PBEM Orlantia

The Story So Far
Chapter 015

PBEM Orlantia: Curious Cat.

Once outside the sheriff's office, Alana pondered the recent experience. She had been startled by the sudden arrival of the sergeant and his companion, having been too busy gawking at the sheriff's office itself, and she had not expected any trouble at all. Her embarrassment was only partly relieved by the fact that the others seemed to have not done much better.

It was odd being part of a group of people like this. Sure, she had been part of her circle of druids, but that was different. Perhaps they should practice a bit at battle tactics before they continued on their journey - if time permitted.

Alana had been content to let Afyanna do most of the talking. Not much sense in all of them trying to tell the same story simultaneously. As long as nothing she deemed important was left out, she had been happy to just listen.

It had been strange to hear about the death of all those people, and the uninvited images of the carnage she found at her return to the Lovejoys had come back.

*Now where did Lucian go?* she wondered, noticing he had disappeared.

Lucian had entered the sheriff's office riding on her shoulders. He was getting too big and too heavy for that. Already, she had to lean slightly forwards to enable him to keep his balance, and Alana knew from experience that he would use sharp claws to stop himself from falling down if need be. But when she had suddenly jerked fully erect at the arrival of the armed men, the cat had been forced to leave his seat anyway. And now he was prowling around somewhere, but where?

*Darn that cat!* she fumed to herself.

"Lucian?" Alana softly whispered. "Lucian?" She fervently hoped he would not get into any mischief. Despite his intelligence, he still was a cat, and his curiosity sometimes seemed to be insatiable.

Once again Alana sighed and resigned herself to waiting until Lucian decided to return on his own. Looking for him, she knew, was often a total waste of time. Silently, she followed the others back to the Yellow Trout.

- Wilma (Alana)

PBEM Orlantia: The Right Road

Tyrulf had listened to Afy and the sheriff talk about the murders, and pondered matters while he walked along.

*This seems to be a bigger problem than we all thought. That is a big area on the map and way too many red pins for my liking,* he thought sadly.

When Alana and Sef both had both added their respective red pins, Tyrulf suspected that the grim scenes had been playing out in their minds, as well. Alana had been visibly shaken when Bebe tried to console her, and although Sef had not known the victim personally, the look on his face had shown it was still a vivid and disturbing sight. Afy had even asked for some help, but to no avail. Although no one seemed too surprised by the sheriff's refusal, it could easily be seen that Afy had been a bit disappointed.

On the way out when Afy had asked the sheriff what he had against her personally, his answer revealed that her instincts were right.

*Well, I guess I wasn't paying attention as close as I thought. I didn't notice anything like that,* mused Tyrulf *Of course, I was paying more attention to the pins than I probably should have.*

The sheriff's answer seemed to take Afy a little aback and she seemed to want to ask more of the sheriff, but he turned away cutting off any further conversation, and so the group had moved out into the street once again.

"Well, I guess we should go back to the Yellow Trout," remarked Tyrulf. "I must say, I find what the sheriff had to say reassuring." At that, the whole group looked at Tyrulf like he had lost his mind. Tyrulf looked up at their horrified expressions and sighed.

"I am not talking about the meaning of the red and blue pins, of course. I speak of our leader, 'The Holy Warrior of Wrath'. If there were any doubts as to the validity of our mission, I would think that would negate them. Whether the sculpture is a prophetic statue of our present holy warrior, or the visage of the person who may have once vanquished this foe, I think that it helps prove we are on the right track."

While Tyrulf explained his earlier statement, the group, as a whole, started to nod their agreement.

Afy almost seemed to get taller when she straightened up and said, "I, myself, had no doubt that we were on the right track. After all, 'He' would not have sent me on this path without cause."

Tyrulf looked up at Afyanna, smiling. "I would expect no other statement from you, Afyanna. Unlike you, however, the rest of us have not received a message from our god such as the one you had."

*At least no one has said something to that end,* he thought to himself.

The group moved down the street while Tyrulf talked, and shortly reached the Yellow Trout. Without thinking, everyone moved toward the same table they had been at earlier and sat down. Drinks were ordered and everyone sat there for a moment, staring at each other.

Finally, the Cleric of Boccob interrupted the silence once again.

"Well, now that we know where we are going, do you think we have all of what we need before we move on, or should we perhaps buy some more supplies for the group?"

As Tyrulf asked this, he looked at everyone so they all knew it was a question posed to the group, rather than just one individual.

- MJA (Tyrulf)

PBEM Orlantia: Approaching Danger.

While their mood had brightened somewhat in the last day since arriving in town, and more so once they left the sheriff's office, Afyanna's mind was cluttered with red pins.

*So many.*

"I agree that we should make sure our provisions are stocked and our gear is ready for the road ahead."

The holy warrior looked across the table to her comrades. "We grow ever closer to the heart of the trouble facing this region. You all saw the map."

Whatever levity they had attained by putting the sheriff's office behind them faded away at her statement. Glances turned downward toward the table top as the party considered what they had seen.

"I pray that we reach Wrath soon to put an end to this, yet at the same time I fear that our journey will become more treacherous than what we have already seen."

Most, if not all of them had already come to the same conclusion. Slow, knowing nods were her only reply.

"We have braved the open road, and we have faced a sudden, deadly winter storm. But I feel that what we may be facing soon will not be so random, nor indiscriminate. I fear that we will soon face something that will rightly see us as a threat, and take steps to remove it."

Afyanna let that hang in the air for a moment before she continued.

"Time grows shorter, yet the road ahead is still arduous. We already have rooms for the night, so like Tyrulf suggested, we should stock up, get a good night's sleep in a soft bed, and set out again tomorrow."

