Night Falls in Westbridge

[Mayhem]

Wolfril walked away scowling. Behind him, Malcer sat smugly at the campfire, puffed on his pipe, and watched him go.

As he left the town on the south road, Wolfril was still angry. "Twice he has betrayed my trust. Is he that arrogant, or that think I so foolish, as to trust him again?" he muttered to himself. "He might gull others with his clever words, but I will not be fooled again."

He pulled on his helm, with its snarling wolf-face, and laid a hand upon the hilt of his axe. A warmth spread into his body... deliberate magic, or some residual spirit of the axe's last owner? He didn't know, caring only that with the axe in his grasp his senses were keener. He took a deep breath to calm himself - anger and stealth are not comfortable bedfellows. Then, pulling his grey cloak around him, he stepped off the road, and began to walk along the riverbank where the grass was long and the shadows deep.

It had been his intention to make a circuit of the town, outside the boundaries, to see first hand if the stories of undead were true. But he was still within earshot of the road when he heard a cry. Turning back, he could see that damnable merchant running along the road - towards the town, not away from it. He was wounded, it looked like, and behind him loomed the source of both his wounds and his fear - the figure of a two headed giant, spear in one hand, club in the other.

Switching his battle-axe to his other hand, Wolf drew a throwing axe from his belt, and let fly even as he began to run. The blade flew true, cutting deep into the giant's flesh, but it was going to take considerably more than that to slow the beast down.

And yet... it was slow. Still as fast as a running man, but there was something wrong with the way it moved. No time for doubts, though - Wolf unslung his shield, readied his axe, and charged.

The first blow struck true, the blade sinking into the flesh far too easily, releasing a foul, gut-wrenching stench. The wound gaped, but the giant didn't seem to feel it, and it was obvious why.

"It's already dead..." snarled Wolf, as the creature tried to push past him, intent upon its original prey. And even though that prey was that contempable, untrustworthy, nay evil merchant, it never once crossed Wolf's mind to stand aside and let it finish the job.

Two swift blows, and the creature stumbled. At last, whatever it used for wits seemed to realise that it had a new enemy, and it turned its attention to Wolfril. He managed to set aside the first swing of that giant club, and sidestep the spear that plunged almost directly down at him, but the next blow caught him in the chest. It was only a glancing blow, but he felt his ribs bend, perhaps even crack, and knew that there would be a bruise the size of a platter forming under his armour.

No matter. He could still fight, and so he would. Part of him coolly acknowledged that the merchant had ceased running, and was whirling slingstones at the undead monstrosity, but the rest of him burned with the heady combination of battle-rage, fear and triumph that comes from fighting a mighty foe, a foe that could kill you - but on this day will not.

The axe-work was grim but efficient, and as the creature slumped to the ground, Wolfril turned to Malcer.

"You did not stay long in town..." he said, leadingly.

"No." drawled the merchant. Then, unashamedly he added "I was following you."

The nerve of the man... thought Wolf ...and I don't take kindly to being followed by the likes of him...

But before he could comment further, he saw several figures moving through the darkness towards them. Questions would have to wait, as the shambling remains of fallen warriors stalked relentlessly along the road towards Westbridge.

[Rusty]

Nice.

[dergon darkhelm]

Malcer watched the Marshall of Triboar stomp off into the night, heading South along the road out of the small village of Westbridge. Most of the local houses were still damaged from the onslaught of the prior month, when hordes of all kinds of beast pressed the town from many directions. It didn't take a keen eye to spot a fragment of human femur, or a portion of an equine thorax still protruding from the bushes where a vulture had dragged it for an easy meal of carrion after the attacks.


Following the path of Wofril out of town meaning to try to continue their conversation, Malcer came to rise in the road where it skirted the edge of an old ruins on a hill. He had lost the trail of his old friend and quickened his pace to try to catch up on hi presumed path.

