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Thank you all for your kind comments, hope you enjoy these.

Careful readers may note that Valric has failed at all the stunts he's tried so far (must be a curse of men-at-arms, I fully understand how Sigard feels about his perform rolls)

Stylistically, I have relied heavily on Howard and Gemmel, it just seems ... appropriate ... for IH

Without further ado, here's part 3 (actually the conclusion of our first session)

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The ascetic from Medegia found the thick forest oppressive. He followed his companions along a narrow trail, barely worthy of the name, which Valric assured him the previous nights ambushers had used. Both Kelsar and the Tormian seemed knowledgeable in wood-lore, though the latter seemed more confident. Nato soon lost all sense of direction, and concentrated on keeping alert for further ambuscades.
        Thus they marched for hours through heavy underbrush. It was relatively cool, as the sunlight reached the ground rarely. The footing got more treacherous as they went deeper into the wood, but Natos natural agility helped him match the other mens experience. Suddenly, Valric paused, holding his hand up for silence. The former pike man crouched as he studied the soft loam, and peered forward along the path intently. I hear men speaking ahead. From the tracks, at least three. He loaded his crossbow and held it ready as he advanced warily. And then he stood straight, growling they heard us, go! and ran as fast as he could down the trail, his companions close behind.
        It was all the three men could do to avoid tripping in the brush, or slipping on the mossy ground. Now all three could hear the sounds of men running ahead, and Kelsar and Nato drew their blades as they followed the tall soldier. As they were beginning to tire of the breakneck pace, Valric slowed, and then stopped. What is it? Kelsar looked around warily, seeing naught. I can no longer hear them The Tormian was interrupted as four men jumped down from their perches on the high branches, heavy knives flashing.
        Nato barely avoided a killing thrust, and brought his blade up horizontally, smashing the long hilt in the bridge of his enemys nose to buy some space. As the knife came again at his face, he dropped to one knee and slashed his sword across the attackers midriff, disemboweling him.
        Kelsar felt a knife blade slash across his left arm, but ignored the sting as he reversed his grip on Scaitha, to better fight in the cramped trail. He deftly parried two more slashes, and then moved the curved blade in a figure eight which culminated in slashing the brigands throat.
        The other two brigands converged on Valric, stabbing savagely at the taller man. But he was all but invulnerable in his armor, the iron scales turning the keen knives. He dropped his crossbow and brought up his round shield, pushing one of them into a tree. As the other stabbed for his back, he half-turned and whipped out his broadsword with uncanny speed, striking his opponents knife-hand off. His blade then came down on the screaming brigands skull, shattering it. He turned to see Kelsar drive his sword through the other ambusher.
        As the three men recovered their breath from the short, savage fight, they examined their fallen foes. They were typical Agedonians, clad in leather armor studded with bronze. They bore heavy, curved fighting knives. They had no coin or other accoutrements. These are not hunters, skilled as they were. Valric spoke as he studied one of the weapons. Heh. They are trained killers. The pike man and the swordthane exchanged glances at the cool certainty with which Nato spoke.

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        It was dusk by the time the three warriors reached the stockade. It was a well built palisade, twenty feet high, with what appeared to be parapets on which stood crossbow-bearing sentinels. They skirted along the edge of the woods until they were at the point closest to the walls. There were still over thirty feet of killing ground to cross, should they be sighted.
        I can reach the wall unseen, and kill one of the guards. Nato again spoke without arrogance, but with obvious confidence. But there is one other sentinel who is too close. We need to eliminate two at once. He looked expectantly at Kelsar, who smiled as he answered. I am not much for stealth, friend. And Valrics mail is likely to make noise as well The Tormian smiled wolfishly in the moonlight. I have been in some night-time ambuscades in the past. I may be able to help.
        Nato glided across the clearing unseen. He deftly cast a rope to one of the pointed logs, and climbed noiselessly to the top. As the guard turned to look inside the compound for a moment, the ascetic gained the wall, and slashed his sword deep into his preys throat. He then looked to the next parapet, to see Valric hacking down the other guard. The soldier wore a sleeveless coat of thick leather studded with iron, and carried nothing but his sword, knife, and the shield at his back. The coal and ashes he had smeared on arms and face for camouflage, as well as the heavy mustache, made him seem even fiercer than he did in his full armor. Nato signaled for Kelsar to approach, and steadied the rope as the blademaster climbed.
        From above they could see several cabins, all built of log. Many women and children in rags and chains were lined against the walls, some sleeping, and some weeping. A few guards were swaggering about, some of them studying the captives as if they were merchandise. The warriors swiftly descended from the parapets, and looked into the windows of the nearest cabin and were horrified to see that yet more captives were within, being used brutally by their depraved captors. Children were as numerous as women among these victims.
        Valric whispered hoarsely, his face devoid of emotion. I shall circle around the left, you two go around the right. Wait until you hear the sounds of combat. He then moved off, blade in hand. Kelsar and Nato crouched against a cabin wall, mapping out the best path to avoid betraying moonlight or torchlight.
        The pike man from Tovarre stalked silently keeping close to the outer wall. The piteous screams coming from the cabins suggested they were all being used for the same vile purpose. Ahead, he could see four horses tethered to a hitching post, and three men trading crude jests. It was time. He raised his heavy blade in a two-handed grip, and pounced on his foes with the fury of a wounded panther. The keen Scorian blade shattered the first mans left shoulder, and then whipped around to smash into his forehead. The two survivors, as well as the women chained nearby, shouted at this grim, death-dealing apparition in black war-paint. The two ruffians recovered quickly, and drew curved swords and knives as they closed on the Tormian.
        Valric reached back for his shield as he sliced at the right-hand foe, scoring his forearm. The two men tried to move to his sides, but the wily soldier kept close to the wall, stymieing their efforts. He then raised his shield and charged into them. Their blades fell against the scarred, polished wood as he thrust beneath it, disemboweling the wounded brigand. He twisted and pulled his sword free, scattering blood and vitals into the air. As the last thug shrank from the gore, Valrics blade came down one last time, splitting his skull to the teeth.
        The tall soldier then looked around the building to his right, and saw a great melee in the middle of the compound. His companions had obviously ignored his recommendations, and on hearing the sounds of his battle, they had charged into the center of the yard. Amateurs! he thought. They fought over half a dozen foes, some bearing curved killing-knives, and others sharp glaives, with which they attempted to keep Kelsar at bay. In the center of the storm was a burly man clad in a long mail hauberk, and wielding a weapon even more exotic than Natos: an iron rod, over a foot in length, with a spiked ball and chain swinging from each end.
        Kelsar fought with every ounce of his skill, every move intended to bring him closer to the leader of these cruel degenerates. But somehow, one of his men always managed to step in his way, usually falling to Scaitha in the process. Nato concentrated on the periphery of the fight, deftly parrying glaives and knives, as he tumbled behind his foes and cut them down with cold precision. It was the ascetic who first heard the neighs of frightened horses. He stepped back as four steeds stampeded through the melee, making all combatants pause for a moment as the beasts moved past.
Behind them came the tramp of heavy feet, and Nato smiled as he moved away from the nearest brigand. The latter turned, bewildered, to see Valric take a running leap and land slashing. The heavy sword took him in the right shoulder, severing it, and the arm, from the rest of what now was his corpse. The three swordsmen now attacked with renewed vigor, their blades severing limbs, crushing skulls, and piercing vitals. In a few moments, the mailed villain was alone amongst them. But he showed courage to the end.
The twin spiked iron spheres whirled uncannily fast, and the mercenaries had to dodge and block desperately to avoid broken or mangled limbs. They darted in, wolf like, to strike at the weakest points in the mans armor, but he seemed to shrug them off and press his attack. Kelsar leveled Scaitha and thrust at the mans face, driving him back into Valric. The soldier brought his shield up to block the flail, and at that moment Nato darted in, pushing one end of his blade beneath the villains left arm, piercing deeply. The mailed degenerate screamed in pain and fury, and circled his double flail in a wide arc. Nato barely dodged, but Kelsar brought his curved sword into its path, tangling one of the chains. Before the bandit leader could free his weapon, Valrics sword came down on his neck, hard. Though the blade barely pierced the iron scales, the weight behind it was enough to shatter the mans neck, and he fell as a pole-axed steer.

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        The three swordsmen looked at the burning stockade grimly, as the freed slaves prepared for the march back to Peredrin. The few surviving bandits had been stabbed and mauled to pieces by the slaves, after Kelsar had allowed the latter group to choose the fate of their tormentors. Grim was the justice of the Dalasian swordthanes. Before the mass execution, however, they had learned that the Viceroys son was not in the stockade of the Red Zealots. He had been given to a merchant named Aldamand, who apparently was high in the councils of the Congress of Phidios. They had little reason to doubt this, as the Viceroys signet ring had been found in the fallen leaders belt pouch.
        Valric, back in his armor, was looking along the wider trail leading out of the forest, his pale eyes seeking any returning patrols. As Nato distributed part of the coin they had taken from the slavers among the freed victims, the slender swordthane approached the soldier. This Aldamand they say he is quite wealthy and influential. We will need to speak to Rirardus before we seek him out. The Tormian grunted in assent, as he studied one of the glaives from the stockade. Kelsar pressed on. I have some experience with noblemen and politics. This does not bode well. Valric smiled grimly.
        I know little of politics. But in the past, selling my sword in peacetime has always been more perilous than any honest open battle I have fought. Why should this time be any different? The two men could not suspect this was the first time a Tormian and a Dalasian had laughed together in many years.
       
