Conspiracy of Ages
You arrived in Kled early yesterday evening. The wind
had been of an incredible driving force all this day blasting a sirocco of
hot sand against you and your already overworked kank. You were amazed
a sandstorm was not blown in burying everything in its path. You were
quite thankful to arrive in one piece after five days off the road following
only the stars and a crude map the High Templar Surio gave you. Kled
is not your destination though, Surio sent you on a mission which he claimed
to come straight from Hamanu himself, go to Tyr and find out why Kalak has
ceased shipping iron to Urik. Surio sent you out alone without a detachment
of guards in hopes of displaying to King Kalak that you are on a mission
of peace. While a show of force is usually improper in diplomatic relations
you wouldn't have minded in having a few subordinate templars to escort you
through the wastes. Nevertheless, Surio, though human, was as stubborn
as a dwarf in issuing his orders and provisioned you only with a single kank
and enough supplies to feed and water you until Tyr.
You were almost gleeful when civilization appeared on the horizon in the
form of the walled town of Kled. Your kank seemed to sense it too and
was spurred to newfound strength as you rushed toward the town. Upon
entering the village, however, you noted that the citizens did not share
your feelings of joy. Normally the evening is when most of the people
in cities came out into the streets, the furious sun having abated until
the next morning, but you could see that this was not the case in Kled. No
guards stood atop the stone walls and the wooden gates hung ajar. No
jovial citizens, enjoying the markets or dancing to music could be seen on
the streets, in fact all the merchant tents seemed to be missing as well.
The town was far from deserted, however and as you rode into town you
could see that many of the simple mud-brick homes had candles lit within.
You eventually stabled your kank at a reasonably well
kept inn called the Squeaking Windmill which was open for the night. It
too was surprisingly inactive. A bard in the corner, his hands still
grasping his lute, had fallen asleep right in his chair and his head bobbed
as he breathed. Not one table was occupied. The bartender was
a lanky elf with streaks of grey in his black hair who smiled as you entered.
He told you in a lively voice that room and board were all on the house
that night, he had made everything in the bar free in hopes of raising the
spirits of the town but had met with little success. You approached
the bar and sat at a stool that was obviously made for a human. You
queried him as to the reasons for the depression in the town as he passed
you a free drink of watered down ale and he told you of how the village
uhrnomus (or chieftain) had died that day and the whole of the town
was in mourning. The uhrnomus' name was Baarex and had devoted
his life and focus to the founding of the town and the building of a great
windmill to pump water. Baarex was entirely successful in creating
his engineering marvel: the windmill and the town had outgrown its walls
many times since the well was drilled. But earlier that day it was
found that the windmill had clogged. After thirty years without a
malfunction, water failed to pour from the spout, and yet the sails of the
mill still spun and its pistons still worked. The spout was disassembled
and no clog was yielded. It was determined that the well had simply
dried up, but Baarex knew that could not be the case. The wind that
day was simply too powerful to send someone up to the top to brace the sails
and keep them from spinning and the pistons were working too strongly to
brace them with any number of beams without damaging the windmill itself.
Baarex then had to practically chase everyone from the square around
the windmill because he knew what would happen next. The pressure beneath
the pistons grew and grew and Baarex was said to only stand there ashamed
of his lack of engineering foresight, but a dwarf who made it his focus to
create the windmill was not about to desert it at any point. The barkeep
spoke only briefly about how the windmill exploded, a geyser of frothing
water enveloping the uhrnomus and battering him to death, not wishing
to show his clearly resurfacing emotions. He instead moves on to speak
of the beautiful eulogies given by the elders at the funeral site (someplace
called the Tomb of Kings, but he claims to know nothing about it) despite
the powerful wind and how nearly the whole village was present for the funeral
rites. He also mentions that Baarex had never chosen a successor and
on the morrow there would be a great town meeting to decide who would ascend
to the position of uhrnomus.
The skill with which the elf told you the story took
your attention away from the mugs of ale the scurvy knave kept pouring you,
the fact that they were free didn't help much either. When he finished
speaking of the town meeting you only then realized you had finished over
twenty mugs and were feeling very sleepy. You laid your head down on
the bar and began to drift off to sleep in your stool. The elf took
a tablecloth from a nearby table and laid it over your broad shoulders like
a blanket.
You awaken with a start, sitting straight up quickly
shaking off any unwanted effects the ale might have. You realize you're
still holding a half empty mug in your hand and had slept in quite late,
it must be mid-morning already and every hint of coolness and dew from the
early hours has been chased away by the bloated red sun. The bar is
still empty, but the bard has left and the innkeep is surprisingly absent.
