3. Samson Swarthout: Chronicles of a Gentle Giant

Samson Swarthout: Chronicles of a Gentle Giant


  • Dark storm clouds loomed on the horizon of a gloomy night. Brother John, a cleric of Helm, was sipping a fresh, hot steaming cup of goat soup and settling in for an evening of study. His small mission, built by his own hands, was rugged and functional, with a dirt floor and hand hewn furniture lit by the flickering light of a small fire in the fire pit.

    The knock on the large door of the mission startled him and he nearly covered himself in his steaming brew. Quickly, knowing that strange knocks in the night, on stormy nights such as this always forbode of someone in need. He strode quickly to the large, wooden, double door to the mission and opened the door.

    The open fields of farm land lay revealed to the horizon, cast in shadow by the waning light of the day. He saw nothing, as far as the eye could see. Taking a step to peer left and right of the door, his foot struck something and he glanced down.

    At his feet lay a heavy bark basket, half a pipe in shape with a crudely woven rope for a handle. It was the type of basket he has seen many of the poorer folk in the forest make, simple, easy to construct in a few minutes. Contained in the gentle curve of the basket lay a swaddling of elven cloth, very fine quality, starkly contrasting with the crude basket. The cloth was of a type the priest had not seen in many, many years, but he felt it very out of place this far from any elven city or large city with any amount of trade.

    Hefting the basket up he realized it was not empty. He flipped through the cloth, its shimmering white and blue shades shifting colors like silk. The contents made a noise, a 'coo' almost. As much as John expected, there was a baby inside. Its face was unmistakably that of a human, but the features were mashed, and heavy. An orc's taint to it.

    Brother John could not know at the time, but from the moment of his discovery, the basket and its contents would be a sign, a symbol of the life that was to come. Just as the rough bark of the basket was crude and unattractive, but sturdy and functional in nature, so too were the contents delicate, soft, highly valued and sought after. Many would pass up the rough exterior, thinking nothing of value could ever be contained within, but those that paused to reach inside, would find the center very different indeed.

    "What happened to you, little one?" Brother John looked around outside the mission, hoping to catch a glimpse of someone fleeing the scene, but the open fields were black and silent, revealing nothing.

    Taking the baby into the protective seclusion of the mission, he set about to see what he could discover about this abandoned baby.

    The basket was laid gently on the small table that functioned as a kitchen counter, study table and podium for the cleric's occaisional ministerings. Opening the swadling he found a leather pouch, about six inches long of smooth suede leather.

    He opened it. Inside was a small slip of paper and a lock of reddish blonde hair. On the paper was written in elegant script, "I am sorry. It had to be for our protection. I love you."

    Brother John assumed this was all that this baby would ever know of his mother. He carefully placed the leather pouch on the mantle over the fireplace and wondered when the day would come when he would explain to a young child that this pouch was his, and that a lock of hair would be all he would ever know of his mother. Shuffling about the small mission, John set a small pan of goat's milk to warm over the fire and began crafting a suitable bottle, never even questioning that somehow he had just become a father.

    Years passed and the boy grew into youth. Brother John had named the boy Samson, as he proved incredibly strong even as a baby, and his strength continued to grow. More interesting to the cleric, was the boys strength of heart, the grip he held on the concepts of Helm, and the fervor with which the boy studied. His one track mind granted him a dedicated focus that the cleric found fascinating. Coupling the boy's strength, with his devoutness to study, at the age of eight, John set to teach him in the ways of a Paladin, once he had been granted permission by his Order. These studies continued for years, concentrating mostly on theory and theology, tactics and techniques. Oddly enough, once this training began, John began to experience his first frustrations.

    "Samson, lad. It is not difficult. You only must place your faith upon Helm that he will grant you these things I explain to you." Sam wriggled in his seat uncomfortable, for despite the effort he made, he could not seem to summon the simplest of divine energies.

    Sighing, Brother John collapsed in his seat, "Perhaps you are tired. We shall try this again tommorow. Off to bed with you." He turned to poke the fire and set the embers evenly to burn down over the night. When he turned around again, Sam was already in the loft above. The table had a book they had been studying, but now the book was gone. Sam had taken it to bed, no doubt planning to read and study well into the night. John smiled. At least Sam was not lacking in effort or desire. He truly did wish to become a Paladin.

    Three more years past since that night and Sam had yet to master his faith. John tried and tried, and even sent Sam to study with a respected Paladin in a nearby city. After only a fortnight, Sam knocked on the mission door late one night with a crushed look of failure on his face.

    Sighing, Brother John spoke, "It is no matter, Sam. Many a great man has tried this path and failed. You will no doubt become a great man in your own right, whether you have the aid of the gods or not. Your heart has been, and always shall be in the right place." In tears, silently, Sam crawled into his loft, still only twelve years old.

    John thought to himself as he sat back down in his chair, perhaps if not to be a Paladin, then perhaps a mighty warrior for the side of the light. After an hour of pondering, John went to bed, glancing at the chest in a corner which contained armor and swords, shields and wooden sticks with which to train.

    He called out to Sam. "Worry not my dear boy! I know the way now, even if you do not. Tommorow we shall begin a new path for you." The response was a mere grunt from the depressed half-orc who had spent all his known life only to become a failure at the age of twelve.

    The next day, and for many days after, Sam learned the ways of the blade. Always and ever, Brother John's instructions were laden heavily with the cautions and preachings of his diety. If Sam was not to be granted the divine power of a Paladin, he could still live his life in a similar path.

    One day, as Samson was doing his morning chores in the stable, he watched as a turning point in his life occured….

    "Hail, Brother John!" the man exclaimed as he waved from his small, single horsed wagon as it creaked to a halt outside the temple.
    The brown robes of the cleric's cloak stirred as he waved and replied from under his hood, "Well met, Brother."
    Straightening up and thrusting the end of his hoe into the field he was tending, he looked up to see David Stalwart's blue eyes peering back at him with mischevious wrinkles around the corners.
    "You have brought something to me perhaps, Brother David?"
    "Indeed!" came the boisterous reply. Turning over his shoulder he reached into the back of the wagon and shook something.
    "Wake up, son."
    There was a moan and a faded red blanket popped up over the backrest of the wagon. The blanket rustled around chaoticly before dissappearing back into the cargo area of the wagon. In its place was the sandy blond hair of a boy, not more than eight. Hands came up to his face to rub sleep away and stir some circulation into it. Slowly the boy turned around to face the monk, blinking slowly and confused.
    "Aye, Brother, here is my son, Darian." Darian only blinked quietly at the monk, who picked up his wooden staff and strode smoothly over to the boy. Extending his hand he introduced himself.
    "I am Brother John, son." Slowly and uncoordinated, a small hand extended over the rail of the wagon to take the monk's rough, outstretched hand. Under the shaded face, made more shadowy by the cloudy day, he could only see a salt and pepper grey beard, neatly trimmed.
    "Hello," came the slight reply.
    "I brought him to meet you, finally," David's bold voice boomed as he hopped swiftly from the wagon's seat. The two grown men grasped each other in a quick hug, the type long time friends give when they have not seen each other in years.
    "Surely you raise him in our ways?" the cleric inquired.
    "Indeed, but I a poor teacher. I wish to leave him with you for a summer or two, to help tend the crops. I am strong and healthy and have several daughters old enough to help me. I know you are alone with too few in the fold to lend much help here."
    The cleric smiled widely, for it was a twofold boon to have this boy for a while. Both for the help he would bring with the manual labor to be done, and for the potential he felt the boy had... much as his father possessed.
    "What if he chooses the path you would not?" John asked quietly, almost fearing the answer.
    "I chose my path, Brother. There are no regrets in my heart. My son must choose his own path... but he must know what forks in the path are before him, so he may choose of his own accord.
    "I bring him to you, to show him the paths more clearly than I, as his father, ever could."
    Slowly, Brother John nodded understandingly.
    "Will you stay for dinner? It is no trouble."
    David Stalwart's booming laugh broke the morning quiet.
    "Always a man of good food! I am sorry, old friend. I have livestock to drive to the city, and the market shall break me if I am not there in short time. I must head back at once."
    "Then when shall you return?" John inquired.
    "Summer's end. After he has his fill of your teachings, then we shall spend the autumn and winter discussing what he has learned."
    David leaned forward and whispered, "He has great potential, Brother, even more than I, once.
    With a quick display of agility, uncommon for a man of David's size he was back in the seat of the wagon with reins in hand.
    "In three months time, when I return, you will believe me." That said, he slapped the reins across the horses back and the rumble of the wagon prevented the cleric's farewell from being heard.
    Mumbling to himself, John watched as the bed of the wagon passed him, revealing the boy, standing with his belongings at his feet. John turned to watch the wagon go.
    "Could any other have possessed the potential you did, David.... If only YOU had accepted it." He also noticed how David had gotten his way AND the last word, all with a bit of his flamboyant flair. "Aye... you did have SUCH potential..."
    Turning he faced the boy.
    "Come, lad!" He moved to help the boy, but the lad had already squatted and lifted his many bags back onto his strong shoulders. "I have much to teach you, and there is much to do, so we best start now!"
    Without so much as a murmur, the boy followed John towards a crude stone temple, obviously built by the same hands as the Brother John whose hands tended the field in which they stood.

    Sam watched, not knowing the arrival of this boy signaled the end of his path striving to become a paladin.

    After the arrival of young Darian, the attention paid to Sam by Brother John almost dissappeared. Darian had it all. The charisma, the intelligence, wisdom and- most importantly- the faith. Within months, he had mastered the theology and it was one with him. As Sam watched as Darian thumbed through the books that Sam had struggled with for hours upon hours, it seemed as though Darian could do no wrong. Nor did he ever seem to fail at any task which John set before him. Sam deeply admired Darian for his potential and helped him study as much as he could, imparting his own perspective to the young Paladin-to-be. Darian, possessing unlimited potential as a man of Helm, quickly saw the root of Sam's failure.
    "Sam, twas never your misdoing, nor a fault of Brother John's guidance," Darian, now in his teens, told Sam. "Surely some of these teachings... 'felt' out of place to you as you tried to learn them. The ways of Helm are not your true nature. A paladin cannot pick a diety that differs in theology from his own soul, nor can one be thrust upon him. You must be chosen, my friend. As my father was chosen, so do did he reject the path. Even those who can succeed do not always choose to. You are a better being for trying, but perhaps someday your diety will make himself known to you."