Notes:
1- Tovarre is the nothern mountainous region of Tormos.
2- Scoria is a city-state to the north east of Agedon, renowned for its fine weaponsmiths

Part 5 (our complete third session)

Fighting pits! Marcovald says they have fighting pits! And well be there in a mere three days! Though quite nauseated from the pitch and roll of the Falcos as it sailed along the north coast of Agedon towards the port of Asdrabal, Nato could not suppress his enthusiasm. The shaven-headed ascetic from Medegia claimed to be the only survivor of a city destroyed by a great volcano. His companions now learned this city had once boasted the largest coliseum in that ancient land, and had been famous for bloody gladiatorial bouts.
        Bjorn Wolfheim looked up from the gunwale at which he was retching. The huge, red-haired barbarian was also unused to travel by ship, but his interest was piqued by the conversation. You mean to fight in these pits, little man?
        Nato smiled dreamily. Both glory and gold can be made there, my friends both could help us on our journey.
        Kelsar Sularios said nothing, but could not deny a certain interest. The slender swordthane came from a land where a mans skill in single combat was synonymous with honor. It would be, at the least, an educational experience. He half-expected Valric to add something, but noticed that the tall soldier from Tormos was once again speaking to Smitty, the stout boatswain who oversaw the thirty sailors manning the graceful trading vessel.
        By the gods, man! I know shes a merchant ship! Valric tugged on his mustache. But I know first-hand there are pirates in the Merchant Sea. Indeed, on more than one occasion the former pike man had served as a marine in Tormish warships, and one of their duties had been to hunt such renegades down. There must be something you do to defend yourselves.
        The gruff boatswain laughed. Aye, lad, it do rasp the soul to give up without a struggle, thus we keep some steel caps, bows, and axes below. But we are not fighters. Our best defense is to sail for land. Now, do you want to learn how to use the steering oars or not? Valric grunted his acquiescence, and paid close attention to Smittys instructions. Kelsar smiled and shook his head. How could one man think he could master every skill he witnessed?

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        The North Star, master Sularios. That is the azimuth you must always seek, if you intend to navigate by the evening sky. Captain Marcovald was warming to his subject. The captain was something of a dandy, and had been a pirate himself, but he was clearly a professional. He stood on the forecastle with Kelsar and Valric, taking advantage of the clear night sky to answer their questions. As he was about to expound, they were interrupted by Natos voice. Man overboard!
        They looked to see the Medegian sprint along the port gunwale and leap up the stairs to the poop deck, freeing his double-bladed sword as he went. Boarders! He was joined by Bjorn, the latter brandishing a heavy greatsword. Kelsar instinctively drew Scaitha, the long, curved blade shimmering in the moonlight, as he raced down the stairs, following Nato. Valric followed more slowly, pausing to look over the port bow for possible ambushers.
        Kelsar felt rather than heard a presence behind him, and whirled, bringing Scaitha in a sweeping parry which saved his life. In the scant lantern light of the mid-deck he saw a slim, pale woman clad in black leathers, who had almost skewered him with a jagged-edged greatsword. He went into a defensive crouch, keeping the woman at bay as his eyes became use to the gloom.
        Valric saw Kelsar under attack, as he heard the ascetic and the Northman fighting on the poop deck. As Marcovald called his sailors to arms, the Tormian raced down the forecastle stairs to Kelsars side. The leather-clad assassin whirled, and he was stunned to see the pale face and dark tresses of the woman who had demanded the Viceroys ring back in Peredrin. In that instant she leapt up, twirling gracefully, and tumbled over the big soldier, swinging her cruel sword as she landed. The serrated edge slammed straight onto his back, and Kelsar thought the Torm would surely be slain. But as the barbs tore through the leather jerkin, skin, and thick muscles below, Valric was already in motion.
        With surprising agility, he jumped to catch the rigging, swung out over the rail, and landed behind the supple slayer before she could react. His sword flashed into his hand, and it was all she could do to parry his vengeful riposte. And as she did so, Scaitha, the sword of shadows, sliced into her shoulder. The tide of the battle quickly turned, as even the womans skill and grace were not enough to hold the two swordsmen at bay. She parried desperately, with little opportunity to counterattack. As they pressed her back against the gunwale, she cursed, and leapt backwards into the dark ocean. As a souvenir she took a slash from the Torms broadsword along her supple thigh. The swordthane could not refrain from shouting after her: We gave the ring to the Viceroy!
        The two men turned to see to their comrades, and saw a dark-clad man approaching with a short, curved sword in hand. Kelsar merely smiled, as Valric shook blood from his blade, and turned his pale eyes grimly on the assassin. The look of fear on the mans face was almost comical, as he cast himself over the gunwale with the utmost urgency.
        Bjorn and Nato approached at a run, having dispatched two foes in the poop deck.
Kelsar turned grimly to the Medegian. She was the odd woman from Peredrin, my friend and she fights like you. The Medegian shook his head. They were Furistani assassins. Bjorn had never heard of that place, but Valric knew of it. It was a mysterious land, to the south of Tormos, peopled by bronze-skinned tribesmen who all but worshipped their jungles. How this pale woman learned to fight in their style was puzzling. Nato went on. These men have a dire reputation someone must have spent quite a bit of silver to see us dead.
        Valric laughed gruffly. Should we be flattered, then? His companions turned to see the big man look pale in the moonlight, as he held on to the gunwale. Nato walked behind him, and examined the ragged wound on his back. It was still bleeding freely. Come, now, friend. Let us get that stitched. Valric nodded, but then cursed as he looked around. Where the hell is Braddock? Bjorn laughed loudly. He prefers to puke in the cabin!

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        I demand these men be hung! The gangly, weasel-faced Galvano, Chief Advocate of Asdrabal, was red-faced as he spoke. The corpulent, purple robed magistrate listened impassively, grasping his staff of office firmly. You cannot listen to their base lies, milord Baramundo! After all, the lord Aldamand is one of the most prestigious merchants in all of Agedon, and of royal blood. What matter these absurd accusations of depravity, coming from the mouths of these foreign mendicants?
        The alleged mendicants were, of course, none other than Valric Dagonar, Kelsar Sularios, Bjorn Wolfheim, and Nato of Medegia, all of whom appeared quite incensed at the moment. The rest of their three-day trip to Asdrabal had been uneventful, but on arrival, over a score of guardsmen had approached the Falcos at the docks, demanding their surrender. They had done so only out of concern for Marcovald and his crew, but they were now regretting this uncharacteristic kindness. Their chances for freedom, or even survival, seemed increasingly slim, and appeared to rest in the hands of a man known as Konraud. This effete but businesslike courtier had arrived as their trial started, and was defending them with an uncanny knowledge of the events in Peredrin.
        My lord Baramundo, I must insist. Konraud spoke crisply, without fawning. The facts are clear. Faldron, the son of Viceroy Caetan, was being held at the manse of Lord Aldamand. These men were instrumental in returning him, safely, to his father. If a few guards were slain in this altercation, which is hardly a capital offense
        Enough! Baramundo interrupted Konraud by slamming his brass-shod staff of office on the floor stones. My decision has been made. They shall not be hanged.
        Galvano sputtered as he interrupted. But milord
        Silence! Baramundo again slammed his staff on the stones. I have not finished. The honor of a great noble of this realm has been sullied by commoners, and they will make restitution. They will each pay a fine of five thousand pieces of silver. He paused to look at the four men blanch at this princely sum. Should they be unable to pay their fine, they shall be exiled to the Golgan Isles for the rest of their natural lives.

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        I am the son of Olek Sularios, Warden of Darendal, and Captain of the Host. The blood of many generations of noble Dalasians runs through my veins! I have the right to trial by combat! The slender yet powerful swordthane paced angrily in the small meeting room they had been granted to discuss their options.
        The decision had not been difficult, particularly after hearing about the Golgan Isles. There were two of these, located in the center of the stormy Merchant Sea. The larger one was avoided by all, as a century past the Medegian government had used it as a sanatorium of sorts (really as a place of exile) for the victims of a mysterious plague known as the Rage. None alive remembered the symptoms of this disease, and none alive cared to know if this diseased colony still survived. Condemned prisoners were exiled to the smaller isle, which was a barren piece of rock, with no fresh water or significant vegetation. It was a sentence tantamount to death by starvation.
Konraud sighed, and then spoke placatingly. That may be true, milord. But you are not in Daladan. Agedon does not follow such laws. But do not fret! He raised his hands as the swordthane whirled on him, anger in his coal-black eyes. My master, Viceroy Caetan, is extremely thankful for your assistance, and feels indebted to you, despite his earlier generosity. He will pay your fines, but he asks a small favor.
        Valric Dagonar ran two fingers down his fierce mustache, knowing the words the man would speak, without a shadow of a doubt.
        To offset this great expense, the Viceroy asks that each of you fight a single match in the gladiatorial pits of Asdrabal to the death!