Trying to rescue the atmosphere of the party that she had just deflated, Afy added, "I, for one, plan to take these last few hours before nightfall and take a look around town. It's been a while since I've had a chance to just look. Then," she added with a smile, "I plan on a bath!"

- Rick (Afyanna)

PBEM Orlantia: A Little Time To Meself.

Cosher watched Afyanna depart the inn, and decided to take his leave from the party.

"Ye'll have tae excuse Cosher folks," he explained as he rose from the table. "Ah'm just no feelin' very sociable right now. Ah jus' need a little time to meself. If ye don't mind?"

As he turned away, he flashed a reassuring smile at the others as a way of demonstrating to them that there was nothing seriously the matter with him. Nothing a couple of hours alone with a glass of whisky wouldn't heal.

He walked over to a small table and chair in the corner, Sliobhann grasped in one hand, a half-empty tankard of stout in the other. Settling back on the seat, he deposited both the scimitar and the stout on the table and pulled up a small stool to rest his feet on. He thought about ordering a bottle of whisky from the bar, but decided that the stout would do . . . for now.

Cosher couldn't help but notice that he was frowning. The truth was, he was nervous. Sure, he was a brave young dwarf, able to hold his own in the fiercest bar brawls in the seediest ports, but this was all new to him. He had no idea what was out there, what horrors they were likely to encounter, and what harm might befall any one of his new companions. This wasn't just another ruckus they were heading in to.

*It's no jus' as easy as picking yerself up and dusting yerself down. Surviving this here malarkey might be a wee bit mer difficult than spending a night in the clink an' offering the local sheriff a couple o' coins tae let ye oot in time tae sneak back on board before the lootenant catches on yer no there! No, some o' us might no walk away frae this, an' that's what worries me.*

Cosher took a sip of his stout and grimaced. It was a particularly foul beer, this one. He reminded himself to order a large whisky.

*Jus' tae take the taste out o' me mooth!* he smiled to himself.

He glanced back at the group, still sitting 'round the table, still deep in conversation. The worried frown returned to the sea dwarf's brow.

*They seem a good bunch. A little nervous, perhaps, but no mer nervous than meself. Ah think it's the anticipation o' what's tae come, of our first real encounter. Ah reckon Ah'm getting a bit twitchy tae let Sliobhann out o' her sheath - an' Ah reckon we're all the same! Ah do think it's maybe a matter o' getting it over with. Calm us all doon, Ah reckon.*

Cosher managed a rather bitter smile. *Or maybe this feeling niver goes. Maybe it niver gets any easier!*

The dwarf drained the last of the stout, then rose to go to the bar. Much as he wanted to produce his tin whistle and play a little shanty for the group - to raise any flagging spirits - he just couldn't bring himself to be that sociable. He was sure he end up playing a tragic ballad and end up dragging everyone's mood down to his level.

*Maybe a shot o' Bal-Linaghmore's finest malt will lift me spirits,* he concluded.

Upon reaching the bar, he dropped a few coins onto the counter and muttered under his breath, "Landlord, Ah do hope yer whisky is a damn sight mer pleasing tae me pallet than that poison that came oot o' yer keg!"

- Johnny (Cosher)

PBEM Orlantia: Fiadharainn's Malt, The Fifth Element.

The barkeep at The Yellow Trout stared at the sea dwarf, not quite believing his ears. His stout was poisonous? Poisonous! Nervously, he glanced around, wondering what his other patrons might think of the accusation, but thankfully no one else had heard the dwarf mutter such slanderous words. He was about to dress the dwarf down when he thought better of it. Doing so would only call attention to the very words he didn't wish uttered about his stock. Besides, another quick glance at the dwarf's traveling companions had convinced him such a maneuver lacked wisdom for other reasons even more convincing.

Instead, the barman smiled since the sound of Cosher's voice pleased him no end. Oh, it wasn't that pleasant a sound just then, but it was distinctive and recognizable, and he had just the thing for it.

"Well, I do have a couple bottles of Fiadharainn's Malt," he said, "but they're a bit steep for just anyone, and strong, but I'm sure you know that. I never crack the seal on those unless the customer is a regular, or he wants the whole bottle. Never having seen you before, I'm wondering . . . do you have 5 EP for a fifth of Fiadharainn's Malt?"

To add to the pitch - though a clean, sealed bottle was visible amongst his other offerings behind the bar - he instead reached down below his bar and rummaged around a bit before quickly popping up again with a bottle of the whiskey that looked covered with several years of dust. He began polishing it clean with his bar towel until it shown, and then set it before the bard.

"That's been sitting there going on three years now. It's a good whiskey, but I'm sure you know that, too."

- JimGM.

PBEM Orlantia: Reflections On Choices Past

The party sat at the table for a little while longer, chatting amongst themselves. Afyanna eventually excused herself and headed up to the room rented for the three women.

The first thing she did, of course, was to make her usual inspection of the room for peepholes and such. Habits were called habits for a reason. Once completed, she doffed her armor, washed her face, futilely chased her shoulder length hair about with a brush for a few minutes, and then straightened her well-worn tunic and trousers as best she could before heading downstairs. Her sword stayed with her.

The Kin-der stepped out of The Yellow Trout . . . and right into a mud puddle. Afy stood there a moment considering her mud-soaked boot, which she held a few inches above the sloppy puddle. Rivulets of brown water and bits of mud dripped from it. Noting that there were virtually no dry options for where she could walk, she resigned herself to stepping from place to place to avoid the wettest, deepest places.

