The Triboar Trail, Chapter 11. Excursion

11.1 Northwest

Meza takes another gulp from her flask and flexes her arm. The makeshift bandage flexes with her movement, but holds tight around her bulging arm.

Nalfos snaps his spell book shut and surveys the rest of the room. “Are you ready to keep moving Meza?”

“I’m ready,” she says with a smile. She flexes again and nods to Valoric, “How about you Valoric? Ready to push on?”

Valoric drifts out of a trance. He struggles for a moment before rejoining the conversation. “The last fight seems to have taken it’s toll. Could we wait a little longer?” he asks, wiping a bead of blood from the embalm on his shield.

“We should secure the nearby rooms sooner than later,” Nalfos responds. “I’m afraid to see what lurks in this dungeon after the sun sets.”

Owen looks up from the tool in his hand, “If you’re going to explore more of the keep, I’d like to join you.”

Valoric nods. “Take the new guy. I’ll join you as soon as I’m able.”

Nalfos hesitates a moment, “What do you think Meza?”

Meza smiles and scoops up her mighty axe. “Follow me. To glory!”

She guides them passed the front entrance to the far end of the hallway and discover two closed doors. Meza turns to Nalfos, gives him a wink, and places a hand on the handle of the door in front of her. The handle turns easily and she gives the door a light shove. It opens with a drawn out metallic squeal. She takes a step inside, but stops quickly. The smell of rancid meats and cheese overpowers her.

Undaunted, Nalfos holds his sleeve up to his face and slips by her to enter the fetid storeroom. The walls inside curve in an arc, and crates are placed haphazardly. He picks up a wineskin from amongst the piles and tosses it to Meza.

She pops the cork and the smell of a sweet liquor wafts into the space, masking the rank smell of rotten meat and cheese.

Owen enters the room last. He looks around in a state of shock, “I remember this room…but not like this.” He nudges a crate with the toe of his boot, causing a cask to tip. The rotted wood collapses as it rolls to the floor.

Rusted metal hinges grind open behind him. A large humanoid form is obscured by the bright sunlight filtering through the open doorway. The creature grunts in a deep, guttural voice. Owen stumbles backwards, raising his small metal tool defensively.

Meza shouts a war cry and charges into the doorway. The figure cackles in response and steps back from her attack. Light fills the room as the door swings open revealing an orange-skinned hobgoblin. It stands eye to eye with Meza. Large tusks jut from between it’s smiling lips as it raises a long, hooked sword.

Nalfos conjures a spell before the hogoblin can ready it’s attack. A burst of flame sparks between his palms as he steps back into a fighting stance. The flame splits and licks at his fingers as he separates his hands. Each flame dances on his fingertips until he flicks them forwards, releasing the spell. Each of the bolts of fire launch towards the open door, streaking past Mezam and collide with the hobgoblin. The monster roars in pain as the flames burn his torso.

A flash of bright-white light flares within Owen’s hands. He jumps in surprise, then opens the empty fist. Threads of bright white light stream from his finger tips, pooling into his palm. He stretches his fingers wide, straining the magical light. It falters and fades.

Another hobgoblin launches past it’s ally, slashing at Meza with a large scimitar. She raises the pommel of her axe to deflect the attack. The scimitar twists in the hobgoblin’s hands, but the blade continues past her defenses. The flat of the blade slaps against her arm.

Meza laughs off the attack, only to yelp in pain as a third hobgoblin’s arrow clips her shoulder. The arrow rips a plume of blood from the barbarian before colliding into a nearby wall. She turns to the scimitar wielding hobgoblin and twists her axe in a large arc. She brings the full weight of the attack down, but the hobgoblin raises a shield and blocks the damage.

Nalfos once again summons a pair of firebolts and guides each flame towards a different target. The first bolt strikes the hobgoblin in the doorway. It strikes the monster’s unarmored skull. Overcome by the injury, it collapses to the ground. The second bolt twists past Meza and under the shield of the second hobgoblin, striking an it’s unarmored torso. It howls in pain, lowering it’s shield as it grabs the bubbling wound on it’s side.