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        The next day dawned bright and cloudless, the Agedonian summer being now well on its way. It was not until mid-morning, however, that the first bout was announced. The coliseum was thronged with spectators from all parts of Asdrabal, and beyond. What did it matter if the wealthy sat on cushions in the shade, and drank cool wine provided by winsome slaves, whilst the poor sat on hard stone benches in the sweltering sun? They were here to see blood and battle, the finest entertainment as far as the folk of Asdrabal were concerned.
        Nato stepped confidently into the arena. Alone among the condemned men, he was enthusiastic about this situation although Kelsar seemed to take this as a way to prove his innocence via combat, and was not at all distraught. Braddock was of course exempt, as his severe sea-sickness had kept him confined to the cabin, and thus clear of the law. Bjorn was completely indifferent to the situation. Northern barbarians approached life with a cold fatalism that the young ascetic could not understand. But odder still was Valrics reaction. The former pike man from Tovarre was the most skilled soldier, and versatile warrior, Nato had ever met. He had yet to shy from combat. But he had seemed quite annoyed by the concept of fighting for someone elses pleasure.
        Not so with Nato. He was the only survivor of the terrible flaming mountain that had destroyed Aerii. This ancient Medegian city had been known for the largest Coliseum in the ancient times, and was particularly famous for its gladiators. He saw in this situation an opportunity to live up to his heritage. Of course, the razor-sharp double-bladed sword, and the skill to wield it, which he obtained from the monks of Corstudeo bolstered both his confidence and his enthusiasm.
        He was mildly disconcerted, however, to see that he stepped not into an open arena, but into a large iron cage. He looked to the opposite end of the cage, to see a great gate open, and his foe slink out. For it was not a man, but a massive, man-eating tiger, over five hundred pounds of furred, clawed, and fanged fury. The mighty beast snarled as it saw its prey, and it prepared to pounce. Nato forgot all about Aerii and its vanished glory as his training took over. He ran forth, leapt, somersaulted, and came down hard, putting his weight behind his weapon as he drove one of the blades into the base of the tigers slanted skull. The great cat died without a whimper.
        For a few heartbeats there was an awed silence throughout the coliseum, but suddenly, all of the spectators began cheering him at once. The roars of approval were deafening. Nato lifted his blood-tinged blade and let the crowds energy surge through him. He could almost see his long-dead countrymen cheering for their champions, and, as he celebrated, he prayed to his gods in thanks.
       
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        Bjorn Wolfheim strode boldly into the arena, the very picture of a barbarian from the Northern Reaches. He was well over six feet in height, had long, unkempt red hair, dressed in poorly-cured wolf pelts, and bore a massive greatsword of plain but sturdy make. He roared at the crowd as they cheered his entrance. The opposite gates opened, and his foes entered. Two lightly armored gladiators bearing nets, tridents, and short swords.
        The barbarian wasted no time in preliminaries, charging the man to his left. The other cast his net, but missed the rapidly-moving Northman. The first man parried the greatsword as the other closed on Bjorn with trident in one hand and blade in the other. And then, the Northman howled.
        He howled like a wolf, or rather, like a pack of rabid wolves. The two gladiators (as well as the closest row of spectators) were terrorized at the sound, and ran from the huge man. Frothing at the mouth in baresark fury, Bjorn ran after one, raining savage blows upon him as he all but disregarded the attacks of his other foe. With little skill but enormous power, he quickly smashed down the first mans parries, and split his skull to the teeth. He then whirled on the other man, who fought with the skill of the truly desperate. But the titanic strength of the red-haired giant soon overwhelmed the smaller mans defense, and he was cast down, bloodied and broken.
        Bjorn Wolfheim cast his shaggy head back and howled again, glorying in the bloodthirsty cheers of the crowd. And the crowd roared appreciatively, as this was exactly the type of entertainment they had craved.

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        Valric looked grim as he checked his gear one last time. Raven-winged helm, scaled mail hauberk, and burnished greaves to protect him. Sword and flail at his belt (as well as a heavy fighting-knife at the small of his back). Dagger in his right boot. Heavy oaken round-shield and steel-headed pike slung across his back, next to a brace of javelins. He thought perhaps a heavy axe or maul could be useful against some foes, but it was too late for that. But then he was surprised when a groom approached leading a strong but graceful destrier, and an iron-tipped lance. Today you fight on horseback, Torm.
        The former pike man never questioned the whims of fate. He gracefully mounted, grasped his lance, braced his shield, and rode out into the arena. As the gate closed behind him he realized his foe was already bearing down upon him. It was the Tironian horseman known as Orgon, one of the men he had handily defeated at the great race in Merodach less than a week past. We meet again! The nomad shouted as he rammed his lance into the forequarters of Valrics mount. The Torm struck back with his own lance, but was unable to push the nomad back before with a cry of triumph, the latter finished his act of horse-killing. The crowed booed at this unseemly act, yet they were surprised as the big soldier landed gracefully on his feet.
        Orgon rode around the arena, shouting as he shook his bloody lance, and then turned to see Valric stand coolly, close to the wall, leaning on his pike. What now, Torm? The horseman taunted. What do you think you can achieve with your little stick?
        Valric smiled grimly, holding the white-robed nomads dark eyes with his own pale ones. Why dont you come here and see for yourself you ugly whoreson!
        The tribesman hollered in fury and couched his lance, charging at Valric. But the soldier coolly lowered his own weapon, and before the lance could touch his mailed breast, the heavy pike crunched into the powerful chest muscles of Orgons horse, impaling the unfortunate beast. The nomad skillfully pulled back on the reins, just in time to free his dying horse before Valric could twist the blade. Roaring in fury, he dropped his lance and bore down on the Torm, swinging a spiked flail and guiding the beast to strike with its hooves.
        Dagonar dropped the pike, useless at such close quarters, and brought his shield up, waiting patiently for an opening. Once he saw how the nomad moved with his horse, he swept out his blade, and as the horse tried to slam him with its shoulder, he stepped aside and cleft deeply into its corded neck, bringing it down.
        The wiry, white robed Orgon landed gracefully, flail and shield at the ready, and closed on Valric, taunting the bigger man. I prefer this way of fighting, dog! He really would have preferred to fight from the saddle, but he had one more trick at his disposal. He was extremely skilled in the use of the flail, particularly in tangling his enemies feet in the chain, and sending them defenseless to the ground. He circled the tall soldier confidently, and then swung at his feet.
        But the bigger man was prepared for this. He avoided, or parried, most of the strikes. Four times, however, the chain wrapped around one of his ankles. But all four times he either stepped out of the snare, or resisted the nomads wiry strength.
        Orgon stepped back, concern in his features, as the Torm spoke. You think you can bring down a mountain-man, with your little tricks? Tis now this fight begins! The heavy broadsword glittered in the noon sun as Valric pounced like an angry lion. The Tironian suddenly found himself on the defensive, backing away from swift, powerful blows he could barely turn with flail or rhino-hide buckler. The bigger man pressed him fiercely, eschewing defense as his sword sought the nomads blood.
        Orgon threw up the buckler as he swung the flail widely, trying to force the Torm back. As the chain curled around the rim of the scarred wooden shield, narrowly missing the raven-winged helm, Valric brought his left arm out to the side, hard, staggering his foe. Before the nomad could bring his shield up, the broadsword fell, smashing into his breastbone. Orgon fell to his knees, and then crumpled, moaning piteously.
        It was then that Valric looked up, and for the first time heard the roaring of the crowd. Death! they chanted. Kill him! Kill him! Kill him! He turned his grey eyes contemptuously on the crowd, but said nothing. He wiped his sword on the broken nomads robes, and sheathed it calmly. He then retrieved his pike and swaggered out of the arena, oblivious to the howls of the public.
        As he headed out of the Arena, he saw the next fighter, the man whom Kelsar Sularios would face. His name was Tarandur, and he was known as The Mountain that Walks. He was indeed a giant, as tall as Valric, but half again as wide. The big soldier studied the man as he prepared for combat. He used a large axe, like that favored by Braddock, with which he seemed to be deceptively fast. On his left wrist he bore a spiked shield, which he could simultaneously use for attack and defense. Konraud had informed them this was the current champion of the pits. Valric did not doubt he was a powerful fighter. But he had absolutely no doubt that this Mountain that Walks was absolutely no match for the swordthane from Daladan.