With a shrug of her shoulders and a slight sigh, she set off down the street, stepping from place to place in a zigzag fashion that would look as if she were drunk - if not for the fact everyone had to walk the same way. After only a few minutes of this, everyone ended up with the shoes and boots just as muddy as if they had just walked straight and uncaring, but one had to try to avoid the perils of a sloppy street - even if it was pointless.

Many storefronts had porches raised above the level of the street, and whenever Afy reached one, she would scrape her boots off as best she could. It wasn't much help though, with spring newly upon them, the melting winter snows would make Hooktar's streets a veritable swamp for days. Mud was just everywhere.

Afyanna wandered from storefront to storefront, peering into windows and looking at the displays. She had no money to speak of, so she didn't bother actually going in to any of them, but still it was fun to browse. And more importantly, it was relaxing.

The holy warrior stopped in front of a dressmaker's shop and stood looking through the glass at the dresses on display. Of the four, one seemed to grab her attention - the blue one. Afyanna's favorite color had always been blue. Deep blue. She stood looking at the dress in the window and thinking back to the last time she had even worn a dress. Years, perhaps. Not since she had been in the cavalry, that much was certain. Perhaps not since she had left home as a girl.

Afyanna recalled many times she and her sister, Galidia, played in the forests near their home when they were little - she in her little blue dress, and Galidia in green. Oh the fun they had romping through the forest! They climbed trees to make watch stands. They built forts and fought imaginary orcs and goblins. They played in the streams until they were soaked through. They even played with the animals, when their laughter and little shrieks hadn't scared them off. Most of all, they had fun - the simple fun that only children can have. No restrictions, no expectations, and no planning. Just fun.

Each day they would set out on another adventure and return home scratched, dirty, and tired. And each morning she would take her dress from before the fireplace - where it had been drying from the night's washing - and head out for another adventure. Their parents had long since given up trying to stop them, or even coaxing them into wearing something more sensible. Afy wouldn't have it. It had to be her blue dress.

Snickering interrupted her serenity. Two nicely dressed teenage girls were giggling at something at the next store. Their furtive glances told her that she wasn't meant to notice them, but it became obvious they were giggling about her.

*I must look awful to them,* Afyanna realized.

There she stood, tired, with disheveled hair, and dirty. Filthy in fact. Afyanna hadn't slept indoors for a couple days, and hadn't bathed for a few more than that. And to those two girls who slept each night in a warm bed, they saw a woman in ragged clothes, muddy worn boots, and a sword, staring at pretty dresses in a window.

Had she been in her cavalry armor, most probably wouldn't have given her a second thought. Men and women were equally common in the Marching Alderami. But she was not in uniform. Nor was she wearing her own armor that would have set her apart from the common people of the town. The holy warrior looked to them like some poor wretch who was wishing for things she could never have.

Her own appearance didn't usually bother her. Afyanna rarely compared herself to others. But for some reason, the two girls' laughter was hurting more than she cared to admit.

*It's not how I look,* she realized sullenly. *It's how I would look in that.* Her eyes again returned to the beautiful garment on display.

Afyanna no longer had the soft curvy body of the average town girl. Life in the cavalry had tasked her body well. She was trim, lean, and toned. Her body was strong and muscled from all the training, marching, and fighting. She looked down to her hands and noted the rough skin. Her palms and fingers were well worn from years using swords, bridles, and the like. Afy curled her fingertips toward herself. Broken and bitten nails stared back.

Emotionally, the changes were equally severe. Over the years Afyanna had lost the innocent look that the common women wear, and gained determination, a strong will, decisiveness, and even a few scars - though hers were quite minor. All these were common in adventuring circles, but were a source of curiosity, or worse, to the common people. One only had to look into her green eyes to know that she was concerned with far more than going to the market or getting water for soup.

These two girls had no idea who she was or how she came to be in front of the dressmaker's shop that day, yet they stood huddled off to the side laughing at her. Afyanna, the little girl growing up in the forest with her sister, had changed much over the years. One path might have led her to look disdainfully at another and raise her nose in the air. She was glad for the path that had been set before her, for truly very few actually choose how they will grow up and who they will become. Choices and paths usually only become clear once they have been made, and even then, only several years later. All the same, Afyanna d'Enthril was glad for who she was, and couldn't imagine herself as anything else.

Feeling much better about herself, Afyanna turned and walked back towards the inn. She made a point of heading straight toward the girls, who froze under her hard stare before backing into the store window to let the older woman pass.

Like a hard rain that leaves the sky fresh and beautiful when it passes, Afyanna's walk around town had cleared her mind of her troubles. With a contented smile, she returned to The Yellow Trout, took a much needed bath, and looked forward to her first good night's sleep in a long while.

- Rick (Afyanna)

PBEM Orlantia: Divide And What?

Hooktar was a quiet place, the season not yet having gotten under way, and despite trouble in the surrounding lands known only through numerous, incoming reports, the well patrolled streets of the village could claim none of the recent and horrible deaths as its own - not that they'd want to.

Yet the people were afraid, the news spreading further each day, and though the frozen weather had let up and the sun was bright and warm, they hung close to the interior of the town. They would probably do so until business demanded otherwise.

The docks, the blacksmith, the livery stables, and the Yellow Trout Tavern were all on the outskirts of Hooktar, however. That's where the townsfolk wanted them. Noisy, or more to the point, smelly places should stay a good distance away. But the tavern was neither. It was worse. It held that thing to be feared most - strangers.

True, enough townsfolk gave the Trout their patronage, but then they would always return home - where decent people stayed and minded their own business. Not like those strangers. Not like the sailors, the tradesmen, the travelers, or . . . those adventurer types. Trouble, they were.