Within a moment a huge creature, two heads each drooling and enraged, came at the merchant. Malcer quickly turned back toward town at a full run. The long legs of the giant wouldn't allow for an easy escape. Malcer threw a slingstone at the creature, which as expected did nothing to impede its progress. As the giant closed tight it reached out with a long arm and pierced Malcer's armor with a thrust of it's spear. He turned again to run, but saw from the corner of his eye a figure charging from the darkness. Wolfril rushed past the wounded malcer and engaged the giant, quickly besting it in martial despite the things greater size.

But the victory was short lived........

By dozens and dozens the hillside came alive with the walking dead. All manner of races and sizes, most still bearing the wounds that brought them to death a month prior, quickly surround the two men.

"Too bad you are not a *real* priest!" Wolfril yelled to the adjacent Malcer bitterly as one of the creatures fell to his axe.

Malcer, surround by 8 of the hideous tings and barely able to fend of their blows could only scowl and mutter "Indeed."

The two slowly fell back to the North along the road ...........

[Keith Mac]

By dozens and dozens the hillside came alive with the walking dead. All manner of races and sizes, most still bearing the wounds that brought them to death a month prior, quickly surround the two men.

enjoyed that line ....keep em coming

[darrenhfx]

I loved the Odd Couple.. so which one of you is the neat one? I'd be willing to wager that it's not the barbarian.

[Mayhem]

Heading toward the bridge, the two men found themselves cut-off. Four skeletal creatures shaped like bats had gotten behind them, flying swiftly on fleshless wings that simply should not have worked.

Soundlessly they attacked. Too close for missiles, Wolfril and Malcer hefted steel and struck out at the creatures. Bones shattered and three of the beasts fell. The fouth, battered but still flying, turned and flitted towards the town.

"Oh no you don't" stated Wolf quietly, drawing an axe from his belt and hurling it at the beast with all of his strength. The batlike skull shattered and the creature fell. Conscious of the hoarde creeping relentlessly towards them, he and Malcer staggered on - faster than a walk, but not quite able to run.

They arrived at the bridge ahead of their slow-moving foes, and reached an unwitting consensus to stop.

Wolf leaned heavily against the solid stonework of the bridge, panting hard but with a wild gleam in his eyes. Keeping one eye on the advancing undead, he pulled a healing scroll from his pack, and chanted the words that would release the divine energy stored within.

The healing power washed through him and he straightened up. He felt better, though still had considerable pain in his ribs. Almost carelessly, he drew another throwing axe and tossed it towards the advancing dead. It swung lazily through the air in a graceful arc, which ended as the blade sank deep into a rotten skull with a sickening thunk. The creature dropped with a mournful groan, and Wolf grinned. A grin that was shortlived.

"More of them." he stated calmly, as a small band of swifter creatures broke ranks from the stumbling masses and scurried forwards. "Ghouls."

The snarling, dog-faced creatures charged the two men, with grotesque cries and threats. The first ran straight into Wolf's axe, and dropped with a scream. The second took a slingstone to the forehead, and was stunned long enough to be an easy kill. The others lunged at Wolf, but the tall warrior held them at bay with his over-sized shield, their claws making nightmarish screeches as they scrabbled at the shining metal. Laughing at their ineffectual attacks, he cut them down.

"Wolf! Look out!" cried Malcer. The battle with the ghouls, whilst brief, had given the slower undead a chance to reach the bridge. "We should get back into town!" yelled the merchant, letting fly with another slingstone.

Wolfril frowned. They'll still be folk on the streets...folk who would be easy prey to these creatures... they need to be warned before we let any undead within the walls. He made a decision.

"Go Malcer! Get to the temple, tell them what's coming!" he ordered, grunting as his axe bit deep into the nearest rotting foe. Another clung to his shield, leaving him defenceless for a moment as the rotting corpse of a militiaman threw a punch. The blow made him stagger, but he was able to free his shield and axe and cut down another of the dead.

"Are you moontouched, man? You can't stay out here alone!" cried the merchant, in disbelief.