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        The four warriors spent three days in Asdrabal, celebrating their victories. Not only were they now free men, but the gold they had wagered on each other had yielded quite a profit, enough for both replenishing of supplies and carousing a-plenty. But soon they were back on the Falcos, on their way to the ancient Medegian city of Carthalos, clear across the Merchant Sea.
        The second day of their voyage dawned bright, but slightly overcast. The sun found Nato adroitly balanced on the rail of the forecastle, moving slowly through exercises of attack and defense. The crewmen watched in interest as Valric, now back in his bronze-studded leather jerkin, drew his Scorian broadsword and hopped onto the rail next to the wiry Medegian. After a few moments, he began to imitate Natos exercises almost perfectly, until it seemed the impromptu exercise had been planned. Kelsar studied them for a few minutes with his practiced eye, then returned to his cabin.
        It was near noon when the lookout shouted that there was wreckage ahead. The four swordsmen rushed to the bow with Marcovald, and indeed, they saw the remains of a ship. The captain turned to his passengers, and curtly answered their unspoken question. Aye pirates
        They saw no further sign of pirates, or their victims, until the afternoon of the next day, when the lookout hollered boat ahoy! Survivors, methinks! And soon the rest of the crew saw a small boat, drifting in the open ocean, holding a man, a woman, and a young child. Smitty soon put the ship about, so that the trio could be rescued. Kelsar approached Marcovald politely. Should we not question them before bringing them aboard? The foppish captain grinned. Nay, friend. It be the Law of the Sea. All shipwrecked sailors must be rescued. Otherwise, what chance do we all have?
        As the three victims were brought on board, they thanked the sailors, as they claimed to have been drifting for over three days. At this, the former soldier from Tormos looked at the nearby boat, and saw no empty packs or wineskins. He fixed the man with his stern gaze. What ship did you sail on? The seemingly relieved man smiled. Why, twas the Rukbar, kind sir. We were attacked by pirates I believe we are the only survivors. Valric looked at Marcovald before speaking. And how did the three of you survive so long, with no food or water? For in truth, none of them appeared starved or scurvy. Again the man smiled disarmingly. We had a small cask of water it lasted until this very morn.
        Marcovald spoke with uncharacteristic softness. Tell me who captained this Rukbar, was it? The man did not hesitate. Why, master Adus, of course! Marcovald smiled at him, and then turned.
        Smitty, throw them overboard!
        But, but all three of the erstwhile castaways blubbered. What of the Law of the Sea?
        Marcovald grinned fiercely as he spoke. It does not apply to pirates. The Rukbar was captained by master Bevier, a good friend of mine. Throw them overboard, I said!
        The sailors obeyed with gusto, and soon Smitty was bellowing orders, for they knew the rest of the pirates must be close by. Valric looked pensively at the trio as they swam for their boat. He then unhurriedly took a quarrel from his quiver, wrapped its head in a rag, and lit it from a firepot in his pouch. He then took careful aim at the boat, and fired his crossbow. The bolt hit inside, and the flames began spreading. Then, to everyones surprise, the boat went up in a huge fireball.
        By the gods, man! Marcovald cursed. Twas filled with oil! They would have fired it next to our hull! You have saved us, Dagonar. How did you know? The tall man merely shrugged, and ran two fingers down his mustache. I have some experience in these matters. Kelsar looked at him suspiciously, but Valric spoke no more on the subject.
        Any further speculation was cut off when the Falcos came to a lurching halt.
Blast it all, a sea anchor! Marcovald again cursed, this time spectacularly, as Smitty ordered two swimmers to jump overboard to free the ship. And all were surprised to hear the sounds of combat. Leaning over the gunwale, they saw that two men bearing knives were attacking the two sailors.
        Before anyone could react, Valric unbuckled his sword belt, dropped his shield, and vaulted over the rail, dagger in hand. Scarcely a heartbeat later, Kelsar, Nato, and Bjorn followed him in. The fight was short but brutal, as the four warriors coldly butchered the two pirates. They then dove under the ship, and saw that two great iron hooks had been driven into the hull of the Falcos and one of them was so deeply embedded that the craft was taking water around it. They swiftly sawed through the ropes and climbed back aboard the ship.
        The Falcos had barely begun to move when the lookout again shouted. Ship ahoy! Marcovald cursed as he queried. Can ye make out her colors? The man hesitated before answering. Aye-aye, capn it be the Tranicos!
        The Agedonian captain blanched as he gripped his sword hilt. This be grim news, me friends. The Tranicos is a massive galley, but it has both sails and oars to move it, and over one hundred men aboard. Her capn, Emenon, is the cruelest, scurviest sea-dog in these waters. We are all dead.
        Valric sat calmly on a barrel, removing his high boots to empty them of sea water. Did you not say you could outrun any pirate ship, Marcovald?
        Aye, the man answered. But that be when we are not taking so much water.
        Perhaps I may be of help. All heads turned to Conumbrius. The mysterious graybeard had spoken little until now, spending most of his time poring through the many books in his sea-chest. He now produced a small crystal vial filled with a thick red liquid. This is liquid fire. If one of you can get it on their sails, it shall burn in such a way that no water can extinguish it.
        Marcovald exchanged glances with the four wet warriors. He once more was smiling. Are ye all skilled at archery? Kelsar, Valric, and Nato nodded. then methinks we have a fighting chance. Smitty, get this tub underway!

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        The Tranicos closed relentlessly on the Falcos, as the latter struggled to move with its unaccustomed water-weight. The deck of the pirate vessel bristled with pirates bearing bows, sabers, and axes. The scum of the seas seeking to pillage, kill and burn. Once already they had fired a crude ballista, but had been out of range.
        Kelsar and Valric knelt behind the rail of the poop deck, crossbows at the ready, whilst Nato strung his slim longbow. The precious vial was tightly tethered to one of his bronze arrowheads. A few moments longer, lads, then theyll be in range. Valric seemed as cool as ever, his confidence contagious for the swordthane and the ascetic. Only Bjorn seemed distraught, as he had no bow, nor the skill to use one.
        As the Torm had predicted, soon the pirates arrows began falling closer, and the two crossbowmen answered. Although they aimed at any exposed archers, they concentrated their shafts on the rowers, in hopes of slowing the Tranicos implacable advance. At this distance they could see the cruel ram on her bow, which would lock the ships together in preparation for boarding and subsequent sinking.
        Yet burdened as she was, the Falcos could make no headway. Soon the enemy arrows began raking her deck, and escape seemed impossible. At that moment Nato stood, drew his bow to his ear, and released the front-heavy shaft. Though the shot was far from perfect, the pirate galleys main sail was an enormous target. Reddish-orange flames ran across it, and the Tranicos began to lose speed.
        The race was on once again. The archers on both ships fired unceasingly. The pirate oarsmen rowed fiercely, and for a while it seemed as if the Falcos would be overtaken. But both the arrows of the defenders, and fatigue form endless minutes of constant, full speed exertion, began to take their toll on the rowers. Marcovald and Smitty used every ounce of their skill to coax speed out of the burdened ship. And little by little, the Tranicos began to fall behind.
        One second, they were involved in a running fight. Then all of a sudden, Kelsar, Valric, and Nato realized they were out of bow range, and steadily pulling ahead. They collapsed to the deck in exhaustion as Marcovald and Conumbrius came to congratulate them and only then noticed each of them had less than five shafts left in their quivers. So close had their escape been.

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        But there was no rest for the weary. As the sailors took stock of their ship, the sky quickly became overcast. A storm is coming! Already, Marcovald had to shout over the rapidly rising winds. Youd best lash yourselves in place; else youll be thrown overboard. He took his own advice as his men lowered the sails and secured all hatches and cargo. Valric checked on his friends knots before lashing himself in place, and silence fell over the crew and passengers as they awaited their fate.
        It was the most terrible storm any of them had witnessed. The wind howled, and lightning split the ebon sky. The rain fell in sheets over the deck, and salt-water whipped in great waves over the gunwales to compound their soaking. The ship tossed and turned in every direction, until not even Marcovald knew which way they went. The storm lasted throughout the night.

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        The next day dawned clear, with few wispy clouds. It seemed like the sky was now sated, having vented its fury the previous night on the battered Falcos. The ship was badly damaged, and eleven of its thirty sailors had been lost. As the survivors, both sailors and passengers, began to stir, and to assist in the clearing of the wreckage of broken masts and rigging, Marcovalds colorful cursing was heard fro the steering oar.
By all the rutting gods and demons of the Sea! We are becalmed!
        And indeed, there was no wind of significant worth, nor would there be for the next two days. The damaged ship drifted slowly, and though Marcovald tried to keep a northerly course, he knew they were drifting too far east, deeper into the Merchant Sea. On the afternoon of the second day of drifting, however, their hopes were raised by the lookouts shout of Land, ho!
        Marcovald hurried to the bow, then consulted his charts. He then shook his head as he faced his passengers. As you know, we need timber for repairs, and soon we will need fresh water. Kelsar narrowed his eyes suspiciously, as Marcovald sounded more worried than relieved. We are close to land, are we not? What worries you?
        The former pirate did not speak. He merely pointed to the map with the tip of his dagger. The passengers looked at each other grimly, knowing now full well what his concern was. For the crippled Falcos was far from both Agedon and Medegia. Slowly but surely, it was drifting towards the accursed Gongal Isles.

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Some RP notes:
1- Valric finally succeeded at a stunt... but then got a 1 on the attack roll. There really is no justice.

2-The Primal Howl ability gets a very high DC up front. Very nice. I just don't know how often Bjorn will want to use it once he gets Cleave Mastery 3

3-Winning initiative + charge + leaping charge + sneak attack + power attack with a finesse weapon + critical hit = 45 hit points of damage by a 5th level executioner = dead tiger in one hit!!!!!!

Firstly, thanks, glad you enjoyed it. We're having a ton of fun playing this as well

Kelsar's fight was left out intentionally, as Valric's assessment was accurate: The Mountain that Walks was no match for the swordthane from Daladan... (though to be fair, the DM apparently used all his luck up in critting against Valric in the ship, and killing my horse... he rolled horribly against Kelsar, so that it was almost anticlimatic)

Valric's weapon count is up to 7

As to stunts... I agree. The problem is, if there are 2-3 die-rolls for one action, that is 2-3 chances to screw up. However, my DM and the other players keep telling me not to give up and keep trying... though I dont know if this is so they can see the stunts, or to laugh at my chagrin

There IS a third roll, my friend... the DM's opposing roll.
And there you have it, they want me to keep trying to laugh at my chagrin

Very funny.
But these are actually valid points regarding stunt mechanics. Usually you have to give up either your extra attacks (for move actions or attack stunts), or all your attacks in one round (for standard actions, such as Inflict penalty), to get a +2 bonus on something the next round. (as compared to challenges, where you simply trade a penalty in one area for a bonus in another)

Of course, you can go for more than +2 if you increase the DC of the stunt check, but that makes them even more difficult. Most people end up opting for regular attacks, +/- challenges.

This is why no one else in the group uses them. It seems to me that at least at these levels, they are more of a flavor issue. Of course, they could also be vital when fighting monsters with special abilities, or with DR... it will be interesting to see.

Here is the complete 4th session. Hope you enjoy!