It was a myth, of course, but it was often said more innocent people died while standing next to a so-called 'adventurer' than by any other cause. The truth was somewhat different. In complete honestly, few could claim to be all that innocent. Oh yes, and old age, starvation, disease, and accidents claimed far more, besides. Still, it was often said, regardless.

As twilight approached, most respectable folk were already safe at home. The shops were closed, the docks were quiet, and the streets were dark and motionless. There, not that many cared, one could gaze at the stars above and marvel at their place in the universe, such as they understood it. There was little to disturb them.

Jahar liked nights like that - clear nights, good sailing nights and calm weather. They reminded him of long watches he had spent on deck where the stars were both companion and guide.

"Where are you going?" Bebe asked Jahar when he stood and began toward the exit.

"Stretch my legs and think a bit before I turn in's all."

The gnomish druid looked at her new companions. Afyanna had already gone to bed. She no doubt had more on her mind - more pressure, more responsibility, even. What would it be like to have a god personally send you on a quest? And if you failed? Bebe was thankful she'd probably never know.

"I'll join you, if you don't mind," Sefarlain said, also standing up and striding toward the door where Jahar waited.

Bebe looked at Cosher and Tyrulf, all of them seemed to be thinking the same thing. Tall folk didn't need them tagging along if they wanted to stretch their legs. They'd just slow 'em down.

"How about we take our own walk?" she asked them, once the ranger and her tattooed friend had disappeared. Figuring it couldn't hurt, the short-legged trio also departed the inn, leaving Alana, Mystir, and Valin at the table.

After a few minutes, the lull in the conversation having risen to a deafening silence, the representative of Hermes said, "I'm thinking an early night, too." Valin arose and began his ascent up the stairs. And then there were two.

Three, if you counted the barkeep. He alone remained. That was not uncommon for such places. Someone had to be on all the time since guests could come or go at any hour. He kept busy at first cleaning glasses and mugs, but later by whittling something. He could do that for hours - and often did.

- JimGM.

PBEM Orlantia: Worse Than A Bad Dream.

Two dwarves and a gnome were walking down the street.

A few great jokes began that way, but this wouldn't be one of them.

Further away from the inn than that, a ranger, and a sailor covered in body art, strolled down by the river's docks. From that point, they understood, trade goods could efficiently be shipped along the Toreador to dozens of villages and hamlets that dotted its banks, once the season began, which would be soon. For now, all was rather quiet. In fact . . . too quiet.

Sef stopped short and listened. The ever present chirps and chitters of spring's nocturnal insect life, to which he had been listening only a moment before, had stopped. Save for the sounds of the river, it was deathly quiet all of the sudden.

Jahar walked on, oblivious to this, while Sef continued to strain to hear anything untoward. He looked at the roguish fighter and saw nothing. Scanning the horizon in that direction, still nothing. Turning, he looked harder back toward the village. The Trout was 200 yards away and he could barely make out three figures 50 yards beyond that. His new friends. But nothing unusual stood out.

What was that smell? Brimstone? Sulfur, burning sulfur, yes?

"Phlblblblbblbb!" came a noise. Where? Behind him. Jahar?

A "What . . . ?" was uttered. Then a thud followed by a crash was heard, and the ranger spun around and drew Alonwë in one fluid motion.

Before him stood a frightening sight of a great, black horse with flaming hooves. Jahar lay motionless in the mud immediately below the creature. The beast reared up again, its eerie red eyes and glowing orange nostrils both flared their obvious evil. He could feel the malevolence rolling off its form. Then it came down again, hard, stomping Jahar with both front hooves. A sickening cracking of bones could be heard. Worse, it seemed far from done with the sailor.

- JimGM.

PBEM Orlantia: The Nightmare.

Afyanna restlessly slept, lightly tossing and turning, her dream bothering her and preventing quiet rest. In it, horror approach - the enemy - supping at the altar of goodness and twisting it into all that was unholy and wicked, hate filled and malevolent, a malicious entity of profound iniquity. Suffice it to say, her dream was not a pleasant one.

Outside, a strange glow danced about in the night hundreds of yards away, but more than light, more than sound, it was a feeling of foreboding that came to Bebe. Her friend was in trouble. Her friends, in fact.

Tyrulf briefly paused in thought when both Bebe and Cosher broke into a run.

*Huh?* he wondered, though only for an instant, before he, too, started to run after them. He wasn't even sure why they were running, but his confidence he'd find out soon was good enough for him.

Cosher began reciting something aloud, the sound of his voice booming outward across the night. It had a 'quality' about it that defied description, though it was . . . inspiring.

Bebe just hollered above the bard, as best she could. "SOMETHING'S GOIN' ON DOWN BY THE DOCKS!" she screamed at the top of her lungs.

Alana and Mystir, still inside the Trout and seated at their table, looked up, and then hopped up at the sound of the commotion outside. The druid glanced up toward Valin, who had been climbing the stairs. He started to come down to see for himself, but the look in Alana's eyes made him think better. Turning, he bounded toward the girls' door and hammered on it.

"Afyanna, AFYANNA!" he yelled. "GET UP, NOW!" he ordered her.

The holy warrior stirred, waking from her disturbing dream. Quickly sitting up, she slid out of bed and began to dress.

Valin threw open the door that Afy had, apparently, left unlocked for Bebe and Alana.

"Something's up," he told her, before turning again and rushing down the stairs.

The barkeep kept glancing around, an extremely worried look playing over his features.

By the time Cosher passed the door, Mystir and Alana exited the inn, almost running into Bebe and Tyrulf. Automatically they followed, but it was soon discovered they could, and so did, pass their short-legged companions as they ran toward the docks.

Sef moved back and sheathed Alonwë in one step. Drawing it had been impulsive, a reflex, but had the beast been closer it would have been the right move. But now he wanted his bow.