    And Sam accepted that. Beyond lending a blade for Darian to practice against, Sam's usefullness as an aid to Darian's training was long exausted by the time Darian was fifteen. Instead, Sam found himself in the fields at Brother John's direction. Sometimes he was ordered to hunt, plow fields or plant, to do the milking of the goats. Sam knew he had become almost a slave, but he knew that the more he did to keep the mundane operations running, the more powerful Darian could become. He dearly wanted Darian to succeed where he had failed.

    In time, Sam had laid down the sword completely, as Darian's training focused on the summoning of the divine power of Helm. He and Darian rarely spoke except for the late evenings before bed. Darian, worked hard each day by the cleric, was too tired to do much else, and Sam, now in his twenties, was equally as tired from his daily chores as a farmer. Sometimes people would come to visit, and John delighted in showing Darian off, as the 'prodigy.' Sam looked on from the fields or stables, watching, with only a twinge of jealousy. He knew that Darian would be a great paladin someday, and Sam, devoting his life to ensuring that Darian continued on, undistracted by the mundane chores surrounding the mission's operation.

    All things change however, and one day a group on wagons rode up to the mission. Sam guessed it was just another group coming to worship or drop off supplies. He paid it no attention as he walked over a hill and out of sight to some of the furthest fields to till them. It was a nice day, warm sun, cool breeze. The smell of recently tilled earth filled his nostrils pleasantly, and Sam looked forward to finishing the tilling of this field. The mule that had pulled the plow had long since died, but with Sam's exceptional strength, he did not need it anymore. His brute strength drove the plow into the earth and he began tilling.

    Watching the careful rows as he plowed them, he did not notice the orc scouts crest the hill from the far side of the mission. In fact, he did not notice them until he very nearly drove his plow into one that had stopped directly in his path. Looking up, and recognizing them as orcs he greeted them. While he had never seen an Orc, he had no reason to fear them, despite their drawn weapons.

    "Good day to you!"

    Brother John had ensured that Sam was fluent in orcish, as well as many of their customs so that he could appreciate some of his lineage.
    The Orc growled in response, speaking orcish to him.

    "What manner of creature are you!? A slave to the humans?"

    "Well, not really." Sam began, but he noticed the other five orcs in the party were moving to his flanks to surround him. "Just doing a little planting. My name is Samson, by the way."

    "A human NAME as well! You will die for the glory of Gruumsh, and all those you plow for will never eat of your efforts."

    Sam stepped back from his plow, preparing to run, but he was tackled from behind. The full weight of them was upon him. Sam struggled a moment before the adrenaline hit him, and he knew he must fight or die. He felt a blow to his head from something made of metal, his vision clouded to a small tunnel, sounds replaced by a ringing in his ears. Not aware of much of anything, he summoned his great strength to his aid and stood abruptly, spilling two of the orcs from him.

    Seizing the handles of the plow, Samson wrenched it from the earth and swung it with all his might. The sharp plowblade eviscerated two of the orcs before they realized his strength or prowess with such a clumsy weapon. They all drew their clubs and set upon him. Blow after blow fell upon Sam, but he swung the plow again and again to keep them at bay. There were too many to face, they kept getting behind him, and the weight of his 'weapon' kept him from running away. He was forced to fight, but ultimately, the orcs had the advantage. Sam never felt the blow that felled him, nor the beating he received from the few wounded orcs that survived.

    When he awoke from unconsicousness it was days later. He could do little else other than crawl to the mission, which lay in smoking ruin. Bodies were everywhere, most of them humans from the outlying farmsteads. Darian's father, the powerful fighter for the side of the light, was among them.

    Sam found Brother John impaled to a wagon with a spear. He had been standing there for nearly a day. Sam could not believe he had lain, nearly dead, for so long, but his thirst and hunger were testament to how long he had been unconscious.

    After pulling the spear from the wagon, the old man crumpled to the ground. Sam did what he could, but his own condition and confusion fumbled his efforts badly. Sam tried to speak, but found he could no longer utter words, his mind had been damaged by the fierce blows of the orc's clubs.

    His mouth moved, but only moans and grunts escaped his lips. Between the horror of the loss of speech and the cleric's near death condition, Sam crumpled to the ground next to John wishing for his own death.

    John spoke to him for the last time.

    "Darian.... went... after them. He will... need you. Watch over... him....my son." John reached for Sam's hand, but died before he could reach it.


  • The old one with grey hair was stooped as he shuffled off the ship….

    He leaned heavily on a staff as his pale grey eyes, once a vivid blue with piercing strength surveyed the dirty docks of Peltarch.

    He was home.... at last.

    He shuffled down the plank onto the docks... eyes watching the uneven planks so as not to trip him. How long had it been.. 10.. 20 years? He wondered if his house even still stood. He wondered what had changed. He wondered if anyone was left alive who he cared about.

    Why wouldnt Helm just let him die?

    He was tired and the burden of his life weighed far more than his house and everything within. Nevertheless, he was home and yearned for the comfort of his chair and the library of books he'd collected over the years. He could read them all over again, and they would seem fresh and new to his weary mind.

    Perhaps no one would notice his return and he could live in retirement in peace.... finally.

  • G

    player: claps, standing ovation while trying to figure out what to do with Gunnar in the meanwhile


  • Very nice, very appropriate. 🙂


  • 😄 claps…

  • M

    ((jaw drops…))


  • Some time ago….

    Sam sat in his house reading a comprehensive book on the Yuan-Ti, surrounded by a large comfortable fire, a very large meat pie, and his hundreds of books in book cases. His own private collection of knowledge.

    He was so often alone in his thoughts any more. Once one of the greatest hero's of Narfell, he had faded into obscurity.

    He had faced armies of bandits, defended a ridge, oftentimes alone against them, and mounted great defenses and counter offensives. His years of struggle had resulted in an uneasy peace as the bandits crashed uselessly against his hill like waves into a cliff, on a strategic peice of terrain controlling the major crossroads of Narfell.

    Sam's Hill was all but a memory. Legend and lore. Few still remembered what the big man had done, and those that still called that place Sam's Hill, would never place the old man with the landmark if they met him.

    He had fought Rass the red dragon several times, never faring very well, but nevertheless, he tried. He had rid helped Narfell of the Thayan invasion and even faced Szass Tam and managed to survive.

    The being once known as the Nars Watcher and a Champion of The Order of the Divine Shield, sat in obscurity in a humble cottage atop a hill next to a temple of Helm.

    He looked up from his book, wondering a moment why he even studied his enemy. Treaties had been established all around him. With the Yuan-Ti, the bandits, and nearly every other enemy he had fought and bled against.

    "Aint much point in haffin Sam 'round no more..." He muttered to himself.

    He looked around his home. It was comfortable and functional. A proper place to raise a family. Though Lily had mysteriously vanished years before, and when he finally married a singer and dancer named Mellia, she had been killed during their wedding ceremony. Her heart torn from her body. The killer never found.

    Sam hadn't the strength to seek love anymore, and at his age, he knew he wouldnt live long enough to offer a young lass more than a few years.

    His life had been a sacrifice. All his hopes and dreams, given up to serve his lord... Helm. To guard the innocent, to sacrifice himself before them.

    And this he had done and done willingly. But now, looking back, sitting alone with no threat to pick up his swords against, no one who clamored for the mighty Sam to aid their cause, he was alone, without a cause or even a reason to live.

    He had enough gold to live his remaining years in peace in his small cottage. Though even his dreams of owning a farm had fallen through. He was too old to try to make his one small dream of peaceful existence reality.

    Suddenly there was a knock at the door.

    Groaning, he stood, laying the book carefully on the table his feet rested. The man that stood was huge, nearly seven feet tall, he moved with a rolling shuffle, his mighty, broad shoulders which had once carried four fallen warriors at a time from the battlefield, were stooped with age and the weight of his own body.

    Opening the door, he found a young hin, one of the new waiters down at the Regal Whore Inn and Tavern.

    "A letter for you Sir!" The little hin grinned up at him.

    With sad eyes and a low, rumbling voice, he replied humbly, "'s jus' Sam, feller. Tankee." He took the letter and gave the little hin a tousle of his hair.

    The hin left and Sam sat again in his large, comfortable chair to read the note.

    Sir Swarthout,

    I trust you are in fine health. Perhaps you remember me, my name is Antius Sellenensbane, Elder of the High Council of the Church of Helm. I knew your former master, Sir Darian Stalwart.

    Let me first congratulate you on your service to Helm. Sir Roland Brynmor, senator of Peltarch and esteemed, noble paladin that he is has written us regularly and your contributions to the will of Helm have been greatly appreciated.

    However, disturbing news has come to the Council. Sir Stalwart is not dead. We know that he was taken up by Helm in the unfortunate series of events that surrounded you in the town of Jiyyd. However we have recently received a letter from him from across the world. The man you find may not be aged many years older than you remember him.

    The council has decided to ask you to once again pickup your swords for Helm and service. Enclosed with this letter are instructions and information you will need for your mission. Sir Brynmor should have received your release from the Order of the Divine Shield and your reassignment instructions by the time you read this.

    Go with Helm, mighty warrior, and be vigilant to all you see,

    Lord Antius Sellenensbane, Elder

    Several other papers were enclosed and Sam read them carefully. He closed his eyes and sighed. It had been many years since Darian slipped from his life and he had long ago come to grips with the loss.

    It has also been many years since Darian's mysterious few months in the country of Narfell, where he suddenly seemed to appear from no where to rescue Sam from events which he tried to forget. Darian had been taken up by Helm, his body destroyed by Sam's own hand.

    And now, the High Council asked him again to revisit times of his life he tried to forget. He glanced unconsciously at the tattoos on his arms, his reminder to himself of what he had done.

    Sam lay in his chair for an hour, just pondering to himself. He was comfortable.

    What was an old warrior to do? Someone had asked him for help. To protect the innocent.

    He rose, collecting sheets from his closet, and he covered his chairs and book cases. He emptied his cupboards of perishables, and put out the fire for the last time.

    As he lifted his swords from over the mantle, he doubted he would never again see his home.


  • “Dun’ wurry. Sam aint plannin’ on dyin’ t’day, eh?”

    Famous last words….

    Despite his gut feeling that he was embarked on a fool’s venture, Sam followed the Order’s Pargon’s into the cave.

    Just a day before, Cyrus had been killed there, Roland and Grag barely making it out alive. As they returned to Norwick, Cyrus’s obese body obviously taxing Grag’s great strength, Sam happened upon them. A member of his Order had been slain by the Yuan-Ti.

