Conspiracy of Ages
No one ever said the life of a dwarf was an easy one,
but today was particularly difficult and you are glad it is over. Here
in the dwarven village of Kled the most definitive piece of architecture
is its single forty foot wooden windmill. The windmill is a wonder
of modern technology and is very efficient at pumping water into the local
cistern. Travelers from both Urik and Tyr stop in at Kled, as it is
just off the road halfway between the two cities, to marvel at its wind powered
pistons. Thanks to the influx of tourists, more and more merchant houses
began to put up shops around the village. As the years passed the village
grew into a sizable town and is now populated not only by dwarves but by
numerous humans, elves and half-elves with a smattering of the more exotic
races from the wastes occasionally making appearances. The windmill
was designed and erected by Baarex, the village uhrnomus , or chieftain,
over thirty years ago. It was built in the center of the village
with a large open square surrounding it so many could admire its wondrous
workmanship. Baarex had made it his focus to create an engineering
marvel and he certainly succeeded. The windmill ran smoothly for three
decades, pumping water for the villagers and thirsty travelers alike, never
had a single malfunction for as long as you can remember, until today.
The wind whipped across the dunes this day with an unmatched
force, driving grit and sand against the town walls with grinding and bitter
ferocity. All the merchants shut up their stands and shuttered their
windows, waiting for better weather. The windmill spun so rapidly that its
individual sails could not be deciphered and the pistons grew and shrank
with such speed that one could swear they would be shattered from the stress.
The windmill held though, strong as ever. Nearly the whole population
expected the cistern to overflow due to the constant pumping and many people
ventured forth from their homes with buckets braving the force of the gale
to make sure that no water was wasted. Yet the spout yielded not a
drop. Despite the unprecedented winds, no water was pumped
forth. Baarex knew a there had to be a clog somewhere within the mechanism
and set upon disassembling the spout with a few of the senior engineers,
but it was quickly determined that the blockage had to be deeply lodged.
The uhrnomus also foresaw a build-up of pressure and sought
some way to halt the movement of the pistons. This proved to be incredibly
difficult as the wind was simply too powerful to send someone up to the top
to brace the sails and the pistons were working so strongly that any number
of wooden beams placed against them were shattered. Baarex knew exactly
what was about to happen. He ordered all people from the premises,
resorting to screaming and threats when he tried to shoo away his senior
advisors and engineers. You too had begged to stay beside him and aid
him but uhrnius (leader and advisor) Galdran dragged you away until
Baarex was lost from sight.
It seemed as though an eternity had passed before a great
bending and snapping of wood was heard. The groaning grew loader and
loader and Galdran wept aloud, bemoaning the fate of his beloved chieftain.
You ran through the streets toward the windmill and the uhrnius
did not attempt to stop you. As you entered the square the groaning
of the wood had become a rumble and the ground quaked as if the earth itself
was angered. You screamed to your chief, but he simply stood there
leaning forward with both of his hands upon his windmill as if mesmerised
by the rising and falling of the pistons. You had not taken two steps
into the square when the windmill exploded. A geyser blasted from beneath
the pistons and shattered the windmill from the bottom up engulfing Baarex
in a great deluge of water and splintered wood. The white and gushing
water hurled Baarex high into the air tossing him end over end and battering
him with pieces of his own windmill. His body landed with a sickening
thud some ten feet from the where the windmill once stood soaking wet and
horribly torn from the wood. You ran to him, paying no heed to the
huge beams and planks that were being tossed about the square, though had
one hit you it would have been the last thing you'd ever felt. You
dragged his limp body away from further harm and cradled his lifeless bald
head until others came. You whispered a prayer to the elements that
he died a quick death and did not suffer. You made no effort to conceal
your tears as people arrived, and neither did they, human and dwarf alike.
It was many minutes before the roar of the geyser abated.
Its anger somehow vented the raging waters ceased and were very suddenly
reduced to a spring-like trickle. The frothing flood waters were reduced
to a knee-high fountain surrounded by damp earth as quickly as it had erupted.
The wood was quickly cleaned up and set aside to dry and efforts were
made to contain the water but each met with little success. Even the
underground piping had been completely burst. Eventually the citizens
of Kled were reduced to hauling buckets from the fountain to the cistern,
a simple but seemingly repetitive and fruitless task.
His body was taken to the Tomb of Kings in the rocky badlands
west of the town. He was carried upon a simple stretcher by two dwarven
elders, with a few trappings of his youth and several trinkets of meaning
from his comrades. He was covered in a sheet to protect his body from
the driving sands. All of Kled was nearly emptied as citizens came
forth from their homes to join the dreary procession on its one mile journey
across the wind-whipped plains. The Tomb is hidden from all save the
denizens of Kled and only the most senior of dwarves are even allowed inside.
There is no great temple, headstone, or even epitaph, there simply
an underground cavern incredibly well concealed with boulders. You
are not yet among those who are allowed inside, but ever since you were a
lad you have heard rumors or tales from the elders of what lies within. It
is said that the bodies of over 100 dwarven kings lie at rest beneath the
surface each with a complete history written by his sarcophogas. One
of the kings whom you remember being told of most is Rkard, a dwarven warrior
of mythical proportions. Rkard was said to have made an incredible
stand upon the very grounds of the tomb, fighting an evil wizard-general
hell bent upon a war of genocide against all dwarves. The outcome of
the battle was never told, but it is common knowledge that Rkard was slain
in a duel with the wizard-general the instant he dealt his foe a mortal blow.
The fate of the wizard is also never told, it has always been assumed
by you that he was slain too. The funeral ceremonies had to be cut
short, as it became impossible to deliver a eulogy in the howling wind.
There uhrnomus' body was carried beneath the surface by three
elders each of whom did not reemerge for many minutes. They apologized
to the best of their ability through their grief for making the townspeople
withstand the winds for the duration of their absence but no one seemed to
notice. It was testament enough to their love of their chief that they
were even present at all. Man and dwarf tightened their cloaks, lowered
their faces, and trudged home.
