorvragen: over zijn kalverliefde voor Tribuun Cornelia en haar achterwerk van Rabelaïsche afmetingen; over al de kroegen die als paddenstoelen uit de grond schoten; over hun concurrenten van de steeds maar groeiende Flügelbrouwerij; wat hij wist over dat vervloekte zwarte zwaard dat de inquisitie al een maand in bewaring had, zelfs over het netwerk van tunnels onder de tempel!
Koortsachtig probeerde hij zijn gedachten op iets anders te richten dan de gloeiende poken van de inquisiteurs. “Priester Trabac, je bent er toch ab-so-luut zeker van dat ons gloednieuw vergaderzaaltje in goede handen is?”
“Maak je niet druk, Ormund. Trouwens, de waarborg is betaald. Als ze het zaaltje niet in de oorspronkelijke staat achterlaten, verliezen ze hun 50 gp!”
“En wie heeft dat contract ondertekend?”
“Wel, die geheime voorzitster van ‘de Vrienden van de Fille’, hoe heet ze alweer? Groot, negerin, agressief, tieten omgekeerd evenredig met IQ…”
“Toch niet… Tjikka?!” Ormund voelde instinctmatig aan zijn alweer in brand gestoken baard “O nee!”
“Waarom? Wat is er mis met Tjikka en haar vrienden? Wat…”

Een ijselijke gil sneed door merg en been. Alle planten in de wijde omtrek verschrompelden terstond, en de gloednieuwe lading potions kreeg een vuilgele kleur. Het grootste deel van de priesters viel kotsend ter aarde. Enkel de Undead Hunters leken niet getroffen, al trokken ze wel hun wapens.
Geschreeuw en gekrijs klonk uit het vergaderzaaltje.
“Wie heeft mijne STEEN??!!”
“Bek toe, Lichie!”
“Mag Tjikka nu EINDELIJK wapen pakken? Waar is dien dikke?!”
“Smijt hem neer, Pampy! Smijt hem neer!”
“Shit, ik kan niks doen tegen die Banshee!”
“Ik ook niet! !”
“IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIeeeeeeeeeeeee”
“Brina! Brina, help!”
“Pampy, stop malsing around!”
“Daar hebt ge niet van terug, hé dikke, zo nen twinned disintegrate op uw dak?”
“Stomme stinkwolken. Ik snap niks van die vendiagrammen!”
“Godverdomme, moet ik hier nu weeral de cleric van den hoop spelen?!”

Een van de bezoekers kwam het vergaderzaaltje uitrennen met een kristallen bol in zijn handen, terwijl hij vaag iets mompelde over ‘zijne steen’, en ‘die oppermachtige Wizard’s Tower’. Toen leek alles tegelijk te gebeuren…

Witte lichtflitsen kleurden de hemel, en luttele seconden later weerklonk van overal het alarm. De ene muur van het vergaderzaaltje leek wel te smelten, en de andere werd weggeblazen door talloze bliksems. Verpestende gassen kwamen naar buiten drijven. Uit deze puinhopen strompelde kuchend een bekende gestalte tevoorschijn.
“Pampy!”
In tegenstelling tot zijn smoelwerk op alle affiches, zag de Drunken Monk er nu allesbehalve gelukkig uit. De Inquisitie zette zich schrap. Een duidelijker teken voor naderend onheil was er niet.

Armac the Tall was walking ahead of his orderly column of soldiers, all of them splattered with gore. Their enemy had been quite powerful, but they had prevailed, bringing home more than fifty slaves, vier giant rhino tusks and even two still living dire rhino’s, each carried by twenty-five of their new slaves.
“Byen vit! Byen vit, nèg estipid!” his trusted companion Taggart shouted to the new slaves, cracking his whip-bow. As a master nigger hunter, he was assigned with the duty of educating the slaves about their new station of life. “Mwen gran patron, ou dwè obeyi toujou!” With a +8 favored enemy bonus on each hit, Taggart’s whipping was bound to leave some serious scars, but he didn’t seem to care much. Sometimes, Armac wondered if his old friend wasn’t more inspired by racism and hatred, instead of religious zeal. Well, anyway, Taggart did a good job. In only a few seconds, he had taken out both of the enemy’s warlocks. Armac didn’t understand why these warlocks were such a big deal anyway, the bloody weaklings. Thinking a few illusions could protect them against Taggart’s deadly arrows! Fools!

