They Might Be Heroes: Series 5

Hey guys, long time no post. I thought I would share some writing of mine which was recently recognized on a play-by-post forum that I'm a part of (RPGCrossing) as post of the month! It doesn't really mean anything, in the grand scheme of things, but I'm immensely proud.

The premise here is that our party is en route to the mysterious northern region of the world, known as the Expanse, to put a stop to the giant menace causing havoc in the Northern Pelagos. Before we reach our destination, the ship is attacked by a great beast known as Retribution, which is a flying Kraken. The fight isn't going particularly well, until one of our number slays the beast form the inside.

My character, Albrecht Sunderhurst, is trying his hardest to make a contribution, but isn't having much luck. As this story begins, he is about to be consumed by the beastie.

So, without further adieu...

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Stories tell of the horror that is the fetid breath of the kraken. The mythical creature said to have feasted on a thousand souls, the corpses still rotting in its teeth. A wave of this rotten breath across your nostrils was said to be a fate worse than death.

As Albrecht was lowered toward the beast's maw, he couldn't help but think that the severity of the stench was undersold. A wall of fetid air hit him like a greatclub wielded by the gods, seeming to permeate every fibre of his being and sicken him to his very core. He was glad that he held a bar of soap in his offhand -- though he was paralyzed by the completeness of the stench its very presence helped him feel the slightest bit more sanitary. He tightened his grip on the bar, fearing that without its presence he may simply be consumed by the filth.

The beast's teeth were another matter entirely. They loomed above him with malicious intent, opening wide about the maw that prepared to consume him whole. They were stalagmites of agony and despair, promising only death and a world of bottomless pain.

They drew closer and closer, dripping with ooze and the blood of countless sailors. The strix could do nothing. Even if the tentacle around him lessened its grasp, the sheer magnitude of the beast's frightful presence prevented his muscles from moving even an inch.

And then there was darkness.

He was vaguely aware that the tentacle around his waist was gone. His senses were numb and his mind a blur while his life flashed before his eyes. Every so often he would crash roughly against the beast's innards, but he barely noticed. The strikes barely registered, unable to pierce the veil of hopelessness surrounding him mind.

Surely this was the end. What did any of it matter?

Suddenly, an image of his mother flashed through his mind. He saw her gentle smile; her confident demeanor and subtle grace. His father joined her, his soft features belying the sharp mind and lightning reflexes beneath. He saw Duskwing, his faithful companion, soaring on the breeze high above the land. The sky wove through the bird's feathers with the promise of a gentler world. All throughout, a single word rang through his mind:

Freedom.

No, this is not how it ends.

The world came rushing back into his consciousness. He became keenly aware of the of the deep rumble the creature; of the screams from the few dwarves still unfortunate enough to have their lives; of the rushing of cold air from within the beast; of the pain wracking his body as he flew. Blood dripped down his face, obscuring his vision and stinging his eyes. He assumed most of it was his.

He didn't have long to dwell on that thought before hitting the sloshing mess of fluid within the creature. The sordid mix of acid and bile sought out his wounds with a voracious intensity, stinging his tender flesh. He struggled against the sloshing tide but the turbulence was too much for him. He silently cursed his ability to fly, and all of the time he spent ignoring the need to practice swimming. Eventually in his flailing he collided with something solid, and grabbed hold for dear life. As he was about to pull himself onto whatever he'd latched on to, he was suddenly weightless.

The fluid rose around him. He caught glimpses of bones and bloated corpses rising above the waves. Retribution was going down, and quickly. The contents of its stomach, constrained by simple gravity, could not keep pace. He had but a precious moment, and he used it to beat his wings and position himself above his prize -- a boat, apparently. It was worse for wear, but sufficiently in tact to provide shelter from the beasts innards for a short time.

The kraken hit the ocean with a resounding crash, and the sudden change in speed set its stomach's contents to roiling. The ship rolled on the churning waves but stayed afloat, and Albrecht kept his grip with all of his remaining might. When the liquid calmed, he realized that he was not the only creature on board the vessel. The orc he had spotted earlier lay sprawled opposite him on the deck. He did not appear to be moving, but the ranger spotted signs of shallow breath and let free a small sigh. The intake that followed elicited a sharp cough, sending pain racing through his side. The air was thick here, and it burned his lungs. He suspected that before too long it would suffocate whatever creatures were still capable of drawing breath. For now, though, he was still alive, and that was all that mattered.

It wasn't long before another black hand rose above the acid, grasping desperately for the ship's edge. Xyclath pulled himself over the railing as Albrecht struggled to his knees, coughing dark blood onto the planks before him. He tried to will himself toward his companions, that he may help them, but it was all he could do to move at all. Any attempts to stand were foiled by the weakness in his legs and the occassional torrent of ocean water streaming into their prison as the warden consumed another limp dwarf.

Suddenly there was a crash. His mind didn't have the time to register the sound before several more followed. Explosions rocked the inside of the chamber and flaming chunks of flesh plummeted to the fetid bog below. Xyclath, the first among them to orient himself, has loosed a deadly volley upon their assailant, and the beast roared in both anger and pain. A vortex appeared at one end of the creature's innards, now expelling the contents of its stomach out into the open air.