When the procession returned to Kled it was early evening and
the wind had died down to a survivable level. A great meeting was held
amidst the ruins of the windmill and even those who did not attend the funeral
were present. Many an emotional speech was given commemorating the
great loss. The issue was also addressed of who the new chief should
be and the meeting drug on late into the night. Nearly every elder
and uhrnius desired the position but no one could yet be chosen.
Normally it would have been Baarex who choose his successor, but he
was obviously not present and dwarven government in Kled has never been based
on heritage. Baarex had no children anyway. With everyone quite
exhausted and minds still clouded from grief it was determined that a vote
should be made at evening time on the morrow as to who should ascend to
power.
You have returned to your home, hoping to get some rest and
clear your mind for the cases each elder is bound to present as to why he
should take power tomorrow. Yours is a simple home, four adobe,
mud brick walls, a single room with a gorak hide for a door and two open
air windows, one on each side of the door. The floor is of dirt and
packed hard with a large stone in the center of it to which you make your
daily devotions. You have a modest storage trunk with your few belongings,
a meat rack and a pile of hides and furs that serve as a bed. It is
humble, yes, but far from squalid besides, your psionic senseis have always
taught you that too many possessions often cloud the mind with greeds and
desires and without the many distractions that the wealthy live with, it
is easy to meditate. You bed down, thankful to rest and silently pray
that Baarex has led a full life and his spirit is not restless. You
sleep well knowing he rests better than you do.
You awaken quite late. You are normally aroused by the
sounds of bustling and merchants at first light, but those sounds are strangely
absent. You can see through the windows that the sun is already at
mid-morning height and your home has grown quite hot, all the coolness of
morning having been chased away. It is only now that you become aware
of the sound that has awakened you. It is a rumbling, a distinct roar
whose vibrations you can feel echo through the ground. You rise off
your bed and stand fully erect. You think first another geyser
has erupted from where the windmill once stood, but that seems simply impossible.
You then think that the rumbling resembles the great grinding of the
wheels of the massive mekillot wagons, wagons as large as a noble's house
that can sustain full caravans and are pulled by the massive turtle-like
beasts called mekillots. This too seems illogical as such wagons cannot
fit through the tiny gates of Kled and you can think of no reason why one
as powerful as those who have such wagons would wish to stop at Kled. Then
it hits. First a light brighter than the
sun steals all your vision away, you scream, more out of surprise than pain.
Before you can even raise your hand to your face the shockwave hits
your hut with a force and fury of the Earth Elementals you have heard the
elders speak of. A white-hot wave of heat and wind strikes your home
with such fury that it rips the hide from the door frame and hurls you into
the back wall with the strength of a giant your feet having completely left
the ground. Your shoulders strike the wall hard cracking it from ceiling
to floor (save versus spell, please, if you fail you suffer 3 points of damage,
if you pass none) and you land on your side quickly rolling onto your face
in agony, the wind driven from your lungs. Dust floods through the
windows in billowing clouds like the breath of The Dragon. You cannot
see the dust influx but you can sense a cloud of darkness descend over you
and you inhale great gasps of dirt as you try to regain your "wind." You
struggle to rise using the wall to aid you and covering your mouth with your
shirt to prevent further inhalation. You hear a horn blasting a single
note true and clean and then screams fill the air. You blink rapidly,
you can see your vision is returning, out of white nothingness comes a blurred
smear where movement is apparent and quickly you can make out faint details,
though things are still a bit fuzzy (not enough to impose any penalty). It
appears your vision did not return a moment too soon, it looks like a human
is running in circles in front of your house, he couldn't be any older than
15, and his back is swathed in flames! He's
burning alive! Combat! The clang and din of weapons rings true
throughout the town, screams now replace the former bustling of merchants!
Then . . . you hear another rumbling.
Save versus spell:18(i think this means i made it, it has to be your score or higher right?)
Grimbal quickly takes in what is happening, and rises back to his feet. Upon sighting the boy in flames, Grimbal dashes from his home, and if possible tries to help the boy to the ground to smother the flames, while taking a quick look at what is going on.
Ugh, quickly you shake off the effects of the explosion to the best of your ability, though your head is still swimming from the impact. Your body is in one piece though and you are very thankful nothing is broken. You have no time to rest and recuperate though, a child is burning and you must save him. His screams punctuate your body and soul so deeply it makes you shudder. He haplessly flings his arms around and stumbles about in a small area only fanning the flames, shrieking in unimaginable agony. You snatch up one of your sleeping blankets and charge for the boy. You squat low near his legs where the flame does not burn as yet and with the quickness that is uncommon among dwarves sweep him off his feet with a single swipe of your arm. He slams into the ground shoulders first. Though he howls and writhes about you manage to cover him with the blanket smothering the flames to the best of your ability (roll a Dex check with a -5 penalty, if you succeed he lives and you receive 50 XP, if you fail, he dies in your arms) slapping him just hard enough to extinguish the fire.
The town has erupted into chaos, humans, dwarves, elves and half-elves only now pour forth from their homes in your area and fill the streets in cacophonic throng. The rumbling continues to grow as before, and a deafening roar ensues, you cover your ears and even the screams of the villagers and the boy are silenced by the ominous presence of the incoming. A huge sphere of flames followed by a billowing trail for brown smoke roars overhead, it is as big as a half-giant and many times as bright as the sun. It roars like The Dragon and passes farther into town you do not wish to look at the explosion and quickly turn away. It hit some distance from you but a cloud of dust still descends in your area, you can only imagine what havoc it did wreak.
if the boy is alive and no one is paying particular attention too him, he will pray for healing for the boy(cure light wounds).
if the boy is dead, then Grimbal will pull out his sling and a stone, ready to to defend or attack whatever is necessary.
if at any point Grimbal sees any sort of energy attack being directed at him or near him, he will stop what he is doing and concentrate(energy containment), and look to see what launched the attack.