As they were entering the camp site, Armac imagined the hero’s welcome that would be waiting for them. Not only had they explored the nearby jungle, but also they had gathered some nice spoils of war. All of it for the greater glory of Kern, of course, but there was nothing wrong with a bit of pride when you had done a good job.
Strange… there was no one to be seen. As they entered the camp site, they spotted a few of the Gnomes and other ‘malsers’, grinning and looking at… at what, exactly?
“Hehe, look at this one. That Tjikka is gonna burn off his beard – again!”
“Hehehe hohoho!”
“I tell you, these malsers at the Infirmary, they are unbelievable! Do you remember, last year…”

Armac shoved them aside roughly, and looked at the pictures of a drunken dwarf, covered by vomit and piss, ‘Loser’ written on his forehead and all over his armor… Ormund Firebeard! Goddamn it, why must that witless Dwarf get drunk in the basement of his own temple, sleeping it off amidst his own healing potions! With incidents such as this, restoring the credibility of the Temple would be even harder still. And of course, the other members of the Hydra Council would expect him, Armac the Tall, to become high priest of the Infirmary and set things right! Ha! Like a powerful priest of his stature had nothing better to do than create lousy healing potions and curing headaches! Well, he would tell them that he would only accept the function if the temple had been restored to its proper glory. Otherwise, he would take his chances with the army. As a tribune, or possible even as praetor. Hmm, become praetor and – as such – the true leader of the whole provincia… Tarwyn would not offer much resistance, the spineless weakling, but Cornelia… he had a feeling she would try to divert the course of the whole enterprise. And she had gained a lot of support after the defeat of Bloodbeard. A glorious victory, he had to admit. The only stain on Cornelia’s reputation (aside from her female soft-heartedness) was her odd choice of companions.
Well, he had made better choices. Agreed, Taggart was a racist with a love for violence. Taggart’s new friend Riovan was the quintessiential Erymian barbarian, always looking for Bhool. And their spy-master Tmesias was an outright sadist. And their other companions, Cormac, Sasturi and Endymion, were even worse bastards, but still… all of them were quite reliable and knew how to obey. While Cornelia’s friends…
At first, Armac thought the giant poster he saw was just part of his imaginations, invoked by his trail of thought, but as he looked closer, he saw it was real.

“Drink like a man: drink like Pampy! Drink a Gratch!”

Damn, there were posters all over the place! All of them bearing Tycho’s smiling face.

“the Great Monk Pampy says: “when I read about the evils of drinking, I gave up reading!”
“Pampy: 24 hours in a day, 24 beers in a case. Coincidence?”
“I woke up this morning and got myself a gratch!”
“Hoppiness is Happiness!”
“A neut a day keeps the cleric away!”

Whoever did this must have paid a pretty penny. But why?
Could that be the explanation why no one was there to hail them upon their return? Was everybody…drinking?
As they passed the inquisitors’ headquarters, Armac saw these workaholics were even busy during the weekend. “What are you doing?” he shouted to his brother Cormac, as they passed by. “O, notting much, just cleaning out the basement.” his brother responded, throwing another corpse into the pyre. Only then did Armac notice the huge pile of burning corpses. Most of them had been dead for quite some time. That Erymian boy Khoban came out of the building, carrying a corpse under each of his arms. "Some undead. Ancient mummies, skeleton warrior and such. No big deal, really. And besides, the Seekers of Bhool already took care of most of them.

As they came closer to the temple, Armac noticed the mob of soldiers. Then he what they were looking at: a huge hole in the ground, producing pillars of smoke. Fortunately, only a small part of the Temple had collapsed. And the Wizards’ Tower nearby had suffered some damage too, almost as if an earthquake had happened in their absence.
Reluctantly, the crowd made way for him, and as he looked down, he saw Tjikka standing next to two smoldering corpses, apperently a powerful Lich and the biggest Rhino Armac had ever seen. Not bottered by the hundreds of spectators, Cornelia struggled to her feet, walked over to Tjikka and hit her squarely in the face.
“Killpikker!”

