Stories (Continued...)
This second story is rather more lengthy, and was based loosely on my real in-game adventures.
The early part of the story is based on an event I stumbled across, where a bunch of roleplaying ogreas, trolls and dark elves were attacking the city of Freeport. I tagged along and observed, and then wrote this story based on it. The latter part of the story deals with my further adventures and meeting with the group of guys who went on to become my regular nightly group whom I played with for years afterwards, until WoW and EQ2 came out and broke up the set.
Miss them still!
Companions of the Sword
The sky was darkening as Iztariani ran through the hills of the East Commonlands, heading for North Ro. Iztariani was exhausted...she'd been on the move since early the day before, slowly working her way from the snow-lashed environs of Permafrost down to the danger-ridden plains of Karana, and eastwards ever since. Numb with fatigue, she ran onwards, wanting only to make it to the small village of friendly barbarians in North Ro before camping.
That's why she missed overhearing the guttural growls of the trolls gathered in the darkness of the tunnel entrance. She was among them before she realized they were there. Before she could draw her weapon, a great fist clouted her behind the ear, and she collapsed to the stone floor, unconscious.
"We should move from this place," a sullen voice hissed, "there is too much chance of our purpose being discovered before we are ready to move."
"Me agree," a booming voice answered, "me fink we go to da Nektulos tunnel, meet others dere. Too many light skins here."
Cautiously, Iztariani tested her bounds, hoping not to draw attention to herself. From the faint light of flicking torches deeper in the tunnel, she could vaguely make out a large group of forms crowded in the area around her...the vast hulking shapes of trolls, the slender forms of dark elves, an occasional small gnome or stocky human figure among them. As well, there were several prone figures, unfortunate travellers like herself, who lay strewn randomly here and there, tightly wrapped in rope. Some were overly still, the rock around them pooled with blood.
A silhouetted figure kicked viciously at one of the bound forms. "Yes, let us move on...but we should take care of this offal first."
"Bring dem wif us," growled a troll, "dem make good samiches."
The dark elves laughed at this trollish witticism. While they themselves usually spurned the eating of the enemy races, save perhaps the occasional choice morsel such as the heart of a particularly personal enemy, they enjoyed seeing what happened to those who fell into the hands of the trolls and ogres.
"Yes, in that case, kill them quickly and let's be off," drawled one, unpleasantly, "before we find too many flies trying to enter our larder."
A great despair welled up in Iztariani's breast as the hulking forms moved towards the many bound forms, the night quickly filling with muffled cracks and crunches as clubs descended on heads and necks were twisted. As one of the trolls stepped towards her, she closed her eyes and offered up a prayer to Quellious, that whatever nefarious purpose these dark races were gathering for would be discovered in time to prevent a greater tragedy then that already playing out here in the tunnel.
"Wait," a strangely familiar voice boomed, "Not kill all. Keep one, see what we do, tell all others."
Her eyes flew open, looking at the troll that stood over her, gory weapon in hand. She recognized him immeadiately, the troll she'd once hunted with in southern Karana, several seasons gone. He'd gained many scars since then, and his eyes were filled with a terrible sorrow and anger. As they met hers, they turned briefly pleading, as if asking for understanding, then went cold and hard once more.
"Dis one," the troll boomed, pointing his sword at her, "Keep dis one. She a paladin."
A female dark elf slithered over, plastering herself against the troll's side as she peered down at Iztariani's bound form.
"Ah, you get the sweetest ideas," the dark elf crooned, stroking his massive arm. "I will cage her about with magic bounds, so that she cannot escape. Kill the rest."
As the troll turned and stumped away, the dark elf crouched down at Iztariani's side, and grinned evilly at her. "Don't worry my dear," she hissed, "this won't hurt at all...at first"
Silently, the group of dark races surged through the hills of the commonlands, coursing towards the distant entrance to Neriak. Behind them floated Iztariani, trapped in her own body, unable to do anything but watch, any thoughts of escape prevented by the evilly enchanted chain that wrapped around her neck, cutting off all control of her own body.