The crowd seems to care nothing for the boy or you. A surging wall of humanoids envelopes you. You shield the boy with your whole body kneeling next to him on the ground, had you not done so he would have been horribly trampled. People slam into you from behind tripping and flying over your back, they roll in the dirt in front of you and are mercilessly kicked and stomped by the onrushing crowd. You are thankful that only the lighter weight humans are clumsy enough to trip over you, while a dwarf impact might be something that would cost the boy his life if he were to be sent sprawling. The whole of the crowd seems to be rushing in one direction: away from the main gate. You turn your head as far to the right as possible, still shielding the boy, in hopes of catching a glimpse of what could possibly be causing the crowd to move like this. And then you see them. There are only two coming toward you, but you can only imagine how many are in the rest of the town, especially if the main gates are open.
above art can be found in the Second Edition Dark Sun Rules Book
Had they not been on crodlus you never would have noticed them through the throng, however, on their two-legged mounts they are almost twice as tall as the surrounding sea of humanoids. They look like humans, but could be muls for they are tall and their forms are extremely bulky. They wear chitinous helmets with long black hair plumes that extend behind them as they charge forward and sleeveless leather jerkins. Their mounts seem to be bellowing with glee as the carnage continues and charge forward without fear. Each rider carries a long pole with a nasty looking curved spike on one end in one hand. They swing their great pole arms in sweeping arcs aiming for the buttocks or behind the knees. You see their weapons crash down upon citizens, tearing at their tendons and maiming them horribly. The nature of the attack is immediately apparent to you, the spells were of concussive nature, designed to incapacitate and these pole arms are of crippling nature, designed not to kill, but to capture. Slavers.
The crowd is driven forward like a heard of cattle, those unfortunate enough to be at the rear are mercilessly cut down and left to be collected later, like prizes of a demented game. Though the being who unleashed the fireballs remains unseen, a magically enhanced voice thunders amidst the chaos. It is male and reverberates across the buildings and fleeing crowds, its tone is terrifying, "Surrender in the name of King Kalak the Almighty, pitiful swine, and no harm shall come to you!" Though you see many citizens fall to their knees and beg for safety the slavers still strike at them, ensuring they do not escape. They are coming straight for you.
Grimbal, realizing his efforts were in vain, and that the boy is dead, quickly surveys the scene taking in his available options. Realizing it would be utter foolishness to try and take on these 2 head on and alone, he quickly searches for a place to hide, and still keep an eye on the 2 approaching.if he is successful in finding a spot, he will then look to make sure there not any others immediately behind these 2.
if he has a hiding place and there are no other slavers directly behind these two, then Grimbal will search for a piece of rubble from one of the nearby buildings and trigger his ballistic attack at the closest rider, aiming the attack so it comes from the direction opposite his hiding place.
if there are more slavers behind the 2, then Grimbal will merely try to remain in hiding, until he spots an opportunity to either escape or
attack. If Grimbal is unable to even find a hiding place, then he will activate his displacement ability, pull out his sling and begin firing at the closest of the two, pulling his shortsword when they get close enough.
Your attempt to save the boy is still worth 25 XP. (I dish out experience as the campaign progresses, not at the end of an adventure, this way no one feels as if they're getting left out)
Hiding places are abundant, it appears that nearly every home has been evacuated. You don't take the time to be picky, however, and any house will do. You flee to the right side of the street, smashing your way through the screaming crowd. You are more than strong enough to avoid being knocked down and a small home made of adobe is easily reached. You throw back the hide door and fling yourself into a corner. It is a small home indeed, similar to yours, and consists of only one room. You look carefully out one of the open air windows on the corner of your new found home to watch the string of events. The twin riders thunder forward, their great bodies bouncing from the jar of their mounts. They drive the crowd on like cattle, charging just slow enough so they do not become separated or surrounded and perhaps knocked over amidst the crowd. You quickly duck back as they thunder on and you note that the general tumult of the teeming crowd passed with them. They were at the rear of the throng, but they were not alone.
There are seven men on foot that are bringing up the rear. They, however, are not charging at the breakneck pace of the riders. Instead they walk casually in the shape of a "V" three to a side with a powerful mul at the front. They appear to be cleaning up the mess, and searching for stragglers. Occasionally one of the men will break formation and grab at those who foolishly slink from the alleys or those who thought they could hide among the maimed and wounded. They seem to be unnecessarily brutal. They club at those who resist in any manner, smashing their knees and legs. Those who can walk are forced into a long line behind the formation and forced to drag their lame compatriots.
The mul bears no insignia and is dressed quite plainly, his pants are black and loose fitting, but he is naked from the waist up. He carries a long many looped coil of rope on his left side and a thick wooden club in his hand. He barks orders to his men who are a mismatch of races, three humans, one dwarf and two half-elves. They too are armed with clubs, save the dwarf, who carries a smaller version of the hooked polearms the riders bore. The mul barks harsh orders and points to various buildings or survivors along the streets. His men obey with glee, taking every chance to loot the dead or capture more prisoners. They advance slowly, but are coming closer nonetheless.
Before you duck back again, something catches your eye. Across the street hiding in an alley is a dwarf dressed in a yellow tunic some fifty feet from you. His back is pressed against the wall and his eyes are shut, you can tell he is about to utilize psionic energy. You'd swear he was a Templar of Urik but you refuse to believe it. Why would he be here alone of all things? If he remains in the open like that all the patrol need do is pass by and he will surely be sighted. You watch him closely, his eyes still shut, he removes a golden amulet from around his neck and places it into his mouth, beneath his tongue. His eyes open wide, a look of shock on his face, blood pours suddenly from his forehead and arms! It runs down his face and stains his tunic! No weapon did wound him, no spell did strike him as far as you can tell, he simply began to bleed! He slides down the wall into a sitting position, his legs unbent and stretched before him. He slumps his head forward as if dead but his eyes remain wide open. The bleeding then stops, as quickly as it had begun. You could swear he's dead, but something tells you he's not. The voices of the patrol grow nearer, perhaps only thirty feet from the yellow tunicked dwarf.
