III: Merchant's Woes

The next day, the party rose early. They headed out into the already bustling town to buy some rations; they would never know when it would be necessary to move on, and it would be unwise to be caught without food. Not much else was bought, although Morgant did more than his share of staring at gilded objects in shop windows.

Eventually they decided to split up into two groups; one to search the town for anything interesting, and another to keep an eye on Caleb’s shop for anything suspicious. Giselle, Lola and Morgant headed off to the shop, leaving Grrth and Özurr to wander the streets of Baerlon. It could be worse, mused Grrth, the sun was shining brightly in the morning sky, and the air was fresh and only a little chilly. If only someone hadn’t tried to kill them the previous night, it’d almost seem a holiday.

Occupied by these thoughts, Grrth jumped slightly when Özurr nudged him in the ribs. “Look down there! Seems like that guy Morgant told us about...”

Down a shady alleyway, they could see the man who had lured their party into an ambush talking to a town guard soldier. And not just talking; Grrth’s sharp eyes caught a money pouch and a slip of paper being passed to the guard. His voice rose slightly when he had counted the coins, apparently not happy with his bribe, but the other man said something quietly which made the guard shut up quickly. He eventually stalked off further down the alley, while the guard stood there, seemingly dazed. Özurr decided this was the moment; he drew his sword quietly, and mimed a blow to the head to Grrth, who nodded.

The last thing the guard saw for some time was a large, pale-skinned Saldaean hurtling down the narrow street towards him, raising his sword and bringing the hilt down with a resounding clang on his helmet. He dropped unconscious immediately. Özurr then fished around in his pockets to extract the note and the money pouch. He unfolded the crumpled note, and read it out loud to Grrth, “Two Saldaeans, one Cairhienin, male, an Ogier and Domani, female, to be arrested as Darkfriends. Currently residing in the White Stallion inn.”

Özurr crushed the note in his fist, and anger at being called a Darkfriend surged through him. He knew he was no such thing, so these people must be trying to get them out of the way for something. And how would they know where they were staying? Unless they had a spy in the inn by pure chance, the only person outside the party who knew their location was Caleb.

His blood turned to ice. If Caleb was a Darkfriend, then the other three had just gone right to the centre of the whole ordeal. He hoped nothing had happened to them. But first, they had to deliver this rogue guard to the authorities. Dragging the snoring guard around the streets could have been less conspicuous, but fortunately there was a guardhouse a few houses away. Heaving him through the door, they explained to the captain in the guardhouse about the man and the bribe, showing the note and the money as evidence. Luckily, the captain accepted their story, although he did demand that he keep the gold coins.

With the delivery completed, the two armsmen ran through the streets of Baerlon until they reached Caleb’s impressive shop, and waiting outside it was... nobody. Özurr’s heart sank; were they too late? Surely they hadn’t been gone that long...

The sound of an extremely heavy object crashing into wood resounded from behind the shop, similar to the noise last night at the inn. Rushing around to the back of the shop, they saw a Lola-shaped hole in the back door, with Giselle and Morgant wiping a few wooden splinters off their clothes. The Ogier’s grinning face peered through the large gap in the shop. “Nobody is in; the way is clear” she rumbled.

“Wait!” said Grrth, and he told the others about the man who bribed the guard. None of them looked particularly concerned with the news, but they did agree that Caleb was most likely the ringleader of a group of Darkfriends. Knowing this, everyone drew their weapons; Özurr was impressed by the size of the huge mace Lola wielded. On the other hand, Giselle had drawn a sling and a few small pebbles; she was not quite as threatening as the others.

As they walked into the shop, this theory was confirmed by two thuggish men waiting for them in the expansive main room. They cracked their knuckles menacingly and drew their swords. Unfortunately for them, Grrth had already launched himself at them, snarling, and his sword passed through the crude leather armour of one of the thugs as if it wasn’t there, leaving a sizeable gash in his left leg. Özurr, only a moment behind, drew his already nocked arrow to his cheek, took a split second to aim, and an arrow whizzed towards the same thug’s shoulder, forcing its way through toughened leather to bury itself in muscle. The man’s face was a picture of pain, yet he managed a wild swing towards Grrth, who effortlessly blocked it. The other thug tried a cunning feint and stab at Grrth, but was deflected. Morgant dashed forwards, rapier raised, and swung at the unharmed thug. Unfortunately the rapier didn’t make it through the leather, although it did gouge out a sizeable chunk.

