Post by The Sergeant / Alisha on Aug 11, 2017 20:43:09 GMT
Three figures marched through sludge in the moonlight. The first held a torched, lighting his stubbled face and black, tied-back hair with a warm glow. The silhouette behind him was shorter, his thick legs a faster pace to keep up with the first man. The third figure, the largest of all, caused the mud to groan and churn under his weight. For hours they had marched through the marshes of the east until they arrived at the small port hamlet. The locals had named this place Port Ffirst. The small port village was simply two lines of dull wooden buildings, divided by a well worn dirt path, at the end of which the moonlight reflected off the surface of water.
As dawn rose the three adventures rose with it. Port Ffirst looked no more appealing in daylight. The water’s colour now visible as murky brown, the algae on its surface bobbing with the tide. A local man with thick greying hair, a fisherman by trade, took the adventurers out on a small boat across the water, circling around the marsh. With a gold coin his pocket the fisherman spent his morning teaching a man, a dwarf and a half-orc to row. He hoped this tale would earn him many drinks in evening to come at bar of the bunkhouse.
Val’s oar hit the surface of the water, splashing brown droplets into the air. Val had seen much of Kantas in his weeks here. The cold, snow covered mountains to the West of Daring Heights, the lush green forests to its South, a Twilight filled gorge to the pines in the North. And now a marsh. Boggy, and wet, a smelling of rotten leaves. Again his oar thrust into the water.
Val watched the Half-Orc row from the position in front of him, Moth’s large frame rocking the boat with each paddle. He thought of when he had seen Moth’s pale and lifeless body on the thick wooden table of the temple. His body punctured with wounds from the corrupted Keladry and her Twilight fiends. Dried blood congealed around the gashes and cuts, as an elderly priest wiped with a damp cloth over his wounded chest.
The marks of those wounds could still be seen on Moth’s body as he plunged his oar into water, bringing the small boat to a steady stop.
“You hear it.” The Dwarf turned to his companions
Val nodded, “Someone's fighting. A few someones.”
The men left the small boat, walking again through the boggy marsh toward the sound of methodical beats of metal on metal. The fisherman fingered the cold gold coin in his pocket as he watched them disappear into the swamp.
Deep into the marsh, the smell of stale water and rotting vegetation was as thick of the mud. A club landed with a dull thud onto a small wooden shield. A few moments later and again the club fell onto the shield. And again, and again the dull beat. The sound created a gentle rhythm, complemented by the light ting of a spear tip flicking against a sword. Again the club hit the shield. The club was held by a colourful large frog. The shield wielded by a larger, toad-like beast. There was no force behind the repetitive strikes. Beside these two sparring partners, a line of frogs and toads also went through the motions of sparring.
Moth, Dran and Val watched from a small patch of thick green ferns. Moth shook his head, his jaw slightly open. The three had heard of an endless fight between the frog-like Grungs and toadish Boliwogs, but this was no fight. This was barely practise.
The ferns rocked as Moth walked out of them, toward the two lines of frogs and toads. The nearest frog, who was preparing to once again hit his club against his combatant’s shield, turned at the disturbance to his right. The bright yellow stripes across the frogs lime green face almost paled at the sight of this Half-Orc giant. United, the fighting died down, and all focus was on Moth, “What are you doing.” the Half-Orc asked
“We’re fighting.” The toad with the shield spoke for the group, its large eyes looked at Moth’s long glaive then back to the Half-Orc.
“No, you’re not.”
Val smiled to himself as he watched Moth pass another lump of blue-toned cheese to a frog. Again this frog lavished praised, “Better than a swamp-rat wrapped in roasted pine cones.”
Both frogs and toads agreed with the review. Here cheese had won the day. Moth continued to share his food with his new culinary fans, as they shared with him their troubled tale.
“And so we are stuck in this constant state of war.” The Grung frog with the yellow stripes licked his lips, hoping to find a crumb of feta he had missed.
“Sila is right - stuck we were.” Arva, a toad-like Boliwog, large green pimples covering has naked back, was now sitting on his wooden shield, “Each Grung and Boli slain in endless battle, and for what -”
“For nothing.” Sila’s bright eyes blinked several times
“For nothing,” Arva repeated, “Our selfish leaders forcing us into the battle over and over again, no matter the cost, no matter the friends we lost. Now there are so few of us, we made a pact. When we are sent to battle we meet, practising our craft, and report back that we fought with not a toad lost.” Avra balled his three-fingered fist, hitting it into his shield.