Grimbal quickly takes in the other dwarf, and the approaching slavers. realizing the dwarf must be trying to fake death, Grimbal sees the sense in the plan, but does think the other will be able to pull it off, but what the heck couldn't hurt, he thinks. Grimbal, realizing there are just too many of them, begins searching the residence for signs of blood , and debris that is big enough that it looks like it might be able to wound a dwarf like himself. if he finds any blood, he will try using his fingers to get some and wipe it on his his head and his clothes, and then try to lay down amongst some debris, piling some on parts of his body, if he finds any, if he doesn't find any suitable debris, he will just try to lay with his arms and legs at as strange an angle as he can get them, and pretend he is dead. if no blood or debris is found he will cast sanctuary on himself and try to find something to hide behind, that would pass a quick inspection.if no place exists, then he will simply cast his spell, draw his sword, and stand inside and to the left of the doorway, and wait. if he is spotted and his spell fails, he will attack. if blood and a spot too hide are found, Grimbal will still cast sanctuary on himself, to help his chances.
You quickly forget about the other dwarf and apply yourself to the situation at hand. The house isn't damaged in any way, and no debris litters the floor - so you elect to make some. You whisper a brief apology to the owner of this tiny domicile and grab the wooden frame of his/her bed and rip off one of the large beams that line the mattress. You shatter one end easily, splinters firing off the jagged end and then you bend and flex the beam until it snaps loose from the opposite side. You take the thick beam in both hands and moving with extreme haste you slam it into a high corner near the ceiling, easily cracking the adobe wall. You smile at the cleverness of your idea, and smash the beam high into the wall a second time, knocking a large enough hole for you to punch your hand through. If the slavers notice your makeshift home, they'll think one of the many spells struck the ceiling showering and killing you from the debris. You thrust your hand into the wide crack and rip free a large chunk of the wall, creating a sizable hole. You pull free the jagged piece of clay-brick and move to the corner across the room. You cast aside the beam and lie on the floor, face down. You place the heavy piece of the wall slanting against your sun bronzed skull and wait.
Your plan would have succeeded, had the mul commander not been possessing of psionic talent. You wait for a number of minutes and you can hear the patrol scuffling about amid the faint screams of the distant throngs no doubt being horribly herded into corners and the wretched moans of the maimed. They appear to have discovered the other dwarf, but combat does not ensue. You recognize the mul barking a few incomprehensible commands and then you hear them move on, noticeably fewer in number. You can't see anything lying on the floor, but you can hear them laughing and speaking with one another, their guffaws and deep voices growing stronger as they approach. Quite suddenly, without word or cry, as they near your hiding place, everything goes silent. You can hear the bare feet of the mul creating soft grinding sounds as he enters the hut. You can't see him but he approaches until he is only three feet behind you, then he speaks in a powerful, deep and commanding voice,
"Get up runt! I can smell your blood, feel your breath and hear your heartbeat. Come quick and quiet and you won't get bashed!" You think he is the only slaver in the hut, but his men are sure to be nearby, though you do think they are fewer in number after the encounter with the dwarf in yellow.
Grimbal silently curses himself, at humiliating himself so badly, and then not having it pay off.picking his head up just enough to see around himself, he will look for anything he might possibly use as a weapon. As Grimbal then slowly starts to rise, looking underneath his body to see the muls feet, he will kick his feet out and use his arms and body to launch himself at the Mul.
if he connects, Grimbal will then pick himself up, drawing his shortsword in the process, and try to get a swing in on the Mul before he recovers, and also try to keep the Mul between himself and the entrance.
If he fails to connect, he will try to draw his shortsword as he goes past the mul, so he is ready when the muls tries to counter.using his sword as a defense against any initial attack, and then countering.
at any point in the situation if Grimbal finds himself outnumbered or outclassed he will try to make his way to the hole in the wall he made and try to dive through, also he will have his thought shield ready against any psionic intrusion in his head.
You peer down the length of the underside of your body towards the bare and calloused feet of the mul. He doesn't look braced for a frontal assault, though the strength of a mul is never something to be underestimated. He alone stands within the hut, his massive form blocking the doorway, but two men and one dwarf move about outside raiding the weak and maimed - they don't seem to care much for your movement, though. He grins (.wav by Blizzard) widely as you turn your head to look at him.
He is nimble, but a bare chest and pants provide little protection, his AC is 8. If you choose to fling yourself at him directly from your supine position (weapon drawn or barehanded) simply roll a successful attack against AC 8 and a strength check with a -3 penalty (due to his sheer strength) and you'll both be in a prone struggle for your lives. (if you even desire to knock him down - you can simply attack him too, of course) He is expecting you to comply like a domestic animal and is completely unready for an attack hence the first motion goes to you. A successful attack but failed strength roll will indicate (if your sword is drawn) that the weapon struck home but he was not knocked down, a barehanded attack will simply mean you slammed into his chest with all the effect of a fly on a windshield and he'd be happy to counter. In either case, he looks like your only opponent and your escape route is big enough for you to dive through should things get too dicey. Go ahead and denote your actions and feel free to roll the dice!
Drawing his shortsword, and launching at the dwarf, Grimbal tries to dispatch this abomination and make good his escape. to hit attack:8 hitting AC7 if i am rolling damage i got:small 10 , medium/large 12 wasn't sure whether a mul is classified as small to a dwarf or medium to large so i made a roll for both. if you are rolling damage please ignore the above.
strength check:14 (with -3 penalty)= 17 my strength:19(yeah,success) if no one has yet come to the mul's aid he will continue the fight.