“Run! Let’s get out of here!”
“These guys are crazy. An Earthquake spell just to kill some already wounded pirates! And you were saying ‘no no, even that crazy Flandal would not dare to use destructive spells inside the Wizard’s Tower!”
“Shit! They’re following us. And that Gnome is casting another spell.”
“Haste, maybe even ‘Ye Olde Haste’. And that nigger is following our tracks. O no, now we’re screwed. Run! Run!”
…
“(huff, huff) Are they still following?”
“No. Strange. Maybe it wasn’t a Haste Spell after all?”
“No, I’m sure it was. But…maybe that Tjikka had Free Movement and the wizard didn’t know?”
“The morons! Well, good for us.”
“Good? That whole thing was a huge failure!”
“Bwah, what have we lost? Some slaves? Some items? Both weren’t our to begin with. And now we know who we are dealing with.”
“You may be right. I’ll always memorize a couple of Rock to Mud spells. And maybe some nice illusion for that barbarian.”
“Yes, it’s a waste to let our rogues attack that Tjikka. But still, I don’t see how we can overcome them, even if our friends would help.”
“We can’t overcome them…in an honest fight. I’m just worried that they might take the initiative and attack us on their own terms.”
“Don’t worry, I know these ‘Seekers of Bhool’. In half a day, they’ve forgotten about us. We’ll get a second chance for revenge.”

Taggart looked longingly at the abandoned catapult. If only he had been allowed to fire one of these beauties during the battle, instead of that drooling retard Tjikka… what a change it would have made for the battle?! And for his personal honor! And, last but not least, for his kill-list!
Taggart put down his bow and opened his book. He didn’t much like reading, but he loved writing:
545 ab urbe condita, kalendae februariae
1 Kernian ship
1 pirate captain, level 12 (rogue?)
8 pirates, two of them breed of Bloodbeard
4 swimming slaves (didn’t feel like throwing a rope)
3 annoying gulls
15 niggers, tribe Mèg Yo (rangers)
35 swimming nigger slaves, crying ‘Nopang!’ and ‘Pamwa!’, for some reason
2 Gnomes, 1 possible a child (hard to tell), could not swim with 5 STR, so putting them out of their misery was probably my good deed of the month!
1 sea turtle, too curious for its own good

“Ymer’s frozen balls! What a kill-list, little man! Truly, I am impressed.” A giant of a man towered over him, one of those Erymian barbarians, by his appearance and accent. “I didn’t know you pansy bow-wielding fu’ers were so good at killing!”
“And I didn’t know you savages could read.”
“Enough to recognise a kill-list when I see one. And I see you have also a copy of ’Shellack’s art of kill-stealing’.”
“Yes, a signed copy, actually, with a preface by ‘Hanno the Held’.”
“Impressive. You know what, little man? Let’s do something. I bet these seas are full of dangerous creatures. But me and my men are a little bored. That holy-stick-up-my-fat-arse bitch Cornelia choose that boy Khoban over me. Even some of these deserters. And I, Riovann the Red, am left behind to do menial labour? I think not.”
Taggart hesitated. On one hand, going against orders for no good reason was not really his style. On the other hand, the opportunity to add a little extra to his kill-list… Moreover, these orders were given by a bunch of murderers, freaks and former outlaws! “I’m with you, Riovan. Just let me gather my men.”
“Why in the unholy blazes are all of your men wearing such a ridiculous mask with goggles?”
“Dunno. Hey, you, with the green mask! What’s all this about?”
“A gnomish invention, sir. For safety reasons. Do you perchance have a spare handkerchief, sir? I can’t see shit.”
“Sigh. Stand to attention, you goose-brained lackwits! Watch these barbarians by the seaside. Arrows ready!”
“Erymians! My brothers of the sword! Change of plans. Throw those dead bodies in the sea. Yes, on different locations at once. Weapons ready. Rage at the first sign of hostility. You all know a barbarian without Iron Will isn’t worth a damn outside of his rage!”

Half an hour later, during a small break in the fighting, Taggart opened his book with a satisfied grin.
“545 ab urbe condita, a.d. IV ante nonas februarias:
3 Greater Sirens
1 black siren (?)
2 underwater ghouls (Lassey Don?)
3 Dragon Turtles
1 Greater Dragon Turtle
1 Erymian Barbarian, stupid enough to finish off turtle number 5 before I could steal the kill
2 Red Manticores (is that color meant to be something? Must ask a wizard.)
1 Manticore called ‘El Cryo’
3 wounded nigger slaves (grew bored)
15 Killer Crabs of various sizes.
Dear diary, a good day! If only I had a chance to avenge…”