Seemingly out of nowhere, a blur of wood appeared, heading towards the first thug’s head. If he hadn’t ducked, his head would have parted company with his neck. Despite this, Lola’s massive rolling pin just clipped the man’s unguarded head, and he crumpled to the floor, not dead, but definitely knocked out. Seeing that the giant ball of fur was more of a threat than he’d imagined, the second thug headed towards Lola, but not before a small stone whizzed towards him, hitting his bare hand. Gasping in pain, and momentarily distracted, he nearly dropped his sword. Grrth took this opportunity to aim a vicious stab at his chest, which made the leather protection resemble parchment for all the resistance it showed. The man’s screams were cut off short by an arrow suddenly sprouting from his mouth; he hit the floor, dead.

Leaving the man to gargle helplessly on the floor, they approached the unconscious thug, now sporting a very impressive welt on the top of his head. Morgant propped him up against a nearby barrel of wine, and opened the tap so that a stream of fine wine poured onto his face, waking him up; Giselle looked unimpressed at the waste of such a good beverage.

The first thing the thug saw upon regaining his senses were the steely, unforgiving eyes of Morgant, and the tip of a rapier between his own. He tried to scramble backwards only to find the barrel there, and any other escape routes blocked by the two Saldaeans, the mace-wielding Ogier, and an angry yet beautiful Domani woman.

“You’d better start talking, I’d think” growled Morgant, poking the man’s forehead with his rapier.

“Alright! We... we were ordered to attack anyone resembling you... I don’t know why... we were just serving the Great Lord of the Dark...” the man stammered, eyes cross-eyed, trying to keep the rapier in view.

“What else should we know?” replied Morgant, pressing the rapier ever so slightly harder; a drop of blood started to form around the tip.

“I don’t know... that much... they’re doing something in the cellars... my companion had the key... I don’t know anything else, burn you... the Great Lord will triumph!”

Morgant removed the rapier from the man’s head; a small slit of blood remained. He stood, and as he was turning away, the Darkfriend lunged forwards... right into the blade that Morgant had thrust behind him. He slid to the floor for the last time, blood gushing from a wound in his throat. The others eyed the Cairhienin warily; it seemed that when angered, he enjoyed playing with his prey before the kill.

Taking the key from the other dead Darkfriend’s pocket, the group approached the cellar door. Grrth pressed his ear to the door, and upon hearing nothing, inserted the key and turned it slowly; the lock was well oiled and made little noise. Fortunately the hinges weren’t of the creaky sort either, and the group made its way down into the musty cellar, lit by lanterns hung from the ceiling. Stacks of crates and barrels lined the walls here, with markings for all sorts of goods. It seemed Caleb traded extensively; they saw casks of Taraboner dyes, and crates of Borderlander wool, among other items.

Caleb also seemed to have a large supply of Darkfriend muscle, as four men appeared from behind various crates. They wore less armour than those upstairs, but two of them held morning stars, while the other two wielded longswords. The group hadn’t gone far enough to be surrounded by them, so Grrth, who was leading, was the thug’s target.

Unfortunately for them, Grrth’s superb reflexes kicked in and he leaped at the nearest Darkfriend, bringing his blade to bear upon the man’s exposed neck, leaving a sizeable gash. Lola was next to move; muttering something about ‘tenderising meat’, she brought her mace down upon the shoulder of the furthest Darkfriend, which collapsed downwards by nearly a foot. From the back of the group, Özurr’s arrow whistled above the others to impact squarely in the chest of the thug Grrth was mauling.

By now they had all moved into the centre of the storage room, each battling a separate Darkfriend, with Giselle mostly staying behind the others, while firing off shots from her sling. Morgant overextended himself on one slash, embedding his rapier into the soft wood of a barrel. He attempted to wrench it out again, and would’ve been hit in the head by a morning star if a timely arrow hadn’t intercepted the Darkfriend in the back of his leg. Grrth received a few hits, but his chainmail shirt dampened most of the damage, particularly from the swords. Nevertheless there was some blood evident beneath his shirt, but it only seemed to make him angrier, and deadlier. Lola and Özurr also sustained some injuries, but nothing that would stop them from fighting.