Your briefly suspect treachery on the part of the elf but check your
equipment and realize that nothing has even been touched. The tablecloth
slips from your shoulders as you spin off the stool onto the dirt floor.
Only then do you realize what it was that woke you. A faint rumbling
can be heard in the distance. At first you think it is a great merchant
argosy. The argosy wagons were as large as a noble's house and pulled
by equally large beasts called mekillots, and were so heavy that the ground
would often tremble with their passing. You realize though that this
is not possible, as there are no roads that lead into Kled that are suitable
for such a massive juggernaut to travel on. The rumble grows to a roar
so loud that your ears become pained. Vibrations rock the inn, dust
falls from the ceiling and ale sloshes in your mug. Then it
hits. A brilliant white flash, followed by
a shockwave of such force you'd think Hamanu himself had smitten you. The
shockwave plucks you off the ground, hurls you over the bar and smashes you
into the rear wall. Your shoulders struck the wall with such force
that it is cracked from floor to ceiling. (save versus spell, if you fail
three points of damage, if you pass - none) All the wind is driven
from your lungs and you gasp clutching your throat. You inhale great
clouds of dust that have begun to flood and billow into the room like a deluge
of water. You gag and choke vomiting dirt all over the floor. You
rise to your feet and cover your mouth with your yellow tunic fleeing the
inn to the outside. As you reach the street you collapse again to your
knees choking and gagging. A single note from a horn rings true across
the town and screams fill the air. Now that you have left the dust
cloud behind you survey the street. Citizens, humans, dwarves, elves
and half-elves are pouring from their homes into the streets and fleeing
in every direction imaginable under the hot sun. A red hot comet followed
by a billowing stream of brown smoke streaks overhead,
exploding elsewhere in town. A magically enhanced voice of horrifying
tone and proportions echoes across the town,
"Surrender in the name of Kalak the Almighty, pitiful
swine, and no harm shall come to you!"
Such a statement seems only to add to the chaos, if that's
possible. It doesn't seem like a hollow threat at all, especially since
another rumbling can be heard, even above the screaming and terrified crowd.
Lud rises shakily to his feet, one hand flexing convulsively on the obsidian flail at his hip while the other slides beneath his yellow robes. Blunt, thick fingers coil around the small amulet pressed against his dark skin, words of prayer coming to his lips through gritted teeth. "Hamanu the omnipotent, King of Kings, I beseech you; grant favour on your humble disciple this day..." he continues the mantra in a low, practiced monotone as he regains his balance and begins racing down the street towards the booming voice and din of battle, eyes nearly pressed shut against the whirling dust. His short but powerful legs propel him at a ground-eating pace, and as he runs his pale eyes scan the streets for the robes of state of Kalak's Templars. If only he can flaunt his own status to them perhaps he may have a chance to escape whatever fate the Sorcerer King plans for the town's inhabitants. It is not the fighting or the impressive displays of magic which make his heart pound, rather the punishment Hamanu will exact should he fail to reach Tyr and complete his duties.
<Note: I failed the save vs. Spell (rolled 13) and the spell I'm trying to cast is Sanctuary on myself so as to avoid unwanted encounters as I try and get closer to the action to see what's really happening.
As you touch the amulet and speak those all too familiar words that high templars like Surio drove into you for the years of your training, the powerful ominous presence of Hamanu shadows your soul. You shudder as his intense evil penetrates your body utilizing your soul to empower your request. Though the process only takes brief seconds and no actual words were exchanged with the mighty Sorceror-King you are instantly aware that his power is shielding you from your enemies and you rush out to see what goes on.
Outside the situation looks grim. Citizens of almost every race are screaming and fleeing down the streets. Nearly all of them are rushing in one direction: away from the city gates. Many simply stand stupified or run in circles like panicked animals. Humans, dwarves, elves and half-elves slam into you from every side, each nearly knocking you off your feet, but you're thankful you're a dwarf and have a low center of gravity. Some of the townsfolk aren't so lucky though, they fall out of sheer clumsiness or are pushed from behind only to be brutally trampled and kicked as they fall into the dirt. The rumbling continues and grows to a steady roar. It grows so loud that even the screaming populace is silenced. A huge ball of energy crackling with red light and trailed by black smoke thunders overhead, deafening all in its path. It is as large as a half-giant and many times brighter than the bloated sun. As it rockets by the noise is reduced considerably, until it hits. A huge fountain of earth can be seen over the tops of the buildings, thankfully some distance from you. The force of the explosion still quakes the ground beneath your feet but you are otherwise unaffected. No less than half a dozen smaller but similar fireballs shoot across the sky in as many different directions. They land among the crowds, blasting dozens of bodies into the air each of which lands with a sickening thud. You notice however that each of those struck in the blast radius are not killed or even horribly maimed, they instead writhe about in pain or shock, but are otherwise unable to move. You curse the stupidity of the townsfolk, had they not flooded the streets and congested themselves into tight spaces they would not be such easy targets for the spells.
