Mariziguant and the Assault on the Tower of the Blessed Lady
There weren't always dragons in the Valley. In fact, as near as Mariziguant could tell there had never been any before, despite the valley's name, the Vale of the Silver Wyrm, there were no legends or myths of dragons had ever dwelt there. Mariziguant had consulted with spirits and dark forces and had confirmed this simple fact. That his foes, the damnable Silver Sisterhood, had somehow summoned the pair of mighty silver-scaled drakes from somewhere, or possibly somewhen else was a certainty. These damned dragons had turned the tide, and Mariziguant ground his needle sharp teeth in frustration as he recalled the dragonfire consuming his hordes of walking dead and his legion of ghoul warriors as they besieged the sisterhood in their temple, the so-called Tower of the Blessed Lady.
Today. Somewhere in Appalachia. Memories of an Old Woman: "No matter what the other folks say, I want you to know that Rufus was never a bad boy. Never. In fact he was the kindest, most gentle soul I have ever known. And I have known many. You see, during the troubles, that thing wasn't really Rufus. Oh maybe at the end, the very end when he had come back. But he was back for just a second. Because when the Big Man scared the thing out of him, when he sent it back to the void where it came from. Well, Rufus came back to us to say goodbye, right before he died."
Prelude - Part IV
Prelude - Part IV: Skarrigg and Annaquette rode upon the black horse. They headed north into the cold lands. It had been a rough three months, the journey to Irrisen, commonly called the land of eternal winter. Irrisen was exactly that, a land in the grip of a magical winter over the last 1,400 years and ruled by a dynasty of albino witches. Their destination was the far north-western part of the ice-shrouded nation where it bordered the fabled land of the Linnorm Kings.
Prelude - Part II
Skarrigg rode and brooded – which he often did. He brooded and…he remembered…he remembered the time after he avenged his sister. He stalked through the caves killing any of his former tribesfolk that he came across…most of the male ogres were already dead, killed by the unnamed group of invaders, but Skarrigg cut down any female ogre he came across. After all, he had suffered more from their cruelties than almost any male.
Prelude - Part III
The undersea grotto was warm and humid. Skarrigg still felt the pressure of being this far underwater and it gave him a low grade, yet still very unpleasant, headache. He stood there surrounded by a dozen piscine-like humanoids, they had stood at least a half foot taller than the average human male, but were far heavier, with thick muscular frames, That were covered in blue-green scales. They had come at him with claws outstretched and jagged fangs bared. However, they had come at him as a mob, a fatal mistake on their part, as he had torn through them like a hot knife through butter.
The Regrets of a Fallen Warrior
The Regrets of the Fallen Warrior There was a warrior, but not just any warrior. Not a sellsword, or a mercenary or a mere soldier, no, this warrior was a champion of the Light, a paragon of Order. A hero. This warrior came home one day to find that everything that mattered to him was gone. Everyone that he ever loved, taken from him - his children? Murdered. His parents? Murdered. His wife? His wife…she was found in such a state, that murder…mere murder would have been a mercy.
Prelude - Act I
The house and barn were ablaze, she could hear the animals, screaming as they died. She could see her father dead on the ground. His skull was crushed by their leader’s hammer. However none of the field hands were to be seen, they had either fled or more likely been butchered. Her sisters were crouched behind her as she brandished a pitch fork in a vain attempt at defense. Hard, dirty and ugly men surrounded them. Surrounded them and leered. Though the worst by far was their leader – her father’s murderer – a large man in dark armor, which looked smokey gray in the shadows from the fire, wielding a massive hammer, larger than any sledge or maul she had ever seen, her father’s brains and blood still shown wetly on it in the fire light. However, the worst part about him was his face even in the light from the burning buildings she could see the skull paint and filed teeth. His eyes glittered like stars in his black sockets.
It is blackest night and I am in dark water. But this water, it is not water, it is something else - a viscid, clinging liquid. It is one moment cold, the next warm. I start to sink but there is an island next to me and I grip it’s shore. Island is a generous term, more of a sandbar really. But I am thankful for it nonetheless.
Part I: The Summoning of Xanzu I wait until the stars are right and the portents most favorable. I lock myself within a chamber in my sanctum, one that I have dedicated to summonings – here I have called creatures from dark and distant realms, beings that are mind rendering horrible or heart numbingly beautiful. These are what common folks would refer to as ‘demons’ and ‘angels’. I assure you that these words are an oversimplification. Such beings cannot be encompassed by mere words. However, this time rather than just call something to our world, my overall plan is to travel to another. A dimension of chaos and rage. A place of horror. I will travel there to bargain for the answers that I seek.
The Nine Crimson Stones
This was then… Ezokarrian longed to rest. The march in the wilderness had been hard. The cultists had been determined, and their losses had been heavy. Dozens of his warriors had fallen to the witch-cult and their twisted minions. Oh, they had defeated them, put them to the sword all right, but they were a determined foe, to say the least. Determined, and... disturbing.
The First Time We Met
The woman is younger than me. Much. At least 20 or more years. But her eyes are old. Old, tired and brown. She is dressed like one of those proto-hippie, ren-fest types. Loose clothes, frumpy looking, her nose is pierced. A ring in the right nostril. Her ears are also pierced multiple times – in fact, a lot. Her hair is straight, straight and brown. She is not pretty. Nor is she ugly, just…plain. She smells. A bitter spicy smell, mixed with human stink. I do not like it. She is a witch. I do not know HOW I know this, but I do know it, it is almost like I feel it at an instinctual level. Not in the hipster Wicca sense, I mean the real McCoy. I also know that she is scared…no, not scared. Terrified. I do not know HOW I know this, but I do know it. Maybe that is what I smell on her? The stink of fear?