*NOTE*

Dido's Adventures Begin is a post that I just finished but I've been writing it on and off since Dec. 16. So please read and let me know what you think! Thanks!
-Kate (a.k.a. Dido the Changeling Halfling)

The Darkest Night Approaches

http://drakhenliche.deviantart.com/art/dracoliche-head-3904530

Synned gazed into the heavens as he had every night for the past 50 years. The other people in the city thought him out "searching the stars for the answers, for the questions, for the magic." An astronomer by nature, but astrologer by trade, he was preparing for the next days business of selling what little hope he could to the countless dolts looking for some glimmer of information to pull them through the next day. Synned knew what the stars were, he knew there was no magic in them, except for their beauty; but there were expenses in life that had to be payed and he knew a business that would at least let him live out his passions. He continued his gazing feeling himself being lifted into the heavens. His eyes searched the blackness, flying by the stars in abandon. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed a small glimmer, a blackness deeper than he had ever seen in the night. He peered into it, straining to make out some distinctive features of this anamoly. There was nothing, only blackness. Synned began to lose interest in this, figuring it to be a trick of the shadows on his eyes. HE began to turn away but could not, his gaze locked onto the small patch of black in the night sky. He lost track of time, of all sensations at all. The last thing he remembered was seeing two eyes pierce his mind a tooth filled maw lunging for him, he fell away from the picture and was flung from consciousness.

He awoke with a start. His mind was jumbled memories and imaginings all twisted into one ball of images. He saw the futility in sorting them out and instead gave into the madness. As he let his mind leave  he began to feel different, he felt stronger, he felt cold, and most of all, he felt hunger, a hunger he had never known before. His mind began to formulate some inkling as to how to sate this hunger. The mad vampire turned back to his town, the sun had not yet risen, they were all asleep. He walked calmly to his shop and opened up for business. He would let them come to him, then he would feast.

Scry

The Lich watched as the group made their way down the stairs. HE never figured they would be clever enough to find their way there. 

"Yet they do not know their true purpose yet"

His empty shell filled with sadistic glee as he continued to watch their progress.

"Bumbling idiots, all of them. They will be no match for my power"

With that thought a vicious cackling erupted from his rotting lips. He feared not the mortals, there weren't even enough of them to challenge the World Born Dead, how would the ever challenge Mighty Orannis? He watched the image a few moments longer and then closed the scrying spell. He would still make the preparations to have them exterminated. There could be no chances taken in the return of his Master, everything must be perfect. These ingrates would be taken care of, and he knew just who to send to do it...

For Michael

from penny-arcade.com

Dido's Adventures Begin

After eating her fill of berries, Dido wandered the forest looking for a path out. She followed a deer trail until it began to get dark and then decided to bed down for the night. She climbed a tree and curled up in a nook between two big branches.

She settled into a deep sleep and, after a while, she began to dream.

Dido dreamed that she was in the meadow, short sword held high in anticipation of attack. She could feel the enemy all around, even though she could not see them. She turned round and round, the tall grass hiding whatever creatures were causing it to rustle.

Dido stopped turning and tilted her head - the rustling stopped. She tensed, sword at the ready.

A creature jumped at her and she nicked its shoulder. Another sped past her and she tripped it up with her sword. She continued to spin her blade left and right, but soon she was surrounded by the creatures.

They were hideous. Dead flesh hanging from their skeletons, their bones squeaking from the lack of muscle flowing over and between them...Dido shivered in disgust.

They were all around her. There was no escaping the loathsome creatures.

Just as Dido was contemplating death and the life beyond (if there was such a thing), something decided to interfere on her behalf.

An enormous copper dragon descended from the clouds.

"Leave her be," it demanded of the creatures. In an instant, they vanished.

The dragon looked at Dido.

"Greetings, Little One."

"Thanks for the rescue...who are you?" asked Dido.

"I am Vorosh. And I have a question for you."

Dido raised her eyebrows.

"Will you come with me?"

"To go where?" Dido's eyebrows drew together in a confused look.

"Just say yes...or no. Trust me."

Dido thought for a moment, and then shrugged.

"Well, I don't have any other pressing business at the moment..."

Dido woke up in a large, dark room, with several people looking at her from above.

"Where am I?" She murmured.