As the horde rounded a final hill, her despair increased. There, ahead of them at the entrance to Nektulos, lay in wait a much larger horde, a vast gathering of the dark races. By the light of torches and campfires they gathered, forming groups then breaking apart again into random clots and strings. Here and there magic glows flared briefly, as magic was used to strengthen the horde for their mission - the invasion of Freeport.
Iztariani's heart plummeted.
It was a long, hot day, as the dark races slowly gathered under the eaves of Nektulos. From where she stood tied to a tree, Iztariani overheard bits and pieces of their plans, as a fierce debate raged over whether to invade the city openly through the front gates, or to sneak in through the sewers.
Occasionally, drawn by rumours of a captive Paladin, groups of trolls or dark elves would approach and inspect her...but they avoided trying to take any liberties, dissuaded by the pet that stood guard over her. Other captives did not fare so well...few survived more then a few minutes of trollish attentions. The ones taken by the dark elves suffered longest. Unable to move to help them, Iztariani prayed constantly to Quellious that their suffering be short.
As darkness fell, the dark races fell silently into small groups and moved off through the twilight towards the distant lights of Freeport.
The dissension in their ranks had not been entirely eradicated, and even as the most organized groups crept silently in through the sewers, a dissident group tried to storm the front gates. As she disappeared down into the Stygian darkness of the tunnels, Iztariani listened to the distant tumult and prayed that the city would realize that this was not an isolated incident, and that the alarm would be raised to seek out other potential invaders.
A single torch guttered on one wall, where the subterranean tunnels widened slightly. Unnaturally quiet, a large group of trolls and dark elves, with the rare human or gnome, crouched in the gloom. A single figure stood, motionless, tightly grasping a glowing staff. The dark elf turned his head from side to side, seeming to peer into the distance though his eyes were tightly shut.
"They die," he whispered, "the gate is too strongly defended. Corpses litter the ground by the western gate."
Low mutters sounded as the group digested the information...some of dismay, others pleased that the dissident group had earned the reward of any unorganized party - death.
"Some few have entered the city under the guise of innocents, or cloaked in magic to disguise their true face," the mage continued, "they gather in an alley near the north market."
As the group digested this information, a grating sound heralded the return of a troll who'd scouted ahead. Surprisingly agile, he easily pulled himself into the cavern from the adjoining sewer.
"Paladin temple unguarded," he growled, "de guards, dey all run to fight."
"Gud, we go kill dem den," announced another troll, "dey neber know what hit dem."
Picking up their weapons, the groups reformed and silently poured out into the water tunnel, the trolls wading towards the distant exit, the more fussy elves levitating above the turbid surface.
Iztariani floated along behind them, her motionless feet trailing in the scummy water. If only there was some way she could warn her fellow paladins of the fate approaching them...she began almost to wish that she'd been killed with the others the night before...it would have been less cruel.
The dark races were ruthlessly efficient. Within minutes of exiting the sewers, they'd established a beachhead near the Office of the People, and sent out small parties out to explore towards the Hall of Truth and the Temple of Mithaniel Marr. Runners lured nearby guards into ambushes, while magic wielders maintained communications and healed the fighters as they took injuries.
Dragged helplessly along, Iztariani wept to see the slaughter as the forces penetrated closer and closer to the temples. Anyone who crossed their path died, ruthlessly butchered to prevent word of the invasion from spreading. Not until the evil forces had penetrated as far as the very courtyard of the Temple of Mithaniel Marr did word begin to spread and organized resistance begin to occur.
Many brave guards died that day, defending the temple, their blood spilled on the gleaming marble flagstones. The dark forces had won as far as the very doorway itself when a skirmishing force of brave citizens, led by a fierce bard, arrived and turned the tide of the battle. Forced temporarily into retreat, the evil races fought a ferocious battle and managed to maintain their toehold within the heart of the city.