    This angered Sam, but at the time, Roland and Grag were most concerned with returning the strong priest to life, and Sam waited patiently as Rith Phoenixfeather obliged them.

    With uncommon valor, Grag had charged back into the cave to retrive Cyrus’s body and the most critical of his belongings, though much of the clerics things had been scavenged up by the powerful Yuan-Ti.

    Unlikely though it was, as soon as Cyrus had returned and had ‘returned to his senses’ he set of in a blindly determined march back towards the east to recover what was lost. Sam was to put it simply, a bit stunned. Certainly it could not be a good idea to waltz back into the cave where theYuan-Ti were most certainly still celebrating their victory over the Order.

    Sam tried to convince the cleric otherwise, but his rapport with Cyrus had never been so great and his words fell on deaf ears. As Sam tried to convince Cyrus otherwise, Roland, wisely was already trying to enlist the aid of Khaya. It seemed he had already assumed he would not be able to sway the Paragon from his chosen course.

    Khaya refused to accompany them, perhaps, Sam thought, to remain neutral, preserving Norwick’s peace and the position Oghma had with the realm. She did however walk with them for a mile and blessed them greatly to aid in their endeavors. Even Grag, having no true loyalty to the Order, and having once risked his life for Cyrus, agreed to return to the maelstrom that the Yuan-Ti were sure to bring.

    Grag, Cyrus, Roland and Sam paused outside of the cave where Skara once dwelt. Sam stood idly by as the last of the magic protections were cast. Fortunately Khaya had given him a fair portion of her blessings. He stood silent as the others finished their incantations. Almost as an afterthought, he remembered his Holy Shield.

    Drawing the fingers of his sword hand across the runes of the strangely warm shield, he saw a slight mist appear around him. At least today, if any magical creature commanded his death, he would weather the attempt…. This time.

    Brazenly four of the mightest hero’s of Narfell strode into the cave and were immediately assaulted by some form of Yuan-Ti druid. The bite of it’s spell was negated by Khaya’s blessing, and the four were immediately upon it. It fell quickly, dropping Cyrus’s magic greatsword.

    Sam sighed. Had they come simply for this sword? Sam had already offered to make a sword of nearly equal quality if only Cyrus would back down from his desire to reenter the cauldron that had claimed him.

    Sam asked if this was enough, and was told no, there was more to find deeper in the cave. Even as Sam shrugged, not wishing to go so deep into the unknown, he knew he had to follow his leaders. He muttered something about getting it done and together they moved forward.

    What happened next was a blur. It seemed as though the scaled bodies of the Yuan-Ti appeared from all four sides. Dual wielding, thin ones seemed to slink right out of the walls and into the swords and axe of the four fighters. All of a sudden a blinding blue light flashed once…. Again… again… and again… Sam felt the painful bite of foul magic with each flash, and the fluttering of his heart…

    He stumbled backwards, even as he heard Roland and Cyrus’s body crash into the ground. He took two or three steps, Grag just in front of him trying to get out as well, before another flash of light, the pain of its energy.. and the ground rushing towards his face. He did not feel the impact

    Some time later, Sam awoke in the Temple of Tyr in Peltarch. Among the many faces to witness his failure in his duty were Natanya, Mirkali, and even Kanen. How odd that Kanen should arrive so soon after Sam’s many failures, as if Helm himself summoned the mighty paladin with every stumbling of the Order to pick it up from the ashes.

    Somehow, Grag had survived the cave of the Yuan-Ti, and managed to drag the bodies and belongings out of the cave with the help of Mog. Two of the ‘cursed’ blood’s had risked their lives for the Order, and Sam was not so sure he would have done the same thing for them… and Sam was humbled.

    Perhaps there were those who bore the curse of Gruumsh in their veins that could overcome it. And even more likely, was the fact that perhaps he overcame the curse less well than those that rescued him. Sam prayed upon this and reflected.


  • 👏 aww that's sweet :oops: and sort of sad 👏


  • The weeks of patrols in the Giantspire were tedius. Not necessarily overly tiresome. Kobolds were by no means bandits. Occaisionally Sam would walk out with some of the younger aspiring adventurers and watch from a nearby hill as they tried their hands. A well placed bow shot would ordinarily keep them out of too much danger.

    He spent about an hour in the morning and evening sitting in the commons listening to the conversations. Always in the hopes that he would hear some clue or rumor of Mellia’s killer.

    Instead he heard much of politics and misdoings of politicians. Of worries of impending doom, crimes, Banites… the list grew daily it seemed.

    One such day, a thin scholarly looking fellow sat in the commons mumbling ecstatically to himself. Roland, Anna and Sam with nothing else to do, inquired into his excitement. As it turned out the man was a bit of a historian and had recently completed a work for publishing. An epic battle in Damara against the witch king, he explained. A battle fought to the last by a faithful group of Helmites.

    The most intriguing aspect of his testimony was a map, where he believed was located the Death Watch tower… the location of this last, desperate defense of Damara. He marked a map for Anna, and Sam peeked closely enough to the map to catch its location.

    A few days later, after aiding the Gypsy Camp against spiders, Sam was entrearted for a while by King Horgan, who spoke with him somewhat of the travels of his people. When Horgan spoke of Damara, Sam broached his knowledge of the witch king and what he might now. The King’s words sent his mind reeling.

    “Aye, the Helmite they say, survived the battle and moved to Narfell, starting a farming town to the east”

    What manner of champion could fight the witch king’s army, survive and retreat to retire to Narfell? The community could only be that of Jiyyd.

    Faramir Otarch? Sam’s conspiracy theories jumbled up his thoughts. But then Horgan, reviewing Sam’s notes and maps made a final discovery. “This river be wrong… it flows more thusly…” And he redrew the river on the map.

    The river ran directly next to the mark on the map…. Apparently one could sail a shallow draft vessel down the river and have virtually no overland movement to the tower! The journey could be completed in less than a week, there and back.

    Sam checked each day with Hemrod, the apparent finacier of the new book to be published, and Sam prepurchased a copy. When it came in Sam read it with vigor, cover to cover, learning much of the battle and even more on the construction of defensive towers. He sought out Roland soon after to tell him of his findings.
    However just before, Orc Man found him in the Giantspire. The half-orc demanded Sam hand over his ring of the crafters guild. This ring had been in Sam’s possession for over 20 years, and had saved his own and countless other lives. The two large men argued breifly, but Orc Man was a registered Master within the guild and following the orders of Krig. Reluctantly, Sam parted with the ring, and as he did so, with his Crafter’s Hall key.

    “If Sam aint wurth da ring, Sam aint wurth da Guild needer,” were his parting words. He further vowed he would not charge another coin to a member of his own order. Now free of the regulations of the guild and the provisions of his membership, Sam would mine and smith as his limited time permitted. What products of worth he smithed would go towards his Order, and never again would he take coin from one of the faithful of his own order.

    In truth, in his nearly 30 years of smithing, he had only made two weapons for others. Both were carried by members of his order, and he felt a deep pain even as he accepted the gold the Guild demanded he take from them.

    The loss of the powerful ring was a hard blow to him. He had relied on it much over the years. It granted him strength in times when he needed it most, and protected him from blows.

    Without the ring…. Sam realized his only tools were… “A little bit of faith and a sword.”

    Such was the price of divine service. While those around him might boast of great magical skill, or belongings which granted fantastical abilities, spells and the like… Sam had none. None of the divine magic of a paladin, none of the words of great persuasion, none of the great wealth he saw around him.

    He had his hard earned faith, his sword, through hard work crafted by his own hand…. And he had his duty, which no doubt would be far harder in days to come.

    Speaking of duty… his thoughts shifted from how he would overcome the loss of the magic, to the looming thought that clouded his day and was the reason he sought out Roland.

    If Faramir Otarch had defended that tower, and his sword the Ever Vigilant was now so well hidden as to be missing… could it have been returned to this forgotten tower as a final resting place in the hopes that no one would look there?

    They –had- to go there and find out. The publishing of this book would no doubt fall into the hands of some adventurer who likely would travel there for the very reason of finding what treasure could be found. If by some odd chance, Ever Vigilant was there, they must get there first, before anyone else.

    Sam found Roland, Anna, Ginger, and Talgrath. Although Sam was still grumbling vocally about the ring, he summoned a huddle among the group of faithful and explained his concern. Roland graciously invited Ginger and Talgrath to accompany them and the group immediately chartered a vessel that could navigate the river.

    Sam, as usual, spent most of his time over the railing, despite the calm waves of the river. He had too many ill experiences on a ship to ever enjoy such a passage.

    The journey was only a couple of days, and the tower could be seen from the old rotted dock. In fact it was apparent that should the tower fall, its defenders would be forced to flee via the water way.
    The events which transpired there, were best summed by Roland on the voyage back.

    @40c9fa2194=strepsiades:

    Account of the expedition to Death Watch, as recorded by Sir Roland Brynmor in the Annals of the Holy Order of the Divine Shield:

    _It has been a hundred years since the Witch-King of Vaasa brought ruin and devastation to the lands of Damara. Though he now lies defeated, his evil, and the scars of the war, remain in many places. Death Watch is one of those places. Perched on a cliff and shrouded in fog high above the Icelace lie the ruins of the last Damaran tower to fall in the war. For many years, its Helmite commander and his valiant knights lay dead and defiled by the dark magics of the lich. I am thankful that I may now report the tower, or at least the ruins, are once again free, and the souls of the fallen can rest undisturbed. Sam, Anna, Natanya, Talgrath, Ginger and I travelled there recently, having learned the tower's location from a scholar in Peltarch. The stories of the place had led us to believe that an item of considerable power could be found there; we thought it best to secure such a thing for the Order before any of dark intent used it. We set off by ship as quickly as we could.

    We found the tower in spite of the fog and harsh conditions, thanks to a skilled captain we had hired in the city. Outside, the northern wastes of Damara were home only to the great arctic wolves. We approached the crumbling structure. Finding the main entrance blocked, we blasted through with small explosives. Inside, we found ourselves set upon almost immediately by several undead. Defeating these, we made our way up to the top of the tower and the commander's quarters, fighting through the darkness and shadow creatures. There we encountered a fallen knight which could only have been the dark remnant of the garrison's captain. At length and with some difficulty, we defeated it. Within the captain's quarters, we found a journal detailing everyday life at the tower; but the entries become much more significant towards the end. They confirm that this was the last tower to fall in the war with Vaasa, and additionally, that there was something of great importance held at the tower. The parchment was old and damaged, and we could not determine precisely what this item was. What seems clear, however, is that it was sent to Narfell with a cadre of knights before the tower fell. Having scoured the remaining rooms and consecrating the ground, we departed.