RECAP - Game 1 (12.15.08)

Everyone is right where they are... Dido beside the fairy mound, Arturus asleep beside the lake, Magnolia in the tree house, Thorn with his brethren hunting goblinoids, Rhys making her rounds along the coastal forests... when they each inexplicable zone out or fall asleep and dream dreams...

Dreams of darkness, of falling, of crashing sounds and of the sound of a ringing, deeper and more powerful than has ever been known and then -

Dido, a quite confused halfling, appears beside a fairy mound with no recollection of how she got there.

Arturus Priestus awakens beside the lake, Astarael missing.  But something seems to be affecting the water...

Magnolia Aisling is in her tree house with Demitri when her brother shows up (no doubt to heckle her).  Then columns of smoke rise in the distance - right where her village would be... she gets out of the tree just in time as its destroyed.  Her mother appears to usher them to safety and she sees many undead working their way through the forest.  Her mother is injured and they must take to ground...

Gnaomi Spitfire is with her mentor, making gems when she happens upon a ghoul... many ghouls, actually.  They battle fiercely before seeking refuge in the temple of Garl Glittergold, only to find the clerics mourning his absence...

Thorn takes watch when he finds goblins approaching his camp.  They are stupid and he swiftly defeats them... only to have them come back moments later - some still cleaved in half - to try again!

Rhys happens upon a dead giant squid.  Finding a spear that is no doubt the work of Lizardmen, she follows their tracks into the woods only to find a creature of madness.  It's very gaze nearly kills her on the spot but she resists, managing to fire on it - only to see that it has no effect.  She tries to put distance between them only to have it follow....

Ancient and mighty dragons appear to each of them.  Dragons none has ever heard of before; dragons whose names have long since been forgotten in the world.  Each dragon has chosen each warrior personally and asks them to go with them.  The silver dragon that appears to Arturus returns Astarael to him.  Each agrees and -

-appears in a strange building.  Confused, they introduce themselves and then notice that enormous statues of the dragons they have encountered stand along the walls.  Two are unknown.  One is a dark black.

Astarael glows, her light strangely narrowing as if to point - to an altar at the far end of the room.  On it, an enormous book - the Libris Mortis.  The Book of the Dead.  Its pages tell the tale of ancient gods and ancient chosen warriors working together.  But several pages are missing, and angrily scrawled in their place is a rune of unhallowing - desecrating the book.  At the end, someone is banished but they know not who.

Gnaomi believes the altar may be some sort of mechanism, prompting Thorn and Arturus to lift the enormous Libris Mortis clear.  Beneath it are six dragon claws.  Each one the color of a dragon that appeared to our heroes in their visions.

Each takes one, and each time something in the altar clicks.  Arturus, a Palladin with some religious learning, recognizes the claws as holy symbols.  The dragons are gods.  And they have, for some reason, chosen this group for a task.

With the last click, the Altar opens to a spiral staircase leading down, down, deep into the world.  They go, after Arturus betrays little experience working with a party by asking Rhys, a ranger, to stay up front when she is much better suited at the rear, where she has range.

Once down, they find a room.  An empty room.  Except for the giant door that is in the floor.  Taking up half the floor, actually.  With a giant ring sitting on top, bit enough for all of them to grab onto...

TO BE CONTINUED...

The Lady in the Lake

The Last Steward of Callon was dead.

Smoke from his funeral pyre, set out over the great lake, rose into the air to tower over them on its retreat to the heavens.

Arturus Priestus watched with a sinking feeling of deep hopelessness. From his chambers at the castle he watched, having been unable to take himself to the lake shores.

His armor, steel and silver etched with intricate gold runes and Pelor suns, stood assembled on a mannequin in the corner. He had been away when the Steward had died, though he had been present at the event that had remotely killed him.

Some say, anyway.

Arturus had been serving with an outlying village’s armies against an undead incursion. It had been a fierce battle with many deaths and subsequent raisings. Like an army that may never end they came until soon it was only Arturus left against village warriors who had been fighting at his side only hours before.

He cleaved, he beheaded, he destroyed, but still they came. If they had one arm, they still struck. If they had no arms they tried to bite, or kick or even just throw themselves at him. Mustering all his strength, he prayed to Pelor for some kind of help.