During a lull in the battle, the dark elf female approached Iztariani, and gestured at the plentiful bodies that littered the once immaculate grassy sward.
"You see how easily your kind die," she smirked, "our work here shall not take much longer. And when we are finished...you will bear witness to others as to what we have accomplished here today, that all shall fear us."
The battle raged for hours, now advancing towards the temples once more, now retreating. Forces streamed in from across the city, many falling all too easily to the bloodied weapons of the giant trolls or the life-draining magics of the dark elves. The slaughter was unimaginable.
Unable to do anything but watch, Iztariani wept and prayed, wishing only for the slaughter to end, or for herself to be unbound, her sword in hand, free to take action in defence of her friends and comrades and the many citizens who had died this day. At times, she wondered if the anguish of helplessly watching the horrific battles would drive her mad. Sometimes, she wished it would.
It was late in the day when rumours began to run through the dark horde...rumours of an unbeatable paladin who had emerged from the Hall of Truth, clad in gleaming armour. Increasingly, the mages lost touch with foraying parties. Runners who had been sent out to lure guards to their deaths never returned.
A growing uneasiness manifested itself in the gathered ranks. A few began to retreat slowly towards the tunnels. Groups formed and broke apart, then reformed, as rumours took fire and spread.
When the end came, it was swift. A single slight figure appeared out of the gloom and walked towards the group. Clad in silvery armour, and bearing but a single small sword, she advanced within easy reach of the horde then stopped, planting her sword in the gruesome mire.
"Leave now," she commanded, in a low, calm voice, "leave now or die." Her face was calm, her voice level, but her eyes were filled with unbearable pain.
A few figures slipped away into the darkness, the rest milled uneasily, unsure how to react to such a command. Finally, a dark hulking figure moved forwards, blood-stained blade raising in one clenched hand.
"Me no do," the troll bellowed, "you die NOW."
The troll's body hit the ground before it could even be registered that the paladin had moved. Unleashed, she tore through the crowd like a lion's claws through cloth, first here, now there, a trail of motionless bodies left behind her. Magic glowed and flared as mages frantically tried to stop her, but nothing seemed to affect the gleaming figure. The dark forces crumbled quickly, and a rushed retreat towards the sewers began.
At first, Iztariani's heart surged in her breast at seeing the vengeance being enacted before her. And yet, witnessing valiant trolls and dark elves dying as they fought to protect their retreating brethren, she found herself feeling only more pain, rather then less.
A lithe form, en-wrapped in shadows, glided up beside her. Dimly, she could make out the figure of the dark elf female. The figure bent, dipping one hand in a puddle of mixed trollish and human blood, and then stood, holding her encarmined hand before Iztariani's transfixed eyes.
"Blood for blood," she hissed. "Remember what you have witnessed today. We shall return again."
The dark elf pressed her bloodied hand across Iztariani's face, then disappeared into the darkness. As she left, the necklace that had held Iztariani motionless evaporated, freeing her. She collapsed to the ground, unable even to stand, her anguish was so great.
Close to her lay the body of the young troll she'd once hunted with. He was pinned to the ground by a spear thrust through his body.
"Why," Iztariani whispered, "why did you do this?"
"My family," he groaned in response. "Dey all dead. Pale skins kill dem, while me out hunting. Wife, babies...all dead."
He coughed painfully, blood spouting from his mouth, then died.
Iztariani wept, then lapsed into blessed unconsciousness, her ears still full of the sounds of battle.
Iztariani woke in a warm bed, in a quiet room filled with light and the pleasant scent of soap and flowers. She felt terribly weak.
Turning her head, she saw she was one of many lying on pallets on the floor in a long room. Many were heavily bandaged. Clerics and paladins moved quietly among then, praying for healing and treating wounds as best they could.