Albrecht spun helplessly with the current, his grip on the ship long since lost due to his violent acceleration. Darkness crept along the corners of his vision as he became disoriented. The sky, so blue and crisp in the cold air, was the last thing he saw before darkness overcame him.

And through his mind ran a single word which, despite everything, brought a smile to his face.

Freedom.

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 BONUS: The above post was the one that won, but I think the follow-up post has a lot of merit. We had just closed out the chapter, which is why so much was going on, and so that post served as a summary of sorts. This one is the first of the new chapter, and now that our party is split up things are going to have to change. For the record, my character uses a ranger archetype called Falconer, and so I have a falcon as an animal companion named Duskwing. It was difficult to fly due to the storm aura that Retribution gave off, so I commanded him to stay inside the ship, and so was inside when the Kraken came crashing down.

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Albrecht awoke slowly, as if the hand of some unseen force had taken hold of his fitful dreams and refused to relinquish it. In the end it was the pain that roused him. The impact of a phantom squid's mighty tentacle against his side brought to the fore the very real ache of his bruised ribs, which slithered itself between the clutching fingers of his captor and forced the dreamworld's tenous grip to be lost.

The result was a dreary and unpleasant consciousness. Despite the rest he got, he could not remember a time when he had been more exhausted. Pain -- dull aches, tender wounds, and discomfort all around -- served as a welcome reminder that he was still alive, and that all of his battered limbs were still intact. He gingerly tested each of them, straining to move his head so that he could see them move and assure his tired mind of the reality of the thing.

All here, he thought. Well, except my dignity...

Eventually he worked up the courage to open his eyes, and what he saw surprised him. Above the group the sun peeked shyly through the clouds, sending a light sprinkling of rain from the heavens. The sky, though obscured, was vibrant, and the wind was cold, but not bitter. As he reached out beside him, grains of sand graced his fingertips. Simply put, it was nothing like the frozen wasteland he expected to find here. His homeland of Cambria, far to the south, was far colder than this as a general rule. In comparison, this place was a paradise.

At least, it would be, if not for the smell. Its source was obvious enough, with Retribution's bloated corpse lying a stone's throw away from where they lay. After having tasted the Kraken's breath he was almost desensitized to the overwhelming stench it gave off. He unconsciously squeezed the bar of soap still clutched in his hand, hoping on some level that it would protect him from the rot, but in the end he knew it was hopeless. He cast a forlorn look to the ocean and made a mental note to wash himself as soon as he was able to move.

The other surprise awaiting him was the fire beside him. He and his companions were covered with thick fur blankets that staved off the cold, and the fire, crackling strong despite the rain, radiated a welcoming warmth that seemed to make his injuries seem less severe. He also took note of the bandage wrapped around his skull, soaked red from the deep gash on his forehead. Someone had cared for them. He saw that Xyclath wasn't with them, so perhaps the other strix had prepared the camp, but remembering the wounds that all three had sustained it seemed highly unlikely. His doubts were further solidified by the red stains covering the empty blanket beside him. They were all hurting from the battle. Frankly it was a miracle they survived.

He sighed. Some mysteries were best left unsolved -- at least for now. In the meantime he was simply happy to be alive, though a rumbling in his stomach reminded him that if he lay there forever he might not be for long.

Hunger... It's been a long time since I've suffered that particular burden. Now I know how Duskwing feels. Duskwing...

His eyes widened.

Duskwing.

His falcon had been inside the ship when Retribution fell from the sky. Suddenly all of his pain and weakness seemed like a distant memory as panic flooded into his brain and overwhelmed his senses. He roughly threw his blanket aside and shot to his feet, searching desperately for his pack amongst the wreckage. Spotting it nearby, he leaped toward it, using his scaled wings to gain a burst of speed in the process. A cloud of sand rose around him as he collided roughly with the ground, not bothering to show even a modicum of grace in his scramble. His fingers seemed unable to work the clasp, shaking from the strain and the emotion. To his annoyance he realized he was still clutching the bar of soap, and angrily threw it behind him. It hit the broken ship with remarkable force, shattering to be scattered on the sand below, but he paid it no mind as he frantically dug through his belongings. Finally, a cool metal tube found its way into his waiting fingers, and he yanked it from the bag.

His signal whistle.

Letting his pack sprawl alng the beach, he kicked off the beach and shot into the sky, leaving a cloud of sand and dust beneath him. Fighting back tears he used his momentum to force air into his lungs until he was set to burst, and with a mighty bellow blew into the whistle. Its piercing tone rang out over the ocean and danced in the wind. Over and over he blew, hoping with each shrill cry the beady eyes of his companion would suddenly appear before him. He knew it was hopeless, but he also felt that he could not give up; that somewhere beyond the horizon his friend was searching for him.

He wasn't sure how long he hovered; how many times he brought the whistle to his lips. He blew until he had no more breath, but panting desperately he would keep trying. After a time it became impossible, his exhaustion and his sobs preventing him from filling his lungs. He had to hope that it had been enough, and after taking a moment to collect himself he floated back down to the beach. Muzdul stood at the edge of the beach, silently watching him as he descended, but he paid it no mind. As his feet touched the ground his wings sunk with the rest of him, dragging through the sand as he quietly collected his belongings.