At first, there was no answer. Then, slowly, in his mind’s eye, a speck of light came, as if from some far off place. And deep down in Arturus’s soul he heard a whisper – A last aid for a chosen champion. Fare well in what awaits you, Arturus Priestus.

The light blasted down from the heavens, bathing Arturus in its warm glow. As if using his armor as a channel, it blasted out and away from him in concentric rings, forcing him to one knee beneath its blistering weight. The undead army around him stood no chance, vaporizing instantly in a chorus of squeals and grinding attempts to escape.

And then there had been silence.

And Arturus felt an absence in his spirit that he knew at once was the absence of Pelor.

Arturus attempted to cast a healing spell on himself and found… nothing. He knew only divine magic, and so was sure of it then – Pelor was gone.

He sent word of his success and his divine encounter back home and began the journey home. He encountered the ruins of some other village battle and found the dead body of a female cleric. The sun on her breastplate told him that she had not been so blessed as he. She had no doubt fought bravely. He laid her to rest as best as he could and continued on.

When he arrived home he found that the Steward had died shortly after receiving his message. His home had no ruler, and Arturus, the sole remaining knight of the realm, had no station.

And so the smoke rising in the East was at the end of a long and dark day. The sun had dipped below the horizon in more ways than one, and the cold of the night was beginning to creep into Arturus’s bones. Perhaps sleep would do him good.

He turned and was startled by a figure in the doorway. An old man in old robes stood there, eyeing Arturus through narrow slits.

“Can I help you, sir?” Arturus asked.

The old man stepped into the room –unbidden, Arturus noted to himself with some annoyance – and held out a paper.

Arturus took it and read it.

It was a summons from the Steward. Marked the day he died. For this man.

“Moordin,” Arturus read the man’s name from the paper. “The Steward sent for you?”

“Yes,” Moordin said. He had a thick beard that struck out in all directions, which he now stroked, wrapping it around a finger. “A time is upon us. A dark time. A great time, if fate will smile upon this realm again.”

Arturus scanned the page again. Moordin had quoted part of the Steward’s message. “What does that mean? And why did he tell you to find me?”

Moordin had crossed the distance without Arturus even noticing. When he looked up, Moordin’s crazy old eyes were right there. “Because,” the old man said, “a shroud is falling across the world. An ancient darkness that not even our revered gods would stand with us against.”

“Pelor has fled,” Arturus said quietly. He handed the note back and turned back towards the window. “And I must mourn. Leave and return to me tomorrow and we will have our business.”

Moordin raised a brow. “No.”

Arturus turned back, agitated. “I’m sorry? Look, old man, I have no god now and no station and no kingdom. Allow me the courtesy of a night’s sleep and meditation!”

Moordin took a step forward…

…and exploded.

White fire radiated from his skin and robes, almost blinding Arturus, who stumbled back. Moordin held out a hand, and through the flames Arturus saw a much younger man standing there. “I am Moordin, known once as Mauradin in ancient times and ancient tongues! I am a servant of the eternal flame, a guardian of eternal souls and something much other than ye can fathom, Arturus Priestus!”

And just like that, the fire was gone and the old man remained. With just a hint of a smile.

“And,” Moordin said in a softer tone. “I bring news to warm the hearts and minds of the earth’s inhabitants. But time is short and you must trust me, as your Steward trusted me.”

Amazed by the display in his quarters, Arturus had followed Moordin with very little further questioning. The old wizard – or at least that’s all Arturus could think to call him – led them out and down to the main square. It was night, and most had retreated to their homes or to the inns and pubs – in any case no doubt to mourn in their own ways.

Arturus was prepared to put up a fight if Moordin had tried to lead him to the woods. It was too dark, there were too many Undead these days and Moordin was too strange to trust that far. But there was no need… for Moordin stopped at the last place Arturus might have considered.

The stone was older than any recorded knowledge. And so was the blade that resided in it. Both were marked with magic runes the likes of which Arturus had never seen in any of his divine or arcane studies. It went without saying that they were very old and very powerful – for legend said that they held the sword in place until its rightful owner – the King – returned. And that magic had never decayed. The sword had been there all of Arturus’s life and well before.

Moordin looked at Arturus and swept a hand up at the sword. “It awaits you.”