    We shall continue to search for some clue as to the fate of those knights and the nature of the item they tried so desperately to keep from the Witch-King's grasp. While Sir Samson had initially suggested that the item might be Sir Faramir's sword, it appears that the events which unfolded at the tower took place well before his time. Something was indeed sent from Death Watch during the final hours, perhaps a sword - but not the Ever Vigilant._

    Sam was relieved. The sword was still safely hidden, unfound.

    A few items were recovered from the old tower… one was a shield which Sam had won a drawing for. It was formerly carried by the Captain of the Guard of Death Watch tower. Those men who died there must have known great fear and trepidation in their last days, as Sam surmised from the magic that was imbued into this shield.

    It was truly a Holy Shield if he had ever held one, and he was grateful to Helm for allowing it to pass to him. What kind of enemy had those Helmites fought… they certainly would have prepared their defenses knowing their enemy.

    The nature of the witch king’s power was dark indeed… as this shield had but one purpose beyond deflecting a sword… it protected its bearer from the power of death itself. He shuddered at the thought.

    (Sam dreamed. There was a grey fog everywhere around him, the sounds of battle raging only feet away in the mists, though it he could see nothing, and the dampened sounds of battle sounded very far away. He had but to turn in a direction and he would find a foe to challenge… Instead, confused in the mists, he stood, looking around, trying to understand what was happening around him. Suddenly a taloned skeletal hand burst forth in front of him, its index finger pointed right at him.

    “Die.”

    He felt his heart stop. His vision began to darken as the mists parted… he saw Natanya’s face through the mist.

    Natanya… How Sam loved the young paladin. She was but a third of his age, not even into her twenties, yet she had so young earned her place and the title of knight within the Order. Her control of the divine impressed him for her age. She was even more advanced than even Darian at the same age.

    Somehow the paladin’s burden seemed to rest more lightly on her shoulders than so many others. Her smile was fast and genuine, and her face still opposed the slightest onset of the wrinkles of worry he saw developing in so many other young paladins.

    She was, to him, like a daughter. He sought to guide her and keep her safe, yet, what could he teach one so gifted. She had earned the grace of Tyr as a teen, even as Sam had proven failed at nearly the same age. And before she had even left her teens, she had experienced the terrible penalty of divine rejection, and redemption. These were things Sam knew nothing about.

    Sam perhaps knew as much of Helm’s Grace as she did when she was 15… yet… somehow he felt an inexorable pull to the young girl- to be near her, to Watch her… to watch over her… There were two feelings inside him, each demanding the same thing but for different reasons.

    Sam had not decided… but he had seen enough signs to make him wonder. She was very much like Darian and Kanen in their younger years.

    Darian was very, very good.
    Kanen was Chosen. By Helm.

    Natanya…? The hope of serving in the shadow of another Chosen paladin excited him- the charter of the Order would allow him to work freely with her, though she was Tyrran. Sam’s reverence for Tyr was still great, though a pale second to the dedicated work he had given to Helm. Nevertheless, Helmite and Tyrran had worked and fallen side by side countless times past.

    Perhaps he opened up to her too much, allowed the young girl past his armor… next to his heart. His heart was his most precious gift, though it lay trapped behind the barriers of his body and mind.

    In a discussion they had in the commons, they spoke of the material possession Sam placed the most value on- a sword in which was imbued the power of Helm- a holy sword.

    Such a creation, he had only seen in the hands of the Truly Great. Those servants who had time and time again proven themselves loyal, true, selfless and honorable. Such was Sam’s goal- the physical embodiment of that divine recognition was the sword itself.

    Their conversation grew convoluted, partly between their faiths, partly between their own unique understanding of their individual gifts…

    “Perhaps you are only in this Order to acquire something which you cannot take with you past this material plane…”

    Her words his armor could not stop, they passed his callous hide with ease, and plunged like a dagger into the soft beating flesh of his heart.

    Immediately overwhelmed by her words, he couldn’t speak. He stood quickly, his body tensing, the ire in him rose like a volcano and he shuddered under its pressure, yet… before him was Natanya… and there was no release for his desire to lash out.

    She had challenged his faith. Nay! She had refuted it! As if his entire life had been nothing more than a boyish dream to stand among the greats of legend for the sole sake of holding a sword that was warm to the touch in the coldest of places….

    He felt betrayed… in part by her… but moreso by himself. Was this truly the image of Helm he portrayed to the younger faithful?

    He was shamed. He was angry. He was hurt and dishonored by her. And yet… he was paralyzed from action towards her. She walked away from him, leaving the dagger in place.

    The power of the SWORD. Sam’s power.
    The power of WORDS.

    How similar in print they appeared in his journal, written next to each other….
    Sword
    Words

    Not even the Holy Shield could protect him from Natanya should she ever use such Words again. He would not survive it, despite the magic of the shield.


  • Rando informed Sam he would not be working for the militia. Something about… liking the way things were run and not wanting to introduce a member that might try to… ‘change’ things.

    As if Sam didn’t see THAT coming.

    He sought the counsel of Roland in Peltarch over this, and found him with Mariston. Roland was deeply concerned about a man in a red robe believed to be directing the recent kobold attacks. Apparently this man had created constructs from the carcasses of kobolds.

    The three paladins toured the hills of Giantspire in vain, slaughtering a great number of kobolds that opposed their patrol. Tired, but not exhausted they returned to the Peltarch gates to discuss the patterns and behavior of the kobolds that they had slain.

    No sooner than their backs were turned to the hills than the first line of runts attacked them from behind. The three formed a wall in front of the gates to face them. It was a one sided battle. Roland began issuing orders to the Defenders, to close the gates. Just as a few reinforcements arrived the next wave was upon them, a wave of substantially greater force. Though this fight was longer, it too was defeated.

    With sound tactics, the kobolds increased their attack, hitting the right flank, and then the left, forcing the Defenders and the paladins to shift their echelons to meet each attack… and with each wave coming sooner than the last, it wasn’t long before the defense was in dissaray.

    Sam looked over his right shoulder to see a trio of kobold arcanists conjuring green fire from their taloned hands. Just then a Defender charged past Sam to meet them head on, as a a couple of longsword wielding kobolds slipped in on Sam’s right flank. He fought them down quickly and raced after the Defender, but was too late. The wizards green fire erupted from their hands, and the charging defender took the blasts dead on.

    He screamed and sizzled, smoke rising from his blacking body as he fell. Leaping over the bodies of the kobolds, and trying to keep his footing as he trampled others, he raced to the defender, but the man was already far beyond his skill.

    Rising from his knee, hand still on the defender’s neck, he saw the trio, now conjuring a blue glow. There was no time to do much about it. He was too far to stop them, He charged. The many blue lights flared up and dazzled him somewhat and suddenly crashed into him from all angles. He fell to the ground, the pain of the little balls of magic dulling his senses…. But he knew one thing in his daze… he felt his foe to his front and he continued his charge, swinging blindly.

    The force of his swing severed the little beast’s skinny neck and traveled through to its companion, cleaving the top of its head off. He continued the swing, spinning in a circle to end the third beast in a similar manner..

    His body wracked of pain, slowed by his injuries, he looked back to see Roland and Mariston swarmed on all sides by larger kobolds, but he was so badly hurt he could barely stand. Suddenly the gates burst open and Eowien strode forth in nothing but a robe, her voice loud as she called out that she was ready to aid any who needed.

    Sam stumbled to her, and the power of her magic instantly returned him to lethality. Sam closed in behind the kobolds to break Mariston and Roland free of their encirclement.

    In the end, the stones were awash with kobold blood, though the corpse of one Defender still smoked, the acrid smell of acid and burned flesh a stoic reminder of the cost of the kobold threat.

    Now exhausted, the Order’s Knights fell back within the city to recover. As they did so, a dwarf entered the gates, stating that he had hid in the forest and had seen a man in a red robe surveying the battle as if a general from a high perch.

    Roland asked Sam if he would continue his assistance, watching for this red robed man, and Sam agreed.

    His memory was not clear. He only remembered combat. Large lizard like creatures… a temple… and a feeling of surprise as his body fell dead…

    He awoke feeling terrible in the temple of Tyr. His coin purse was on his hip, but devoid of even a single coin. He knew he had enough to raise not just himself but one other…. Perhaps there had been more casualties than just himself. He asked Daisy and she confirmed that indeed, all of Sam’s gold had been taken for that purpose. But now he was stranded in the temple without coin.

    Daisy loaned him enough to travel the streets of Peltarch without fear of arrest for vagrancy, but the thought of being in debt was a sore feeling indeed.

    He remembered green bipedal animals only vaguely and his recent events with Roland and Mariston. It must have been the kobolds, he thought.

    Now next to broke, unable to even afford a night in the inn, he sought out Senator Barrim for permission to work in Peltarch on the kobold threat, with the ability to sell what he collected for his work within the city. Barrim granted this permission to him, for a tax of a full 30% of his earnings to the families of the recently slain Defenders.

    Left with few options, Sam agreed to this heavy tax. He knew he would face dangers in his endeavor and being forced to travel back and forth to Norwick or Jiyyd so often would mean he spent little time in the Giantspire where his eyes must be kept.

    Several trips later, Sam had uncovered nothing, but at least could afford to rent a room while he worked. He purchased the room for a week at a time.

    After one such night in the inn, Sam returned to the commons to wake up, seeing Anakore and Kalina comparing blades. They set out to the west and Sam followed to see these mighty weapons in action. The Kobolds apparently only had picket scouts out, and it was difficult to find any so they ventured into a cave to look for more.

    It was inside the cave they discovered why there was such an absence of kobolds… in a huge pile, lay a small mountain of carcasses. Skinned, cut, deboned and vivisected… the remains bled all over the cave floor. This was not a slaughter of an enemy, it was something sinister at work. The group pressed deeper into the cave until they reached the end.

    At first they thought they had found nothing, until there was a slight crunch of feet on the pebbles of the cave floor, a stirring of the breeze as some invisible thing rushed passed. Anakore caught sight of something slightly red through the spell. It had to be the red robed man behind the kobold disturbance….

    They chased after him to no avail. He set a magical trap of entangling vines which halted their pursuit. Waiting this threat out, they knew he had escaped, and so returned to Peltarch dismayed.