The rest was all a daze. He sat staring into the fire, taking no joy in the meat he had been provided but knowing that without it he would surely die. At some point in his daze Xyclath had returned, and the trio was joined by someone he did not recognize. For now, he didn't care to. All he could do was wait.

They Might Be Heroes: Series 4

Oh, hello internet. I didn't see you there. Welcome to my cozy neck of the woods. Tonight, we have another installment of "They Might Be Heroes," a series in which I show you the backstories for characters I have created for various Dungeons and Dragons campaigns. In this installment, we have Albrecht Sunderhurst: a human-raised Strix Ranger looking to join a dangerous expedition into the harsh northern lands known only as the Expanse. So sit back, grab a cup a coacoa, and prepare to read a LOT. This one's about 10 pages (>4000 words). Sorry.

Note: Baijiu is a strong alcoholic drink in the Pathfinder universe

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Albrecht Sunderhurst
Strix Ranger (Falconer, Skirmisher)

Chapter 1: Beginnings

He remembered the cold.

More than anything it was the cold. The rocks upon which he lay seemed to steal whatever warmth that remained in his heart, chilling him to his very core. The wind, though blocked partially by the cliffs above him, bit into his dark flesh with malicious zeal. Even the sky worked against him, shutting out any hope of heat from the dim northern sun. It threatened to consume him.

But for some reason, he knew he could not die. This child, barely free of the womb and abandoned to fate, clung desperately to the fragile thread of life. It was as if somewhere deep down he had known that there was so much more life had to offer; so much he had yet to experience.

He allowed his body to go numb, but he would not break. He let his heavy lids fall and let the darkness wash over him, but he would not yield. Life would find a way.

And then there was warmth.

He couldn't feel it at first. His body was shutting down and lacked the strength to communicate this new sensation. Slowly, however, he noticed a change. The darkness was not so complete; his shivering began to wane. He became vaguely aware of the soft blanket wrapped around his tiny form, of the fire roaring beyond his eyelids which refused to open.

It was the voice that brought him back: a soft, tender thing which carried more warmth than any fire could provide.

"Don't worry, little one. Everything will be okay."

Chapter 2: Seasoned with Hatred

Albrecht smiled as he bent down to inspect his snare. Unlike all of the others he’d checked, a sizable rabbit had been unfortunate enough to get caught, which meant that the Strix and his adoptive parents would be eating well tonight. The rest of the creature could also be put to use in mending or crafting small items around their home. On their remote island resources were scarce, and he had been taught to let nothing go to waste. With a small hunting knife pulled from his boot, he released the rabbit and fastened it to his belt before resetting the snare.

He straightened and patted his quarry. “Sorry, little one. We appreciate your sacrifice.”

“Did we get any?”

Albrecht started as seemingly from nowhere his father Darius appeared behind him. He was no slouch, but his parents were lighter of foot on their worst days than he was perceptive on his best. He always found it amazing how they could move without making a sound – the result of years of training in the wild. Darius and Amastasia Sunderhurst were legends in their own right, but their adventuring days were long behind them. These days they lived a quiet life and seemed content to pass on their knowledge to their son, that he may have his own adventures. He had considered asking them about it on numerous occasions, but as they never brought it up he figured that he should leave it well enough alone. They were happy, after all, and that’s what really mattered.

“Just one, father. Enough for a good stew tonight, and possibly breakfast. In any case, I’ve reset the traps, so we can check again tomorrow.”

His father’s kind smile was accompanied with a firm pat on the shoulder.  “Your mother will be thrilled. Let’s head back.” With a smirk, he added, “Oh, and you’re cooking tonight.”

o-o-o-o

The duo made quick work of the trek back to Cambria, one of the few human settlements remaining in the Pelagos. For lesser creatures, the undergrowth of the thick northern forests on their remote island would be all but impassable, but to Darius and Albrecht, born and bred in the wilds, it was hardly a hindrance. They emerged from the treeline outside their small settlement a mere two hours after setting out.

Amastasia Sunderhurst was just emerging from the town’s apothecary with a small pouch of spell components as they did so. She of course noticed them immediately, and gave a quick wave. She seemed to float down the few stairs in front of the shop, barely disturbing a single snowflake as she touched the ground.

Her grace was not shared by the group passing by that same shop, the strong smell of Baijiu wafting from their unwashed bodies. A cloud of soft powder rose around them as they stumbled down the street. Upon seeing the ranger, their sour moods took a turn for the worst.

Cambria, as you might imagine, did not take kindly to the new addition to their remote town 16 years earlier. When the two legendary hunters walked into town with a baby Strix, mere inches from death, the superstitious inhabitants of the remote town regarded it as a demon, and have been suffering from the prejudice ever since. Darius and Amastasia Sunderhurst had faced down dragons (and worse) – a few disgruntled villagers were barely worth recognition.

The biggest of the bunch (and by virtue of poor alcohol tolerance, the bravest), took a step forward and puffed out his chest. With a grimace, “Spawnwhore” hissed through his clenched teeth, and after a sharp intake he followed the expletive with thick gob of saliva.

Quick as lightning and without missing a beat, Amastasia’s trained hands gracefully snatched the hilt and of the dagger on her belt. It spun once through the crisp air before returning to its sheath, and in that split second the projectile was cut in two, passing harmlessly to either side of its target.