Another step backwards and he began shouting at the creature.

"YAHH, YEAHHH, Ya Devil!" he called, hoping to distract it from further pummeling Jahar with those glowing hooves.

Another step and he loosed his bow with one hand while drawing an arrow from his quiver with the other. He was backing up toward the inn, he realized, shortening the distance between him and his remaining friends while he nocked the arrow.

<Elvish>"COME AND GET ME, YA DEVIL!"</Elvish> he unconsciously shouted in his native tongue.

The jet-black creature, which had been ignoring him until then and had been about to rear up once more, stopped at this utterance and instead gazed at the elf for an instance. Its red eyes momentarily brightened like someone blowing on embers, and Sef could feel its gaze was filled with indescribable hatred.

Another step back and the ranger let loose his first arrow, its flight sure and true, but Sef's half smile faded into a look of disbelief when, though the arrow hit, it shattered, almost as if it had hit stone.

The beast did not seem pleased at the effrontery of the ranger's attack. As if to show its displeasure, the beast kicked its back legs high up into the air allowing both hooves to stomp down near Jahar. At least one of them connected with the prone figure, a sickening, squishing noise emanating from the strike. Then stillness followed, however brief.

Thin, wisps of smoke trailed out of the nightmare's nostrils as it gave a satisfying snort at this action while looking at Sefarlain in defiance.

The good news was it now seemed well done with Jahar. The bad news, unfortunately, was Sef knew this because it began to run toward him.

- JimGM.

PBEM Orlantia: Fire?

Mystir had jolted from his chair, grabbed his bag, and now the halfelf was speeding towards, and then out the inn's door.

*This doesn't sound good.* A quick glimpse showed the boy where he needed to go, but he couldn't make out what was going on. Upon reaching street level the wizard broke out in a full run.

"WHAT'S HAPPENING?" he shouted towards his shorter companions.

"TO THE DOCKS!" was the only reply, though he wasn't sure who had spoken.

He continued his charge for what seemed to be hours, yet the distance between him and the dancing lights near the docks hardly shortened. He could barely see what was occurring. A tiny amount of smoke and an orange glow was all he could make out.

*What, a fire?* Mystir tried to quicken his pace.

The rest of the street was nothing more than a blur. The wizard's focus remained on the flickering lights.

- Kevin (Mystir)

PBEM Orlantia: On me way!

*On me way!* repeated over in Cosher's head as he ran.

Right now, all other thoughts and emotions seemed meaningless to the young sea dwarf - except survival, of course. Or to be more exact, the survival of his friends. All his nervousness in the inn, his earlier foreboding, and the worry about his own shortcomings had been well and truly thrust to one side.

Two short legs were carrying the bard as fast as they could toward the dock, his Fiadharainn kilt flapping wildly as he sped along! One of his throwing knives was now in his right hand, and he could feel the comforting weight of Sliobhann against his back, slapping against his leather tunic with every movement.

Cosher boomed out 'The March of Moradin's Last' as he charged, his fine baritone lifting the strains of the battle-song into the night air.

'The March' was an old dwarven poem from legend whose rousing prose was so inspiring that the young dwarf had, in the past, found it to never fail to encourage even the most cowardly being who heard it. Furthermore, allied to the tune of 'Come the Storm,' this particular poem was elevated to a call-to-arms of such magnitude that the hairs on the bard's own neck stood on end when just humming it to himself.

As for the scene unfolding ahead, even as he closed in on it, Cosher had very little idea what was going on. He knew there was danger. He suspected that it was Sef and Jahar involved, but couldn't be sure. It was dark, and it did seem that only one of his companions still stood. He thought he could see a horse involved, although it was no horse he had ever seen, and it didn't seem to have a rider!

Nevertheless, regardless of the exact details of battle, Cosher continued his charge, each agonizing second seeming to take an eternity, yet not seeming to take the dwarf much closer to his destination. Cursing his short, dwarven legs, he concentrated on speed, his laibh held firmly in the fingers of his right hand, poised to throw.

- Johnny (Cosher)

PBEM Orlantia: The Enemy Awaits

It had been such a pleasant stroll.

And then, as if from nowhere, Sefarlain's worst dreams became reality. The sickening crunch of Jahar's lifeless body would not easily be erased from his memory.

Alonwë had leapt into his hand, but the ranger could see he would be no match for this beast on his own. He began to fall back while he managed to let loose one of his arrows to test this horror.

It was a good shot - flying straight at the beast's chest - good enough to skewer a boar, or the odd orc, at least. And yet Sefarlain could barely believe his eyes when the arrow bounced harmlessly away.

A wave of fear he had not experienced before rose up to his throat. Could he stop this thing? What unnatural force did this animal - if that was an adequate description - possess?

The creature stopped and fixed him with deep, flaming eyes. They burnt deep into the elf as they seemed to consider him, to view him with total hatred and contempt. Then the beast began to advance.

Then Sefarlain knew what real fear felt like.

- Justin (Sefarlain)

PBEM Orlantia: Up! Up! Up!

The urgency in Valin's voice as he burst through Afyanna's doorway left no doubt that speed was essential.

Before she could even ask him of the situation, he raced back down the hall.

The holy warrior stripped off her nightshirt and shot to the closet where her gear was stored. She rooted out her armor and tossed each piece to the bed as she found it. Being that it was the last to come off when she had arrived the day before, it was on top - but that didn't always mean you could find it in a hurry.

*Too slow! Too slow!* she urged herself onward.

There had been times in the cavalry when they had to dress quickly, most often it was a speed drill, but other times it was all too real. There was no doubt of this occasion.