You rush on, through the streets peering around each corner and into every alley doing your best to avoid the tremendous throng of panicked people. The black robed Templars of Kalak are nowhere to be seen but the true source of the fear in the hearts of the crowds does make its presence known. Had they not been on crodlus you never would have seen them above the fleeing swarm of humanoids, but upon their mounts they rest at almost twice the height of the surrounding swarm of citizens. The two riders are dressed in sleeveless leather jerkins with chitinous helmets with long black plumes of coarse hair that extend behind them as they charge. They are tall and powerfully built but their helmets make it impossible to determine whether they are human or mul. They carry with them long poles with a single curved spike at one end. They swing the mighty polearms in great sweeping arcs with one hand horribly tearing at the back of the knees and buttocks with the vicious hook. Those unfortunate enough to be slow runners are mercilessly cut down and even those who surrender are lashed at. The moaning bodies are left in the streets clutching at their torn tendons and ruined limbs to be collected later like the trophies of a demented game. The nature of the attack becomes immediately apparent to you. The weapons employed by the riders are designed to maim and cripple, not kill, and the spells hurled among the populace are of a concussive nature, designed to paralyze or otherwise incapacitate. Slavers. New terror grips you. If you should happen to be captured you dare not even imagine what would happen to a Templar if he was thrown in among slaves.
The two riders charge forward. Their mounts seem to be bellowing with glee and obey their masters without fear. One of the massive riders passed so close to you, you could have reached up and pulled him from the two legged lizard he rode upon, yet he paid you absolutely no heed, nor did his comrade. They simply charged on driving the populace before them like cattle cutting down those straying to far to the rear.
Seven men on foot were bringing up the rear. They are not running or charging at the breakneck pace that the riders were but instead seem to be cleaning up the mess. They move in the shape of a "V" with a soldier occasionally breaking formation to loot a body or grab at those who thought they could hide among the bodies of the maimed or capture other stragglers who foolishly slink from the alleys. A powerful mul dressed in loose black pants and naked from the waste up is at the head of the formation. He carries a thick wooden club and a many looped coil of rope attached to his belt and barks loud orders to his subordinates. His men consist of a single dwarf, three humans, and two half-elves. They, like the riders are seemingly unnecessarily brutal, clubbing the pitiful victims and shattering their knees or legs. They show mercy among the women and children though (surprisingly) and herd them into a group behind their formation, forcing them on at spearpoint.
Before they even have a chance to notice you, you duck around a corner and press you back against the mud-brick wall giving yourself a chance to debate your next course of action. There appears to be no activity whatsoever in the alley you hide within but the voices of the soldiers are getting closer.
I have not yet rolled savings throws for the footmen versus your Sanctuary spell - which has three rounds remaining before expiration -
Lud takes a steadying breath as he presses back against the alley wall, his gaze darting from the mouth of the alley to the unyielding mud-brick behind him. Again his hand slips beneath his robes to clutch Hamanu's amulet, though this time he jerks at the thin chain around his neck and withdraws it from the folds of cloth. "May Hamanu forgive me" he mutters softly before placing the amulet in his mouth and pressing it firmly against his tongue. Teeth clenched, his eyes slide shut momentarily in concentration as he wills the very blood in his veins to redirect, causing large, gruesome pockets of bulbous crimson to build in either forearm. Kneeling quickly he scrounges a sharp rock from the earth and digs it into each of his arms in turn, causing large rivulets of blood to course down to his hands. He rubs his bloody appendages across every inch of exposed skin and cloth he can manage in the short time afforded to him before sliding down the wall, legs sprawling out before him and his eyes focusing ahead in a mock death stare. In his peripheral vision Lud tries to monitor the alley mouth, silently praying that his ploy will work, or that may Hamanu shelter and protect him. < Lud is trying to use Biofeedback >
You sink to the ground, the blood flow staunched but your clothes heavily stained, just how you wanted it. The patrol approaches, their voices growing louder and the barking commands of the mul growing harsher and stronger. Their shadows are cast long on the street parallel to your sitting position and it isn't long before you can hear even their footsteps.