    As they passed the fire pit in the Giantspire, they saw a gruesome beast, held together with magic, the parts of which were recognizable as kobolds. Suddenly it was after them, and with great power began a brutal assault of Anakore. He had only time to cast a quickening spell on Sam and it surely saved all their lives…

    Sam’s blade sailed through the air with blinding speed, chopping at the legs of the beast, causing it to fall repeatedly. Anakore ran for his life in circles, allowing Sam to cut inside the circle to hack at its legs and give him enough time to chop the arms from the beast. Eventually it fell through Anakore’s being the mouse for this disgusting cat as Sam’s silver weapon cleaved whole parts from it.

    As they rested, each breathing hard from the fight, they spotted a man in red robes overlooking the battle. He muttered something about the abomination’s failure before departing.

    Sam stood stunned as he gazed upon the finely crafted robe with ornate black runes.

    It was without a doubt, Thayan.

    One lived!

    The mage escaped with ease, as the beaten trio tried to get a position on him. With the mages wizardry and the poor position they found themselves in… he was long gone. Kalina tried to lay a trap for him in case he returned to the cave, but time would tell if her trickery would prove useful.

    Meanwhile, as they returned to Peltarch once again, Sam pondered deeply about this new foe. A plan formed in his mind, yet the burning question remained….

    …how had one escaped….

    He raced into Peltarch to inform the authorities in Peltarch and provide the beginnings of his plan. He only hoped that this threat could be eliminated before the wizard perfected his golems any further.


  • Mellia’s death had changed the paladin in a way he could not describe. He had achieved his goal of earning Helm’s grace- a gift he treasured above all, but as a being, suffered from the loneliness common to every mortal being.

    He thought he had found happiness. His duties to Helm and a woman he loved and loved him back. Yet suddenly, taken from his grasp in the moment of their marital embrace, he found himself alone. Only the presence of Helm with him.

    Even this comforting presence was threatened as his orcish blood demanded vengeance. Not justice, but ragefilled uncaring vengeance upon whomever snatched the realization of his dreams from him and the moment of achievement. In a battle within his soul, he kept his wits and maintained his civilization, overcoming the raging beast that fueled his tenacity and strength.

    Fully conquered? He did not know. He suspected that somewhere, deep within him, the Lurker still sulked, waiting for a moment of weakness to break down his faith and cause Helm to withdraw his protection.

    In the time of his spirit’s victory and the orcish blood’s vanquishment, he clung to that which he knew- his faith. His belief in Helm and the decades of faithful service and training he had tried to develop. He had stumbled and failed many times over, sometimes committing grievous acts and crimes as he failed to control his impulses. This time however he knew he had pleased Helm. He was growing as a paladin, developing, and gaining strength. He could feel the deepening of the faith within him, and at the same time, recognized that the lines bordering his conduct had drawn in a little tighter.

    There was less room than ever before for Sam to stumble or falter, to be weak.

    The fire in him drove him to find Mellia’s killer. The path would be very narrow indeed. He could not see the path ahead through his own emotions. And when faced with her killer he knew he would perhaps have to make a decision that might cause him to step from the path and choose….

    What act would he commit to see Mellia returned to life? Would he give up his god for her? He knew the answer was no. But what if emotion ruled at the moment of decision?

    In order to pursue her killer, Sam would test himself. Though…. Perhaps it was Helm’s test of him in the end.

    He set upon his writing, using his training to plan the way ahead, taking notes and pondering at length his actions for the future. He thought with his pen, pausing often to think making a scratch paper of thought…..

    Suspects:
    Thyrm Cardia
    Jubei
    Yuan-Ti

    Thyrm-
    Has the power. Cruel and makes others suffer. Sick mind.
    Why Mellia? To make Sam hurt? To live with the hurt.
    Why not use his demons? Wanted it to be personal.
    Why? Capturing him twice? Seems to worry more of Mirkali than Sam.
    Why take heart? Do not know. Deals with demons- perhaps needed for some magic

    Jubei-
    Has the power. Assassin.
    Why Mellia? He did not know her. He used Ms Seven to get to Mr Kanen- maybe a reason
    Why her heart? He uses blades. Does not fit.
    Why not Sam instead? To make Sam suffer?

    Yuan Ti- Have the power. Found Sam in the Jiyyd cave
    “Remember, life is fragile” They said. Did they mean Mellia? Warning to Sam?
    Why? Sam killed some in Norwick? So did others. Why pick Sam?

    Who else? Atol? Risk truce? Atol brags too much. No.
    Who else? Uthger? No. Nothing proven Uthger is evil. He has honor yet.

    Plan:
    Join Norwick Militia- openings now. Get closer to rumors that way. Closer to Yuan-Ti. Do well in militia, join Peltarch later when proven in Norwick. No one hire Sam in Peltarch now.


  • ((Sam and Mellia Cetere had had a long courtship. Oft separated by his duties to Helm and her departure to setup a college of performing arts in another city, they struggled to maintain their relationship. Upon her return, they swiftly set forth plans to marry, lest another task separate them

    At the wedding, just as the bride and groom were to kiss… a spell of darkness befell the ceremony and upon light's return... Mellia lay dead, her heart torn from her chest))

    ((the following story is an adaptation of the internal conflict that followed}}

    She was dead. His wife’s heart torn from her body in the very ceremony that was to unite them forever.

    Sam could feel himself bleeding, the damage inside him letting his strength bleed away.

    He kneeled on his hill, slumped over. At least here he could be alone, away from the sympathetic eyes and meaningless words of comfort. To Sam, they were only salt in the wound. How many times could he hear, “I’m sorry for your loss,” and not be constantly reminded of his loss.

    He was a broken man. The vice of despair seemed to crush his soul and drive his physical body towards the ground, as if suddenly gravity were too much for his frame to withstand.

    “Why!?” he cried out into the night. “Why…” he spoke with only a breath.

    From his hands and knees, he begged for an answer. He begged for Helm to divine some meaning, so he could understand what possible greater good, what plan could come from this. Amidst the sobs, and shuddering, the great man of the hill was rendered defeated and dispirited.

    Why… Why. Why! WHY!?

    Somewhere, deep inside his soul, a spark lit, ignited. Soon a flame awoke, fueling on the pain and weakness like a cancer. It wasn’t long before he was consumed.

    Sam stood in a fit of anger and shook his fist at the sky, then both as the question went unanswered from the heavens.

    “Ugorok grent”…

    He felt the words more than heard them.

    “Ugorok grent.”

    He heard it again, slightly stronger, more of a statement. “Damn him.”

    His arms outstretched, glaring into the night sky, hands shaking, he heard it again, this time a demand.

    Ugorok grent! –Damn him.

    Sam’s head snapped to the left and right looking for the speaker, but he was alone.

    Damn him…

    Again it spoke.

    Damn him. Damn him. Damn him! Damn him! DAMN Him.. Like a chant the orcish words grew stronger, rhythmic like drums within him. DAMN HIM! DAMN HIM DAMN HIM DAMN HIM!!!

    “No…” he breathed like a child answering to an angered parent. DAMN HIM was the answer, never stopping to explain, never pausing for a breath. Damn Helm for this, it wanted.

    “No!” DAMN HIM DAMN HIM DAMN HIM The words were powerful; he could not even hear his shout against the power of the chanting.

    “NO!” Sam swung a blind fist, his eyes clenched against the power of the attack. He stumbled on a small stone on the hill, and fell backwards. The back of his head struck something hard, the inertia of his falling body made the blow even more painful.

    He saw stars and wrapped both hands around his head, eyes still closed fighting off the pain.

    At least the chanting was gone.

    He rolled with a groan onto his knees and elbows, holding the back of his head in his hands, the pain was quite exquisite, causing his whole body to shake with the experience.

    When he rolled to his knees and opened his eyes, he was shocked at the change. How long had he been unconscious. A fog had rolled in… obscuring everything to the horizon, even though the hill did not rise immensely over the plains, the view over the edge could have been ten feet, or ten thousand.

    “Damn him.” This time he heard it. It was close, and it made his blood run cold with the low, gravely voice, reeking of death as the wind carried its scent to him. Looking over, his blood ceased its cold running and froze in place. He stood before it, slowly, the pain in his head muddling his thinking.

    The beast that gazed at him was huge. Easily three feet taller than he, twice the breadth and depth. The eyes were a lifeless black, so deep that no light was reflected from them. They were dead eyes.

    Sam knew what stood before him. The Lurker, the beast of divine revenge... The beast that Sam could become. So this is what they saw, the fear they felt in their last moments before the Lurker took them. But those eyes…. There was no divine fire in them, no ethereal glow. Still holding the back of his head in one hand, he tried to clear his thinking, to make sense of what he saw in the fog.

    “Damn him,” it demanded again. Sam’s response was a silent shake of the head, making him dizzy.

    It responded with rage, striding forward impossibly fast, the fist that struck his face nearly broke his jaw, sending him reeling backwards, where he fell again. The stars came back, and his vision blurred. He was just about to stand when the beast’s foot came up under his ribs and threw him back again. He heard the crack, felt the air rush from his chest before his flying body crashed into a tree. The small of his back took the blow, and he felt his body wrap backwards around the immobile plant.

    Without breath, and sapped of strength, he lay there, trying to catch himself, but the attacks continued to come. This time it kicked into his stomach, curling him involuntarily into a ball where he gagged and choked, trying to scream for aid.

    “You are weak without me. Do you see what you could become, how powerful indeed you could be? …. With me? Don’t you want your revenge?”

    He struggled to regain himself. His hand reached for the ankle of the beast, but his hand was all wrong. His fingers, slender and delicate, his wrist, tapered. His eyes followed his arm to the shoulder, where he saw none of the great muscled that he expected. This must be a dream!

    His distraction allowed the beast a moment to kick him again, this time in the forehead, snapping his head back. He groaned and writhed but could not stand, the shock and trauma of his injuries, the body with half the strength he was used to refused to acquiesce to his demands.

    The beast picked him up under the armpits easily, its black eyes regarding him as he twitched, suffering from gags and chokes. Its vice like grip on his broken ribcage peirced his body, making it nearly impossible to breathe except for ragged drawn breaths.

    “You will join me. Here. Now. Or you will die.” The voice was known to him. He couldn’t place it. All he could manage was a slow shake of the head. It rewarded him by changing its grip, now grabbing him by the scruff of his shirt. A powerful fist plowed again into the side of his face, almost instantly the swelling closed his left eye even as his face snapped to the right. It changed hands and with a roundabout swing placed its other fist into his nose, shattering it.