“Or toad.” Sila held his hand out for another hit of feta.
Moth passed another chunk of the fine gloopy feta to Sila, “My friends -” for now after their share of tales and cheese, they certainly were, “your leaders are cowards. Yes, it is true Arva. They send you into battle, with no care for you or your kin. What would you say if we could offer you a way out.” Dran and Val looked to Moth, as did each amphibian in the marsh, “I ask you to leave your cowardice behind, and stand up for yourselves.”
And with the eyes of both tribes on him, Moth painted a picture of freedom and peace in their mind, each frog and toad nodding in turn. When Moth had finished, Arva stood, his frame reaching the same height as the sitting Half-Orc, “And how do we do this Moth?”
“Bring your leaders here, and we will take care of the rest.”
The day was drawing to a close, and still no sign of a Boli or Grung. Moth stood patiently in the centre of the marsh. Dran prayed, as he had done for the last few hours, by a small tree. Val had finally found a small patch of earth that was dry enough for him to sit upon. Pulling a small piece of dried meat from his pouch, he tore at is with his teeth. It was rich and salty. Val had not spoken to Moth about the Barbarian’s passing at the hands of Keladry’s Twilight warriors, or his restoration at the temple. He had many questions; what had Moth felt during that time, was he aware of his passing, and how did he feel now. Looking at the Barbarian Val sensed a calm in Moth he had not noticed before, as he watched the large figure stand peacefully in the mud covered marsh. Val finished the last of his jerky. When he had stopped chewing his hearing, like all of his senses - trained from childhood for survival, then picked up the distant noise of movement through the swamp.
“They’re coming.” Val stood, with his longsword in one hand, and shield in the other.
Dran ended his prayer and waited silently, and Moth’s grip on his glaive tightened. The three watched as from the north Arva and his fellow Boli’s approached. With them the translucent figure of a larger Boliwog glided above the putrid ground. As it moved small puddles of water rippled at the ghostly movement. The toad chief was a spiritual being with bulbous milky eyes, its body a pale grey, and its three fingered hands black.
“Who are these.” A wispy voice filled the marsh
Arva nodded toward Moth, “They, they must have stolen your treasure my chief.”
The ghostly toad looked to Arva, then to the adventurers. Suddenly it approached with the speed of a wild dog, as it screamed, “Give me my treasure.”
With that Moth, Dran and Val entered combat with the ghoulish Boli chief. Dran lay a holy hand on the creature, disturbing his charge. Val’s sword swept clean through the spiritual figure. In return the chief pieced Val deep, with a long cold finger nail. Val could feel life leaving his body, as he felt into the soggy ground. From behind the fiend Arva charged, his short sword drawn, his toad companions at his side. For a moment Moth readied himself to fight the small Boli warriors, until he say Arva’s blade tear a hole in the ghost’s back.
Turning, the chief roared out in horror at his warrior’s betrayal. Moth used the moment of distraction to piece deep, his magical blade sending a pain through the soul of the chief. Each Boliwog threw their might, their anger, and the sorrow into each blow as the ghost’s shape was torn, and ripped and finally shattered into the air. Only a faint and piercing cry remained.
Val lifted himself from the ground, and looked to Arva’s large eyes, and the water that built up in them. The eyes then darted to behind Val. Val followed Arva’s gaze to see from the South the Grungs approach, and with them their leader.
Its dark blue skin was covered in patches of faeces, both fresh and old. Although amphibian in origin, this creature did not resemble Sila and his fellow frog-like Grungs. It used all four limbs to walk, its front two arms large and muscular. From its mouth bright crimson blood poured between razor teeth, and from within its mouth it crushed the bright green head of one of its own tribe.
With slow purpose this beast surveyed the marsh, the Man, Dwarf, Half-Orf and toads that inhabited it. A fierce roar blasted the marsh and the beast ran for the group, tearing at the flesh of toad and man and dwarf and Half-Orc. Dran’s shield rung out as the beast’s fist landed, causing the metal to bend and dent at the impact. Val’s sword took purchase in the beast’s side. It had no trouble hitting the living, although the Grung leader’s flesh was thick and scaly.
Sila motioned to his fellow Grung fighters, “Now,” and they ran forward, Sila the first to beat his club into his master’s side.