Owen balls a fist and focuses as pure, magical light again begins streaming between his fingers. He opens his fist slowly, allowing the magic to coalesce in a small spinning disk in his palm. As the disc begins to pulse, he points his open palm at the injured hobgoblin. He stretches his fingers wide, the light launches forward in a pearlescent white beam. The beam flashes across the room and collides with the second hobgoblin, flinging it against the wall. It collapses in a smoking heap.

Another arrow launches through the doorway. Owen grunts in pain as the arrow passes through the gaping hole in his war-torn armor. He lurches forward, grabbing the arrow embedded in his chest.

Meza charges into the adjacent room, dragging her axe behind her, as she bears down on the last hobgoblin. She plants her feet, sliding across the dust-strewn stone floor, and twists her body. She uses the momentum to raise her axe into the air in a mighty arc, bringing the blade down into the remaining hobgoblin.

Surprised by the speed and ferocity of the barbarian’s attack, the hobgoblin twists to avoid the whirl of steel. The monster is too slow to react and the giant axe finds a home, biting into the hobgoblin’s collarbone. Meza drives the axe down into into the monster’s vital organs. The hobgoblin attempts to cry in pain, instead coughs up a final spray of blood.

Meza howls another war cry and wrenches her axe from the hogoblin, allowing it to collapse in a pile of carnage.

Owen pulls the arrow from his chest and tosses it aside. Blood drips from the wound as he brings his hand up instinctually to staunch the flow of blood. Bright lights sparkle under his palm. The blood flow stops as quickly as it started. He tentatively releases his hand, then wipes the blood away. Small twinkles of light flash as his injury stitches itself together.

Nalfos approaches him, “Are you alright?”

He turns into a seated position and wipes more blood from his chest. The site of the wound is row but closed. “I believe so,” he responds in confusion. “I didn’t know I could do those things.”

Nalfos extends a hand and Owen accepts it, rising from the floor. “Before I died, I made things with my hands. I wasn’t a spell caster. This is all very strange, but the spells came to me naturally when I needed them.”

Meza returns from the other room. Her mighty axe in one hand, a new longsword in the other. She struggles to manage both weapons for a moment and then shrugs. She leans the battle axe against the wall and haphazardly slips the long blade of the sword through the straps of her pack. Satisfied, she chuckles and collects her axe.

Nalfos shakes his head with a smile and walks past her, dodging the sharp blade protruding from her pack.

Owen smiles at her and then frowns. “That mark on your shoulder looks painful. Are you ok?”

Meza shrugs, “It’ll heal just fine.” She draws a small vial from the side-pouch on her pack. The red liquid swirls as she flicks the stopper open with her thumb. “Bottoms up!” she says, tossing the potion back. The tear in her shoulder quickly scabs over and dries. “Good as new!” she says as the scab peals away, revealing a small battle scar.

Nalfos returns from the other room. “Just some cots and worthless weapons. Nothing of value that I can see. Let’s try this door next,” Nalfos says, pointing into a shadowed corner in the eastern edge of the room.

Meza nods and tries the handle. It refuses to yield against her firm grip. She throws a shoulder into the door, but it still stays firm. She growls in frustration and takes a step back, preparing to attack the aged wood panel with boots and fist.

“Wait!” yells Nalfos, holding up his hands in protest. “There’s another door in the hallway we can try first. Let’s not let everything in this keep know where we are and where we’re going.”

“Wise words,” adds Owen. “Let sleeping monsters lie.”

Meza shrugs, “Fine.” She grabs her axe and leads them out of the room.

11.2 A Dark Room

They retreat through the doorway. Meza leads them to the keep’s front entrance before turning away from it. They travel down a short hallway and find two more doors. One leading south, but Meza chooses the door in front of her, leading the group deeper into the castle.