Afyanna found the last piece, the legs, and plopped down on the edge of the bed. She hurriedly pulled on the pants, jammed her feet into her boots, and slipped the scaled tunic over her head. Standing quickly, she tugged a few of the most important buckles tight, but the rest would have to wait. There was no time to cinch each buckle properly to get the proper fit.

The last item she grabbed was her sword as she raced out the still open door. She bowled right into another inn patron while buckling the scabbard to her hip.

Afyanna raced down the stairs two at a time, the loud thuds of her boots echoed loudly down the corridor. She knifed through the few people gathering at the inn door, drawing more than a couple yelps and curses.

The spectacle unfolding outside The Yellow Trout halted the halfelven holy warrior in her tracks. Even as she stood staring for those few brief seconds, her hand had automatically drawn the sword from its scabbard.

- Rick (Afyanna)

PBEM Orlantia: Alone Before The Beast

Time seemed to stand still as Sefarlain stared into the beast's eyes. The look of complete hatred was not difficult to read, and as the creature began to advance towards the elf, its intentions were all too obvious.

Decisions had to be made, and fast. Feelings of anger, fear, and hatred washed over him, but within those remained a colder, analytical mind. Years of training had their uses in times of crisis, even if the ranger had never faced such an opponent before.

There was no use in fighting yet. He was alone - very alone - and his death would not help any cause. He had to survive until his friends were there, and that only left one choice.

The ranger dropped his bow, turned and fled towards the docks that he had seen only a few moments ago. Behind him, he could all too clearly hear the thud of approaching hooves. He ran - harder than he had ever run before - and as the night flew by, he could make out both the dock and some motion in the distance. Perhaps help was on its way?

- Justin (Sefarlain)

PBEM Orlantia: Safety Below.

Instantly, as the nightmare rushed toward Sefarlain, the ranger tossed his bow and then bolted toward the river. The devilish equine was probably faster, Sef guessed, but he had greater maneuverability.

A normal horse might outweigh a man by 10 to 1, give or take, and it was not all that easy to start or stop such a mass, or change its velocity. And yet, despite this, the nightmare veered to chase the ranger, coming so close that Sef felt its hot breath on the back of his neck. He had surprised the beast, that time, and still it had been close - too close. It was probably just as well Sef didn't know those fangs missed him by less than an inch.

The ranger bolted past the beast while it came to a halt and then turned back upon its prey. Turning at impossible speed, the nightmare once again gave chase, this time only a few strides remained between ranger and monster.

Sef's normally quiet footfalls sounded out as he hit the wooden planks of the dock, but they were quickly drowned out by the thunder of hoof beats on wood immediately behind. Sef wouldn't have time to find decent cover or to gingerly slide in beneath the docks or the reeds along the bank. He was going into the water - he had no choice.

With a barely perceptible splash, Sef sliced beneath the surface and was immediately gripped by bone chilling cold.

Sef had never been taught to swim. His natural talents had made it always seem such an obvious thing was a waste of time to 'learn,' and though he had never had formal instruction, the ranger had always been a reasonably good swimmer. There was no finesse or recognizable strokes, mind you - just brute-strength and decent breath control. But it was enough - for now.

He swam a good distance out into the river while remaining submerged. The current was slow enough, so no danger presented itself from that quarter. But the cold began to gnaw at him, causing his body to ache and his lungs to scream for oxygen. When he could bear it no longer, he broke the surface and turned to see what was happening.

To Sefarlain's amazement, the nightmare stood upon the water, pawing at it, stomping the surface in an apparently random manner. If only darkness were there, Sef couldn't have seen what he saw, but the creature's hooves were glowing embers and illuminated the surface beneath them. The nightmare wasn't standing on water, but just above it. Yet, depressions, like semi-spheres, were under each hoof.

As he was taking the scene in - while desperately trying to ignore the pain of the water's bitter cold - the fiery beast suddenly looked in his direction once more, whereupon a new chill ran down Sef's spine. Then it charged toward him.

Sef dove for cover beneath the inky-black waters.

What followed was an interesting sight. Shimmering lights danced immediately above him, the nightmare's hooves prancing and stomping about in anger. But the beast couldn't reach him - not while Sef remained several feet under the water's surface.

Suddenly, something whizzed through the water, a trail of bubbles following it. The lights from above made the bubble trail stand out. Then another, this time much closer, and it almost hit him. He peered at it, wondering what it was. The water made it slow down, then halt, and then, its impetus spent, it floated upward. An arrow? No . . . a bolt. A crossbow bolt.

He might have been willing, even happy to stay under longer, but he couldn't hold out. Surfacing, the ranger quickly looked around for the hellish beast.

Shouts greeted his water-filled ears as he coughed the superfluous wetness out of the back of his throat and nasal cavities.

Spinning in the water, trying to find his bearings, he finally laid eyes on the horse from hell. It was on the opposite bank this time.

He could see two town guards were shooting at it from a good distance across the river. A touch of glee swept over Sef when the nightmare whinnied in pain - a hit!

*So, it can be hurt,* he smiled. Others were running up, getting closer by the second - his friends, he saw, still a couple hundred feet away.

Turning back once more to keep his eyes on the black creature, newfound terror gripped his heart.

That thing, the creature, that beast from hell, was . . . it was . . . smiling at him. It was not a pleasant smile.

Then it winked out for a split second, then back, then out, then back again, pulsing for a moment, before, eventually, it was simply gone - vanished - nary a trace remaining in nighttime's darkened gloom.

- JimGM.

PBEM Orlantia: A Haunting Smile

Cold. Bitter, biting cold.