Eventually all the Darkfriends lay on the floor, two resembling pincushions from the amount of arrows it had taken to down them. Panting slightly, Grrth checked the bodies for anything of value, but found nothing. They made their way to the next door, Grrth in the lead again. This time, to surprise any ambush, Grrth flung open the door and charged in, the others hot on his heels.

The room they entered was much larger than the previous one, and had many fewer casks and crates. Four more Darkfriends were there, weapons drawn, and in much better armour than the other thugs. Caleb himself also emerged from the shadows, in his merchant’s clothes but with a dagger. He twirled it expertly, and didn’t seem surprised at the oncoming fighters.

Lola’s giant steps overtook Grrth and, performing a full spin, she slammed her rolling pin into the torso of one of the thugs. His armour crumpled like paper, as did his ribs, and he was flung into the far wall, against which he made a wet ‘thwack’ noise. Giselle and Özurr’s projectiles were both aimed at Caleb, but he dodged them as if walking through a park. A Darkfriend decided to go for an easy kill, and charged, aiming for Giselle, but found his path interrupted by Morgant’s rapier. Nearly running himself straight onto it, the thug snarled angrily and unleashed a flurry of attacks on Morgant, some of which made contact. Out of nowhere the huge mace swept towards the thug’s legs, impacting right on the knees, which made a crunching noise as the Darkfriend was literally swept off his feet. Morgant looked down on the moaning man, and mercilessly drove his rapier through him.

The remaining three Darkfriends had been hanging back slightly, confident that the other two would be enough to finish off this ragtag group. Now they approached, warily, especially watching Lola’s weapon. Caleb was still not engaging fully, preferring to taunt the group by dodging the arrows and pebbles flying towards him. The two thugs, wary of Lola’s mace, weren’t as adept as dodging Grrth’s vicious slashes, accompanied by Morgant’s stabbing rapier. Soon only Caleb was left. Morgant went to his right, Grrth to his left, pinning him in place and leaving him to the mercy of arrows and high-speed pebbles. His dagger was useless since nobody was coming near him, and he was blocked off, so he soon succumbed to the deadly rain.

Finally, with the battle over, Grrth and Morgant slumped to the floor, having sustained several injuries. Morgant was the worst hurt, with cuts all over his body, particularly his arms. Giselle was unhurt, and she was the first to notice the prisoners.

At the foot of one of the pillars, three small bodies were tied. They had been watching the battle wide-eyed and fearful for their lives. Giselle approached them quickly and reassured them that they weren’t going to harm them, and soon, the group of eight emerged into the sunlight from Caleb’s shop. The children gave their thanks to the party, and ran off to their homes.

Back in the White Stallion, Giselle applied poultices and bandages to the numerous wounds. Just before evening, there was a knock on the door. Lola opened it, and three very important-looking people strode in.

“Greetings, friends. We are honoured to meet you. I am the Governor of Baerlon, this is the Guard-Captain, and Servyn Tayn, our most prominent merchant. You saved our children from the clutches of Darkfriends, and you deserve a reward.” Sure enough, the governor gave Lola a pouch with ten gold coins, and told them the rest of their stay in the inn was paid for, as well as anything they might need to recover.

It seemed the word of their adventures had spread, and the next night, eager townspeople gathered around the party in the common room, as Giselle told them their tale. A week later, everyone’s wounds had healed fully, and fresh rumours of a mythical object had reached their ears.

II: Baerlon

The next morning the sun rose on the peddler’s camp, glistening on early morning dew. The party of six was already packing tents away to be stored in Lola’s massive backpack; she was the near equivalent of a packhorse, except a packhorse that could cook, and, according to the others, could manage quite a whack with her mace too. Özurr was intrigued by this; he had heard Ogiers were very slow to anger, and even then violence was not their way. He made a mental note to watch her fighting next time they encountered enemies, if only to know when to duck.

Packing complete, the party left the peddler’s wagons behind, and headed west. Along the way, conversation between Özurr and the others filled him in about some of their previous encounters; apparently the Ways had been involved, along with Whitecloaks. And Grrth’s masterwork sword used to belong to Morella’s husband; apparently she had given Grrth the fine weapon as thanks for saving her from the Trollocs.