“For the Grungs,” Moth roared, as he plunged his blade deep into the monster’s thick throat, sending it stumbling in pain. Grung and Boli climbed upon the beast and beat and stabbed, until the wailing stopped. Then silence, but for the deep breaths of the surviving warriors.
“We’ve won. We’ve actually won.” Arva dropped his weapon.
“We are free.” Sila clasped a fellow frog to him
And what was once a battlefield, was now a celebration. Frogged leaped for joy and toads rolled in mud. Weapons lay on the ground, and smiles filled the wide faced of the victors. One Grung began drumming on a hollow tree, while another began to sing in deep tones. One fat Boli slapped his belly in time with the Grung’s singing, while others took to what Val could make out as an ancient tribal dance filled with jumping high and low. And Moth and Val and Dran smiled and laughed and jumped with them for a time.
Returning to Daring Heights Dran looked up to Val. The two of them silent for much of their journey home. Moth had stayed in Port Ffirst, for a night or two he had told them.
The sun had set a few hours ago, but as they approached the centre of town, noise still emanated from the Ettin.
Dran and Val shook hands and smiled, sharing a memory of their time in the marsh before parting ways.
As Val turned a corner his attention was caught by bright green eyes illuminated by the torches outside the temple. The same temple Moth had been resurrected at. Val’s pace slowed, as he turned his head, and focused his eyes in the darkness. A golden glow framed the green eyes, jet black hair, and pale white skin. Round red lips, and a hood. The woman was alone of the street. She looked at Val, and he stopped, turning to the woman. He said nothing, and for a moment stared into emerald eyes.
From behind her a voice came from within the temple. He recognised the harsh city tone, “Why stand you in the darkness pal, best get home, now run along Val.” The figure of Porky Pie exited the temple. His shaved head, sharp noise and thin frame. In his hand an empty white sack.
Val stood, motionless and still, his body tense. Porky stood next to the woman with green eyes, and for a moment they both stared at Val, before turning and walking side by side down the street without saying a word.
Val watched as they turned a corner and vanished from sight. He turned to leave, but hesitated at the sound of moment from with the temple. Another figure exited, shuffling into the torch light. An elderly priest, the very man who had lead the ritual to revive Moth appeared. In the priest’s hand a similar white sack Porky had held, but this looked full, and at the bottle stains of deep red. The priest saw Val but avoided his eyes as he too walked down the road and out of site.
That night Val turned as in lay in bed, the hay of his pillow agitating his neck, and the vision of bright green eyes, jet black hair and pale skin filling his mind.
As dawn rose the three adventures rose with it. Port Ffirst looked no more appealing in daylight. The water’s colour now visible as murky brown, the algae on its surface bobbing with the tide. A local man with thick greying hair, a fisherman by trade, took the adventurers out on a small boat across the water, circling around the marsh. With a gold coin his pocket the fisherman spent his morning teaching a man, a dwarf and a half-orc to row. He hoped this tale would earn him many drinks in evening to come at bar of the bunkhouse.
Val’s oar hit the surface of the water, splashing brown droplets into the air. Val had seen much of Kantas in his weeks here. The cold, snow covered mountains to the West of Daring Heights, the lush green forests to its South, a Twilight filled gorge to the pines in the North. And now a marsh. Boggy, and wet, a smelling of rotten leaves. Again his oar thrust into the water.
Val watched the Half-Orc row from the position in front of him, Moth’s large frame rocking the boat with each paddle. He thought of when he had seen Moth’s pale and lifeless body on the thick wooden table of the temple. His body punctured with wounds from the corrupted Keladry and her Twilight fiends. Dried blood congealed around the gashes and cuts, as an elderly priest wiped with a damp cloth over his wounded chest.
The marks of those wounds could still be seen on Moth’s body as he plunged his oar into water, bringing the small boat to a steady stop.
“You hear it.” The Dwarf turned to his companions
Val nodded, “Someone's fighting. A few someones.”
The men left the small boat, walking again through the boggy marsh toward the sound of methodical beats of metal on metal. The fisherman fingered the cold gold coin in his pocket as he watched them disappear into the swamp.
---
Deep into the marsh, the smell of stale water and rotting vegetation was as thick of the mud. A club landed with a dull thud onto a small wooden shield. A few moments later and again the club fell onto the shield. And again, and again the dull beat. The sound created a gentle rhythm, complemented by the light ting of a spear tip flicking against a sword. Again the club hit the shield. The club was held by a colourful large frog. The shield wielded by a larger, toad-like beast. There was no force behind the repetitive strikes. Beside these two sparring partners, a line of frogs and toads also went through the motions of sparring.