The warrior smiled grimly. The bridge was preventing the creatures from surrounding him, and they didn't seem to have the wit to go around, even though the stream was barely a foot deep. Stepping back out of their reach, he tossed aside his shield, drank potions of protection and might, and drew a second blade - a razor edged, wide-bladed shortsword, a tool for swift butchery.

Bloodied axe in one hand, shining sword in the other, he repeated his order.

"I said go! I can slow them down, at least long enough for you to rouse the townsfolk. Go, damn it!"

[Arkan Bladesinger]

Bravo! Keep em coming, mates

[dergon darkhelm]

Malcer walked the short distance to the center of Westbridge. The streets were silent this night, no sounds of the battle to the immediate South having yet disturbed them.

Entering the shrine of Torm Malcer aroused a dozing acolyte. "The walking dead move as an army to the South! Awake all you folk and bring them to aid."

A passing off duty soldier overheard the topic and rushed off to gather some men.

Within minutes the town was once again mobilized to battle. Malcer could see the war-weary looks on the soldiers faces.

As Malcer walked with the men toward the now growing din of battle South of the village, no one needed speak what was already understood.........those that still lived were lucky once last month, they would need Tymora's favor once again in order to last the night.

[Mayhem]

Another zombie fell, spilling its rotting innards across the path. Wolf had stopped counting - it was an unnecessary distraction. He concentrated solely on stopping the beasts from getting past him.

Another ghoul broke through the pack, ignoring the young warrior and heading for the town. Wolf brought it down with a throwing axe, even as a crowd of the lumbering dead tried to push him to the ground with sheer numbers. He was bleeding now, but the press of foul flesh was too tight to do anything but hack and hew.

Then there was a whistling of arrows, and the meaty sound of steel-tipped shafts hitting flesh. Help had arrived, and none too soon. Malcer has returned with three off-duty militia-men who had bravely snatched up weapons and run to the defence of the twon, even without armour. Accompanying them were two acolytes from the nearby temple of Torm, one of whom stepped forward quickly to apply his divinely granted healing powers to the ailing Wolf. Wolf nodded his thanks as he sheathed his sword and retrieved his shield.

"What's happening, sir?" asked one of the soldiers. But there was no time for a reply as a pack of ghouls scrambled over the river and charged the small group, cackling and snarling with grotesque glee. One of the militiamen was sorely wounded in the ensuing fight, but all bravely stood and fought until the foul creatures had been brought low.

Wolfril began to issue instructions to the militiamen, suggesting that they go one at a time to fetch armour. But before any man could do so, a new threat crested the brow of the hill, heading towards them. A black shape, taller than the trees. The lumbering body of a giant, raised from the dead to wreak havoc. Around its feet moved other dead shapes, the bodies of men and orcs alike, fallen in the previous battle for Westbridge.

It was far enough away that the defenders of the town could riddle its body with missiles, but it was not slowed. Its massive stride let it reach the men before its smaller conpanions-in-death and it started swinging the oversized tree-branch that it was using as a club.

Wolf stepped to the fore, leading the militia by example, and perhaps giving them enough courage to stand and fight instead of flee. Blocking blows from the creatures weapon was not an option, and the warriors had to rely on their reflexes, dodging out of the way then darting back in to cut and hack. The wounded militiamen was too slow, and the club caught him in the chest, caving in the ribs like a rusty helm on a dwarven anvil. The mans death must have been near instantaneous as his internal organs were crushed and torn, and his blood gushed out onto the road.

The others fought on, their faces white but their duty overiding their fear. The creature was slowing down, the damage to its flesh perhaps disrupting the dark energy that gave it this semblance of life. With the last of its energy, it threw itself down onto Wolfril, who had no chance to avoid it, and crushed him with its bulk.

Wolf was trapped beneath the foul body. The pain - especially in his damaged ribs - was almost overwhelming and the weight on his chest had squeezed the air from his lungs. He wanted to scream, but could not draw breath. Faintly, muffled by the fleshy bulk that lay over him, he could hear the sounds of combat as more of the unquiet dead fell upon the remaining defenders. Then the sounds began to fade, his head bounded, and he teetered on the edge of unconciousness.