The Beast-Men of Maore


        The Island of Maore, larger of the two Gongal Isles, had long been shunned by sailors on the Merchant Sea. Who would wish to visit a place where the victims of that dreaded plague known as The Rage were exiled to a century past? Yet on a certain overcast morning, in a secluded cove on its western coastline, two groups of men argued over the heavily damaged remains of a once-graceful twin-masted merchant ship known as the Falcos.
        The larger group consisted of the eighteen sailors who still survived out of the original crew of forty. A fierce running battle with a pirate galley, followed by a fierce storm, had thus reduced their numbers. They were led by a ruffian known as Meredros, the finest swordsman in the crew.
        The other group was inferior, albeit perhaps only numerically. It included Marcovald, the dashing captain of the damaged vessel, and his boatswain Smitty. With them were Nato, the red-tunicked monk of Corstudeos; Kelsar Sularios, the slim but deadly sword thane of Daladan; Braddock, the burly, tattooed forest barbar; Bjorn Wolfheim, the gigantic wolf skin-clad barbar from the northern wastes, and Valric Dagonar, the tall, fierce-mustachioed soldier of Tormos. Marcovald looked at his erstwhile crewmen and sighed before speaking.
        I am sorry, friends, but they greatly fear this island. They will not venture in any search for timber or water, needful as such a search may be. Nato answered with his usual deceptive innocence. But they actually think they can all live if they attempt to return to the mainland in rowboats, with no water? Kelsar rested his hand on the hilt of his beloved Scaitha, before speaking. If we cannot reason with them But he did not finish his grim statement, as at that moment Valric swaggered off, heading straight for Meredros and his supporters.

The wiry sailor, arrogant in his soiled silken finery, grasped the hilt of his cutlass as he looked up at the tall, mail-clad soldiers approach. The raven winged helm made Valrics grim countenance even more forbidding than usual. He looked the sailor in the eye as he spoke in a conversational tone.
Do you have a problem, whoreson? Meredross eyes widened in rage as he answered. No, but it seems you do! As the sailor whipped out his cutlass, the soldier drove a gauntleted fist straight into his face. The smaller man went down, his nose bloody, but quickly sprang up with a skilled fighters grace, murder in his eyes. His followers hefted razor-sharp killing knives, short curved swords, and heavy clubs in anger. But Valric stood square, making no move towards the long hilt of his Scorian broadsword, or for the heavy round shield strapped across his broad back.
Is he insane, master Sularios? Markovald looked incredulous. Meredros is a ruffian, but he is the best man with a blade on my crew. He shall slay your Tormian there without a second thought! The sword thane looked pensive. I believe, Captain, there is a method to this seeming madness. Let us see if I am right.
Everyone back! Meredros cried as he approached Valric menacingly. This dog is mine! The soldier smiled grimly, but left his weapons untouched. He merely raised his gauntleted fists as the sailor struck. The curved blade drew sparks off the iron scales of Valrics corselet, as the Tormian rammed a fist into the sailors ribs. Again and again Meredros attacked, but at best he inflicted minor wounds on Valrics arms or legs. Yet for every assault, he was rewarded with punishing strikes from the soldiers hammer-like fists. He stepped back, cursed, and suddenly leapt, raising the cutlass high in an effort to cleave the raven winged helm. But as the blade fell, Valric pounced with the fury of a wounded panther, driving his fist into the sailors midriff. The latter fell limply to the ground, weakly gasping for air. The former pike man stood tall as he faced the rest of the crew. They were now holding their weapons with considerably less enthusiasm.
Anyone else have a problem? Valric slowly drew his heavy broadsword as he spoke. His companions joined him as he looked grimly upon the mutineers. I will be happy to continue this argument He was promptly answered by a chorus of nay-sayings, and vows of obedience to their captain. He turned to a still surprised Marcovald.
I hope you can keep them in line, from now on, he said, and swaggered off muttering about poorly disciplined amateurs. Nato smiled and patted the captain on the shoulder. So what comes first, finding water or timber?



        The decision was an easy one, as their water supply was scarcely more than one barrel, and this was beginning to taste stale. So it was that Kelsar and Valric led ten of the crew inland. Nato and Bjorn served as both rearguard and watchmen over the former mutineers. The huge Northman amused himself by seeing how Meredros, his face bruised and bloodied, fumed at having drawn water carrier duty. Braddock and Conumbrius, the mysterious graybeard who had brought the group together, remained at the ship with Marcovald and Smitty, who supervised the remaining sailors in starting the ships repairs.
The terrain was rocky, with little vegetation, and sloped gradually upwards. Eventually they came to a rugged cliff, several spans high. After a few minutes search, the Hillman from Tovarre found a narrow trail. Though at times they had to scramble, using their hands, after an hour or so they reached the top. They were met by a grassy plateau, with few, stunted trees breaking the monotony. Kelsar shaded his eyes from the mid-afternoon sun to better study a structure in the distance. It seems to be some kind of tower.
        Valric ran two fingers down his thick mustache as he joined the sword thane. It is stone, all right but it is taller than any castle tower I have seen. Nato narrowed his dark eyes. It is more a spire than a tower I have never seen such a structure. Or seen its like in the great libraries of my homeland. Bjorn spat. It is probably sorcerous. Too bad Conumbrius isnt here. The rest of the companions smiled at this, for the mysterious scholar had never been able to convince the northern barbarian that he lacked sorcerous powers. It was just as well he had remained in the ship. Valrics smile vanished suddenly. Quiet, you lummox! If you go on about sorcery, it will take more than a minor bout of fisticuffs to keep these sea-dogs in line!




        For over an hour they marched through waist high grass. They saw little sign of life other than the occasional sea-bird. Kelsar and Valric frequently stooped to check the ground for signs of moisture or hidden creeks. At one of these stops the Tormian grunted, and stood holding an odd object in his hand which was soon recognized by all as a bleached, broken human skull. What in the nine hells? Bjorn strode ponderously to him. I thought this island had been deserted for five generations!
        Nato squatted briefly and came up holding a thighbone. Well, my friend, these bones are not that old. Kelsar stepped up to him and took the bone, studying it closely. By all the gods! This bone has been gnawed, as if it were a chicken-leg!
        The silence that followed was brief, as a rustling movement was heard. There was no doubt something moved through the high grass and the rustling came from all directions at once. Kelsar drew Scaitha in a graceful motion, as Bjorn reached for his heavy zweihander, and Nato for his double-bladed sword. Valric leveled his pike just as a chorus of bestial howling erupted around them.
        Their foes leapt up from the grass. They were not unlike men in shape, but they were feral, with thick foreheads and coarse body hair almost as thick as fur. Their yellowed teeth were sharpened, and their hands ended in claw-like nails. Over two dozen of the creatures fell on the party, maddened with hunger and fury.
        Valric impaled the first one to assault him, twisting the pike to finish it. He saw Kelsar leap forth, his curved sword slashing the throat of one foe as the graceful sword thane danced away from anothers grasping claws. But before he could disengage his heavy spear, two of the creatures grappled the Torm, bearing him to the ground. He could hear the battle raging around him, and the screams of dying sailors, as he fought fiercely against the inhuman strength of the two apelike creatures. Their claws skittered harmlessly off the iron scales of his hauberk as he matched their savagery, pummeling their bestial faces. The soldier from Tovarre fought his way up to one knee, and managed to draw a dagger from his right boot. The creatures weakened their hold as they tried to avoid his murderous thrusts, and in that moment Valric surged to his feet, pushing them away with all the power in his muscled frame.
        The two enraged primitives sprang back at him, but in a lightning-swift move Dagonar drew his sword, tearing through ones throat before it could shrink back. He sidestepped the other creatures grapple, and brought his blade down, splitting the monsters skull to the teeth.
        He looked around, and his experienced eye evaluated the battlefield. Over half the sailors were down. Kelsar danced his deadly dance among the beast-men, cutting down all that approached him. Nato fought fiercely in a deadly grapple with one of them, while Bjorn pitted his massive strength against three. To Valrics immediate left, one of the creatures was strangling a sailor. He thrust his sword into the soil, and reached down to grasp the beast man by groin and neck, lifting close to 200 pounds of snarling, clawing fury over his head in a mighty heave. Before the creature could twist out of his grasp, he smashed it head-first into the ground, and was rewarded with the terrible snap of a broken neck.
        And now the battle fury of his Volsung blood seemed to posses the Tormian. For he took up his bloodied blade, and with his left hand drew a spiked flail, and waded into the remaining foes mercilessly, smiting off limbs and crushing skulls left and right. Instinctively, the sword thane from Daladan followed him, and together they stalked across the battlefield, bringing death to their savage opponents. In a matter of minutes, the last of the beast-men was slain. Yet the cost had been high only three of the 10 water bearers yet lived. All but Valric and Kelsar bore wounds. Of particular concern to Nato were the bite wounds. I know not, my friends. The ascetic looked grim as he bandaged the survivors. If these be the descendants of those afflicted by the Rage... Kelsar cut him off. Best not to ponder that, my friend. There is nothing we can do in that case. We shall consult Conumbrius when we get back.