    Now he was nearly completely unable to breath, the blood poured into the back of his throat, and he gagged on it, coughing and spitting as he writhed, suspended by the treelike arm that would not let him fall.

    “He never meant to protect you from me. Can you not see this? Why would you suffer now, against what has always been inside you… if you were so protected.” The voice dripped with sarcasm. “Accept what you are. What you have. I can show you how to use it, to make it great!”

    The husk of Sam hung in the grip of the beast, unable to do anything more except cough and splutter, fighting just to breathe enough to remain conscious.

    It shook him hard. “Speak! And do not defy me.”

    At least it gave him a moment to recover his breath. He took one, cut short by the pain in his ribs, though his voice was only a whisper.

    “No.”

    It roared in anger and pulled its fast back for another blow. Sam knew he could not die without at least an attempt to fight back. He thrust his more agile hand towards his enemy, his right thumb becoming lodged in the depthless eye. The cold was so intense it burned, but he clenched his fist around the beasts skull, hanging on out of spite. If he was to die, he would die fighting. He would not become this beast before him.

    Sam’s attack caused the Lurker’s attack to go wild and it flailed and screamed as it held him. Its fist gripped his wrist and attempted to pull it free, even as it held him suspended in the other. He was losing his grip, and the beast was carrying him closer to the edge of the hill. He could tell, he could not suspend his weight and fight the pull of the beast as it tried to free his hand from its eye socket. He would fall over the hill.

    Somehow Sam knew it was a much longer way down than it appeared.

    A few steps from the edge of the precipice, the Lurker’s great strength won out, pulling his thumb from the eye. A thick, black tarlike substance covered his thumb, which was long past hurting now. It pulled its fist back again to strike him, uttering a great howl.

    Sam struck again, throwing his fist into that gaping maw, cutting short its cry of rage. Now it was the beast’s turn to gag. Sam felt a cold bile swell up against his fingers, making everything slippery as he reached for something to hold onto inside that mouth. Something in there provided a handle, and he clung to it for his life. A glimmer of hope, tiny as struck match entered him.

    The beast gagged, still suspending him, but this time it let him go and reached its massive paws around his neck. Sam ducked his chin down, and the thumbs of the beast caught his jaw, pressing it against his chest. The pain of the action caused Sam to scream again, but instead of letting go, he twisted to his right, to shove his suffocating fist deeper into the beasts mouth. It gagged and could not bite.

    Realizing a stalemate, it let go of his neck, and with arms wide, prepared to crush Sam’s head like a grape in a mighty closing of both its fists.

    He clung on.

    The arms closed.

    Sam ducked.

    The palms clapped together mightily, but they had missed. Sam pulled his hand from the beasts mouth and reached up for one of the outstretched arms, seizing it with all his strength. He turned and collasped to his knees. His weight, the outstretched arms was enough to pull the creature off balanced. It tried to step forward to stay erect, but Sam’s crouched body was in the way. It fell over top of him.

    On all fours, just inches away from the edge of oblivion, the swirling fogs below, Sam watched the great black beast fly into the night, screaming its vengeance. It seemed to fly for miles, as though a god itself had flung the creature away.

    It fell into the fog, its foul curses of revenge fading away over many seconds before the mists below swallowed it.

    Sam rolled onto his back and rested. Everything hurt. The fog closed in tighter.

    Suddenly Sam was aware that he was not alone. Opening his eyes, He saw Kanen. He stood on the crest of the hill, watching him from behind his helm. Over his shoulder was his sword, carried lightly. But something was wrong, the sword was too large for Kanen’s holy sword. Too short.

    Before his confused mind could understand, it spoke, Kanen’s soft voice behind it.

    “It is your faith that protects you, Sam.”

    He closed his eyes to ponder those strange words, and when he opened them again to answer, to question the meaning, he only saw the tip of the sword dissappear over the crest of the hill.

    He tried to rise but the pain fairly flung him back down. He closed his eyes tightly and just lay there, gasping.

    Sam awoke in his bed. It was not a dream… he felt the pain of the fight. The bruises were real… the pain in his ribs was real…

    Had he truly fought the Lurker? The savage beast borne of orcish blood that would consume him? Or had he defeated it once and for all and set himself free from the orcish instincts that would see him fail to become a paladin of worth?


  • The defeat of the defiler came. Eventually.

    Sam fought. Sam died.

    The tragedy was not in that Sam lost his life… but that in the afterworld he could not inspire those he loved to continue their own life.

    This scar remains with him to the end of his days.


  • Sam, as well as many others, fought in the great war against the defiler.

    To fight a war requires many, many participants. An opposing army and a friendly army. Armies are vast constructs and within them, many individuals prepared to lay down their lives for their beliefs.

    The Heroes of the great war against the defiler were many. Acts of courage were displayed on both sides. From the platoons of goblin archers that picked off the defenders in the tower, to the clerics who waded through the goblin menace to reach one of the fallen before he expired.

    As Sam looked back on his participation, he found his own contribution lost among the great acts of courage and skill.

    He tried in vain to ambush the Malarite field marshals that commanded the armies sent against Norwick.

    He left the battle to acquire supplies to aid him in his task, yet when he returned, he found that only one Malarite remained. The others had been slain on the field of battle.

    Still. One remained. And although it was not Gagor, or KUZU, the small malarite still controlled the goblins and the beetles and Sam swore to take the last head of the Hydra for Helm.

    Under the suppressing fire from the whole of Norwick, Sam snuck through the trees and did find Rore Wall in the forest. The general of the Defiler fled, but in vain. Sam used the haste potion he bought in Peltarch for this very reason… overtook his foe and brought him to his knees.

    In the orcish tradition, he took his foe's champion's belongings as trophies, and carried the bound, wounded beast back to Norwick.

    In the latter days of Sam's life, he would look back on that day and smile weakly, saying to himself, "Well, at least I got the little one for Helm."

    With the field marshalls out of the fight, the attacks ceased- no longer driven towards the walls of Norwick, heavily scarred by battle.

    The druids made their journey to the old druid grove and through ritual cleansed the forest.

    Once again, Sam's contribution to the war was only a small part of a large victory. He helped clear the way for a simple singer from Peltarch to collapse a portal the Defiler was rumored to be able to escape through.

    While the defiler did escape in the end, Sam was glad that he did not get by the Watcher's Blade- Sam.

    In truth... victory had not been seized and Sam knew it. The war was still on, and victory for either side not acheived. Norwick stood, the Defiler still alive. A detante existed out of circumstance.

    In the time of peace which followed, Sam planned to see this war come to a decisive end.

    SAMSON SWARTHOUT AND THE HIN RESCUE
    (this was really funny in game, I doubt I can do it justice)

    The grizzled old hunter sat outside of the north gate of Norwick as his grandsons spent their meager earnings with Praeth. His companion, also a nars hunter, listened to his story...

    "I tell you, laddie, Ive never been so afraid in me life! It got dark. Not like night.. but like the moon set and all the torches were but a spark of light! I could nae even see me feet!

    "Well of course I hid under the archer tower, oy! If I cant see the tooth and claw comin for me neck then I aint havin a part of that fight!

    "Well there werent no fight that day, but this fellow appeared out of the dark yellin something about Lolth and Norwick. By tell, laddie it gave me the creeps. Well some large fellow in shiny armor made to take him down, but this dark skinny fellow just vanished right before me eyes!

    "The big one said it was a drow.. whatever that is. Well... THAT news got everybody in town lookin' over their shoulder. Rumors were a-flying like arrows in a seige, boy.

    "I dont know what a drow can -really- do, but if even HALF of those rumors were true... well... I reckon I'd not have been the one to try to take that one I saw down.

    "Well... the militia shows up, right? They start gettin everyone inside, tellin em ta travel in pairs, right? So... the big guy says he's going to patroll the town and see if any more had just... 'popped in.'

    "Better him than me I tell ya!" chuckles

    "Well... he goes off and some stuffy looking preist goes off too... with a bunch of those little people... Now they're all talking about killing these drow and blah blah blah... and the preist is takin' em along like its nobody's business!

    "Well... about this time I start thinking maybe its time to sell me pelts and git on up north. I'd rather be robbed of me coin in the Nars than stumble in the dark into one of those 'drow' things.

    "So after a bit o dealin with that stingy praeth, I'm hightailin it up north again and I run into the big fellow again, comin in the gate. By the gods if he wasnt carrying FIVE little folk. Not kids mind you, but the short people that always are blaberin' like children and running all underfoot and what not.

    "He got one hangin onta each leg like ticks... one on each arm, and one jumpin on and fallin off his back. By hells I woulda thrown the lot against the wall, but there he was.. carryin' FIVE HINS!

    "And then... see, he was grumblin ta himself as he walked... he says HE was rescuin' THEM!

    has a hearty laugh

    "By the gods... it looked like HE was the fellow in need o' rescuin!"

    Suddenly two teenage boys come out the north gate with the pockets full of candy and other things, which begets them a harsh tongue lashing from the old timer. The group goes up north to hunt some more and avoid the maurauder patrols.

    ((This was the Tealeaf pack and Raryldor (I think). It was great fun!))


  • Very little had occurred on the hill of late, so Sam took this reprieve to pick up the hammer once again and test his skill. He was surprised at how much he had forgotten, but it came back quickly.

    In truth, he realized he had made a mistake in leaving the forges… every day as he left, bathed in sweat wearing only a pair of shorts over his muscled form, he felt good! Actually good.

    The frustrations of Rolands near assassination, the missing dragon eggs, the blackguard that plagued the land we set at ease, clearing his mind to think a little more clearly.

    This was good. Helm desired that Sam be clear in thought and planning.

    Little did he know... this day, a plan made 12 years ago would come to fruition.

    Twelve years ago, Sam faced Rass, and knew he could not win. He tried then to evacuate his hill and lure her away from those who where escaping. Tigrelily had come up to beg him to leave with them, but even as they fell back before the might of the beast, she breathed a great fire upon them, slaying them.

    Twas upon his return he swore to rid Narfell of the great evil beast. He knew he could not face her in her own lair.... but upon the hill he swore to defend, he knew he could defeat her.

    Not because Sam was such a great warrior he could face a dragon alone. He had fought them before and barely made it out with his tail intact, never having slain one. he would need a trap, or some way to bring a swift, crushing defeat to such a beast.