[dergon darkhelm]

Malcer awoke with a start, momentarily disoriented. He looked around the shadowy upstairs room and noted the a small band of sunlight coming in through a crack in the shutter of the chamber's only small window. The cabinet he had placed in front of the door remained undisturbed, as did the numerous snares he had set both on the door and the windows.

His head hurt and his mouth was terribly dry. How long had he slept? He looked out the window and noted the sun was already westerning. He also noted the many corpses, and pieces of corpses, that lined the streets of Westbridge. He listened a long while, but heard nothing but the croaking screams of two vultures fighting in the distance. All else was still.

He cautiously made his way down the stairs of the inn and walked across the street to the Happy Halfling Tavern. He doubted he would be served a meal. The evacuation order given by the Marshall of Triboar looked to have been fully carried out, but if he was lucky, Malcer might be able to find a keg of ale and some food left behind.

Malcer was alone in Westbridge it seemed. He opened the door of the tavern and saw a solitary figure standing in the corner. The person seemed not of the undead, so the merchant approached.

He then saw the face beneath the silver hood as a late ray of afternoon sun shown over his shouder and lit a fair elven form. Malcer froze, his heart nearly stopping in his chest as he came to recognition of the person before him, no other man to be found for miles........................................... he was alone with the one had that hunted him................... Aurenthil, Knight of Selune.

[darrenhfx]

Did you guys put your heads together to come up with this to and fro writing? I kinda like seeing how the character's stories intertwine from each of your perspectives.

Well done, temporary hits points on the house!

[Mayhem]

I just suggested it might be un, no actual co-ordination.

Might have been nice if DD had told the bit that came immediately after Wolf disappearing under a falling giant - though

You'll just have to guess what happened

I can't take up the tale after his meeting with Aurenthil cause I was long gone by then

[Frostfather]

A strange stillness ruled the dreary night.
The night when light fails its grip and darkness unfolds its might.
Sleep is fickle and unforgiving, in the restless dreams we lost our way.
Some doors along the road complained, and in the wind they sway.
A town so silent, cloaked and dressed in a fog so grey.
Shadows long and wicked thought, watched the weary prey.
Unknowing he, with a cautious mind,
slowly treading towards the danger blind.

He slowly lifted his gaze from the fallen soldier, to the man with a wolf head.
Shoulders slumped and armour not so slightly dented, law came down the road.
He knew his friend from many battles true, and this was a great weight to carry.
Speaking with a sombre tone, revealing the gruesome tale of past day and night,
the undead now roamed this land far and wide.
Many dead high and low, priest and soldiers both, maybe they now dance the restless dance macabre.
A vision seen; a flashing sword against the dark, elven runes on a silver blade, leaves falling in the forest fold.
Moonlight beam, breaking cloud and night with silvery light.
Moon maidens grace on her knight’s face, there is truth in what has been foretold.

Dire news to the remaining few, a sad march north must be taken.
Lawman and elven both, walked among the refugees; and the forsaken.
Elven man soon again walked the ghostly town, approaching alongside the deadly night.
Solving the sighted riddle of silvery steel, he dared the coming fright.
In the flickering light of a candle, shadows played; but one frozen solid.
Aurenthil who the presence felt, slowly turned, no emotion; a creature stolid.

The night so dreary was still no more.

[Mizbiz]

That was beautiful Frostfather.

[NickD]

(Sorry if this breaks the flow of the story...)

Soppi awoke with ogres banging their hammers inside her skull. After the outsiders had left the warren, Kelinda and Soppi had blessed the ale and cider in the Goblins Demise and the whole warren had come together to remember. The refugees had not been invited, but neither were they spurned. A few came to watch, although none joined in the festivities. They told stories of the fallen and they laughed and they wept and they drank the holy alcohol until they could not laugh or weep or drink any more.

Another day. Another crisis averted. Another grave behind the Temple of the Folk.