        The smaller, battered company continued in their search for water. Nato wistfully looked at the mysterious spire in the distance, but Valric insisted there was no water in that direction. And the former monk from Medegia could not disagree. For though he new little of woodsmanship, he could tell the vegetation was lusher in the direction the Tormian armsman led them. The trees here were taller and straighter, and the waist-high grass was coming to an end. As they passed a grove of ash trees, the wiry ascetic whirled, freeing his double sword gracefully. For a growling, a deep, guttural sound, came from said grove. And it was not one but two creatures straight out of a drunken nightmare that lumbered from the grove, murder in their eyes.
        The beasts were much like the apes from the Furistani jungles in the far south. But they were covered in thick gray fur, stood at least eight feet tall, and each had four powerful arms with mighty, clawed hands. Their tiny eyes gleamed with true malice, and their massive jaws bore the fangs of carnivores. Before the monk of Corstudeos could react, Bjorn Wolfheim charged, his great sword high. He turned sideways to take a powerful apes punch on his left shoulder, and lay into the beast with his blade.
        The other ape ignored Bjorn, for as the barbarian charged, Valric braced his pike, and roared in defiance at the beast. Long and loud was his roar, and the beast pummeled its own chest in anger, before charging. It was met by a powerful spear thrust into its guts. This only made it angrier, and it continued to stride forward, seeking the pike mans life. Its massive arms were long enough to pummel Valric, but the soldier kept moving back, whistanding the punishment, but keeping the skewered beast from grappling him. Kelsar struck like a tiger, cutting deeply along the giant apes corded flank. As the beast tried to turn to smash the sword thane, Valric twisted the pike, keeping the monsters attention. The enraged simian swung a mighty backhand, catching the Tormian on the side of the head. Raven-winged helm and pike both went flying. But as the beast closed in for the kill, Valric swept out his blade in a murderous arc, cutting into the monsters groin. The simian roared in pain and fury, and reached down to grasp the soldier. But as its claws glanced off the scaled hauberk, Kelsar glided in, thrusting the tip of Scaitha into the monsters mouth, and up into its brain.
        Meanwhile, Nato had leapt to the northmans aid, rolling under the simians fearsome claws to come up behind it with an acrobats grace. He slashed mercilessly, dealing what in a man would have been crippling wounds. But the apes fur and thick muscles made it seem impervious to the Medegians techniques. Meanwhile Bjorn was in a veritable storm of massive fists and claws. He frothed at the mouth in battle fury as his sword bit into the beasts thick flesh again and again. The bloodied monster roared in anger, and reached down to grasp the mighty Northman with all four clawed hands, trying to tear him limb from limb. Nato grew desperate, for no ordinary man could survive such an attack. He drove one of his blades deep into the monsters lower back, but the thick vertebrae kept his edge from the fragile cord within. The creature reached back and smote the ascetic fiercely, sending him tumbling back, his ears ringing. He thought Bjorn was dead for sure.
        But Bjorn Wolfheim was no ordinary man. Reared in the merciless cold of the Northern Reaches, he possessed a vitality no civilized man could match. Nato rose to see him grasp the apes throat with his left hand, and repeatedly bring his heavy blade down upon the monsters skull. The medegian tried to help his large friend, but found it was painful to draw breath, in all likelihood the ape had broken some of his ribs. But it was not Bjorns day to die. As he struggled savagely in the beasts grasp, Valric and Kelsar charged to his side. The simian released the barbarian, swinging fearsome claws at the new foes. With his usual, deadly grace, the slender sword thane ducked under its grasp, and sliced Scaitha deep into its vitals.
       
        The four swordsmen looked at each other numbly. All were battered and bloody, yet alert for further danger. Meredros and the other two surviving sailors watched them incredulously. So stunned were they at the sight of the giant apes, that none of the three had so much as drawn steel during the bloody struggle.



        Thats not going to be enough, friends. Kelsar looked disapprovingly into the scant amount of water that slowly seeped from the hole they had dug at the bottom of a dry pool the Tormian had finally located. Meredros and his crew mates looked despondent at the paltry results of an hour of digging in the rocky ground. Valric answered curtly. Well, if that is all we can wait! He headed a few paces north. I thought I heard It sounds like falling water.
        The Tormian and the Northman, both skilled hunters, moved warily ahead. In a few minutes they came to the edge of a cliff. Looking down, they saw they were at the top of a ravine, perhaps forty feet from the bottom. A merry cascade fell down a rock face into a stream. Lush vegetation filled the ravine. But they felt little joy. For bathing in the stream were three of the huge, four armed apes. Piles of human bones were scattered around them.
        The two warriors rejoined their comrades, and quickly returned to plan how to best vanquish the beasts. Of concern was that Nato was indeed hurt, and would risk too much should he engage the monsters. Kelsar, Bjorn, and Valric leaned over the cliffs edge to study the apes and the barbarian slipped, sending a small shower of pebbles down. The apes heard, and quickly turned their murderous gaze upwards. They then began swarming up the cliff with incredible speed.
        Here they come! Valric quickly lifted his pike. Wolfheim and Sularios, hold those two! Nato, ready your bow! The other three unconsciously obeyed the military tone in the Tormians voice. Valric leaned down, and before the first ape reached the edge, he stabbed viciously at its hands and face, and sent it crashing down to the bottom of the ravine. The other two roared as they leapt up, to be met by the sword thane and the barbarian.
        Kelsar wove and spun, avoiding the beasts deadly grasp, as he struck repeatedly with Scaitha. Bjorn roared in baresark fury as he smote wildly with his heavy blade. At that moment, the ascetic from Medegia stood from his hiding place, longbow in hand. Bjorns foe was taken unaware, as three bronze-tipped shafts took it high in the chest. The Northman roared as he smashed his blade into the beasts face, hurling it down to its death. Kelsar backed away, keeping his foe at bay as he sliced at the four massive arms. Then, with a hoarse Tormos Closing! Valric charged, driving his pike deep into the beasts lungs. As it fell, the third gigantic simian pulled itself ponderously to the top of the ravine. Its unnatural intelligence shone from coal black eyes as it recognized the human who knocked it off the wall.
        Valric left his pike lodged in the other beasts ribcage, as he unlimbered his shield and turned to face the monster. But the beasts roar turned from anger to pain as Natos arrows sank deeply into its flesh. The hillman charged, shield high, thrusting murderously into the apes midriff with his blade. Kelsar and Bjorn rushed to his side, and in a few moments the ape joined its brethren in hell.




        It was a small, battered group that returned to the broken Falcos the next morning. Yet they were met with ragged cheers, when Marcovald and his crew saw their burden of large water skins filled to near-bursting. The approaching warriors saw that the ship had been well beached, and the damage to its hull was evident. It was also obvious that they would need to procure a new main mast. Doubtless more of the beast-men lay between them and the timber they needed. And there remained the mystery of the lonely spire.

Nice to see you, Dragon! The campaign indeed was on hiatus. This is the last session we played (back in october). I wrote the journal to motivate our Dm and the next of the crew,... and it worked! Yesterday we played, so hopefully the next chapter will be up in the next couple of days.

Indeed, Valric wildcarded Improved unarmed combat. It was pretty cool, I always wanted to do something like that (with a non-martial artist character). The coolest thing was that Njorgard (our DM) kept warning me the guy was tough... but Valric was too stubborn

Indeed, our heroes are worried about how fast we lose these sailors...

More on the Rage soon

The Guardian of the Vault



Awake! Alarm! Bjorn Wolfheims hoarse shouts brought his companions from much needed sleep to instant alertness. Kelsar came lightly to his feet, freeing Scaitha from its sheath in one graceful motion. Nato rose as adroitly, his eyes taking in their cold campground, lit only by the gibbous moon. Beyond the cursing, waking pirates he could see three enormous, ghostly figures emerging form the thick foliage at the base of the tall limestone hill west of their campsite. They were akin to apes, but at least eight feet tall. Their massive frames were covered with thick, grey fur. Each had four mighty arms bearing claws. And the evil, unnatural intellect in their eyes was more horrifying than their befanged maws.
The ascetic drew a knife from his belt and cast it at the closest monster, then reached for his bow. As he backpedaled to keep the three forest devils in sight they were clever enough to attack from three different directions he saw the panic in the pirates faces as the beasts bore down on them. Only Meredros, formerly best swordsman in the crew of the merchant ship Falcos, but now a toady to the corsair Emenon, had the presence of mind to cast a throwing axe at the approaching beasts.
The swiftest monster bore down on Kelsar, as the swordthane awaited it with his long, curved blade at the ready. But it was intercepted by Valric, as the soldier from Tormos rose, and drove his pike between its ribs repeatedly. Bjorn rushed across the camp, shouting in savage fury, to lay into the monster approaching from the south. And then the apes were upon them.
The first beast shied from Dagonars pike to slash at Kelsar, but the wiry swordthane spun from its claws. At that moment the voice of Conumbrius sounded over the battlefield.
Seek the weak spots under their arms, and the large veins at their groins! You can bring them down that way! Kelsar did not doubt the mysterious greybeards broad fund of knowledge, and brought Scaitha to slice deeply beneath the apes lower arms. Valric circled around the monsters other side, stabbing with his pike, to draw its attention from the swordthane. Only his old campaigners custom of sleeping in harness saved his life, as the beasts massive claws slammed into him, battering the close-set iron scales of his hauberk. He thrust at the monsters face, and as it roared in pain and fury, Kelsar drove his sword through an armpit into its massive heart.
The two men turned to see a scene of carnage. Most of the pirates were huddled in horror around Meredros, in the middle of the camp. To their right, one of the apes was in the process of tearing a pirate in half. Meredros slashed at it cautiously with his saber, as Nato sought an opening, double-sword in hand. Across the camp, Wolfheim roared in fury as he hacked wildly at the last monster, trying to avoid its claws. No words were spoken as Kelsar sprang swiftly to join Bjorn, and Valric leveled his pike to help Nato and Meredros.
The tall tormian again bloodied his spear, and Meredros continued his attacking from a defensive posture. The beast flailed at both with its bloodied claws, roaring in savage fury. Nato gracefully rolled between its massive legs, before the beast could react, and rose to drive one end of his weapon deep into its back. The forest devil turned to rend him, but was distracted as Valric drove his pike into its gut. As the beast turned to lunge at the tormian, Nato dove to the side, and came up stabbing, putting paid to the monster.
Meredros spat, and then turned to join Bjorn and Kelsar as they slashed at the last monster. Greatsword, thaneblade, and cutlass slashed at the forest devil, as the latter swatted and tore with its fearsome claws. The three men pressed it back, as the beastly ape roared in defiance, ready to tear into them once more. But at that moment an iron-tipped javelin soared over Wolfheims head to take the monster through its maw and into its maddened brain, killing it instantly. The swordsmen turned to see Valric rubbing his shoulder. Bjorn smiled wolfishly.
I guess they had other weak points, did they not, sorcerer? Conumbrius raised his hands in mock surrender, not wishing to restart an old argument he knew he could never win.
Indeed, my large friend, he answered. Now I suggest you all drag these corpses away from the camp, or the smell of blood may attract some more playmates for you all.