Towards the evening, moving through a lightly forested landscape, vivid patches of colour became visible through the trees. As they moved closer, the vividness resolved itself into garishly painted wagons and people; it could only mean Tinkers. The party strode into the camp, and Giselle arranged for them to stay there for the night. She had told the Tinkers of Lola’s cooking abilities, and they were eager to experience Ogier cuisine.

They didn’t seem particularly taken back upon seeing that Lola had in fact not cooked exotic foods from Ogier recipes, but pies. Özurr found them even better than the previous night, and so an idyllic night of good food and music, along with Giselle dancing with the Tinkers, was had. Along the way, the brightly coloured people talked to them about their Way of the Leaf, which seemed to involve complete pacifism, even if faced with certain death. Morella seemed tempted, considering what violence had done for her husband, but she did not stay with the Tinkers the next morning when they left.

By midday, the town of Baerlon had come into sight. Not a city by any means, as everyone in the group knew, but still a sizeable group of buildings with sturdy-looking walls. Passing through the eastern gate, they drew only passing glances from the town guards, except maybe for Lola, who they stared at a little longer. Morelle guided them to her uncle, Caleb, in his shop. Entering it, they found a decently large establishment with barrels and crates lying around, with a man, most likely Caleb, inspecting one of them; it seemed he was a merchant, and a successful one too, judging by his fine clothing. Despite that, Grrth shivered slightly and narrowed his eyes; he had a bad feeling about this place. Glancing at the others he could see that they had all felt it too.

“My dear niece! How good to see you again... but where is your husband?” exclaimed Caleb, rushing over to Morella

“He... he was killed by... Trollocs... I survived only because of these brave souls... who saved my life!” she replied, half-weeping.

Caleb’s eyes swept over the remaining five, seemingly studying them, and widening upon seeing Lola. “Well, for such an act, they deserve recompense. My fine friends, as a token of my gratitude please accept these gold coins!” The merchant opened a purse, took out a few gold marks, closed it, and tossed it to Özurr. Catching it, he opened it and peered inside. Nearly two dozen golden coins winked back at him, glistening richly. He’d never seen this much money in one place at once. “...And, I shall arrange for you to stay at a fine inn I know of, the White Stallion. The food there is good and rooms are tidy, unlike other inns in the town...” Caleb was now herding them out of the door, saying “Now if you will excuse me, I do have business to attend to, and I must care for my niece. Take care, my friends.”

The merchant’s word was true; by the time they reached the White Stallion, they were shown to large, comfortable tidy rooms. They would have wondered how Caleb had gotten word to the inn so quick, if they hadn’t been stopped every time anything remotely shiny caught Morgant’s attention. Any attempt to make him move off before he was done admiring gemstones or gold resulted in a fierce glare.

In Lola’s room the party gathered around the giant Ogier-sized bed as Özurr poured out the gold from the pouch onto it. The shower of money, even only twenty coins, was impressive, Morgant especially enjoying the cascade of glittering objects. It was all shared out evenly; four coins for each of them. They had decided that any attempt to divide loot or money based on who had done what would lead to bickering; easier to just give everyone the same amount.

With freshly filled pockets, the group descended into the common room to enjoy some ales and gossip among the locals. Giselle and Morgant were particularly effective at catching snippets of information. Over their dinner in a private dining room they told the others of the rumours, particularly the ones relating to their very generous donor;

“Apparently he’s not one to loosen his pouch-strings often, that Caleb... odd, that; he certainly showered us in gold” murmured Morgant. “If I was a suspicious man I’d say he wants us out of the way of something...”

“And he’s been having good luck in the trade this year” added Giselle, “which wouldn’t be cause for rumour, but every other merchant in town has had a bad season.”

“It could be just luck...” intoned Grrth gruffly. “Not everything unusual is suspicious.”

* * *

Later that evening, and the group was in the common room again, listening to someone who must’ve been half drunk attempting to strum a harp. The discordant twangs had been going on for some time now.