At one end stood the female paladin who had ended the invasion, her armour still softly gleaming, her face wearied. Their eyes met, and after a quiet word to the group she'd been consulting with, the paladin walked over to Iztariani's pallet, and crouched by her side.
"You are unmarked, little sister," she quietly said, "at least in the physical sense. But in other ways...you have been deeply marked. I bid you, seek out healing for yourself, or terrible things may come to you...or of you."
Iztariani began to quietly weep. "So many died, so very many died..." she whispered.
"Yes," whispered the paladin in return, "Yet you survived. I, too, know that guilt. Do not let it break you, do not let it lead you to seek vengeance as others have done, for vengeance leads to yet more vengeance, and more, in a never-ending cycle. Seek your home temple, little bird, and pray for true healing. I will ask a dear friend to help you along your way. For now...sleep."
She laid a gentle hand on Iztariani's forehead, and whispered a short prayer. Gently, tears still sliding down her face, Iztariani slid into deep sleep.
Iztariani waved as the old druid faded from sight, having safely delivered her much of the way home. Hitching her backpack into a more comfortable position, she turned and loped westwards, towards the distant Qeynos Hills, and the ocean beyond them, and her distant homeland beyond even that.
She tried not to dwell on the horrific memories of what she'd witnessed, but instead put her faith in her god, and ran lightly westwards, like a swallow winging towards its nest.
Iztariani stepped tiredly off the tender onto the docks of Erudin. At long last, she was home. Bruised in mind and spirit, she trudged tiredly into the city, seeking the solace of her temple. The transport gem into the walled quarter of the city dropped her off in front of the beautiful fountains that ran sparkling down the hillside. Today, even the cheerful babble of the clear cold water could not lift her spirits.
Slowly climbing the stairs, she stopped and gazed at the lovely marble facade of the temple, her heart lifting only briefly at once again seeing the sun-warmed stonework. Entering quietly, she walked towards her guild master, and knelt in abasement before him.
"I seek healing," she whispered, tears filling her eyes. "I am out of balance with myself and the world."
Depnar gazed calmly down at her, his warm brown eyes welcoming.
"Little sister, you may always find healing among us. Come aside, and tell me what troubles your heart."
Leading her out to the balcony, he sat on the railing and regarded her attentively. Leaning the handle of her axe against the stone work beside her, Iztariani gratefully sank to the stone flags at his feet, and told him of her recent adventures on the far coast of Antonica. When she was finished, she was scared to look up at him, scared of what she might see in his face.
Reaching down, he touched her cheek, gently raising her head so that she met his eyes.
"You are not at fault," he said, gently, "there are times when there is nothing one can do to change the events that surround one, when one is like a leaf or a twig caught up in a great storm of wind. You have seen terrible things, and it has left scars on your soul. These, we must heal, lest they bend you from your chosen path."
"Come, child," he said, rising to his feet. "Your healing must begin immeadiately."
Iztariani sat in lotus position in an empty room, palms cupped in her lap, wearing a simple undyed robe. Her eyes were shut, her breathing deep and even. Pictures passed through her head again and again. If they troubled her, she examined them, and analyzed them, and eventually accepted them.
Occasionally her breathing became hoarse and ragged and concentration became difficult, as the cruellest scenes she had witnessed had to be dealt with.
At long intervals an initiate entered, with a tray containing a cup of cool water from the fountains and a small loaf of course, nutty bread. Iztariani would emerge from her deep mediation long enough to eat and drink, then sink back into her inward thoughts.
Iztariani sat on the edge of the fountain, gazing at the sparkling waters, the morning sun warm on her back and shoulders, the misty spray cool on her face and hands.
"I can talk and think of what I have witnessed without loosing my sense of centre," she told Jras, who stood quietly nearby. He was a good listener, and as such had been asked to listen to her while she mulled over the events that had overtaken her.