The ranger, content with herself, ducked past the self-satisfied thugs as if nothing had happened. As soon as she did so, however, her eyes widened. “Wait, don’t!”

Albrecht, watching from the treeline, had seen the whole exchange, and his jade eyes were bright with fury as he flew through the air and collided violently with the thug.

“Stop it Al!”

His mother’s cries fell on deaf ears. The man he hit collapsed in a heap, and the two men beside him screamed in fear as Albrecht’s scaly wings spread to their full extent. His clenched fists shook from the strain as he bent over the writhing ruffian, but before he could put his intentions into action he was ripped from his feet. In a fluid display of might, Amastasia pulled her son back and threw him to the ground. Shock extinguished the fury within him, and the cold earth forced the air from his lungs.

By this time others from the village were starting to emerge from their homes, hoping to discover the source of the commotion. What they found was one of their own, coughing up his own blood, and two others cowering in abject fear. Above them stood Amastasia, a vision of poise, and behind her the demon, jumping deftly to his feet and gasping for air.

“Mark my words, spawnwhore! Reign in your beast, or put him to the torch! He’ll bring only death to this place!”

“Well if you keep that up, he might,” she quipped. “He’s a better man than the lot of you. Now run home. I’m sure you have more important things to do than insult me.”

The sight of the ranger, standing stoic and unfazed in the midst of such chaos, took much of the spark from the indignant crowd, and with much grumbling they dispersed. Amastasia shot an unamused glance to her son. “We’ll discuss this at home.”

He acknowledged her with a solemn nod, but before he left he regarded the man on the floor, whose associates were now fleeing the scene.

“Today, I took your dignity. Next time it will be your life. You will never disrespect my mother again.”

Chapter 3: The Harder They Fall

“I think it knows we’re following it.”

Albrecht, Darius, and Amastasia crowded around the mangled soldier. Her slender frame and golden armour suggested she was elven, but her head had been crushed completely. The rest of her, oddly, appeared to be completely untouched. Surrounding the body was an odd assortment of weaponry, ranging from longbows to greatswords, and even one particularly vicious-looking battle scythe. The weapons were all well-worn, but clean and reasonably undamaged.

To the Strix, the display seemed nonsensical, but deliberate. “What makes you say that, father?”

It was his mother who answered instead. “This is a message. Notice how carefully-laid everything is. This elf was murdered delicately, but with great strength, indicating that our quarry has both power and precision. The fact that the body was left so openly, and so close to the tracks we’re following, tells of its confidence. These weapons are all clean, which means they did not taste its flesh, but they are also worn, which indicates they were wielded by experienced warriors. He’s letting us know that that he’s not afraid of us.”

They had been chasing a giant for several days now. While the family was out on an extended hunting trip it had attacked Cambria and run off with several of the townsfolk’s children. A detachment of soldiers from a neighbouring island had already been investigating odd activity in the region and had passed through the small village shortly after. They were about four days ahead, but from the gruesome scene in the clearing it seemed likely that none had survived.

This adversary was proving to be more cunning than they had anticipated. Even with three master trackers in pursuit they had almost been misled by false trails on several occasions. The constant snowfall didn’t help, of course, but the fact that a creature that large could hide its tracks and still make such good progress through the forest was a testament to its skill.

Darius nodded solemnly. “I’d venture to guess that we’ll catch up in a few hours if we’re quick, but he’ll likely be ready for us. Al, it might be time for you to head back to town.”

Albrecht shook his head. “You know that’s not going to happen. I’m not going to abandon you: especially not when we’re this close.”

“Sweetie, I know how you feel, and we appreciate the thought, but this is more dangerous than—“

His mother’s words were cut short as a tremendous crash sounded from the trees behind them. A huge boulder, taller than even the hulking strix, flew through the air with tremendous speed toward the trio. Albrecht and Darius managed to desperately dive out of the way, but Amastasia had nowhere to go, and despite her godly reflexes took the full brunt of the blow. It sent her careening backward into trees, and a red streak of blood stained the snow along her trajectory.

The others immediately sprang into action.

Darius bolted after the boulder, drawing his bow as he went. “Albrecht! Run!” In an instant he was next to his wife, and a white light radiated from his outstretched hand that washed her wounds away. As she wiped the blood from her eyes, only steadfast determination remained.

Albrecht took a different approach. Rather than going to his mother’s side, he made a dash for the hole left by the rock with a great beat of his powerful wings. He made a swift decision to ignore the longsword on his back and stead snatched the first weapon in reach: the scythe. His grip tightened on the weapon’s haft as their attacker came into view. The giant, a scarred behemoth wearing crimson furs, had readied a gargantuan and cruel-looking battleaxe. The beast’s face showed neither fear nor amusement. Strix and giant alike wore expressions solely of focus on the task at hand, cold and calculating.

Despite his speed, Albrecht felt an eternity pass as he grew ever closer to the giant. The creature stood in a wide, low stance, with its weapon poised for a quick and precise strike. Its steady breathing and calm composure betrayed years of experience in combat, and its eyes betrayed an intelligence beyond that of its kin. This was a seasoned, deadly warrior, and it radiated murderous intent.

20 feet. It adjusted its feet to account for his angle of approach.