Morgant was sitting at a table with three strangers, who had been telling him rumours of a Dragon Reborn. Preposterous nonsense, he thought; those things don’t happen these days. An apple core flew in an arc towards the head of the drunken harpist, to raucous laughter. Glancing at the corner from whence the fruity projectile had come, Morgant saw a pair of eyes meet his. Suddenly the person that owned the eyes shifted his gaze hurriedly, as if caught in an act. The suspicious fellow got up and left the inn by the back door; Morgant rose from his chair unhurriedly and strode after him.

On the table next to the one their fellow had vacated, the other four were enjoying cards when Lola noticed Morgant exiting the inn through the back door. “Our Cairhienin fellow has wandered off again...”

“If he was following something shiny, it’s nothing to worry about” said Giselle absentmindedly, laying down her cards; a winning hand.

Suddenly, the door that Morgant had just gone through shook with a loud bang, as if a man had just been slammed against it. Four chairs scraped as the party abandoned their cards and hurried to the door. Flinging it open, they emerged into a narrow alley and...

...they found two men resembling brick outhouses chasing after the considerably smaller Morgant, who had his rapier out and was ducking and weaving his way between the ambushers. Immediately, Özurr and Grrth drew swords while Lola charged in weaponless, but nevertheless towering over even the large men. Her huge fist swung towards one of the thugs, impacting with a solid thudding noise on the back of his neck. He collapsed in a heap, inadvertently tripping up his fellow, who lunged forwards uncontrollably, right onto Özurr’s outstretched sword. The blade passed through the man’s eye, who twitched and screamed until Grrth's blade found his throat. Morgant flourished his rapier elegantly, before driving it through the chest of the man on the ground. Giselle was still standing near the door; it seemed she had been trying to find a stone for her sling.

“Well, there’s your first kill among us!” laughed Grrth, “even if it was pure luck.”

Heading back inside the inn, all five retreated upstairs to their rooms; Grrth, Özurr and Morgant cleaned their swords of blood, and Özurr wished he’d had his bow with him; he’d left it in his room, but he had kept his sword. A Borderlander seldom went anywhere completely unarmed. He felt a bit uneasy about the killings; his kills had been Shadowspawn, not humans. Trying not to think about the two bleeding bodies in the alley below, he finished cleaning his sword, and went to sleep.

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That's my first paragraph of my notes done... and that includes the first post. Yikes. Oh well... better to have too much than too little. Next part contains more smashing things and people!

I: Joining the Party

Özurr walked in the bright morning light, alongside one of the caravans of the peddlers he was accompanying. They were moving at an easy walking pace, leaving him plenty of time to wonder why he was being paid so well to accompany such a minor convoy... no more than 6 caravans made up this group of peddlers, small fish for any respectable group of bandits. Nevertheless, the money was good, the job seemed easy, and when everything fell together this perfectly... Özurr knew it was too good to be true. He had a gut feeling that by the end of the day, something would happen. Whether bad or good, something was coming.

* * *

Later that day, in a remarkably circular clearing, Özurr inspected his arrows one at a time, checking the fletchings were tightly attached, and properly aligned to give the arrows that little bit of stabilising spin in their flight towards whatever enemy needed turning into a pincushion. The same treatment was given to the arrowheads, checking the steel points were precisely straight and firmly in place. After that was his bow; he made sure there were no cracks in the wood, and the string wasn't frayed. Lastly he made sure to inspect his sword for any oily fingerprints which would damage the blade. If you take care of equipment, it'll take care of you back... so Özurr's father had often said. And he took him for his word, checking his weapons for any sign of wear and tear... the last thing he needed in a battle was for his bow to crack or an arrow to shoot off unexpectedly.

The convoy's caravans had formed a rough circle around the campfire in the centre of the clearing, with Özurr having pitched his tent between the caravans and the fire. Despite it being only nearly evening, it was cool, and the peddlers seemed to need a fire. To Özurr it was the equivalent of a bright and warm Saldaean day. Sighing, he set his weapons down inside his tent, right next to his bedroll, within easy arm's reach. His bow he set down particularly carefully, as he always did; he had ever preferred a bow to a sword, though being nearly as deadly with blade as with arrow. There was something satisfying about getting that perfect shot from a hundred feet away...

Suddenly, a set of voices approached from the woods. Unfamiliar voices... several of the peddlers muttered surprised gasps as the unknown group approached. Then a panicked scream of 'trolloc!' pierced the air. Rising from the mouth of his tent, Özurr approached the direction of the commotion and... an Ogier walked from under the shadows, accompanied by four other definitely human figures.