"I still feel pain at many of the memories, but it is no longer an overwhelming pain...more like the distant memory of what was once terribly painful," she continued. "And yet there is...a tenderness, is the only phrase I can think of - that makes me cringe from the thought of being in such a position again. I dread returning east."
"You will need to ease yourself back into your old life, my child," he answered her, sombrely. "It is like when a limb is badly broken. For a long time, there is pain, and then healing begins and the pain slowly fades. But a fear of breaking the limb again may linger, and stop you from doing things you used to enjoy."
"You are a sword in the hand of Quellious," he continued, "And it is not fit for you to be unable to perform suitably in the role that he has chosen for you. You are past the worst of your healing, and now must begin rehabilitating yourself."
"How shall I do that," she asked, turning her head to meet his eyes. "My joy in battle is gone, and I fear it may not return."
"You must begin simply," he said. "You have told me how you enjoyed fighting in the frozen wastes of the distant north. Return there, and seek companions of the sword. In time, you will find your joy returning."
Rising, she stepped down from the stone ledge and bowed deeply to him. "I hear, and will obey," she answered. "I shall leave for the north this very day, if you think me able."
He smiled, then kissed her on the forehead. "You are ready, my child," he intoned. "Go, and seek the healing that the wilderness can give you."
Iztariani crouched by a flickering fire, feeding it with lumps of dried mammoth dung. The night was cold, a terrible blizzard wailing over the open plains. Protected by a wind break of packed snow, and an enveloping cloak of fur, she brewed tea and roasted a fish over the tiny, odoriferous fire.
She'd been journeying in the frigid peaks and rolling hills for several days now, and had laid waste to many of the orcs, goblins, and gnolls that haunted the region. Slowly, she was beginning to regain her love of battle.
A faint crunching alerted her to the unexpected presence of others. Rising, she whirled, hands reaching for her sword as she did so. Two well-cloaked forms loomed out of the snow.
"My apologies," one said as they stopped, his gloved hands rising to push back the hood of his heavy cloak. "We did not mean to startle you, m'lady. We spotted your fire, and seek warmth for the night."
He was a tall barbarian warrior, one eye covered by a black leather patch. His companion was a delicate-looking wood elf, his leather armours and blunt staff clearly marking him a druid. "Might we share your fire," he continued, bowing, "My name is Rogosh, and that of my companion is Roagar."
Iztariani bowed to them in return, and gestured towards her campsite. "What little comforts I have here, you are welcome to share."
"Thank you," Rogosh said, then crouched beside the fire with a sigh, stretching out his hands to the warmth. Roagar dropped a bow to Iztariani, then sat down and began rooting through his backpack, turning out an astonishing variety of meats and vegetables to make into a warming stew.
"What do you here in the north," Rogosh asked, curious.
"I hunt," she answered, "orcs, goblins, gnolls, sometimes the giant spiders to obtain silk, or the mammoth calves for meat and fur and ivory to sell."
"We too hunt the goblins," Roagar said as he chopped vegetables and stirred them into the pot he'd hung over the fire. "Even now, we journey towards their stronghold in the mountains to the east."
"Aye," Rogosh agreed, nodding, "it is the source of much evil on these plains. The goblins one finds on these plains are but scouts for the greater armies hidden in their mountain fastness."
Iztariani felt her interest growing as they described the distant goblin stronghold. By the time they had finished a companionable meal of stew and tea, with assorted fruits and berries, she felt a strong desire to join them in their battle against the goblins.
"Could you use another hand in this battle," she asked. "I would prefer to root out this evil at it's source, rather then continuing to deal with only the outlying fringes of it."
Rogosh smiled at her. "Certainly, m'lady, as long as you agree to follow my directions in battle. There can be only one leader in such a battle, else all will fail."
"Aye," she agreed, easily, "that is a precept of the training I have received. As long as I am in your party, I shall follow your orders."
"In that case, welcome to my group," he said, offering her his hand. "Tomorrow, we will continue on to the citadel of Permafrost, where we are to meet with some others before venturing inwards."