15 feet. It tightened its grip on its weapon.

10 feet. Its muscles tensed to strike.

5 feet.

The giant released the energy stored in its muscles and set his axe on a collision course with his opponent. At the same time, a single arrow shot past the strix and embedded itself directly into the giant’s eye. Taking advantage of the falter in the giant’s swing, Albrecht tucked in his wings and entered a spiral to alter his trajectory, narrowing avoiding the edge of the axe. In a blink he was past it, and his scythe connected squarely with the beast’s throat.

The sound of metal on flesh rang sickly through the air, and in a flash of crimson his blade separated the giant’s head from its body. The strix was the first to touch the ground, skidding through the snow as he decelerated. The giant’s head was next, followed shortly by its body.

He looked back through the trees to see his father lowering his bow and his mother sheathing both of her swords. With a sigh of relief, he smiled at them and nodded his thanks.

The deed was done.

o-o-o-o

Cambria was quiet when he returned.

After defeating the giant they had found the four children, cold and afraid, in a stand of trees nearby. Albrecht had flown ahead to share the good news, and had taken the beast’s skull as proof of their conquest.

At least, that’s what his parents thought. In truth he had ulterior motives.

The few townsfolk who were outside couldn’t help but stare as the strix landed in the center of the town square. Gasps and frightened whispers radiated throughout those assembled.

Perfect, thought Albrecht.

“Perople of Cambria!” His shout echoed throughout the town. “Stand and be counted!”

The whispers turned into panic as more and more of the villagers poured into the square. It wasn’t long before all of the town’s inhabitants had been gathered, and the unwavering demon in their midst – carrying a severed head, no less – was filling them all with unease.

He took a moment for the worry to percolate. It was time to make a statement that none of them would ever forget.

In one fluid motion, Albrecht began to spin.

First came his left hand, holding the head. It came around quickly and threw the skull above him.

Next came his right hand, holding the scythe. The blade whistled through the air and embedded itself in the giant’s remains.

Finally came his eyes. As he planted the scythe, decorated with his macabre prize, into the very center of the town square, he swept his gaze across all those assembled.

“This,” he addressed the crowd, “is the creature we were chasing. This is the creature that stole your children and slew two score warriors from Throgain. This is the last creature to harm my family. I felled it with my own hands, wielding this very blade. You always feared that I was a demon: a bringer of misfortune and death. Now you know that your fears were justified. I am the deathbringer, and I shall rain justice and retribution down upon those who harm the ones I love. If ever you would dream of disrespecting my family, then you will know fear greater even than that felt by this once-proud warrior as my blade caused its blood to run cold. You will discover that I am no longer Albrecht Sunderhurst, proud son of Darius and Amastasia Sunderhurst. You will know what I truly am. I am the Reaper.”

Chapter 4: Into the Unknown

Damn this cold, thought Garrigan. If not for that accursed barrier I’d be a thousand miles away, sipping  chilled tea in a remote paradise. But now? Now I’m stuck heading to almost certain doom trying to skirt the damn thing through the expanse. How did I get here?

It was rhetorical, of course. One does not attempt to rob the archmage of the Crystal Laureate without some sort of repercussion, but greed had gotten the best of him. The allure of untold magical power and a single misstep into a well-hidden divination was all it took to take the proud battlemage out of his command and into the wilderness, stuck cooking stale rations over a tiny campfire.

He blew another precious breath into the base of his gloves to try and get a little feeling back into his fingers, and for the millionth time contorted his body to its full range of motion. He was one of very few mages who could cast comfortably in a suit of full plate, but if the thing froze it was more of a prison than a boon.

Damn this cold.

Suddenly he felt a magical tug to the East and alarm bells sounded in his mind. One of the wards he had placed around his camp had been tripped. That meant someone was approaching, and this far North that could only mean that they were doing so pointedly. He had set the wards a good distance away, with full coverage of the surrounding area, so he should have a bit of time, but having no knowledge of the nature of the threat he knew he couldn’t risk sticking around. Immediately he reached into his spell pouch and began casting. When the intruder arrived, he had no intention of still being around.

His arcane mumbling was cut short when an auburn bolt, accompanied by the piercing shriek of a bird of prey, shot down from high above him and collided squarely with his back. The blow nearly took him from his feet, and caused a painful gash at the shoulder joint of his armour. More importantly, it had interrupted his spell.

His eyes barely had the chance to widen in panic as he looked through the trees to see a wave of negative energy surrounding with darkness approaching him with tremendous speed. He brought his mailed arms in front of his face in desperation, hoping to somehow cushion whatever was to come.

The scythe passed through his thick armour as if it were putty, digging into his tender flesh and filling his heart with utter despair.

Damn this cold, he thought.

And then he was no more.

o-o-o-o

Albrecht was digging through his belt pouch as he entered Mercuria’s bounty office. This small building in the middle of the Pelagos’ most bustling and diverse metropolis was where he acquired most of his contracts. A high-profile bounty, usually easy fare for a hunter of his skill, could keep him comfortable for months.

It helped that he didn’t have to worry about food or drink, and he had the silver ring on his finger to thank for that. It also allowed him to fully recover after only two hours of sleep, so he could gain ground on his quarry with ease. He gave the ring an idle, appreciative spin as he dug. It was a good investment.