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Dawn found Valric scouting the path up the hill, as his comrades and the pirates prepared to continue on their journey. Of the latter remained Meredros and six others, for though fifteen had escorted them to the mysterious graven spire, eight had chosen not to brave the ruins of Maore, and had returned to the ship and one had met his doom the previous night. Braddock the Balmundian had returned with them, if only to make sure they did not shadow or ambush his friends. Conumbrius joined the soldier as the latter cast for sign.
What do you see, my friend?
A well trodden path winds up. But I can still make out enormous feet, and. Whatever this was, it was dragging something heavy behind itself. The tall man ran two fingers down his impressive mustache, and then stood as Kelsar approached.
How do we do this? Kelsar was a nobleman, and a student of war. He knew that the rank Valric had held, as evidenced by the raven-winged helmet he wore, was roughly equivalent to his own prior rank of Banner-captain in Daladan. But he had been unjustly stripped of this honor, and no longer cared for the burden of command. He had also learned that though the baseborn hillman lacked formal schooling in the art of war, his wealth of experience and natural talent made him one of the most resourceful tacticians he had ever met.
Ill take point, here in the hills. You and Nato follow, with Conumbrius. Then the pirates. Wolfheim gets rearguard. He then turned and started up the winding path. Conumbrius smiled, and spoke to Kelsar as if he knew his thoughts.
Come, Lord Sularios. You cannot expect him to have manners, as well. The two men laughed as they started to climb.

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The path led them up to a broad plateau, a sort of grassy tableland enclosed by the sides of higher, adjacent hills. This space was marked by broken flagstones, sundered pillars, and ivy-covered stone foundations, suggesting that a very large keep or a small city had once stood here. At the opposite end of the clearing was a massive cave entrance, at least thirty feet high. Its border had been carved to resemble an enormous archway, decorated with intricate symbols. At either side of the cave there was a large pile of bones that from their great size obviously belonged to the four-armed devil-apes.
Conumbrius studied the carvings while Bjorn, Kelsar, and Valric cast for sign. Nato crouched at the cave entrance watchfully, while the pirates huddled behind Meredros, muttering amongst themselves.
Well, friends, I cannot read this. Conumbrius could not hide his disappointment. This is clearly writing, but in a language older than any known today, even to the Medegians. Valric shook his head.
I believe it is only one creature, but I cannot be sure. But if I were to guess by its feet, It must stand as tall as three men, and weigh as much as six. Any mention of such creatures in your histories, Conumbrius?
Indeed, friend. The writings of the ancients abound with tales of giants and titans. He furrowed his brow. Given the fact that this seems to be some sort of depository, I would conclude this being must be a guardian or descendant of the gods themselves.
By Tandur and His Mountain! Bjorn swore, the hackles in the back of his neck rising. Despite, or perhaps because of the mysterious circumstances of his own birth, he shared his peoples fear of the supernatural. Nato patted his shoulder.
Well, whatever it is, it eats giant, four-armed apes.
Indeed. And they seem to fear it, as do the beast-men. Valric continued to study the tracks, as Kelsar addressed Conumbriuss quizzical look.
No tracks, of any kind, other than our very large friends. The swordthane looked into the cavern, noting that it sloped upward into darkness. So, shall we venture inside? Conumbrius blanched.
Im beginning to debate the wisdom of that course of action. Mayhap it would be best to meet whatever it may be out here. Valric turned to him.
You seem to expect us to kill this descendant of gods. Would we not be struck by lightning, or smitten blind, for such an act? Despite the serious expression on the Torms face, Kelsar, Nato, and Bjorn laughed, knowing by now of the soldiers dark humor. But Conumbrius merely grimaced as he answered. You know not how close your comment is to the events related in ancient scrolls
The ascetic from Medegia looked around the clearing. Perhaps we could conceal ourselves among these ruins, and observe it when it exits.
It may be a long wait, Valric answered. The freshest tracks were made before dawn. This creature feeds at night. He also looked around the ruins. Also, I do not think we could conceal ourselves effectively here from such a hunter. For all we know, it could find us by scent, like a beast.
Kelsar drew Scaitha, and tested its edge. Only one option then. We draw it out. But how? Perhaps if we make some noise
Conumbrius withdrew a pouch from his satchel, and smiled. Easy enough. He then threw it as far as he could into the cave, and was rewarded with a noise like a thunderclap. This was followed by a dire, bestial roar.
Back! Valric ordered gruffly. Get back to the ruins! Try and find some cover or a vantage point!
They moved back forty paces or so, to the center of the ruins. All but Valric took positions behind crumbling walls or pillars. The mailed Tormian stood on a ten-foot-high piece of broken marble, his shield high. He studied the positions of the others. Sularios had agreed to hide close to the cave mouth, an ideal position for a blind side attack. Wolfheim was concealed behind the broken marble, with Conumbrius. Nato and the pirates were evenly divided to his right and left. But the moment the creature emerged from its cave, Valric knew all these preparations were useless.
The monster that lumbered from the cave was impossibly large, a least as big as an elephant. Two stump-like, disproportionately short legs upheld a massive torso. Its enormous arms, big as tree-trunks, ended in massive, bloody claws the size of scimitars. It was clad in the uncured grayish furs of the isles simians, studded with fragments of bone. But most horrifying of all was its face. Over a slavering, fanged maw was a steel faceplate, which was nailed to the massive skull. This was featureless except for eyeholes revealing nothing but feral hatred of all life.
Before any of the stunned men could react, the massive brute raced across the clearing much faster than would have seemed possible. It bore down on Valric, as the soldier was at its own eye level, and lunged, grabbing him in one enormous clawed hand. Only the hauberk of finely crafted Agedonian mail saved the soldiers life, but he knew that if he did not break free soon, the monsters prodigious strength would crush his bones, if he was not overcome first by the rotten stench from the beasts slavering jaws.
Valric struggled with all the power in his mighty frame as his vision started to dim. But it was in vain. He could neither break the monstrous grip nor reach the hilt of his sword. He saw Bjorn, Kelsar, and Nato rush at the beast, dodging under the swipes of its other clawed appendage, to slice into it with their blades. He also saw Meredros join the fight, but was not surprised when the other six pirates ran. He could hear little but a roaring not unlike the surf of an angry ocean upon a pebbled beach. The sound of his death. Conumbriuss voice came faintly to his ears, yelling instructions to his comrades about the giants weak points. And then he looked into the beasts eyes, and saw something he recognized. Pain and fury.
Kelsar fought desperately, trying to heed Conumbriuss advice. He sliced Scaitha deeply into the beasts flesh, but did not notice any difference save an increase in its fury. Beside him, Bjorn frothed at the mouth in baresark fury as he hammered away with his massive blade. The monster slammed a clawed hand into the Tandurians chest, staggering him, but the big man did not relent. Nato sent arrow after arrow into the beasts broad back. Even Meredros, the traitor, who had good reason to hate Valric, fought fiercely. Still the swordthane had little hope that his former enemy could survive.
But in the midst of the fight, all five looked up at an unexpected sound: swearing.
Damn you, you ugly whoreson! I will drag you to hell with me! They saw that the Tormian yet lived, and was punching the beasts maw with his gauntleted fist. You hunger? Eat this, you worthless, buggering spawn of a sow! With that, he took up his shield and slammed it repeatedly into the beasts face, the iron rim drawing sparks from the faceplate and breaking fangs.
The monster staggered under the unexpected assault, and for a moment forgot its other assailants. This was all the time it took for a raging Bjorn to drive his greatsword to the hilt into the creatures guts, all the way into its chest.
Valric fell heavily, and slowly stood with Natos help, fighting to regain his breath. Conumbrius gazed in awe at both the monster and the bedraggled Tormian. I have never NEVER seen such a creature. Not even an illustration of one Valric looked up to the noon sky. What, no lightning bolts or locust plagues? This time Conumbrius could not help but laugh.


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The beasts lair was a large circular chamber, empty save for a large stone chair and multiple decaying simian corpses and body parts. The stench of rotten flesh was so overpowering that few of the companions could keep from retching. At the end of the room stood a massive wrought-iron door, adorned with four keyholes. These matched four large bronze keys that had been found on a neck chain the massive guardian had worn. But the explorers enthusiasm was dampened when they found an enormous, round stone connected with a series of chains, with counterbalance mechanisms, to the iron doors.
Meredros examined the system, and spoke boldly. I know of locks and such. Each key must be turned in the correct direction, meaning port or starboard. If not, the stone will block this door, and I do not think even that monster could have moved it, were it alive. Valric bit back his observation about how this Meredros was obviously as much a thief on land as at sea. Conumbrius looked worried. I cannot find any clues in the carvings as to the correct sequence, friends.
The ascetic from Medegia looked enthusiastic, however. There are a limited number of combinations, my friends. We just have to turn the keys in a logical order With this he launched into a discussion of multiplication and mathematical probabilities that only Conumbrius seemed to understand. This went on until Meredros shouted Wait! I can help. The stone probably takes some time to seal the door. As you turn the keys, I can probably tell you how many tumblers are in the correct position they are large enough I should hear them clicking.
It was a matter of three tries before they found the correct sequence, and the vault of the ancients soon opened. Within, there was a domed room; its walls sheathed in a silvery metal much like steel. These walls were covered with shelves, which in turn were filled with vases, trays, and plates, all beautifully carved from a pale yellow metal, with a sheen no earthly brass could hold. On examination, it was too solid, and too light, to be gold. There were also several maps and manuscripts, which none but Conumbrius could make sense of.
Valric looked at the maps, but well-traveled as he was, he did not recognize any of the lands depicted by them. Worry not, spoke Conumbrius. The world has changed; you cannot expect that maps so ancient match our modern ones. As for the texts, they seem to be of little interest, dealing mainly with long-ago battles. As the pirates began looting the place, Kelsar and Valric did not miss the fact that Conumbrius placed all the purportedly trivial maps and papers in his own satchel.