Reaching across the glowing coals of the fire, Iztariani clasped hands with first him, then Roagar.
"Wait here," Rogosh muttered, peering around a corner. "I see goblins ahead...I'll lure them this way, and we'll ambush them."
Wordlessly, Iztariani took up position, sword at the ready. Well-practised at working together, the remainder of the group also fell into position, fighters to the front, casters safely to the rear. Within moments Rogosh was back, a crowd of goblins hot on his tail.
They easily fell to the efficient swords and axes of the fighters. Silently cleaning their blades, they looted the corpses, hid them in a side passage, and continued threading their way deeper into the stronghold.
Iztariani felt deeply at peace, even in the heat of battle. She fought on the side of right, and knew it. Rogosh ran a very well-organized team, and did not tolerate foolish or inept behaviour. More then one casual traveller had found his discipline too hard to endure, and left. But she herself found it deeply reassuring to fight in a group where she knew she could count on her companions to do the right things at the right times.
As the days passed, she felt increasingly comfortable with her own role within the group. The others seemed pleased with her progress, as well, and less and less often did they need to prompt her as to what actions she should be taking. Like a cog in a gnomish mechanism slipping into its assigned place, she became an efficient piece of a well-organized killing machine.
Were these the companions of the sword her temple had instructed her to seek?
Weeks of hard work had passed. Their group had several times penetrated deeply into the citadel, only to emerge again, to rest and recover from their battles before entering the fray once more.
Once more they were gathered outside the entrance to the citadel, huddled around a fire for warmth in the darkness of the long arctic night.
Rogosh cleared his throat, and glanced around at his compatriots before turning his gaze to Iztariani. Sensing he wanted to speak to her, Iztariani put down her bowl of stew, and gazed evenly back at him.
"We received a summons earlier today," he said. "We have been asked to journey east, to distant Faydwer, to assist in wiping out a nest of the undead at a place called Unrest."
Iztariani's head drooped slightly, her heart dropping at the news of their coming departure. She had come to greatly value their companionship, and knew she would miss them all...Rogosh, his constant companion Roagar, the many friends of theirs that had joined their party for various periods of time.
"You have fought very well with us," he continued, "and we would like for you to join us in our campaign there. As a Paladin, it is most fit for you to be involved in any campaign against the undead."
She smiled, a great happiness filling her at the knowledge that they valued her companionship as well.
"Gladly will I join you," she said. "I have been lax of late in battling my destined prey...save for the odd skeleton that has crossed my path in these frigid wastes, I have not battled the undead in many months."
Her companions broke into large smiles at hearing her words. Roagar reached into one of his packs, and drew forth a long bundle, which he passed to Rogosh. Rogosh unwrapped it, revealing a gleaming sword, its edge sharp as a whisper in the night.
"Then it is best you have this weapon to bear," he said, presenting it handle-first towards her on its wrappings of soft tanned leather. "It has special virtues against the undead, yet none of us may wield it...it answers solely to the hands of a true Paladin."
Her breathe catching in her throat with emotion, Iztariani reached out and grasped the handle, drawing the blade gently from its wrappings. It fit her hand as if specially made for her, so beautifully balanced it seemed near weightless. "I should not allow you to give me such as princely gift," she said, "I have done nothing to earn this."
"Nothing to earn this?" Rogosh snorted. "Nay, lady, you have been a brave and steadfast companion for many weeks now. On several occasions your healing powers and your skill with your blade have saved the lives of our group's members. If you are to continue fighting with us, it is only fitting that we thank you by gifting you with this blade. It is designed for the very fight we enter upon next, to battle the undead. Wear it with pride...you have earned it, and will continue to do so."
Bowing in thanks to her friends, she carefully sheathed the weapon. "In that case, I can accept this gift," she said, "and I look forward to continuing to fight with you all."
Smiling, she stepped forward and embraced them one by one. She had found her companions of the sword.