“Sir! Sir! Look!”
Riovan, apparently bored as well, was throwing stones in the deepest part of the bay. Tarwyn came running, panting in his heavy armor. “What in Kern’s name are you doing? Don’t disturb the water. Every level 1 adventurer knows that. Never, ever disturb the water!”
“Don’t worry, Tarry.” Riovan said, waving about his newly found Sword of Doom. “I think we just fished the sea dry. We killed every last fu’er in the bay, I dare to… HOLY SHIT!”
A gargantuan shape rose out of the water, tentacles flailing about. Whatever it was, it was surely angry. Before anyone could react, flames engulfed half of Riovan’s men and a few of the ships to boot.
“Shoot that catapult, Taggart! What the hell are you waiting for?” Tarwyn and Riovan tried to set up a defense against the charging creature.
But I never shoot first, Taggart thought I only shoot when the opponent is so weakened I can surely kill him. Weakening a strong opponent is another one’s job.
The hesitation was fatal: a powerful line of lightning struck down the already burning catapult, as well as half of his archers, who had formed a nice row. The fools, the lawful fools! Nephelidia Rule number 2: never form a line, not even with two men!
“Retreat, retreat, you suicidal Erymian nitwits!” Tarwyn seemed to have finally developed a spine. His silver flail hit the monster right in the face. Once. Then he was grappled by one of the many tentacles. Other tentacles grabbed heavy-armed priests and tossed them into the sea, to be at the mercy of hungry ghouls and their own pathetic swimming skills. The tentacles made horrible bleeding wounds, beyond the feeble healing skills of the low-level clerics. While his men fled or died, Riovan seemed almost unperturbed by the grabbing tentacles. With a lucky blow, he cut loose Tarwyn and they ran for a nearby cave. Taggart hesitated. The right thing to do for a badass archer was to hold his ground, shoot a few more arrows and then, just as everyone thought he was lost, he would… “RUN!”
He ran straight into the (very limited) vision of one of his gas-masked men. Taggart never knew what hit him. Later, as he examined the Kernian arrow sticking out of his knee, he hoped that idiot was eaten by the Kraken. Much better for him that way. If not, well, soon, Taggart would also show him some ‘friendly fire’!

“545 ab urbe condita, a.d. IV ante nonas februarias:
1 Kraken tentacle (8HD).
1 of my own archers (soon).”

Karega Stoneclaw looked around one final time. All around him, white slaves seemed to be labouring in a huge plantation, urged on by the whips of Ademorran overseers. Some of them were taking a small break, drinking stinking water and gnawing on a few bones. The slaves seemed rather happy with their lot in life.
Excellent! The illusion was perfect. Soon, his visitors would arrive and, unless he had mistaken them completely, the would-be-conquerors would be greatly disturbed by what they saw. Karega shielded his eyes from the sunlight (soon, something needed to be done about that damned flaming orb in the sky, he and his friends had such powers at their disposal now, why would it be impossible to shut down that ‘sun’ completely?) and then he saw then.
He re-read Tiocq’s final message ‘Return failed. Powerful enemies. They are coming. Again. Chaotic illusionist without healing. Drunken Monk. Betrayer Tjikka. Electricity-obsessed Invoker. Priest of Enemy. Absent-minded paladin with i-phone."
Well, that paladin didn’t seem to be so absent-minded now. His lackey, Babocq the Unfortunate, was cut down before he could even introduce his Grand Chef. The Gnome invoker finished what the paladin’s smiting had begun and blasted the half-mummy half-lich to ashes. (That’ll teach him, Karega thought, for letting those treasure hunters break into the sacred catacombs and almost get away with the Sun Blade! Let him rot in the Abyss for all eternity!)
Well, Karega was not unprepared for such violence. Too bad he didn’t even get to introduce himself. Well, if they wouldn’t be convinced by his words, he would let his necromantic powers speak for him. If these fools wouldn’t see the light, he would make them see stars! And in death, they would listen, sure enough!

He only hoped he could take down enough of them to restore his lost powers. What use was a name like ‘stoneclaw’, when you could no longer turn your enemies into statues with only a glance and a swift action? Those blasted Demons! Well, he would try to kill some of them as soon as possible, but if they focused on him, he would run for the tunnels. He wasn’t interesting in losing another level of experience… He was a hero after all, or so the Master had told him ages ago, at the White Hydra Head.

Victory was in the air, Cahal could smell it, and it smelled like a dozen pirate ships burning before battle was even joined. Of course, the enemy still had the numbers, but they were no longer a match for Kern’s superior firepower and fighting skill.
“The enemy outnumbers us a paltry three to one,” he shouted “, good odds for any Kernian!” His men cheered. They fended off a pathetic boarding attempt by some of Bloodbeard’s bastards and at the same time avoided being rammed by the only remaining enemy Erymian ship. Bloody traitors, Theritas take them and burn their balls!