    Twelve years ago, in the night, he worked to bury nine kegs of powder. Under the tutelage of Bruno, the master kegger, and the dwarves of the crafters guild, he knew everything he had to know. Fire would not kill this beast... but the fire was merely propellant for the many sharp rocks he covered the kegs with, and buried under the roadway.

    In all, 500 pounds of explosive with an equal amount of projectiles had been walked across for twelve years. It was perhaps one of Sam's best kept secrets. He shared it only with his most trusted. Grivel, rest his soul, could have set the hill alight should Rass ever threaten the wolves.

    And as Sam considered passing the hill on, he revealed the secret to Rick. They swore to complete the plan, whatever the cost, by crushing the fuse which Sam had carefully sewn into the young reed on the hill, into the fire.

    After a quick bath in his house, he donned his armor and head out to 'work.' The nars today was restless. Claims of bandit attacks up and down the pass reached his ears by the passers by as they hurried along the roads hoping their haste would protect them.

    It would turn out to be a VERY busy day.

    A stealthy assassin nearly killied Sam in the process, forcing his personal retreat to see Friar Fred. By this time however the hill had a dozen defenders and Sam was not overly missed.

    No sooner did the bandit officer raids cease, but fire erupted from the earth in the valley below and demon spawn burst forth. Again, faced by over a dozen defenders, the battle was largely one sided in favor of the defenders.

    Rick mentioned that these spawn were the work of Thyrm Cardia, one who had lost his head to Ricks axe in execution after trial.

    Somehow the murderer had returned.

    Perhaps Thyrm watched what happened next, or perhaps the arrival of the great red dragon Rass interruped his summonings. In either case... the demons stopped their assault as the bodies of their kind lay spread across the fields.

    Immediately Sam and Rick began shouting for everyone to get off the hill. They had rehearsed many times over a plan for this day.

    The day for Rass's demise was at hand!

    The dragon seemed amused at the scurrying of the bipeds across the hill. And only mildy intrigued at the presense of the fat one and the broad shouldered one with an axe.

    She strode forward across the western part of the ridge towards the road. Rick stood next to the fire, as they had rehearsed, Sam many feet behind in case Rick should fall or fail.

    Next to Ricks foot was the reed that Sam had watered and babied for the many years he stood on the hill. The fire was always built in a certain spot, carefully placed next to the reed in anticipation of Rass's return.

    As Rass crossed the road, with his foot, Rick crushed the reed towards the fire. Rass continued to walk down into the valley to feed on the bodies of the demon spawn, largely ignoring the two defenders, shaking with fear. They both knew this plan could easily cost them their lives, and in fact, they were pledged to willingly give their lives should this moment ever come.

    As Rass passed over the hill and down into the valley, Rick looked down in surprise.... he had stepped on the reed as planned.. but it fell across the stones of the fire and not into the coals. He cursed.

    Now out of position, Sam had to find a way to bring Rass back to the crest, and on the road.

    He charged the beast and taunted it with every bit of his skill, yet she resisted, seeming content to rip the bodies of the demons apart and flip them into her gaping maw. When she was done, she tore into the air, mocking them.

    Sam and Rick again crested the hill and shouted into the night, trying anything to bring her onto the ground again.

    Their backs were turned to the west when she landed behind them to the east. Her position effectively routed them from the fire and across the planned kill zone. But Sam gave rick a meaningful nod to stay put.

    With every bit of his might he flailed his arms and taunted the beast again, daring it to come for him.

    Rass obliged. She walked past Rick towards Sam, forcing him across the road away from the fire. Sam stopped just past the road, looking up into the smoking nostrils of his nemesis, and raised his sword.

    He attacked her as soon as she stood in the center of the road. His hopes were that her bloodlust would rise and she would focus on tearing him apart, giving Rick enough time to press the reed into the fire yet again.

    He nodded to Rick just as he attacked, and the fuze sputtered alive this time as Sam's blade attacked her ankles. But Rass, perhaps hearing the fuze ignite, took into the air, her winks blasted them with a rush of air...

    The fuze was stilled.

    Rick and Sam were devastated. She had escaped.

    They quickly inspected the fuze, it had been desiged for only three seconds. BARELY enough time for it to be lit, and the lighter to escape the blast, which would largely be focused straight up by the careful tamping.

    Less than a second remained on the fuze, and it was too short to plunge into the fire.

    Sam begged Rick to leave... he who lit the fuze now had no chance of escape, and it was his plan. RIck was married.

    But RIck would have no part of it. He claimed they had both sworn to complete this. Sam would have to taunt the beast and lure it back onto the road. RIck would light the last of the fuze with a torch and kill them both... perhaps all three.

    Accepting this, Sam stood atop the massive claymore mine, and dared the beast to return.

    She would not come to earth however, instead, she sprayed them with fire from the air several times, taunting them back.

    On her third pass, the spray of fire that caught Rick also lit the last of the fuze, it sputted under the earth and raced, now unstoppable, to the inevitable end.

    "THE FUZE!" he screamed and dove away from the blast.

    Sam dove immediately from the road, rolling as far as he could. Rass was not on the ground!

    The gout of fire and stone that erupted was spotted by the Peltarch watchtower and the archer towers of Norwick. The concussion alone might have brought Rass from the sky, but she had since flown past.

    Debris fell for several minutes, and a smoky haze filled the hill. It was surreal, as Sam realized he was alive, in pain, and in an unfamiliar environment. The ground was shattered, loose rock everywhere.

    Rass had flown on, perhaps thinking them dead from the explosion.

    Stumbling through the rocky debris and across the crater, Sam sought out Rick, who was in terrible shape but alive.

    They sat for a time, glad to be alive, angered at their failure.

    As the wind blew the dust away... the hole in the earth revealed fresh ores and an impassable roadway.

    The dwarves were fast upon this boon, calling their kin from miles around. In only a couple days, they had repaired the road, their payment they gladly hauled off in the form of iron and silver ores.

    As Sam looked over his hill, the scar remaining, but the wounds closed....

    ... he planned again...


  • (note.. TWO new posts today)

    Sam strode up to his hill, and began to make a new fire. He hadn’t even stood up, when Kira and Rhianna Bare ran up to him and asked, “have you seen the fire on the other hill?”

    Sam was quite put out. Who would light a fire on the mountain across the valley? What fool? The mountain across the valley was certainly higher, and gave greater visibility…. But Sam had deliberately not chosen that mountain for one reason- there was only one way up, and one way down. If ever he were flanked on that mountain, he would be trapped.

    Sam’s hill was much better suited tactically. He could control the crossroads from the eastern side, and there was only one approach onto the hill from the north where most of the bandits came from.

    The southern side had three approaches, one along the road, a gap in the middle, and the westernmost pass would bring an attacker under fire from three sides of higher elevation- a veritable death trap for any assaulting force.

    These thoughts did not enter Sam’s mind at first. He was only concerned with who might camp on that hill, be spotted and swarmed by bandits, and have no where to run. He ran with Rhianna and Kira to investigate.

    This was no ordinary campfire…. The entire top of the mountain was ablaze with molten rock and fire spouting constantly. The earth shook violently with every spitting of fire. It looked exactly like a volcano, a fire mountain, that Sam had read about in his youth.

    They began to climb the mountain. All life had been scorched away, and as they neared the top, they could feel the heat pressing against them. At first they thought little Rhianna might climb near the fire to see what was happening in the crater, but as Sam lifted her up, she cried out that it was too hot.

    Just as he set her down, the whole mountain shook violently and fiery rock splattered everywhere. Sam twisted himself violently to shake this molten material off his armor and the others picked themselves up from the ground where they quake had thrown them.

    It was time to leave this fire beast to itself.

    Climbing down, they crossed the valley and resumed a post in the middle of Sam’s hill. From there they had an excellent view of the mountain as great gouts of lava spilled across it and ran down the sides. It was a beautiful sight to behold such power the smoke and fire lighting the night sky!

    From the side of the mountain, there was an eruption, and a fire elemental raced forth. Immediately the party brought it down before it could leave the mountain, with long-range attacks.

    This was no act of nature. Sam dispatched Rhianna and Kira to fetch a mage. Perhaps one could determine what manner of activity this was, and even more hopefully, stop it.

    Scutum arrived just after the two women left, and helped Sam. Several passers by joined them. As the fire on the mountain grew, so too did the size and frequency of the fire spawn that gushed forth and charged down towards the valley. Each time, the ranged attacks from the secure defensive positions on Sam’s hill brought them down. But… with each wave, they seemed to get further and further into the valley.

    It did not take a tactical genius to figure out the creatures would have enough strength to push around the western flank and race up the back of the hill.

    Sam shifted his forces left, to provide enfilading fire into the flankers throughout the whole path to the side of the hill. Once done, he realized Kira and Rhianna had returned… their reinforcement was a mousy, squeaky voiced hin, who also claimed to be a mage of some skill. Oddly enough, he demanded a reward for helping, and to appease the little runt’s demands, Sam acquiesced.

    “Sam’ll giff yuh sumptin.” He promised the hin very, very sincerely.

    They escorted him to the mountain so he could get a peek and tell them what was going on. His explanation was muttered and Sam was certain he had no idea what he was talking about. Must be a first year Spellweaver student, he thought.

    Sam pulled the party back under constant attack by much larger fire elementals.

    Once back on the hill, he put Scutum in charge of the defenses and raced for Norwick to find a suitable wave of reinforcements. At the south fire, breathless, he strained his voice, shouting of fire, mountains and creatures. He was almost shocked into silence by a man with wings, but decided he was unimportant. He needed archers, and a damned good mage and he needed them right now!

    With an additional platoon of reinforcement, Sam charged back to his hill. Scutum was leading the fight admirably. The center was weakening the creatures badly, and the western flank would drop them as they passed. But they kept getting closer and closer to the back of the hill where they would be able to get to the crest and run rampant on the ridge. There were many young adventurers who would be slain if they reached the ridge in force.

    Many, many that Sam knew were now on the hill, and even more that Sam did not know. Nevertheless he kept directing the fight, and constantly reminding the younger adventurers in the valley to defend from the hill. Those that did not, nearly lost their lives many times over were it not for the courage of Khaya, who raced into the valley to save not less than six unwise warriors. For some reason they thought they would be able to defeat a creature of fire standing some ten feet tall.

    The valley defenders were being crushed, the archers on the hill trying their best to cover them. Sam was losing control of the fight. No longer was he directing the combined efforts of the archers to drop targets as they came, but he was barely keeping the elementals from slaying the valley defenders.