In one quick motion, you flip over onto your back, sweep out your steel sword and launch yourself at the grinning barbarian. Your head and shoulder bury themselves deeply into his stomach, knocking him backwards, his feet clumsily kicking themselves out from beneath him. Your sword slices deeply into his right side, between his ribs. He grunts and wheezes as his mighty shoulders strike the hard clay floor and drive the air from his lungs. You wind up face to face and on top of your enemy, his wide grin transformed into a vicious sneer of clenched teeth. You don't spend too much time admiring his white teeth, though, as he headbutts you with incredible strength (successful attack: 14 where 4 is success) - his club uselessly ineffective from this angle. His forehead smashes directly above your left eye, clouding your vision with dizziness, though your thick skull prevents you from being knocked unconscious and you maintain composure. (I do not think he should receive a strength bonus for such an attack, so you suffer only 4 points of damage) He is amazingly strong and you must struggle incredibly hard to keep him down and the size ratio certainly doesn't help either. He's using his massive leverage to try and roll the both of you over, bringing himself to the top. If he is able to do so, his club will once again become useful and you do not wish to be on the receiving end of his powerful arms. Roll lower than an 8 for a Strength check (such was my roll) and you'll keep him on the bottom and get another chance to use your sword, fail and you are under him, and your sword can be used only at a -4 penalty.
Realizing his opponent is stronger than himself, Grimbal uses his mind abilities to try and increase his strength and constitution(Adrenalin Control). While doing so he tries to keep the Mul on the ground beneath him, but does seem to be able to(rolled a 20 eeekkk). determined not to let this disgrace to dwarves beat him he tries to stab at the mul again.
Your opponent is indeed stronger than you and with a single kick of his leg is able to flip himself from beneath you and roll the both of you over, placing himself on top. He raises his mighty club to smash your skull to pieces, but you're a bit quicker than he and thrust forward with your shortsword, attempting to plunge it directly into his stomach. (his AC is now effectively 3 but you should still be able to hit him easily - Adrenalin Control will be impossible, however, as the stress and heavy action of your situation makes it impossible to concentrate effectively) The round, is yours. Roll an attack or decide on an entirely different course of action, it's all yours.
trying hard to keep his head from being mashed, Grimbal shoves his short sword upward in hopes of impaling this stupid mul. (rolled a 15 hitting AC 0, yeah alright) (damage =7 + 7=14)
using his sword, after it connects with the Mul, Grimbal again tries to maneuver himself to the top.
The mul might be tough but he is as slow as a half-giant and even from your difficult position you manage to slash sideways with your steel sword, the tip of the blade entering his stomach and slicing sideways creating the thinnest of channels across his muscled abdomen. Roaring in either agony or rage, he begins to bleed profusely as he raises his thick club high in the air. Seemingly unaffected his heavy club comes down with all the might and the fury that is his heritage. (successful attack rolled 11 when 4 is success) It feels as if a pregnant mekillot was just dropped on your forehead and the sound created by the tremendous blow sounds somewhat like an axe chopping a wet log. A resounding THWACK fills the room and your vision swims like your eyes were beneath a sea of water (damage = 4+6 = 10 you have 22 hps remaining) For the briefest nanosecond, while your head lolls from the impact you catch a glimpse of three figures standing outside the doorway, watching the combat warily. Quickly you recover your vision and composure. The mul raises his club again, still bleeding heavily, his face contorted into sheer bestial rage and his white teeth fully bared. When he sees that you are still conscious a single word escapes his lips, between his heavy breaths, "No?" He raises his club for another hammer-like blow.
The round is thine, but I'm afraid your completely pinned (20's suck) and you'll have to kill him or knock him unconscious to get him off. His men are standing at the door, but are watching fearfully, you have no idea what they are likely to do if you defeat the mul, but then again, you don't have much time to think.
Grimbal, trying to recover from the hammerlike blow from the mul, again slashes upwards with his sword in hopes of ending this battle, before his head gets mashed in.
attack roll=20( hitting ac-5 yeah, eat this you stupid mul) Damage =1d8 +7 = 8 x2 = 16
Adrenalin, even without psionics, is coursing through your veins with all the fury of yesterday's geyser. You roar at your enemy and drive your weapon between his ribs, forcing it up to the hilt in his left side. His eyes grow wide with agony, but the intensity and rage does not leave his face. It becomes quite apparent he is not immune to the pain and complete fear becomes visible in his eyes. He makes a sound similar to a wheezing old man, and yet he does not die. He continues to attack, now with the sheer terror and instinct of a cornered beast empowering his arm. His club snaps downward with the quickness of a falling stone and smashes directly into your left eye. Your head snaps backward and slams into the dirt floor. The pain seems imaginary it is so intense. (struck home: 10 where 4 is success, damage 5+6=11, you have 11 hps remaining) Your eye will definetly swell shut later, but that is no real concern for the moment. He raises his club again now and it appears he's going to begin whipping at your head like the snapping pistons of the windmill. You are too preoccupied to see his men, but you can vaguely hear them shuffling about. Your sword is still buried in his naked side, and your hand still clutches it.
Grimbal Pulls his sword free, and again tries to stab upwards with his sword. Attack roll=12 (hit on AC 3)this is a hit isn't it? Damage =4 +7=11 is he dead yet?
You remove your blade of steel from between his ribs and his life blood flows from the ghastly wound. His powerful arms, so intent on smashing your skull have grown suddenly limp and they begin to lower slowly. He seems unaware of the wound inflicted upon him and stares instead blankly ahead. The gnarled club slips from his grasp and clatters to the dirt floor. As slow as a heavy silt skimmer that turns on one end and tediously sinks into the dust, his heavy body leans to the right the angle of his descent growing until he falls off you altogether, motionless on the floor. (I award XP as the adventure progresses, not at the end - so here's 350 for you right now - well done ol' chap, but it ain't over yet)
You roll quickly onto your feet, your head swimming, but generally in one piece. Your heart is full for having slain he who would put you and others in chains, but a good thing seldom lasts long on Athas - his men have entered the house. A burly and bald human in a leather jerkin and brown breeches guards the door, slapping his bone studded club into the palm of his right hand. The half-elf had maneuvered to the side of the one room home opposite the hole you created in the wall (which is unguarded) while you were engaged in dire combat. His green vest is unbuttoned flashing his powerful chest and his long black hair is pulled back so it will not impede his vision in combat. He too carries a thick wooden club which he spins dexterously in his right hand while grinning widely. You could have sworn there was a dwarf in the patrol as well, armed with a spiked pole-arm, but he's no where to be seen. The human takes one step forward and the half-elf lowers himself into combat stance - still grinning.