Nothing else seemed to be in Sefarlain's thoughts. The cold wiped all memories temporarily from his mind. As the nightmare vanished into the night air, the ranger turned and kicked for the bank and the warmth he so desperately craved. It wasn't what you would call an elegant swimming action, but it was effective enough. By the time he reached the slippery banks next to the docks, the effort from the swimming made his breath labored and his arms ache.

His friends were on hand to help drag him from the dark water, and he was fortunate that they were. The cold had hardened his muscles in only a couple of minutes, and the effort to move, let alone climb from the river, proved difficult enough. He was lifted from the river like a dead weight, and as he finally staggered onto the dock, muddy water poured from his clothing, leaving him standing in a small lake.

Tyrulf and Bebe ran over to where Jahar lay in the earth while the rest of the party helped Sef out of the river.

The small group stood on the dock, stunned into silence by what they had just witnessed.

Sef struggled to comprehend the speed and ferocity of the attack - nothing he had ever experienced had prepared him for that. He needed answers to confront this evil, but for the moment he remained too shocked to voice his inner fears.

Afy finally arrived about a minute or so behind the others, but Sef was still catching his wind.

"My bow," was all the elf could say as they stood on the bank. Alana nodded and ran to collect the forgotten weapon.

"Jahar's been hurt. Very badly, I fear. I couldn't save him," explained Sef to a stunned Afyanna. His voice, and the expressions of the rest of the group, were explanation enough.

"Tyrulf and Bebe are with him now. I hope they can save him, but he is beyond my skill. I must get out of these clothes and then I will rejoin you."

With that, the ranger headed back toward the inn, leaving the others behind.

- Justin (Sefarlain)

PBEM Orlantia: Too Late.

Alana had been right behind Mystir when he bolted out of the door. They had wasted no time and rushed to the docks as fast as they could. Still, by the time they arrived it was all over.

She held little hope for the still form of Jahar. Tyrulf and Bebe had both proven themselves to be skilled at healing when they had faced the murdering cold, so she was certain that if it was possible to save him, they would. But her hopes were small, very small indeed. He just lay too still.

But at least Sefarlain appeared to be all right. She suppressed the urge to shower the ranger with questions. This was not the time. For one thing, he needed to get out of those wet clothes. He would no doubt tell her what had happened later. When he asked for his bow she nodded and went in search of it, locating it not far from the place Tyrulf and Bebe were taking care of Jahar.

"How is he?" she asked. From the look on Bebe's face, small hope turned into no hope. Alana felt a sharp pain piercing her heart. Another death. Another person she knew and liked. Cold anger and frustration filled her. Too late - she had been too late. Again.

Alana marched back to the inn ready to do battle with whoever would get in her way. No one did.

- Wilma (Alana)

PBEM Orlantia: Last Dance

Tyrulf ran as fast as his legs could go, but feared that he would not be there in time to be of much help. Scanning the area, he noticed a prone form and moved there immediately. The mangled body of Jahar awaited him, and Tyrulf held little hope of reviving his newfound comrade. With a resigned sigh, he checked to see if there were any signs of life, but as he suspected, the broken body held none.

*Jahar will never dance the waves again,* he thought, as he shook his head. Ty had heard sailors talking about a dance once and had come to understand that they were talking about sailing. It seemed to fit what little he knew of sailing, and he had never forgotten what they said.

Cosher's recitation had died away by then and he now quietly stood over Bebe and Ty, the feeling of helplessness washing over him as he thought about his fallen friend.

When Tyrulf looked up from his work over the fallen sailor, he saw Sef in the distance, looking toward him in anticipation, but the Cleric of Boccob could only slowly shake his head in response. Tyrulf could see the question in the ranger's eyes, even from there, as well as the pain when he indicated that Jahar was no more.

Sef just looked back to where the monster had disappeared, and everyone could see the look of determination on his face. Ty imagined the vow Sef had just proclaimed to himself, and with the look in the elf's eyes, Tyrulf had no doubt that it would be fulfilled - or Sef would die trying.

Bebe knelt before Jahar, crying silently for her lost friend. Ty move over to her and put his hand on her shoulder to comfort her, but it did little to assuage her pain. The rest of the group, with the exception of Afyanna and Cosher, walked with Sef back to the waiting warmth of the inn, occasionally glancing back at their fallen comrade.

Afyanna moved toward them with her sword still drawn, casting furtive glances toward the water. Tyrulf suspected that a part of her wanted the creature to appear again so that she might wreck vengeance on it. Although he understood her feelings, Ty doubted the wisdom of such a wish.

Instead of speaking to Ty and Bebe, or even Cosher, Afyanna strode toward the two guards with crossbows. In her heart, she already 'knew' Jahar's fate. It was plain to see on Bebe's face. There was no need to ask.

"We cannot leave him here like this," stated Tyrulf, and then he bent down to try and lift Jahar's remains off the ground

"NO!" shouted Bebe, grabbing Tyrulf's hand. "I will do it," she whispered.

The dwarf backed away at that point seeing the determined look in her eyes.

A short time later, two dwarves and a gnome moved toward the inn, Jahar's remains carried between them on a tarp taken from the docks. When they reached the inn, Ty moved inside and began to look for a couple of shovels to bury Jahar.

- MJA (Tyrulf)

PBEM Orlantia: Too Late

The holy warrior's charge lasted only the briefest of moments. The evil beast had apparently vanished from the night as suddenly as it had appeared. Afyanna stood in the middle of the clearing, staring at the spot on the river where she understood the foul creature had disappeared.

*It's gone,* she realized, *and I didn't even get a look at it.*

As she stood in disbelief, she made out the forms of Mystir and Alana helping Sef near the river. Afyanna took a few steps forward to go meet her friends when voices to her right caught her attention. Tyrulf and Bebe were hunched over something on the ground. By the looks of it, it was most likely a body.