Your peripheral vision catches a cunning young half-elf from the patrol thrust his head around the corner. You can't make out his face very well for he is only in the corner of your eye, but you can tell that he has long brown hair and he's smiling, for he nearly laughs when he speaks,
"Lookee here boys! This runt done cut himself up good!"
He moves closer and squats right in front of you. You can see he has many of the finely chiseled features of the elf, his nose being sharp and his eyes almond shaped, but he also has a thick jaw and heavy shoulders of a man, making him look almost amusing. Upon his brow rests a leather headband, black runes encircling it denoting he is a slaver from the city-state of Tyr. Below the band his eyes dart from the thick wooden club that he's ready to use in an instant to all over your body, searching for coins or jewelry. He also displays a wide grin, no doubt pleased with the treasures he has stolen from the citizens of your village he and his men probably butchered for their wealth. His garb is simple and dirty, carru leather breeches, a simple green and brown vest that hangs open, but his boots are quite shiny and thick of sole, they look freshly stolen (AC 7) He proceeds to thrust two of his fingers into your mouth to grasp your jaw. He wiggles your jaw from side to side to test for any sign of life, and you can then see him smile wide. (succeeded in Wisdom check rolled 8 when 12 is failure) You try hard to relax but apparently this brute has had enough experience in this manner he could tell even the unconcious from the dead. He turns his head from you - his fingers still in your mouth - and shouts to the passing formation,
"Hey Sarge! We got - " his yell is cut short and his face darts back to you as his fingers touch the amulet in your mouth. (feel free to insert any of your own actions within this section of the post - if you wish to bite his fingers for instance - but if you have nothing you wish to add just keep reading) He grasps the amulet and draws it forth a look of wonder and fascination erasing his grin as the long golden chain becomes apparent. His wonder quickly becomes terror and his eye widens when the entirety of the amulet comes into view and it hangs shining in the late morning heat. He flings the amulet at your feet and bolts upright. Whatever suspicions he held over your yellow robe earlier they have been entirely confirmed now, he seems to know you are a Templar. The half-elf begins to back away and his head darts to the right as the mul interrupts,
"What you got Darb? Unconcious runt jump up and bite you?" you can't see the burly sargeant as he is just beyond your visual panorama, but you can hear him getting closer - and he's bringing the whole formation with him.
Lud slowly raises his head to the half-elf, eyelids grating across his dust tortured eyeballs as he finally blinks. "Darb..." he says icily, in a practiced tone reserved for the condemnation of Urik's prisoners. Surio always believed it to be much more frightening to show an utter lack of emotion upon sentencing than to betray any hint of satisfaction or condenscension; it deterred any further infractions when the populace saw such an obvious disregard for human suffering. "Half-breed." His eyes slide over to the mul as he reaches out to almost casually pluck the amulet from the ground. Dried flakes of blood crack and peel from his face as his features contort into an arrogant sneer. "Mul." He injects the word with as much contempt and superiority as he can muster, "Take me to your Templars at once, or I'll scour the flesh from your misbegotten bones with the desert sands. I'm on official business from Hamanu the Munificent, and Kalak will strip your hides bare himself should I fail to reach his aids safely. Once now I have been set back by clubs and blades. Do not anger me further by attempting to do so a second time." Lud rises to his feet as he speaks, his rumbling voice a commanding tenor. Despite coming to a height of scarcely five feet he remains an imposing figure, thick Dwarven build all but immovable.
< Lud is trying to bluff his way out of this one. If he should fail and it looks as though they're going to try and apprehend him for the slave pits, he'll use a Death Field (provided they're all within range) for a dozen HP. >
The half-elf flees from you back to the security of his formation like a frightened child, stumbling in the sandy road as he flees. The powerful mul sargeant catches his subordinate by the jaw as the half-elf nearly tumbles forward, lifts him up to his full height, sneers in his face and tosses him to the ground so he sprawls in the dirt. The thickly muscled mul approaches you loosening his grip on his heavy wooden club in a gesture of peace. He strides forward, his shiny jet black pants flapping in the breeze and his bare feet crunching softly in the sand. He wears no shirt, but without armor he could no doubt hold his own and his head is also naked, completely devoid of hair. Dark tattoos ring his forehead, their pattern nearly identical to that of the half-elf's headband denoting his rank as a slaver of Tyr. When he is about five feet from you (keeping a safe distance without looking afraid) he bows his head and stares at the dirt, then speaks, his voice deep and echoing, "Forgive his ignorance m'lord, I assure your majesty he'll be dealt with accordingly. I'll send him and two others to escort you directly to the Templars to see that you are not furtherly harassed."