She grabs the door handle and braces herself. In a single move, Meza drives the handle down and hurls her shoulder against the door. The handle twists easily in her massive hand and the door swings freely. She lurches into the room, twisting her axe behind her so as not to catch it on the doorframe.

Nalfos shakes his head and follows her into the dark room. He blinks slowly, allowing his vision to shift into his elven darkvision. As he opens his eyes again the room appears before him in shades of white and gray. Meza is crouched in a battle-stance several yards in front of him.

Owen fallows Nalfos into the room and the half-elves each inspect the room while Meza paces carefully, struggling to will her vision to adjust.

“Do either of you have a torch?” she asks.

Owen steps over to a round metal brazier. “I do not. However, there was a fire lit here not long ago. The coals have burnt out, but they’re still slightly warm.”

He reaches into the extinguished brazier and retrieves the unburnt edge of a log. He holds the wood up to his eyes for a more careful inspection. As he turns the wood over in his palm, the wood begins to glow. He concentrates carefully and the light flashes brightly in front of him.

Meza straightens up. “Thanks!”

Owen looks to her in surprise. “What? Oh, yes. You are welcome,” he responds, holding the glowing beacon aloft.

“Shhhhh! Did either of you hear that?” asks Nalfos.

Meza raises her axe defensively and Owen holds the light aloft as scurrying noises echoes faintly throughout the stone room.

“I hear it too, but I can’t distinguish where it’s coming from. It sounds fairly small,” responds Owen.

Nalfos takes a step towards a curtain hanging in one corner. “I think it’s coming from over here,” he responds.

The sorcerer scans the rubble, finding only a small pool of slime. He stoops down for a closer look at the goo.

“Oh no,” he says, reaching into his spell pouch and stumbling backwards. He cranes his neck upwards as a writhing mass of tentacles drops from the ceiling, wrapping around his neck. One of the sharp tentacles digs into into his shoulder.

Sparkes of flame spin into being in his right hand. The grick cries out in anger as Nalfos grabs it’s rubbery neck. He raises his hand and releases the spell into it’s open mouth. The fire bolt explodes, tearing chunks of vicious beak free. The tentacles writhe in anger.

Owen drops his makeshift torch and summons another pool of light in his palm. He unleashes a beam of crackling energy, lighting the room with a lightning flash. It slams into one of the beasts tentacles causing it to fall limp.

Nalfos summons a fiery orb, striking the grick again. The spell glances off the worm-like body with a flash of sparks, illuminating Meza as she charges to her friend’s side. She swings her axe, severing two of the hooked tentacles. The grick again cries out in pain and then hurls itself forward. Nalfos is knocked to the ground as Owen’s makeshift light quickly dims at his feet.

The creature slithers up the wall, dragging Nalfos in it’s coiled body. Fearing for Nalfos’ life, Owen focuses on his newfound abilities. He draws deep into the radiant power within and channels it into a glowing orb. The orb pulses and grows within his palm. He balances a moment and extends his wrist, releasing the ball of energy at the enemy.

The sudden burst of light catches the grick’s attention. It stops it’s escape and twists it’s neck. Two beady black eyes are illuminated by the pure white energy racing to meet it. The orb collides with it’s bulbous body with a violent ‘thwack!’. It screeches once and collapses to the floor in a series of death throws.

Nalfos screams in terror as struggles to seperate himself from the dying creature. He twists, keeping the monster between himself and the floor that is rushing to meet him. At the last moment, he turns on his side, arms wrapped around his head.

Meza and Owen rush up to inspect the wounded sorcerer. His breathing is ragged and blood begins to pool under his body. Owen reaches out and attempts to comfort him. He presses his palms over the puncture wounds and another bright lights flash in his palms.

Owen presses harder, causing the injured sorcerer to gasp in pain. The light flashes again, this time a second flash races across Nalfos’ body. The light flashes from each wound for a moment and then blinks out as his most threatening injuries are healed.