“Ah, Reaper!” A thick and cheerful dwarf greeted the new arrival from his customary place behind the office counter. The wall over his stout shoulders was layered from floor to ceiling with bounties depicting all manner of creatures. “And Duskwing, of course. Looking fine as always.”

“Hello, Husk,” Albrecht replied with a smile. His falcon let out a self-satisfied squawk from his place on the Strix’s shoulder.

Husk reached into one of his desk drawers and pulled out a small piece of jerky. He tossed it into the air, and without missing a beat Duskwing darted from his perch and snatched it with his razor-sharp beak, alighting onto the counter. The dwarf rubbed the falcon’s head with his finger, who pushed against it and seemed to thoroughly enjoy the experience. “I didn’t expect you to be back so soon.”

“Garrigan was a bit of a tough cookie, but since he couldn’t teleport through the barrier there was only so far he could go. I’ve got his ring here somewhere… Ah, there it is.”

From his pouch he produced a small signet ring: gold and engraved with a crimson stag wreathed in mist. It seemed to hum with a faint energy, but since its bearer was dead it stayed dormant. He also pulled a heavy tome from his pack and placed it on the desk with a thud.

“As promised, the quarry’s signet ring and spellbook. I returned the orb to the Crystal Laureate before coming here, so the archmage is satisfied and has gone back to his research. You’ll find his letter of release for the bounty in the book there. I’ll probably end up selling everything else he had with him.”

Husk took a moment to look over the haul and cross reference it with a logbook he kept under his desk. After reading the letter he disappeared through a door that led deeper into the building. He returned a short time later with a hefty pouch, its contents making a familiar and satisfying clink. He passed it over the table to Albrecht, who nodded his thanks before placing it into his pack.

“The bounty is yours, my friend. 300 platinum, to the coin. Counted it myself, just to be sure. Though I daresay that orb you returned is probably worth a hell of a lot more.”

“It’s only worth more if you know how to use it, and frankly I couldn’t care less,” Albrecht shrugged. “The coin alone is more than enough for my tastes.”

Husk smiled. “Fair enough. I should have known that you’d never give in to temptation.” He plopped heavily back down into his chair. “Oh, speaking of which, see anything you like? Not much for a hunter of your calibre these days. You’ve already caught most of the serious criminals, and with your reputation new ones are few and far between.”

He shook his head as he scanned the bounty board. Nothing jumped out as particularly interesting prey. “That’s alright. I’ll let some of the others have a go at it for a change.”

“Fair enough,” chuckled the dwarf. “I’ll see you around.”

Albrecht shook his hand before turning to leave, hoisting his pack back onto his shoulder.

“Oh, by the way.” Husk’s voice caused Albrecht to pause and look back, his ebony hand hovering over the doorknob. Duskwing took the opportunity to fly back onto his shoulder. “Your pal Ugrog is hanging around the harbour. Some special mission into the Expanse. Seems like something you might be interested in.”

He let his hand finish its journey and turn the knob. “I just might. Thanks for the information.”

o-o-o-o

“Next please.”

Ugrog sighed. It had been a long day. For reasons that he could not comprehend there were numerous creatures of all sort lining up to risk their lives by venturing into the unknown of the Expanse. He figured most really didn’t comprehend the difficulty of what was being asked of them. The Halfling girl who was leaving his small office had simply never seen a giant before, and was curious.

She’d be dead within a day, he thought. He dipped his quill into the inkwell and drew a thick, deliberate line through her name in his logbook. Not on my watch.

When he looked up he almost fell back out of his chair. The wall of black before him had such a forceful aura he could feel himself inadvertently quivering, and he had not been ready for that. He shook his head to compose himself. “Reaper! You nearly scared me to death. What brings you here?”

Albrecht took a seat in the sizable chair across the desk. It was a bit big, even for him, but he figured that all kinds would come through, and they had to be accommodating for pretty much anyone. “Hello Ugrog. And curiosity, mostly. I hear you’re recruiting people for a trip to the expanse.”

“Ah yes. Well recruiting doesn’t seem like the right word. Screening, more like. The giants are becoming a problem too serious to ignore, so we’re sending a group up north to deal with the situation permanently. I’d go myself, but…”

Albrecht held up a hand to stop him. “You’ve got a family, my friend. There’s no need to justify that to me of all people.”

The orc provided an appreciative nod before continuing. “In any case, we’ve had all kinds walk through this office. Most are either delusional or insane, but we’ve had a few hopeful candidates. There’ve been a number of your kind as well, though none with scaled wings.” He gestured to Albrecht’s wings with his quill.

That’s a bit ironic, he thought.

“I do believe that you are a very special strix.”

Albrecht laughed. “Well thank you. Actually I’m starting to think that these things,” he spread his wings a bit in showcase, “are largely why I was abandoned as a baby. But they allowed me to find my parents, and for that I’m eternally grateful.”

“I’m glad. Not many people can find a silver lining to that sort of thing. In any case, since you’re here, I might as well go through the standard questions. Sound good?”

He furled his wings once again. “Whenever you’re ready.”

“Why are you here?”

“Because you need me, and because there’s nothing left for me to hunt in the Pelagos.”

“What can you offer to defeat the giants?”