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They spent two days at the base camp of the pirates, awaiting the return of Emenon. The pirate captain had remained at the Falcos for unknown reasons. The Tranicos itself was a large galley, anchored off the coast, but the pirates had erected a functional palisade to keep them safe from the beast-men.
Those two days the companions were not disturbed by the sea-dogs, but neither were they particularly trusted. Conumbrius did nothing but study the manuscripts. Valric cleaned and oiled his gear in typical tormian military style, so that the leather of boots and belt gleamed as much as the iron in his harness. Bjorn mostly kept to himself as well. Nato and Kelsar, however, spoke to those pirates that were not overtly hostile, and managed to learn something of Emenons crew.
The corsairs numbered close to five dozen, though many were wounded and possibly contaminated by The Rage. Emenons second in command was a slovenly, obese, but deceptively quick quartermaster named Fezul. He was the true master of the deck, and was harsher and more eager to dispense punishment to the crewmen than Emenon himself. The pirates respected his skill at navigation, but all hated and feared his braided bull hide whip.
The other notable officer was a medegian known as Anathon. He served as ships cook and physician, although his skills in the first were sadly lacking. His wit was dry, his humor was awful, and his physickers skills were rumored to be those of a Furistani assassin, with whom he was thought to have connections. Anathon had no friends in the crew.
They also learned of Emenon himself, though only rumors. The captain was a well-educated Medegian, with an appreciation for the luxuries. He ruled his crew by fear and intimidation, although all respected his resourcefulness. He was always followed by four bodyguards, all of whom were trained by Tormish mercenaries.
Kelsar was also able to learn that Marcovald, the captain of the Falcos, had been Emenons quartermaster before Fezul. There was little love there, and Marcovalds fate was most likely sealed. Gossip among the pirates also included the fact that Tarus, the Falcoss carpenter, had never returned from the isle. Apparently Meredros had tossed him to the beast-men in order to escape. This surprised no one in the group.


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Please give me the manuscripts. Emenon had spent a few minutes exchanging pleasantries before addressing Conumbrius. The greybeard responded almost too casually. They merely contain poetry, ballads, and history. Nothing that would concern a warrior such as yourself.
On the contrary, my friend. Emenon smiled as he spoke, but his four bodyguards did not. Those are three of my favorite subjects.
Valric ran two fingers down his mustache as he looked at the two speakers. Emenon was probably not the nobleman he pretended to be, but he was obviously from a rich family, with the means to educate him in arts, literature and swordplay. Conumbrius was obviously attempting to conceal the contents of the documents from Emenon. As Valric knew the scholar would not do this without reason, he casually placed his hand on his sword hilt. But no violence was forthcoming, as the greybeard shrugged, and handed the papers to the corsair. As you wish, captain. He glanced sideways at Valric, his eyes sending an obvious message: hold your hand.
Emenon seemed to notice the unspoken communication, but merely smiled and announced: We shall sail in three days. And no, I have not yet decided the fate of the Falcos. With those words he left. Valric turned to Conumbrius
. You are a good liar. What did you find in those writings? The scholar looked somber.
Knowledge that should never leave this island. Nato was puzzled.
Not even in our hands?
Conumbrius smiled as he answered, That I am still trying to decide, my friends. The information in those manuscripts holds power so great, it may trigger wars. Valric spoke pensively.
This man has studied. Do you think he could decipher them? Conumbrius did not hesitate.
In all likelihood. And if he cannot, he surely has contacts at Medegia who can. There is no alternative. We must recover or destroy those documents. They must not reach Medegia in Emenons hands. Conumbrius looked up at the other four. If you recover those documents, I will give you some of this information as payment.
Valric, Kelsar, Bjorn, and Nato exchanged glances. They did not understand the reason for the scholars distress, but until then, he had spoken naught but truth to them. Kelsar smiled.
We are agreed then. But how do we do this? They obviously do not trust us. If we do this by force, their numbers will prove too great. Valric began sharpening his Scorian blade.
Let me put this in a way you swordsmen can understand. He smiled as he studied the keen edge. Battle, any battle, is the same as a duel. First you attack cautiously, testing your opponent for weakness. Then you parry his attacks, and when his guard is down, you riposte. Conumbrius looked quite amused, yet interested.
And what do you propose to do? Valrics lean face looked predatory as he answered.
We cut a few throats. The first one is obvious: Fezul. These whoresons hate him, and Emenon depends on him for navigation. With him gone, we may even be able to put Smitty in his place. Nato looked doubtful.
I could kill him easy enough, in his sleep. It still surprised the rest when the cheerful young monk spoke like a killer. But we will be blamed. We are the newcomers. Valric examined his blade one last time and satisfied, slid it back into its scabbard.
We do not do it stealthily. One of us goads him into a fair fight, and then kills him publicly. Bjorn brightened at the concept.
Who gets to do this? Kelsar smiled at him, and laughed.
Who among us is the best at insult and offense? The rest, as one, turned to the Tormian soldier and burst out laughing. Valric ignored them as he began tending to the blade of his pike.



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A day of painting the Tranicoss seams with tar had left Valric in just the right mood for the nights business. He strode purposely through the camp, avoiding drunken pirates and puddles of human waste. He wore his raven-winged helm, scale-mail hauberk, and burnished greaves. On his left arm he bore his scarred oaken shield. He carried no weapon, but sword and flail were conspicuous on his broad shagreen belt. He cursed inwardly when he found that Fezul was not drinking with the rest. He merely sat quietly carving a piece of wood.
You, there, dog. You must be grateful. The quartermaster looked up at him with undisguised hatred.
Aye. I be grateful that I did not spend all day painting tar. Valric nodded.
True. But you must also be thankful that Emenon gave you this time off from licking his boots so that you can practice your carving. The closest pirates heard the exchange, and began approaching, but the fat medegian merely laughed.
Do not think I would not prefer to carve your throat rather than this wood, tormian. But I know what you are trying to do. You wish to goad me into a fight. Do not be foolish. Valric smiled, but his cold grey eyes were deathly serious.
If I wanted to pick a fight, I would be talking to a man not to a castrated pig such as you.
The quartermaster could not contain his ire at this, and stood, drawing both cutlass and whip. He was a big man, of a height with Valric, and burly. His bellys girth belied the speed of a crafty fighter. Now, dog. He sputtered in anger, as the crew started to make a circle around them, howling in pleasure at the coming fight. I shall wipe my arse with your mustache! Valric smiled once more.
In your dreams, whoreson!
Before Fezul could react, Valric whipped out his blade with the speed of a cobra, and sliced the fat mans left cheek open. Fezul leapt back and plied his whip expertly. The end wrapped around Valrics ankle, and sent him sprawling to the ground. Before the tormian could react, the whip flicked out and knocked the sword form his hand. The soldier rose ponderously to his feet, his armor clanking. In a flash, the flail was in his hand, and he was striking at the pirate. Fezul parried and struck back with his cutlass, but Valric turned it with his shield, and drove him back, the spiked iron ball coming close to braining the quartermaster.
The corpulent corsair swore and sprang back, bringing the whip into play once more. Again Valric went down, and the next snap of the whip sent the flail flying. The soldier rose clumsily, as the surrounding pirates hollered. Only Kelsar, Nato, and Bjorn watched quietly. Fezul could not help but sneer. What have you got left, Tormian? Valric backed away slowly, and reached down to pick up his broadsword. As Fezul drew back his whip, the tormian sprang like a panther.
His leap carried him over the whip and as he landed, his sword sliced into the pirates shoulder. Fezul cried out, and again leapt back, plying his whip desperately. Again he brought Valric down, but this time could not disarm him. For this time the tormian sprang to his feet instantly, and with a roar, drove three feet of scorian steel into his enemys guts.
A cry went up among the pirates at the death of their hated overseer. Valric took up the bullwhip and sliced it in four pieces, and cast it into the crowd. Kelsar met his gaze, knowing this bit of drama was part of their ploy. The steely eyed tormian then looked at Meredros. The sailor-turned-pirate glared at him, hatred in his eyes. None of their company doubted it was his version of the nights events that Emenon would hear. Their new-found popularity with this motley rabble would soon be put to the test.
Bjorn pushed carousing pirates out of his way as he approached Valric. The tormian seemed oblivious to the shouting as wiped his sword clean with a piece of the dead mans vest. So, began the northerner. This is what you call a cautious attack? By Tandur, but I cannot wait to see your riposte!

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RPG Notes

1-Turns out a heavy shield is a medium weapon and Valric could not have used it in a grapple, by the RAW... but there was little difference between the 1d3 for gauntlets and 1d4 for shield, so... (the confusion was that it counts as a light weapon for TWF)

2-Valric hit on both attacks that round, and the second attack was a critical hit! Given some judicious use of Beast Lore Mastery by Conumbrius, he racked up 23 points of damage that round.... just by bashing the monster in the face with a shield!! One of the coolest fights I've had or seen

3-You all know this already.... but this game ROCKS!