Nalfos breathes deep and clean, then opens his eyes. “Thanks?”

A loud ‘klang!’ rings throughout the stone room as Meza’s axe drops to the ground. Owen yells in surprise as Meza grabs him by the shoulders and moves him out of the way. She let’s loose a loud “Whoop!” before reaching down to pull Nalfos up. She claps him twice on the back, sending him stumbling back down to a knee.

11.3 History

Owen resumes his search of the room. A glint catches his eye near the brazier. He picks up a small golden statue. It’s cool to his touch. He brushes ages of dust from the figure, revealing the golden body of a sun elf wearing red robes.

He holds the figure up, noting similar statues arranged on shelves around the walls.

“I know this room,” he says aloud. “This was a place of worship for all who protected this keep.”

He looks down at the statue in his hand. The gold feels warm in his hands. An entity reaches out to him, beckoning him. Through the conduit of his newfound powers, he feels an offer of assistance.

He brushes more filth from the statues face with his thumb, leans close and asks, “What happened here?”

The statue begins to glow as the dust falls away. Suddenly, the glow flashes and the room fills with a projection. Beams of light catch on particles of dust swirling around the adventurers. The lights become moving images and create a chaotic series of scenes that unfold.

An orc horde forms in front of their eyes. The orcs, fueled by hatred and bloodlust, race through a thick forest. Tusked jaws scream silent war cries as they race between ancient trees and over thick brush.

The scene shifts to reveal decorations and furniture that fit the current room. Paintings and gold sconces hang on the wall. The furniture is hastily pushed back to provide space for a large, crude map. Several elves, humans, and dwarves advance rows of green markers around obstacles and towards a lone keep. In the back of the room, where the battle with the grick occurred, Clerics kneel and pray.

The scene shifts again as humans, elves, and dwarves don armor and test the weight of their weapons. A young page carries a leather tunic and sword through the cramped quarters. She stops in front of a half-elf, who turns and takes the equipment. The image of Owen draws the sword and tests it’s weight. He re-sheathes the blade and fastens it to his belt. As he dons the tunic, the scene shifts again.

This time, they witness the scene on the front steps of the keep. Gold-fringed pennants and flags flap in the wind at the top of each tower. Each bears three crowns on a field of red.

A wave of green bodies break like a wave over the adventurers and the keep’s defenders. Tusked jaws scream in silent fury all around them as they clash with the military force. Ranks of dwarves, humans, and elves struggle to hold the front line as arrows launch in swift, repeating volleys from the ramparts and numerous arrow slits.

The massive orc army is unrelenting. It plows through the defensive force even in the brief vision. As the horde advances through the primary defense, they gain ground within the keep. The vision of Owen appears again. He is covered in dirt and blood, swinging a sword defensively. Beads of sweat drip from his brow as he swings the blade awkwardly with both hands.

A hulking orc advances on the vision of Owen. It swings it’s massive axe as the vision of Owen attempts to parry. The force of the attacks rips the sword from his tired hands. He stumbles backwards, and as he stands, the orc swings it’s weapon down in an arc into Owen’s chest. The blade sinks deep as the force drives Owen into the ground.

The visions fade away and Owen feels the sorrow of the unknown entity. He mentally reaches for the connection, but the connection fades from his grasp.

Meza steps slowly towards the light of the open door. “We should get Valoric.”

Nalfos nods, “He should have caught up to us by now.”

They quietly walk back through the stone hallways, each contemplating the history that unfolded before them.

Meza enters the room first, “Valoric! You missed an incredible battle! The mage nearly died!”

She stops, scanning the room. “Where is he?”

Nalfos and Owen file in behind her. “We didn’t go far. He may have taken another path?”

“Let’s rest a moment,” Owen suggests. “Meza’s right, we did experience an incredible battle. We should gather our wits before we venture further.”