"Quiet, you, it's only an Ogier. Not even Trollocs march into a camp by themselves like that..." The peddlers knew him to be from the Borderlands, where Trollocs were practically next-door neighbours, so his reassurances calmed down any hysteria.

By now the party had approached one of the peddlers, presumably to ask for permission to use the fire for the night. A woman he could have sworn was from Arad Doman was effortlessly tying the peddler's tongue into knots; women from those regions were scandalously good at that. Özurr immediately recognised the next man, a burly man with hand on sword, certainly a Saldaean. The third human seemed to be a Cairhienin of some sort, rather shortish, and with an elegantly curved rapier; he looked like he could be intimidating when he might need to be, though. And of course, the Ogier, who Özurr could now see to be female, and rather large in both directions. She had an equally large pack on her back alongside a massive mace, although for the Ogier it seemed to be made of clouds for all the effort she showed in carrying it. Lastly, a woman who did not seem to fit into the group trailed somewhat behind the others.

Seemingly having attained the peddler's permission to use the campfire, they now headed towards him and the inner camp. Özurr was slightly nervous; he'd never been exceptional at talking to people; he had a knack of saying the wrong thing at the wrong time.

"Greetings, stranger, I am Giselle, and this is our... travelling party. I think you recognised Grrth as one of your own", the Domani woman said, gesturing to the bulky warrior, "and the Cairhienin gentleman is Morgant", indicating the other man, "and our Ogier friend and master cook is Lola". The Ogier had unpacked several untidy bundles of canvas and sticks from her backpack, presumably tents, and was now heading back to the peddler's caravans, muttering something about supplies for pies. "We are accompanying this fine woman, Morella,  to Baerlon, to her uncle; her husband was killed by Trollocs.", continued Giselle, indicating the sad-faced lady.

"So you will be joining us for the meal?" asked Morgant.

"Of course..." said Özurr. "I hope you like pies, Saldaean, for Lola rarely cooks anything else. Most any kind of meat she finds will make its way into a pie, save for Trolloc and human.", declared Morgant dryly. Özurr just about managed to mutter "Yes, pies are fine..." before Lola returned with dough and meat, and incredibly, started using her mace as a rolling pin on the dough. Surely enough, soon the smell of pies was filling the evening air with rather delicious smells. He would have asked what meat it was he would be shortly eating, but remembering what Morgant had said, he decided maybe it was best not to know.

Once the pies were ready, everyone dug in, and Özurr found the food to be even better than he expected. Just as he was finishing a particularly crunchy piece, Giselle leaned over to him.

"Would you be interested in joining our party?"

He nearly choked on his pastry; these strangers had appeared from nowhere and now were offering him employment?

"Of course, we do find ourselves putting our lives on the line rather a lot, but I'm sure it's not a problem for a fine young warrior such as yourself..." The Domani woman seemed to be eyeing him up, particularly his arms, which were well-muscled from years training with a bow, "...and we do occasionally find fabulous riches, such as Grrth's sword over there, a masterworked blade, very rare and deadly." Özurr noticed that Morgant seemed to be eyeing the shiny sword rather enviously.

"Well, my current employers are paying me handsomely for this job..."

"Ferrying around small convoys of peddlers? There is no renown in that! A man such as you certainly desires more adventure!" Giselle's voice painted a picture of him heroically defeating Trollocs, and riches untold falling into his outstretched arms...

"Well... I guess these peddlers are close enough to Baerlon not to be in such danger..." Almost feeling as if he were under a spell, Özurr found himself agreeing to join the party. He told the lead peddler he would be taking his leave in the morning, and the man seemed relieved; perhaps Özurr's habit of compulsively shooting ravens hadn't gone down so well after all.

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Well, that's the introduction done. So... didn't think it'd be this long, it's basically a sentence in my notes expanded to many many words. The next one will be the first adventure, in Baerlon... get ready for some door-smashing, Darkfriend-bashing action!

Well now...

This will (soon) be a blog describing a role-playing game in story format. Basically, we play a Wheel of Time role-playing game (nearly) every weekend, and after each session it shall be dramatised and posted here. Shoop da woop.