If you'd like to fight, the human's initiative is 9 (woohoo) and the half-elf gets an impressive 8
Grimbal eyes his situation, and coming to the conclusion that he could
not handle another such fight, makes a quick dive for the unguarded hole in the wall, and if he makes it, he starts running while he tries to find at least a temporary hiding place, where he can use his displacement ability.
ooc:do i need to roll initiative? if so is it a d10?i will include a d10 roll if that is needed. well i seem to have a knack for rolling the highs and lows, i rolled a 10 for initiative, please have mercy! don't let them beat me too bad.
Initiative isn't necessary for fleeing the human and half-elf, but it is most excellent that you rolled it, you're one step ahead of the game. (it is a d10 by the way - don't worry about weapon modifiers)
Seeing yourself outnumbered, you dive quickly toward the opening in the wall. The half-elf leaps forward, wailing like a dwarf with an unfinished focus and the human stalls for no longer than a heartbeat before turning around and exiting the way he came in, yet you remain ahead of them - at least until you reach the gap in the wall. (Here's where the initiative of 10 comes in, the dwarf in the patrol, armed with the pole-arm, or lotalis as it is called, was waiting just outside for your impending escape. His initiative is a 4 and he'll lash out the second you emerge from the hole) Forward you rush as fast as your legs can carry you. You lower your head and shoulder toward the wall and gather all your strength. The hole wasn't quite big enough, but the adobe wall is absolutely no match for your sheer forward momentum and you shatter through it like a battering ram. Immediately after clearing the wall, you raise your head to find a path to safety but all you see is the incoming shaft of the dwarf's lotalis. It feels as if he split your skull asunder the mighty blow (rolled 10 where 7 is success, damage 6+6=12, you've got 11 hps left, uh-oh, but do not despair, these attacks are meant to KO and incapacitate, only half the damage is real) and all goes black.
You awaken to a crushing grip and violent shaking. Your vision is incredibly blurry for a brief moment and the sounds of moaning, whips and screaming have reached a catastrophic crescendo. As your eyes clear, you find yourself staring into the bloated face of a black robed Templar of Tyr. He is so fat you wonder how he could ever move himself about and he sweats so profusely that the bodily fluid could probably irrigate the crops of Raam, largest of the city-states. Two burly humans prevent you from collapsing, one each side of you supporting your massive body by the underarms and holding your head in an upright position. The humans handle you roughly and the Templar barks at you in a very harsh tone from between cracked lips, "Can ye walk, worm?" Ignoring the fat man, you look beyond him. Woe is now the aura under the crimson sun. You survey your surroundings to the best of your ability, but it is difficult to see around the massive girth of the Templar. (not really, I just want you to get an idea of how fat he is) You have been taken to the town square, where the windmill once stood. You stand now at the edge of the square, amidst a teeming throng of the captured. Former citizens of Kled are arranged by the hundreds into a massive ring around the circumference of the square. In the center of the throng lies the remains of the windmill and the great stone cistern, around which congregate a number of black robed men and a few slavers on crodlus who laugh and help themselves to the water. Guards stand at attention at even intervals around the crowd, beating the crowds back with the shafts of spears while low ranking Templars (like the one in front of you) patrol about killing those too weak to move and making sure all others are securely binded. You are bound by the hands behind your back and a leather band has been strapped around your neck, from which stretches a rope to your left and right. The collar no doubt attaches you to other slaves, but the humans hold your head forward and your cannot look to your neighbors at the moment, though from the corner of your eye, you can catch a glimpse of a yellow robe, not too far to your left. The fat Templar roars again from deep within is cavern of a gullet, "Can ye walk!?!"
(currently you have 1 hp but in one turn enough of the initial shock will have worn off and you will have 18)
The bloated Templar smiles from between cracked and parched lips, making his broken and jagged teeth visible. He hisses through his wide mouth, "The most belligerent often live the longest and your stubborn spirit will probably keep you alive a long time in the pits. Your desire to prolong your own suffering will no doubt amuse me for many years to come." He turns to your human guards and bellows, "Bind him!" You briefly consider struggling, but in your current state you would be no match for the fresh humans. You realize that while you were unconscious you were stripped of all goods save your shirt, breeches and shoes and you don't think your garments will aid you much as the humans grab your thick arms and twist them behind your back to be bound. The humans are excessively rough, jerking you about violently as they adjust the giant hair rope around your wrists. All the sudden movements cause your vision to go hazy and your mind to whirl for brief moments but you remain conscious, despite the avid protests of your body. Once your hands are securely tied behind your back one of the thick chested humans, his long hair dark and his face filled with contempt, slips a leather collar over your bald head and around your neck, where he tightens it to almost choking. The other human guard, his head devoid of all hair but his face just as filled with arrogance unclasps a long coil of rope of at least fifty feet in length from his belt and ties one end to a leather loop in your new collar, as if your new masters had put you on a leash.