Moth, Dran and Val watched from a small patch of thick green ferns. Moth shook his head, his jaw slightly open. The three had heard of an endless fight between the frog-like Grungs and toadish Boliwogs, but this was no fight. This was barely practise.
The ferns rocked as Moth walked out of them, toward the two lines of frogs and toads. The nearest frog, who was preparing to once again hit his club against his combatant’s shield, turned at the disturbance to his right. The bright yellow stripes across the frogs lime green face almost paled at the sight of this Half-Orc giant. United, the fighting died down, and all focus was on Moth, “What are you doing.” the Half-Orc asked
“We’re fighting.” The toad with the shield spoke for the group, its large eyes looked at Moth’s long glaive then back to the Half-Orc.
“No, you’re not.”
Val smiled to himself as he watched Moth pass another lump of blue-toned cheese to a frog. Again this frog lavished praised, “Better than a swamp-rat wrapped in roasted pine cones.”
Both frogs and toads agreed with the review. Here cheese had won the day. Moth continued to share his food with his new culinary fans, as they shared with him their troubled tale.
“And so we are stuck in this constant state of war.” The Grung frog with the yellow stripes licked his lips, hoping to find a crumb of feta he had missed.
“Sila is right - stuck we were.” Arva, a toad-like Boliwog, large green pimples covering has naked back, was now sitting on his wooden shield, “Each Grung and Boli slain in endless battle, and for what -”
“For nothing.” Sila’s bright eyes blinked several times
“For nothing,” Arva repeated, “Our selfish leaders forcing us into the battle over and over again, no matter the cost, no matter the friends we lost. Now there are so few of us, we made a pact. When we are sent to battle we meet, practising our craft, and report back that we fought with not a toad lost.” Avra balled his three-fingered fist, hitting it into his shield.
“Or toad.” Sila held his hand out for another hit of feta.
Moth passed another chunk of the fine gloopy feta to Sila, “My friends -” for now after their share of tales and cheese, they certainly were, “your leaders are cowards. Yes, it is true Arva. They send you into battle, with no care for you or your kin. What would you say if we could offer you a way out.” Dran and Val looked to Moth, as did each amphibian in the marsh, “I ask you to leave your cowardice behind, and stand up for yourselves.”
And with the eyes of both tribes on him, Moth painted a picture of freedom and peace in their mind, each frog and toad nodding in turn. When Moth had finished, Arva stood, his frame reaching the same height as the sitting Half-Orc, “And how do we do this Moth?”
“Bring your leaders here, and we will take care of the rest.”
---
The day was drawing to a close, and still no sign of a Boli or Grung. Moth stood patiently in the centre of the marsh. Dran prayed, as he had done for the last few hours, by a small tree. Val had finally found a small patch of earth that was dry enough for him to sit upon. Pulling a small piece of dried meat from his pouch, he tore at is with his teeth. It was rich and salty. Val had not spoken to Moth about the Barbarian’s passing at the hands of Keladry’s Twilight warriors, or his restoration at the temple. He had many questions; what had Moth felt during that time, was he aware of his passing, and how did he feel now. Looking at the Barbarian Val sensed a calm in Moth he had not noticed before, as he watched the large figure stand peacefully in the mud covered marsh. Val finished the last of his jerky. When he had stopped chewing his hearing, like all of his senses - trained from childhood for survival, then picked up the distant noise of movement through the swamp.
“They’re coming.” Val stood, with his longsword in one hand, and shield in the other.
Dran ended his prayer and waited silently, and Moth’s grip on his glaive tightened. The three watched as from the north Arva and his fellow Boli’s approached. With them the translucent figure of a larger Boliwog glided above the putrid ground. As it moved small puddles of water rippled at the ghostly movement. The toad chief was a spiritual being with bulbous milky eyes, its body a pale grey, and its three fingered hands black.
“Who are these.” A wispy voice filled the marsh
Arva nodded toward Moth, “They, they must have stolen your treasure my chief.”
The ghostly toad looked to Arva, then to the adventurers. Suddenly it approached with the speed of a wild dog, as it screamed, “Give me my treasure.”