“I’m a tireless and highly skilled tracker, and a have a penchant for striking fear into the heart of even the surliest of creatures. And if fear doesn’t work, I can always strike their heart with my scythe instead.”

“What is your greatest regret?”

“That Duskwing can’t find a proper woman.” The bird screeched in protest. Albrecht merely smiled. “As for myself, I tend to live without regrets. Through careful planning and exceptional skill I can accomplish pretty much anything I need to. Besides, my parents taught me to respect the nature of the world and to keep moving forward. I figure it’s time to take that in stride, and start moving North.”

They Might Be Heroes: Series 3

Hello, internet. It has been... Well it's been a very long time since I have last put finger to keyboard in this most sacred of places. I really have no excuse, and if you were an avid reader of my work when I still posted regularly, you have my sincerest apologies (and curiosity. Comment?). I cannot make any sort of promise that I will resume posting, what with my fourth year of computer engineering in full swing and responsibilities with various companies taking precendence, but I will try to post sporadicaly throughout the term as I expect some of my peers will be pressuring me to do so. In the meantime, I have produced a piece of writing which I believe deserves to be posted, and I thought I would share it. Harkening back to my earliest posts, I am continuing my series of D&D backstories: They Might Be Heroes. In this installment, we meet Whisperling, a jovial and snarky Centaur about to be sent to hell itself to rescue the seven sages of Drigonia. Special thanks to my friend Steven for his creation of the concept for what is likely going to be an excellent campaign.

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Whisperling
Centaur Soulknife

ACT I - Amidst the Calm

There was something in the silence that night.

Fellkeep was a tired old town, hewn from the stones of history in a time before civilization. For thousands of years it had stood as a bastion in the center of the continent and had kept at bay the wild places by which it was surrounded. The harsh winds of the plains tore fruitlessly at the tired bones of towers and abodes, and though these bones would creak in protest they refused to back down. The humans and elves that had chosen to make this town their home were equally hardy. Though they may grumble, they possessed a spirit that would not yield in the face of adversity.

But tonight was a different matter. The ghostly breath of the plains, normally so pervasive and insistent, had stilled, granting the stone and timber of the stronghold a rare reprieve.

To most this was an unexpected and entirely pleasant development; an opportunity to warm the chill permeating the very core of the town’s residents. Whisperling was not “most.”

In fact, there likely wasn’t a soul alive who would consider him to be normal. By his very nature he stood apart from his peers. Half man and half beast, the centaur was out of place in most settings.

Even his name was unique, as he chose it himself and there was nobody around who knew him as anything else. Tonight, his abnormality manifested in a nagging feeling that something was amiss. He stood in the darkness of the city streets and peered at the stars as he pondered the uneasy quiet. To him it seemed a harbinger of something dire, and he feared what the coming storm would bring.

He was so engrossed in thought he hadn’t even noticed the two men who had drunkenly stumbled onto the street from a nearby tavern. When they spoke to him he was taken entirely by surprise.

“Hey pretty horsey, you want some hay?”

Their inebriated giggling was initially met with shock, but Whisperling couldn’t help but smile at the sight. “Actually,” he said, “I’d prefer some oats if you’ve got them.”

The two men had expected a much more emotional reaction. Having not received one they were left utterly speechless, unable to process a meaningful response through the alcohol clouding their minds. With a chuckle he reached down and ruffled their hair as he walked past them into the night.

“Don’t strain yourselves, lads.” He paused and smiled over his shoulder before he continued. “Best be getting home. It’s late, and your husbands must be worried.”

“Wha—“

The drunkards’ protests were cut short as a plume of flame rose into the southern sky. Several others rose to meet it even before the thunderous roar from the explosions washed over the alley. Already unsteady, the two humans were blown clean off their feet to collapse in a drunken heap against the far wall.

Whisperling frowned at the pair before directing his attention back south.

“Sometimes I hate being right.”

ACT II - Fire and Blood

The screams of goblins, humans, and elves rang shrill in Whisperling’s ears as he galloped toward the southern wall. In alleys he passed he glimpsed healers feverishly chanting over writhing wounded from the Drigonian Honour Guard, and still others closing the eyes of those who were beyond saving. The destruction was unthinkable.

He clutched his fists in rage, pressing on with all his might. How could the goblins have made it to the city without the Red Sage detecting their presence? How did they become so organized that they could launch an assault on a bastion that has stood strong for thousands of years?

One thing was certain: much more blood would be spilled this night, and he was not about to sit on the sidelines while it happened. He was already shaking in anticipation of the violence to come, unable to quench the bloodlust and savagery of his heritage.

Suddenly he was there. Flames and steel swirled about the scene. The mighty walls of Fellkeep, once tall and proud, were now reduced puddles of molten rock by goblin magic, allowing scores of goblins to pour into the city. Across the court, more of the city’s inhabitants continued to rush into the fray.

Arrows rained down amongst the foot soldiers and explosions of magical energy rang out above them as the mages of the Drigonian Honour Guard faced off against the goblin witchdoctors and siege weapons beyond the wall.

It took only a moment to analyse the scene before him, and without missing a stride the mighty centaur sprang into action, grasping a longsword protruding from the chest of a slain goblin as he went. It was barely a knife to him, but it was sharp, and it would have to do. Excitement welled within him as the swarm grew ever closer, his hands shaking so vigorously he could barely keep his grasp on the blade.