With the leash secure, the Templar moves to a yellow robed dwarf, the same one you saw erupt into a flood of blood earlier today, on your left. Though his face is completely covered with cracked and dried blood that forms interesting patterns around the creases in his face and the collar of his robe is stained red, he appears to have suffered no other injuries and stands quite upright. He is a powerful young dwarf filled with pride and energy, you can see it in his fiery gaze which he fixes on circular face of the approaching obese Templar. The dwarf is asked if he too can walk and he responds, "When Hamanu, King of Kings, hears of this atrocity, he shall raze your pathetic city, drive your beggar-freemen into the wastes and skewer Kalak, King of Worms, on a pike and suspend his frail body from the Golden Gates of Urik!" The fat man's only response to the dwarf's tirade is to dangle an intricate gold medallion in the Urikite Templar's face and laugh uproariously in a deep, obnoxious guffaw that makes you cringe. The two humans quickly beset the proud dwarf and bind his hands, he does not struggle but instead stares directly into the face of the fat templar, committing every feature to memory. His hands are quickly immobilized and a leather collar is tightened about his neck. The bald human proceeds to thread the long rope through the Urikite's collar as well until there is only some three feet of slack between you and the yellow robed dwarf, effectively connecting you and he in a train. The Urikite stares straight ahead, flexing his thick jaw and swallowing his emotions as he accepts his capture.
The fat man and his servants move on to the next unfortunate individual, to the left of the Urikite, in the teeming, sweating, weeping crowd. Immediately your interest is sparked as you see the fat man lift a Joz'hal, an intelligent lizard of approximately your height, off the ground and shake it violently. It gains its footing and emits and extremely weak hiss. Its mouth is crusted with blood and its lips are swollen to a point that it is impossible for the pitiful creature to form coherent words. Its hands have been mutilated almost beyond recognition and its feet, which normally sport three thick claws have been conveniently clipped. The fat man laughs at the reptile and tosses it to the ground ordering his men to bind it. It lies on its side in the dirt and its only movement is the slight rise and fall of its chest while it breathes. The Joz'hal whines and shrieks as the humans descend upon it and twist its already maimed limbs behind it to be clasped together but can do little else. The Joz'hal also receives a collar and the rope that attaches you and the Urikite is stretched to incorporate the lizard man as well. The guard kicks sand all over the poor lizard who meekly raises its long neck briefly before collapsing to the ground again in agony. You can't help but wonder why it was left alive.
The trio of oppressors move on to a fourth individual, a richly dressed human without a wound to speak of. He wears knee high black leather boots and thick green breeches. His white vest is surprisingly clean and you scoff at his apparent complete lack of struggle. Topping off the rest of his ostentatious figure is his strikingly handsome (for a human) head with long black hair and a brilliant white smile that flashes even now. The fat man surprisingly says nothing to him, and instead only shakes his head, quickly moving on. The two humans, however are not so kind. The long haired brute deals the grinning man a heavy blow to the stomach, which causes the poor optimistic fool to collapse onto his knees, coughing and wheezing. His bald partner, not exactly a courageous man, takes advantage of the helpless prisoner and swings his powerful leg and smashes his heavy boot into the man's face. The man is knocked a full two steps back as the crowd of prisoners quickly parts to make way for his stumbling body. He lands face up, but the humans are immediately upon him and flip him over to bind his hands. The long haired human grabs him by the hair and lifts him upright while he gasps and chokes heavily. Blood runs from his nose and down his formerly pristine vest. He does not even try to struggle as the bald man tightens the collar around his neck and threads the rope though the loop, forming now a train of four, except after the human is securely leashed the bald man produces a bone knife from his boot and severs the rope, leaving the four of you in a most interesting union. The bald guard gives the human a fierce stomp kick to the tailbone, sending him crashing to the dirt and then spits on his back before turning, with his partner, to continue on with the fat man.
You notice that similar patrols are moving among the teeming mass of prisoners, segregating small groups of the captured and connecting them all by the neck in a similar manner so that they might all be easily supervised and counted. Untold suffering is now prevalent under the bloated sun which is now beating with full fury upon the masses of sorrowing bodies, bemoaning their pitiful plight. Those thought incapable of making the long trek to Tyr are simply killed on the spot and their bodies dragged to an ever growing mound near the old windmill. High ranking Templars and soldiers admire stolen goods stripped from the hands of prisoners near the cistern while the more shameless grunts pick through the pile of the dead for anything worth salvage. Yet despite the woe that is all too common, the human has managed to regain his feet and shuffles near to face you and the Urikite. He sits near the Joz'hal, who is making a sickening gurgling sound as it breathes and looks up at you two. His formerly handsome face is now caked with dirt and blood but the smile remains bright as ever. He speaks in a thick and melodious voice, though a bit hoarse from all his coughing, "It appears that we'll be strung together for quite some time, and I think it will be in everyone's interest if we worked together and grew to know each other as brothers. My name is Astorus, I am . . . was a nobleman of Tyr of the house Sedilin, though I suppose the estate belongs to Kalak now. Might I have the pleasure of your name?" he looks at you and the Templar inquisitively. The Urikite's only response is a snort and a general aura of contempt. The yellow robed dwarf ignores the Astorus completely, but the human is undaunted and instead shifts his gaze entirely to you.
Grimbal scowls at th human in disdain "have you no honor? you did not even try to resist being captured."pausing "it does seem we will be together for awhile, but i don't plan on staying any longer than i have to, the name is Grimbal." after he speaks his name he goes silent, and begins focusing his mind, and use his abilities to help his situation.
The Astorus smiles through his bloodied mouth and speaks with a haughty demeanor, "Honor, you say? HA! HA! Honor is a sham when placed on a pedestal of violence, bloodying the nose of another because of his primitive behavior is a brash step toward ignobility. Yet I admire your spirit greatly and I am glad you are with us, for however short a period it may be." The tall man moves to the whimpering Joz'hal and sits. He begins to speak with the lizardman but the reptile is too weak to respond, nevertheless the optimistic noble continues to talk, perhaps he thinks he can comfort the suffering creature with soothing words.
(trying to use Adrenalin control to increase his strength to break his bonds, and increase his constitution to heal quicker, though main concern is his bonds) when he is done focusing he tries to break his hands free of their bonds with his newfound strength, if successful he will try to maintain his hold on the rope to make it look like he is still tied.