Though he has much rope coiled and attached to his belt, he does not bind you and roars at three of his men (one being the half-elf from before) to take you to someone named Mandax. Two humans and Darb come forth to stand near you and let you rise on your own, not even thinking twice about your weapons. Darb leads the way through the streets, each of his human companions staying at least two paces to the right and left of you. The mul sargeant watches you march off until you round a corner, you don't see him again, but you figure he has continued on his patrol with his remaining men. The march is plagued by the screams of the wounded and grieving, though it appears the mul did an excellent job of cleaning up his designated street many of the streets you pass through are still littered with the suffering, the outstretched hands of the poor wretches begging you for salvation. Yet you move on.
After a few minutes you arrive in a large square in the center of the village. This must have been the sight of the legendary windmill that the innkeep spoke of last night. The square is populated by a number of citizens, all herded into teeming masses of bodies, around the circumference of the area each throng kept at bay by many guards with sharp bone and obsidian spears. In the center of the square is a large stone cistern, filled to the brim with crystal water, immediately to the left of the massive stone trough is a large ring of wet earth with a pile of wooden beams and splinters in the middle. That must have been the windmill, now reduced to rubble. Around the cistern stand a number of men and women. Two men on crodlus, similar to the ones you saw charging down the street stand vigil, occasionally adjusting their cantankerous mounts, scanning the area for possible trouble. Most of all the people standing around the former windmill are dressed in long black robes, each of which appears to engaged in his or her own conversation with another or a group of others. They appear to be issuing orders. When your group enters the square Darb bids your guards stand, and you with them, stating he will go and speak with Mandax. He strides across the square, his presence noticed by a single male templar who was standing among a group, discussing something that appeared to be quite humorous. Darb falls on one knee before the templar who silences his companions and steps from his ring of peers to speak with the soldier. You see the pair exchange words, but you cannot hear what they say, they are as yet too distant. You assume the templar to be Mandax.
Mandax is plainly human, his thick jaw and large eyes are an instant giveaway, he also has a full head of grey hair, which is cut quite short. He carries an obsidian longsword without a sheath on his belt and does not appear to be a pleasant man. He is middle aged for a human, perhaps having lived 50 years or more and his face is beset by a few wrinkles, but he appears strong enough to set a man straight. He shoves Darb to the ground and walks to you with angry haste, his ebony robes rustling as he moves. Darb rises, dusts himself off, and follows closely behind. Mandax grows so near you fear he might step through you, but he stops, a foot or so away. Your human guards back away and Mandax bends down low and brings his face so near to yours you fear your noses might touch. You can feel his hot breath escaping from cracked lips on your face as he speaks, "Almighty Kalak of Tyr is not afraid of the cocky boy-king of Urik, or his flamboyant Templars who hide from slavers!! Your pitiful threats hold no weight here, runt! Bind him!" he shrieks at Darb who just came up from behind, but the half-elf does not comply, his eyes locked with yours, a look of sheer terror marring his face. Mandax grows furious and you silently scoff at his lack of self control. The Tyrian templar raises his hand and smashes the back of his fist across Darb's face. The half-elf stumbles to the ground and clutches at his bleeding jaw. The humans grow noticably nervous as Mandax begins shrieking again, "Superstitious wretch!!" He bends low and tears the rope free from the half-elf and then turns to you. His face red, his dark eyes clouded in rage, and breathing hard he roars at you, "Hamanu cannot save you now, swine." He snaps the rope taut between his hands.
The tiny beads of sweat which have begun to form at Lud's temples belie his relaxed exterior. Throughout Mandax's tirade he has remained completely unruffled, and now his passive blue gaze meets the black robed Templar's with a calm sureness. His grip tightens on the small amulet pressed into the palm of his hand, his lips scarcely moving as he utters soft words beneath his breath.