The air of Hooktar was deathly still, as if no one wanted to chance drawing the creature back. Afyanna could hear the two healers muttering as they worked on the unmoving form, but could not make out their words. But then one word seemed to stab out at her - 'Jahar.'

Afyanna stood pinned to the spot, her eyes stared blankly at the corpse. There was no doubt whatsoever who the latest victim had been.

*Jahar . . . dead?* Her mind reeled. *I failed him. I was asleep.* Anger flared within her. *I was asleep in my room and now Jahar is dead.*

The kin-der looked around the clearing. *Sefarlain, Tyrulf, Mystir, Alana, Bebe, Valin, and Cosher - all here. Me? Where was I? Asleep!*

Cold fury boiled up within her. Everyone else was present - but not her. If she had stayed in the Yellow Trout instead of roaming around town, she would have been there. If she had so much as sat at a table when she returned, she would have been there. If she had grabbed only her sword on the way out, she would have been there.

*If! If! If!* Afyanna slammed the sword into her scabbard so hard the sound rang out loudly in the still night air.

At the sound, several townspeople who had been congratulating two guards decided there was little more to see, and moved off. The men had crossbows, and had been pointing off towards the river as if describing something. Afyanna couldn't bear to face the rest of the party right then, so she stormed off to speak to the guards.

Afyanna's anger was only barely contained when she reached the guards, though she tried her best to keep it from spilling over to the men.

*They did THEIR jobs.*

"You there. Did you get a shot off at it?" She noted at least one guard had not reloaded.

- Rick (Afyanna)

PBEM Orlantia: The Guards.

Two guards, both poorly trained judging from the state of disrepair of their chainmail, stood before the holy warrior. Afyanna could barely compose herself through her inwardly directed anger at not having been there, whereas these . . . Well, it was aggravating, to say the least, and now Jahar was dead.

"We got a couple shots off each," said the taller of the pair in response to her question. "I nevah seed the likes bafore in all mah life. All this talk, all this time, Ah was for certain thinkin' they was jes stories. But then we seed it ourselfs," he went on.

"I hit, I swear I did," the shorter one joined in, somewhat more articulately. "I heard it cry out in pain. It must have thought better about sticking around after that. I was just reloading for a third shot, and, unfortunately, when I looked again it was nowhere to be seen."

"It's true, that is, Ah swears it. I was lookin' rights at it and it ups and poofs away likes nothin' Ah ever seed before. It were creepy, it twer."

"How badly did it seem injured?" Afy asked.

"Well, I've seen a charging steed go down when an arrow hit it once. A crossbow bolt at that range, it could have easily done the same, maybe more. But . . . well . . . I don't think so. It wasn't hurt that badly. It was . . . well . . . ," he trailed off. "If you want to know the truth, I think it was more annoyed than hurt. And frustrated. Yeah, angry and frustrated, that's what it was. Not natural for a horse, but then what horse has glowing hooves and red eyes, or walks on water like it was mud? No horse; no normal horse, anyhow," he told the holy warrior.

"Weeze best reports to the sheriff," the taller one mumbled.

"I suspect you're right. If you have more questions you can ask after we report this," he told Afyanna, "but that's about all there is to tell. My condolences for the loss of your friend, by the way. I'm truly sorry we didn't get here sooner," he told her, handing her his torch.

The pair of guards then began trotting off toward the sheriff's office, disappearing into the night, leaving Afy alongside the river, her faint reflection shimmering on the slow waters. Literally and figuratively, Afyanna was beside herself.

- JimGM.

PBEM Orlantia: The Aftermath

There was a murmur of voices coming from within the Yellow Trout that evaporated as soon as Sefarlain entered the inn. He was in no mood to discuss any of the events that had just occurred, and it seemed no one in the inn felt particularly inclined to ask him any questions, either. A cold, wet, heavily armed ranger who had just witnessed the death of a friend was best left alone, they decided. Sef crossed the room in silence and climbed the stairs to his quarters.

The wet layers of clothing came off rapidly and he left the muddy pile in the corner, ready to take them downstairs to be cleaned. His armor was a different story, and he left that in the corner of the room to dry out in its own time, away from the fire. The practicalities of getting warm kept his mind from thinking too hard about what had just happened, and it was only once he was dry and sitting in a clean set of clothing that he allowed his mind to return to recent events.

*How could it have happened? Why didn't I stop it?*

The thoughts whirled 'round in the elf's mind, yet he knew the answers. He had been powerless to act - indeed, he had been lucky to escape with his own life. All he could remember was the beast's eyes and the smell.

Yes . . . the smell.

He had smelled that before. Sulfur? Brimstone? Something pungent that took your breath away. He remembered the odor from his childhood when his mother had been summoning. It had been in the air when she died all those years ago.

The smell could only mean one thing to the ranger. This monster was no ordinary creature. He had seen it disappear before his eyes. Had someone brought it there? And for what dreadful purpose? Or was there some terrible way it could arrive there by itself? Whatever the reason, it remained an affront to all he believed in. And yet he had run from it like a child.

He needed answers and a means of avenging his friend. That thing had to be stopped or he would die trying. But he would need help. His mind returned to his friends outside. In the rush to leave the riverside he had barely talked to anyone, but his head was clearing now, leaving a cold, hard purpose in its wake.

The Valantaúr were slow to anger, but they always repaid a debt, whatever sort it was. Sefarlain felt it wasn't the last time he would meet this creature, but now he was prepared.

He forced on his wet boots, grimacing slightly at their wetness, picked up Alonwë, and went to find the others.

- Justin (Sefarlain)