After Astorus took his seat you shut your eyes and prepare to unleash the inner strength of your soul. In deep concentration you allow images to flash through your mind. Foul images of the gleeful riders charging down the roadway, hewing innocent men before them, leaving them to bleat and writhe in the dust, the bloated templar who laughs at the plight of human beings and takes joy in placing them in shackles, a power mad sorceror-king bent on destroying families and homes all in the name of greed, your dead chieftain, Baarex, slain by his own life's work explode in your mind causing bursts of emotion and energy so intense no bond could restrain you. Rage boils up from the inner workings of your soul frothing forth like the exploding gush of water that destroyed Baarex. You begin to breathe heavily, your chest heaving and nostrils flaring from the incredible burst of emotion that is preparing to surface -
"Son," interrupts the Urikite, "You might snap those ropes like threads, but then what? Where are you going to run? Look around you, we are surrounded by the King's men! When you are discovered they'll burn your brain from the inside out and you won't even be able to talk straight once they finish with you. Not here, not now, you might have to put up with being a slave for a while, but we dwarves are a patient people, are we not? There must be better opportunities to escape than today and now.
The rage begins to simmer down in your soul like a pot of boiling water just removed from the fire but your focus will easily be regained (no PSPs expended yet you may continue utilizing the power if you desire or shut it down with no penalty - roll a Power Score if you desire to continue)
Grimbal listens to the other dwarves words, and realizes it would be best to stayed tied for the moment, and wait for a more opportune moment "thank you friend, you are right," Grimbal then starts to bring himself back under control, and waits to see what will happen next.
The yellow robed dwarf relaxes visibly as he sees your psionic focus fade. He turns to you fully as your chest ceases heaving from the energy you had built and speaks loudly and brashly, "Brother, I am Ludar Kulaikar, Centurion of Hamanu King of Kings and Lion of Urik. I was on a mission of peace, but Kalak has made it war. I seek thy aid in making our stay in the pits a short one. When we escape we shall return to Urik together where Hamanu the mighty shall make you his personal servant and then proceed to burn all of Tyr in such a furious conflagration that all the Sorceror-Kings of the Tablelands shall stand awestruck in the might of the Urikite armies. Until then you will call me Lud and we will work together to accomplish our goals though I fear we may be hampered by the whimsical flightiness of the human and his pet lizard." Astorus heard the boastful Templar loud and clear, but only looks up from his lizard friend and smiles at you over Lud's shoulder through his swollen lips.
Grimbal "thanks for the offer, and i will gladly work with you to free ourselves from the pits that we seem to be headed for, but i will never be anyones servant, not even Hamanu's."
A horn blasts. Its note the harbinger of sorrow. Panic and murmur floods across the crowds of slaves. No more bodies are dragged to the old cistern. Templars and riders who were formerly lounging about and joking have become very active and begin to move about the town center barking orders to already overburdened guards. Armed men move quickly about the circumference of the center prodding slaves to their feet and assigning themselves to specific pods of slaves. A thick skulled human, his face a mosaic of tattoos, carrying a wooden spear takes his place beside your pod. He wears nothing but a breech cloth, many bone earrings in both ears and leather sandals and seems to enjoy the visiblility of his powerful chest. He barks at Astorus to rise and strikes him in the base of the skull with the butt of his spear before the poor man could even contemplate compliance. Astorus is knocked sideways but quickly regains composure, rubbing the back of his head. Astorus then grasps the joz'hal and stands, hefting the heavy lizard across his shoulders as if he was carrying a trophy from a hunt. Lud snorts in amusement.
You survey the area and see that all the slaves throughout the center are now standing and have begun to move. The massive caravan of hung heads and sorrow begins to plod toward the gates of Kled. Riders patrol around the massive herd of men and women on their grunting crodlus casting wary glances at those who might seem belligerent while the lowly footmen march alongside the slaves urging them forward. Whips crack and the slaves near you begin to move. The jut-jawed human guarding your pod barks, "March, slave" and taps you in the shoulder with his spearbutt. He grins widely through a broken toothed smile, daring you to disobey.
Knowing that resistance would lead to certain death or worse you begrudgingly comply and begun to trudge off into the unknown. Whips and wails now pollute the morning air and already the burning sun has bathed the hundreds of marching bodies in sweat and odor that promises to make the day's journey most unpleasant. You can only imagine to suffering Astorus must be undergoing, carrying the heavy lizardman upon his back. Yet his pain pales next to yours as you pass through the gates of your home in bondage. You look at the once proud wooden gates and see how they have been blasted to splinters and charcoal by the infernal magic of the Sorceror-King without a fight. You do not turn round to view your proud city in ruins, for the sorrow would be too intense. Yesterday the chief did die, today his city dies with him. You march on, into the wind-whipped sea of dunes.
Like a serpent of sorrow the former citizens of Kled have been stretched out into a long single-file line of slaves that lashes across the desert. The massive caravan travels west by southwest toward its destination of doom, Tyr. Astorus, despite his heavy load, constant lagging behind and coincidential prodding by the guard begins to hum an old Tyrian bar song about dancing girls. Though he means well he fails to lighten your mood. Lud speaks from his position behind you in his usual haughty demeanor, "Brother, where do you suppose this raiding party has kept all its supplies for a caravan of this size? Does it plan to starve us all the way to Tyr? None, not even dwarves, could survive that journey. I hope they have planned for a party of this size else they will be dragging many bodies to the Golden Gates of Tyr. Also, brother, from where do you hail? Tell me thy story so that I might address you properly in the presence of my Mighty Hamanu, may he reign forever!"
Grimbal looks at Lud "i have no idea where supplies would be kept, but they would have to be not too far away." Grimbal turns back and looks at the battered gates behind them, and as he turns back around you can see a single tear drop from his chin "i hail from Kled, the village that was just destroyed back there, and its destructors will pay dearly for this." as he says this, you can see a hideous rage take over Grimbal's features.Grimbal then goes silent, as he watches where the caravan is headed .