    Several times, they would be routed, running back to the southwestern pass, to get onto the hill and be protected. Once at the southwest pass, the elementals came under withering fire from all three sides. But… this meant that the center of the defense had to be turned to the rear. More elementals escaped from the hill and into the valley.

    Sam held the southwest pass directing all the warriors to form a line and protect the ridge, and his precious archers from attack from the rear. Time and time again, a fire elemental crashed into his line. He was no longer in command, he was fighting with the troops, bring his massive sword to bear to keep them all alive.

    Helm must have been watching the Nars Watchers efforts this day. Just as a massive gout of flame produced half a dozen huge fire elementals, it began to rain. But this time the enemy force had MORE than enough power to race through a hundred arrows and hit the rear of the hill.

    The Valley defenders were routed in no time, scattering like flies before a stiff wind. Several elementals chased after them, angered, but three came crashing into the southwest pass. No amount of arrows could stop them, and most of the warrior line was being chased around the valley.

    Sam raised his shield and charged into them. Perhaps he alone could give his archers enough time.

    With his head held high, Sam summoned the strength and endurance of Helm for this most challenging battle. His magical protections had long been burned away, yet there was nothing he could do. He could not stand aside and let these three huge beasts run rampant along the ridge!

    With a battle cry he slammed his shield into the center beast, slashing at the one to his right. The third came around his left and he knew he could not hold. Back pedaling he regained his footing and finally put one down, shifting his attacks. His shield arm was so burned he could not move it well enough to defend from both of them, though he still managed to weaken the center elemental.

    Suddenly, Sam felt a searing pain, everything went white, and then blackness overtook him.

    Whether it was two seconds or two hours, Sam did not know.

    (ie: I had to collect my shit after making my Divine Intervention roll and actually spent the rest of the fight running around the hill naked being chased by a huge fire elemental!!!)

    He sat up, his armor charred and black. The grass everywhere bore trails of the elemental’s passing. Yet Sam was whole. Several pale, brave young faces that he did not recognize helped him up.

    “Whut happ’nd?” He gasped.

    “You died! We saw you consumed in the fire! And then.. they were among us, but we slew them!”

    Sam blinked.

    “You must have pleased your god today, Sir! For you were as dead as that burning tree over there, and it shall not return to life as you did, I assure you!”

    Sam counted his blessings for a moment.

    “Ena mur o’ ‘em comin’?” he asked.

    “Nay… “ they breathed relaxing. “The rain quelled the fires on the mountain! We have won!”

    They collected themselves slowly. Sam was the only casualty, and he had been spared by Helm.

    In the aftermath of the battle, they found the little hin mage who was professing his greatness by summoning the rains that saved the day.

    And if that were not enough… the little bastard was begging for his reward.

    Hmm… Sam had promised him ‘something’ hadn’t he?

    “Okee.. Sam’ll giff yuh sumptin fer whutcha dun t’day, eh?”

    “Oh goodie goodie!” the hyper little guy exclaimed.

    “Here yuh go… Sam’s gunna giff yuh sum a’vice!”

    With that, Sam kicked the hin hard in the shin and yelled at the top of his lungs, “NEX’ TIME FOLKS IS DYIN’ DUN WURRY YER BUTT ‘BOUT SUM FARKIN R’WARD AN’ JUST HELP FOLK OUT, YUH BLAST’D GREEDY HIN!!!”

    With that the hin turned to hop away on his good leg and Sam gave him another toe in the ass to punctuate his reward of good advice!

    Several other hins took the little guy aside and counseled him at length on the virtues of generosity.

    Sam spent that all night on the hill giving thanks.

    But he kept one eye open, watching the mountain of fire.


  • Deeds not words.

    The wound was infected now. As Sam struggled to maintain his duties on the hill and watching over the temple, he found it increasingly harder each day to rise. He nearly choked to death each morning as he awoke, trying to clear his throat of the nightly accumulations of blood, puss and mucus.

    One day just south of Norwick, an altercation broke out again between Uthger and Rando. The entire Norwick milita faced the lone barbarian and words were traded back and forth. Uthger sat calmly, as if the entire milita online before him were nothing more than a swarm of insects a few feet away.

    Sam watched and listened to each side, trying to catch the facts in between the insults. His head was fuzzy, and it was difficult to concentrate. Each comment seemed more distant than the last. His face felt hot for a time, then cold, and stars began floating before his eyes.

    He blinked once. He blinked again, but did not finish. The warrior toppled over face first.

    Unknown to him at the time, his body in shock and low on blood. But the wicked, magical poison and finally overcome the last of Sam’s defenses. It had achieved dominance and now began to feed. The life of the paladin began to slip away.

    Cyrus tended to his comrade, dragging him into the healers, trying to treat the wound symptomatically. What he found shocked him. The wound had come completely open, as if just inflicted. Apparently Sam had been standing, bleeding, and the blood had run between his armor and chest, leaving no outward sign of trouble. He left Sam in the Boarshead to rest after doin what he could.

    When Sam awoke, his awareness was so dim, he operated on near total instinct. His body cried out for his bed at home, so he stumbled through the Nars, dressed only in his robe, to Jiyyd.

    If not for a small hin,Rhianna Bare, he would have bled to death on his bed. The young girl followed him as he meandered, zombie-like, to his bed and tended to him as best she could. Even her impressive healing skills would not close the wound. She stabilized him and ran for help.

    While she was gone, Sam awoke once more. He knew he needed help. Vroka would know what to do, he hoped. Perhaps Finnius’ powerful healing would restore him enough to head north to Daisy. These thoughts in Sam’s mind were merely impulses. The remains of logical plans that had been reduced to mere instict. He only understood, “seek help, go north.”

    Coming down the hill proved to be quite easy. He stumbled and fell, letting gravity help him the rest of the way. He lay there for several minutes before the call of instinct brought him to his feet again and he progressed slowly behind the Regal Whore Inn.

    He was on the west side, hanging onto the railing, when the loss of blood overtook him and he fell face down.

    It began to rain. Sam lay in the rain for nearly two hours before a passerby, the little hin Rhianna Bare found him.

    Seeing his critical condition she healed him with her magic, watching the wound close, and just seconds later it would open again. It was like a gaping second smile, evil in nature, grinning at her as it emptied the paladin’s blood into the rain.

    She stitched his neck closed in the rain in a contest of healing skill versus poison, but she could not move the giant man from his place in the mud.

    Dania came soon after, yet the two women still were unable to move him. Fortunately, Kanen had come to town and between the three of them, were able to drag Sam into Vroka’s.

    Vroka became distraught quickly. Although she and Finius had treated Sam many times before, they were shocked at how his condition had progressed. All divine attempts to heal him were thwarted. As soon as the wound was closed, it would open again. After a few moments, the stitches popped loose as well, apparently burned away from the inside by something that smelled of acid.

    The three left him in Vroka’s care to seek the aid of one with arcane skill. It was apparent the divine could do nothing more.

    Hours went by, and no less than a dozen entered and left the healers shop as they worked frantically to keep Sam alive with a constant flow of divine healing, which accomplished little more than replacing the blood that the poison seemed to feed upon.

    Merin Wyerspell was found, and once he arrived, he began an exhaustive magical search. He would detect magic upon the wound, and each time he would sense… something. Each time, like a pencil pushing a ball of mercury across a table, he would detect something, and it would escape his senses before he could understand it.

    Finally, he devised a plan where he could cast two detects, force the energy of one from top to bottom, and another from bottom to top, hoping to catch this fleeting magic as it avoided detection.

    This worked. He felt the stir of the arcane, and the origins of shadow magic that it was based in. He knew then that any further work must be accomplished in his lab. Not less than four people drug Sam to the Emerald Circle Keep, where behind closed magical doors, the final push to save Sam began.

    The herbalists ground a special root provided by Adam Bromley, which he claimed could cure shadow poison. What they did not reckon on however, was that the poison was also protected from divine or herbal remedies by a shield of arcane energy designed to prevent such cures. In time, Adam’s mystery root was nearly consumed, much to the frustration of the team assembled, and no progress made.

    Cera Amalith, being a reknowned arcanist summoned from the Gypsy Camp arrived in the Keep to provide her aid. She was mostly silent, whether numbed the voices in her head or paying close attention and deep in thought, none could tell.

    It was only after Merin and Circini decided to give Sam a blood transfusion that the closeness of Sam’s expiration was made known. As Merin and Ciricini held their blood to the wound, it was as if they were being sucked dry by a vampire, their life force being drawn into Sam’s body.

    His color improved for a time, new blood in his system, but within moments, the strength of their hin blood was consumed, and the poison began to feed on the strength of the last remaining orc blood within Sam.

    Finally, they understood. In order to heal Sam, they must first remove the magic, and treat him with the last of Adam’s shadow root.

    Cera and Merin created a plan- Merin would trap the magic for a short time, before it could escape again, and Cera would summon all her energies into a tremendous dispell. They coordinated for a time and then the two mages unleashed their plan, Merin, having been weakened by his own blood loss, collapsed. Cera too, fell to the floor, completely spent in her ability to work the weave.

    When the mages came to, they sensed as they could for magic, and found none. The arcane shield had been destroyed. The herbalists once again reached for the shadow root.

    Due to the fatigue and stress of the many hours they had spent working, the salve they created was not strong enough.

    But they had bought time.

    The wound now responded in part to divine healing. The wound closed. The poison remained.
    A day passed, Merin stubbornly researching his books for some clue. In time he found it. They would need a fresh tooth from a demon wolf, the blood still fresh, the nerves still alive. This too would be enough to cure Sam, if placed into the hands of a skilled healer.

    Sam had been taken to the Gypsy Camp, to see specialists there. Merin and Cera then led a small party of young, aspiring heroes to a lair where it was rumored one of these creatures was spotted.

    Encountering terrible odds and nearly losing several of the party, they managed to defeat the creature and its companions and returned to find Sam, once again close to death.

    This time, they worked patiently to create the balm necessary to counteract the poison. Satisfied with their product, they applied it. Ever so slowly, the poison lost its battle against this special concoction, though it was not a swift or decisive victory, eventually the poison was routed.

    Several powerful healing spells later, Sam was pronounced stable and recovering. Sam was returned to his home to rest, where he spent much time. Several local citizens, and members of his rescue party dropped in to keep him company, bring him food and ensure he was recovering.

    The status of his voice would not be known for several days.


  • hear hear!…


  • Well told Sam. A very nice read.

    Thanks to Shane as well for an epic adventure with an epic conclusion.