With that Moth, Dran and Val entered combat with the ghoulish Boli chief. Dran lay a holy hand on the creature, disturbing his charge. Val’s sword swept clean through the spiritual figure. In return the chief pieced Val deep, with a long cold finger nail. Val could feel life leaving his body, as he felt into the soggy ground. From behind the fiend Arva charged, his short sword drawn, his toad companions at his side. For a moment Moth readied himself to fight the small Boli warriors, until he say Arva’s blade tear a hole in the ghost’s back.
Turning, the chief roared out in horror at his warrior’s betrayal. Moth used the moment of distraction to piece deep, his magical blade sending a pain through the soul of the chief. Each Boliwog threw their might, their anger, and the sorrow into each blow as the ghost’s shape was torn, and ripped and finally shattered into the air. Only a faint and piercing cry remained.
Val lifted himself from the ground, and looked to Arva’s large eyes, and the water that built up in them. The eyes then darted to behind Val. Val followed Arva’s gaze to see from the South the Grungs approach, and with them their leader.
Its dark blue skin was covered in patches of faeces, both fresh and old. Although amphibian in origin, this creature did not resemble Sila and his fellow frog-like Grungs. It used all four limbs to walk, its front two arms large and muscular. From its mouth bright crimson blood poured between razor teeth, and from within its mouth it crushed the bright green head of one of its own tribe.
With slow purpose this beast surveyed the marsh, the Man, Dwarf, Half-Orf and toads that inhabited it. A fierce roar blasted the marsh and the beast ran for the group, tearing at the flesh of toad and man and dwarf and Half-Orc. Dran’s shield rung out as the beast’s fist landed, causing the metal to bend and dent at the impact. Val’s sword took purchase in the beast’s side. It had no trouble hitting the living, although the Grung leader’s flesh was thick and scaly.
Sila motioned to his fellow Grung fighters, “Now,” and they ran forward, Sila the first to beat his club into his master’s side.
“For the Grungs,” Moth roared, as he plunged his blade deep into the monster’s thick throat, sending it stumbling in pain. Grung and Boli climbed upon the beast and beat and stabbed, until the wailing stopped. Then silence, but for the deep breaths of the surviving warriors.
“We’ve won. We’ve actually won.” Arva dropped his weapon.
“We are free.” Sila clasped a fellow frog to him
And what was once a battlefield, was now a celebration. Frogged leaped for joy and toads rolled in mud. Weapons lay on the ground, and smiles filled the wide faced of the victors. One Grung began drumming on a hollow tree, while another began to sing in deep tones. One fat Boli slapped his belly in time with the Grung’s singing, while others took to what Val could make out as an ancient tribal dance filled with jumping high and low. And Moth and Val and Dran smiled and laughed and jumped with them for a time.
---
Returning to Daring Heights Dran looked up to Val. The two of them silent for much of their journey home. Moth had stayed in Port Ffirst, for a night or two he had told them.
The sun had set a few hours ago, but as they approached the centre of town, noise still emanated from the Ettin.
Dran and Val shook hands and smiled, sharing a memory of their time in the marsh before parting ways.
As Val turned a corner his attention was caught by bright green eyes illuminated by the torches outside the temple. The same temple Moth had been resurrected at. Val’s pace slowed, as he turned his head, and focused his eyes in the darkness. A golden glow framed the green eyes, jet black hair, and pale white skin. Round red lips, and a hood. The woman was alone of the street. She looked at Val, and he stopped, turning to the woman. He said nothing, and for a moment stared into emerald eyes.
From behind her a voice came from within the temple. He recognised the harsh city tone, “Why stand you in the darkness pal, best get home, now run along Val.” The figure of Porky Pie exited the temple. His shaved head, sharp noise and thin frame. In his hand an empty white sack.
Val stood, motionless and still, his body tense. Porky stood next to the woman with green eyes, and for a moment they both stared at Val, before turning and walking side by side down the street without saying a word.
Val watched as they turned a corner and vanished from sight. He turned to leave, but hesitated at the sound of moment from with the temple. Another figure exited, shuffling into the torch light. An elderly priest, the very man who had lead the ritual to revive Moth appeared. In the priest’s hand a similar white sack Porky had held, but this looked full, and at the bottle stains of deep red. The priest saw Val but avoided his eyes as he too walked down the road and out of site.
That night Val turned as in lay in bed, the hay of his pillow agitating his neck, and the vision of bright green eyes, jet black hair and pale skin filling his mind.