The catapult manned by Sandar Silvermaul was still wreaking havoc amongst the enemy lines, but the catapult of that weakling Tarwyn was destroyed and the catapult aboard the admiral ship… well, Cahal strongly suspected someone had summoned an Avatar of Incompetence . Admiral Cornelia was alright – for a woman – but she really should pick her friends more carefully!
Only a few hundred feet away, Bloodbeard was boarding the Admiral’s ship, still thick with stinking smoke after Straton’s One-man assault. Unsuccessful, of course. The fool! Perhaps it was just his misanthropic perception, but Cahal had never encountered a spellcaster who wasn’t full of hybris, believing he could take on a whole army, all by himself! And look at him now, the great Straton the Abstinent, stripped of his magical protection by Flandal, stunned by Tycho and (of course) finished by Tjikka the Kiltpicker. Sic transit gloria mundi!
Aware of the fate of his Right Hand, Bloodbeard himself was more cautious. He surrounded himself with a shield wall of minions and went for the weakest target first… Tycho, the infamous Drunken Monk. “Trippel? Trippel? Don’t teach a Dwarf to Trippel!” the Pirate King shouted, throwing the monk down. Tycho looked for help to his companion Tjikka, but she was too busy finishing off the weaker pirates. Cornelia saw herself degraded to the party’s healer once more and rushed to Tycho’s aid.
The battle aboard ‘The Hydra’ was far from over, but the main battle was almost finished. In only a few minutes, the last surviving pirates ships – some pathetic canoes – were fleeing across the sea. Laughing pitylessly, the Kernian fleet, almost untouched by the battle, persued them.
“Now that’s what I came here to do!” Taggart shouted over the waves, as he launched volley after volley of arrows amongst Bloodbeard’s nigger allies. Each arrow struck with deadly precision. Cahal choose a different approach: his ship simply rammed canoo after canoo.
“Hey, Taggart! You know, it helps if you don’t look at them as people!”
“Huh? People? What the hell do you mean?”

In the meantime, the battle between both admirals was still raging. Sure, Brïna Ghöl and that Rat-man Invoker had swept away most of Bloodbeard’s minions with their most powerful spells, but Bloodbeard himself was a real bastion of defense. Even Tjikka’s strength was unable to pierce his defenses. Really, the nigger chick lacked all her usual enthousiasm: not even a single ‘whoop whoop’ battle cry was heard. The Pirate King threw down opponent after opponent, while his few remaining companions kept stebbing at the fallen. Although he had won many a battle with these ‘pirate tactics’, Bloodbeard now faced an enemy armed with ‘PC-tactics’: keep healing the fallen until the enemy drops down from exhaustion!
Aboard Bloodbeard’s own ship, a strange duel could be seen that was at the same time disgusting and hilarious. Tycho, stone drunk again, was fighting Sharragh Niggashoota, the sole survivor aboard. Sharragh managed to fill Tycho with lots of arrows, but then he was affected by one of the Mighty Rings of Doom! Tycho, filled with sadistic inpiration (and probably with intestinal gas) engulfed his opponent in a Cloudkill spell. When the slow-moving Sharragh finally reached the end of the poison cloud, gasping for breath, Tycho had already released another of his gas attacks.
But while many a sadist’s eye was following Sharragh’s demise, the others were watching the final moments of Bloodbeard with great interest. One of his lieutenants, Valmar the Accursed, tried to finish Cornelia all by himself, but failed to see the tiny vampiric rat at his feet. With only his priest Kharoun the Black remaining, Bloodbeard realised his end was near. Still, the Dwarf was full of bravado: “Fall down for Bloodbeard as you should, you blasted wenches! I cannot be defeated! As long as there are greedy adventurers, Bloodbeard cannot die! Never! Never! Aaaargh!”

(A 25-words Sending spell from Armac the Tall to the Kernian senate)

“Bloodbeard and his fleet destroyed! Minimal loss of units and ships. Maximum number of captives (=slaves), but almost all enemy ships destroyed. Veni, vidi, incineravi!”

(answer Sending from the senate to Armac)

“Good work! Who had command? Execution preferable to slavery, but your decision. Interrogate and execute all pirate leaders! We want answers. How could Bloodbeard return?”

(answer Sending from Armac to the senate)

“All pirate leaders already dead, will torture some survivors. Tribune Cornelia led us to victory. Superior tactics and artillery. But eye test needed for catapult!”