< I want to try casting Charm Person to make Mandax more amenable to at least bringing me to Tyr as something less than a prisoner in chains (or rope as the case may be). Should Lud get the chance to speak: >
"I am on a diplomatic mission to Tyr; I have no wish to challenge your power, nor the power of Kalak the Almighty, merely to discuss the trade routes from Urik to Tyr."
Growling a Dwarven curse beneath his breath, Lud bares his teeth in a rictus snarl and sets upon Mandax with his Flail. His expression is purposefully menacing, almost feral, as he hopes to keep Darb and his counterparts at bay through ferocity alone. The time for subtletly and diplomacy is at an end; all that goes through Lud's mind is the simple fact that he will not be taken as a Tyrian slave. Sooner death than such a disgrace, sooner death than return to Urik in failure.
Despite being trained in the cool halls of Urik's palaces, Lud has the ancestry of warriors. It is bred into his bones. The flail at his hip is off and sailing towards Mandax's knees before the taller human has finished uttering his incantations.
With all the force you can muster and with the might and the fury that is your heritage you smite at the preposterously cowardly templar. You can't imagine why he would leave himself so open to an attack, but the idea does strike you that he's begging for attention from the rest of the templars in the square. In the seconds it takes you to reach for your flail and bring it forth (which is no more than a heartbeat) a ball of orange light begins to grow and shimmer between the uplifted hands of the templar. You swing the mighty flail in a whistling verticle arc while his spell grows with the strength of Kalak. But as soon as the heavy obsidian head strikes him in the sternum, (rolled 16 when 13 is success, damage: 2) creating a sound that closely parallels a steel axe chopping a wet log, the light dims like a blown out candle until it fades completely. He grunts, and stumbles backwards nearly falling off his feet but carefully catches himself with one hand before he becomes entirely prostrate. He screams to Darb and the humans, "Take him! He will be humiliated for this insult!" Mandax does not appear to be heavily injured, else he wouldn't be screaming so loudly. Darb readies his club and so do the humans, all three begin to advance. You pause for perhaps the length of half a heartbeat, deliberating your next step and survey your surroundings. The men on crodlus are also slowly moving in your direction, pondering along at an unconcerned rate (they will arrive in two rounds) tapping their beasts with their long polearms. The other templars seem to be enraptured with your presence and all eyes seemed to be turned toward you. You can see even the bonded slaves (former citizens) are pointing and staring and many of the guards foolishly take their eyes away from their prisoners to catch a glimpse of what is going on. Mandax begins to regain his composure and clutches his chest as he goes for his obsidian blade. Darb and the humans encircle you and begin to move in.
Mandax draws his blade and allows the sunlight glinting off its many black facets to catch you in the eyes. At best he looks clumsy and awkward in a combative stance and flowing black robes. His henchmen, however, look much more lithe and deadly preparing to engage in a flurry of ballet like melees and probably bludgeon you to death. The humans grin through mouths that have lost a few teeth and look as though they've seen more than a few barroom brawls and their eyes shine with hate and bloodthirst. Darb's face is wracked with nothing less than superstitious terror but nevertheless he raises his weapon, his fear of the wrath of Kalak is much greater than that of a single Templar from a distant city.
"Stop!" bellows one of the two approaching riders. He is no different than the others save that he wears a helmet brush-like crest of one of the King's Centurions. He carries the polearm with the same wicked barb as the others and his armor is leather and undecorated. The glances and eyes of your assailants flit to the rider, but they do not relinquish their attention to you. Even Mandax relaxes visibly and slightly lowers his blade, but none turn to face the man. "Kill him and you will face death yourself, Templar Mandax. Do you think we did not see what you have done?" Mandax backs away from you two steps before turning to face the rider, who apparently holds authority over him.
"He has insulted me m'lord! And our Lord and King Kalak of Tyr!" whines the cowardly Templar.
"All the more reason why he would deserve a life on Kalak's mighty Ziggurat! Our Lord and King has ordered that all able-bodied people be taken, and we wouldn't want King Kalak to discover that a capable slave was cut down before he could do a moments work, think you otherwise, worm?" retorts the thick chested rider, who now halts his mount only three feet from the Templar. He appears to be thoroughly enjoying his ability to look down his nose at a Kingpriest.
"Drop your weapons, runt. Resisting will only make things more painful for you." speaks Mandax, visibly vexxed by the insults flung at him by the rider.
Darb quickly returns his club to his belt and unsnaps the thick coil of giant hair rope from his hip. Mandax does not lower his blade and the humans peer at you like starved Tembos. Your flail is suddenly feeling very heavy.