It was nearly time.

The ride across the courtyard was only a few seconds, but to him it felt like an eternity. He had chosen to make his home in this city, and these beasts from the wilds were now threatening to burn it to the ground. This discourtesy could only be repaid in blood, and he would make sure that many a goblin would take part in the transaction.

One of the goblins, a scraggly beast wielding a crude spear, pulled his weapon from the back of an elven warrior who had been facing off against four others. Content with his kill, he turned toward the city once more with a savage fire burning in his eyes. That fire was instantly replaced with fear as his view settled on the towering centaur bearing down on him.

As their eyes met, the tremor in Whisperling’s fists immediately ceased. All of his rage, all of his bloodlust filed down to a single point within his consciousness; an absolute focus accented by a wave of perfect calmness.

The dance with death had begun.

That goblin was but the first of many to fall to the centaur’s precise and powerful strikes, followed by the four creatures the unfortunate elf had been facing before meeting his demise. Whisperling’s blade swung ceaselessly, cleaving goblins in two with each powerful blow, and goblin heads were crushed to dust beneath his hooves. As he advanced into the goblin horde he left behind him only a crimson mist.

For hours he fought, his sleek black fur enveloped in goblin blood. They were outside the wall now, and exhausted soldiers pressed forward with all of their remaining might to repel the invaders.

Blackness licked at the corners of Whisperling’s vision, but he refused to give even an inch of ground. His thick hide was covered in a thousand cuts from goblin blades, and pain wracked his every step, but he would not back down.

This was his city, and he was determined to keep it that way.

A goblin charged him from his left flank as he moved to dispatch a similar brute on his right. As he swung his sword he was sure it would end his foe, and so he directed his attention to the new arrival and prepared to strike.

But then he heard a piercing clang, and he felt his blade shatter in his grasp. In a panic he leapt backward and looked back to the goblin he thought should be dead. It stood there still, though it was three times its original size and had a wicked grin on its face. Its weapon, a roughly-hewn mace, had grown as well. Whisperling’s blade, weakened and chipped throughout the night, had snapped in two when it collided with the fortified arm, leaving him without the means to defend against the new threat to either side.

As panic welled up inside of him, so too did a force that he could not explain. Without thinking, he threw away the hilt of his ruined sword and focused all of his lethal intent into his fist. As he stabbed toward the smaller goblin he shaped his rage; let his will take form. As he did so, the air began to part, as if cut by an invisible force. In the rift an ethereal blade formed, and the startled goblin, so confident mere moments before, collapsed in a heap at the centaur’s feet.

Whisperling turned back to the fortified goblin who had destroyed his physical sword, a new wave of energy surging to match his resolve.

“I guess I should pick on someone my own size.”

ACT III - The Resolve of Home

“Let him through.”

General Solomon set down the map he had been examining and rose to meet the warrior who had called upon him. He was no small man, but the centaur entering his command tent towered above him in both physique and countenance. The high commander of the Drigonian Honour Guard was not easily unsettled, but there was something in the air that made him feel uneasy.

“My men tell me that you were instrumental in sealing the breach to the southern wall. I would like to extend my gratitude.”

Whisperling looked down at the general’s outstretched hand, but couldn’t bring himself to grasp it. If not for his anger he likely would not have even been able to stand. All he could manage was a nod.

“I’m sorry general, but it’s been a very long night. I’m not usually one to skip the pleasantries, but I would ask that we get right down to business.”

The general acknowledged him with a tired nod and allowed his hand to fall back to his side. “As you wish. What brings you to my tent?” He considered offering his guest a seat, but a quick glance at

Whisperling’s four equestrian legs caused him to reconsider.

“How did this happen? There’s no way a force of that size could have made it all the way to Fellkeep without the Red Sage warning us.”

Solomon’s face sank at the question – a queue which Whisperling did not miss. It took him some time to find his words, but the centaur was patient.

“There’s been… an incident.” He paused, still finding the thought difficult to swallow. With a sigh, he looked Whisperling straight in the eye. “The Seven Sages have gone missing. We have reason to believe they may have been kidnapped and brought to Hell. We’re seeking adventurers to go after them and bring them back. In fact, we could use someo—“

“I’m in,” Whisperling interrupted.

Solomon was taken aback, and unsure of how to respond. “I’m sorry?”

“I said I’m in. Form your party, and include me in its number. I’ll not stand idly by while Drigonia is ravaged by beasts.”

He worked his mouth wordlessly for some time, unable to put his thoughts to speech. Eventually his managed a single word: “Why?”

“This is a desolate place, and its residents harbour no love for my kind, but I have made it my home. I do not take kindly to my home being attacked, and I’d rather it not happen again. Besides…” The centaur raised his hand and focused intently on it, mustering whatever willpower he had remaining after his night’s long battle. After a moment a long, ethereal blade formed in his fist. He turned it before him, examining the blade for defects or hidden mysteries that had yet to be revealed. “I seem to have a new talent that I wish to learn to control. It still takes some time to form the blade, but I feel like with practice I can make it a true extension of my will.” He looked away from the blade and deep into the general’s eyes. “I will have my practice.”