Arturus did nothing. In fact, it took him a few long seconds to piece together what it was that Moordin was asking him to do. “No,” he said finally. “This is ridiculous. I am an orphan, raised by Steward and Cleric. A normal man. I am no king.”

“Then,” Moordin said with a shrug, “what harm would it be if you tried? If you fail, you return to the shambles of your life, godless and jobless. I return to my resting place until the real king appears.”

Arturus glared at the wizard. But… with a sigh, he approached the ancient landmark. He climbed up the small two steps carved into the great stone and reached up with cold hands. He grasped the hilt, brushing his fingers along the pommel, and felt a curious buzz – a very, very old and very, very powerful magic. It carried the distinct kind of vibration of something divine, but it was yet an alien kind of divine. Familiar, but… older somehow.

He closed his fingers and pulled.

The buzzing grew more intense, almost burning, but instead it merely warmed his hands, taking the numbness from the cold away. As if recognizing something it was waiting for, the magic retreated, and Arturus could feel it slipping down the length of the blade, into the stone –

- And it slid free.

He could not see it, but behind him Moordin’s chest swelled, though with pride or relief this author could not begin to guess.

“Come,” the old man said. “There is another task.”

Arturus, for his part, stared at his reflection in the still shiny blade.

The lake was calm. The pyre had burned itself out by this point and could not be seen. Arturus, shaken, hefted the sword as he slowed behind Moordin at the edge of the water.

“I do not understand any of this,” Arturus said.

“Of course you don’t,” Moordin said. He stooped and dipped his finger into the wet sand. “None like you do until it is well behind them. Until their tasks are completed and the world rests again.”

“What tasks?” Arturus looked up at the night sky. It was clear. Stars scattered across the sky as a cool breeze swept across the lake. Leaves rustled, and the burden did not feel so heavy as it did earlier.

Moordin said nothing for a few moments. Then, having finished writing whatever he was writing, he stood and looked at Arturus. “That is not my knowledge. It can only be yours.”

Arturus was about to tell the old man he was as cryptic as the gods could be when the breeze turned sharply cold and became a wind. Something stirred in the water, far out at first but unmistakably heading for shore.

Moordin stepped behind Arturus. “Raise your sword!” he yelled above the wind.

Confused and a little afraid, Arturus watched the thing speeding towards them, water rushing up and over whatever it was, spreading out behind it in a white froth. Just as it reached the sword, Moordin yelled again and Arturus thrust his sword up in front of them –

The Thing rushed up above them, not immediately visible in the darkness. The runes on the ground glowed, and then a BRIGHT and TERRIBLE light erupted from it –

It was a woman. Beautiful, slender and clothed in a tightly controlled cascade of water. She stared down at the sword as if prepared to destroy it, then looked down at Arturus, and then at Moordin. When she spoke, her voice rumbled deep, yet was smooth as silk. “Who summons the mistress of wave and deep?”

Moordin stepped out from behind Arturus and bowed low. Arturus thought perhaps it would be best if he did the same. “I do,” Moordin said.

She leaned down close to Moordin and smiled. “Mauradin,” she said. ”Is it the prepared hour? Your appearance harkens the dark night.”

Moordin looked to Arturus. “And the wielder of the blade signals the hope of dawn.”

The Lady looked to the blade and then to Arturus. “Him? Long have I watched his journeys from this place. A lone guardian for these lands would yield the ancient magic of the blade? Interesting indeed.”

Moordin nodded. “He cannot go forth without your blessing.”

She smiled. She laughed. It was light and otherworldly and echoed around Arturus. “It is not my blessing, but that I guard it for the one whom it rightfully belongs. And surely, a man who holds Astarael, the sword of kings, binder of the ancient dead one, is rightful heir to that blessing. Yes, I give it freely. Arturus Priestus, son of Maximus Corellis, give me the sword.”

Stunned, indeed somewhat paralyzed by what was happening, Arturus lifted the blade to her. She took it, and looked it over. The water that roiled over her touched his skin briefly and it was unlike any magical feeling he had ever experienced before. He got the sense that she could easily destroy half the realm if she so wished.

She held the blade high and muttered something that sounded vaguely Elvish, but he couldn’t be sure. He knew a little of it, but it seemed a strange dialect to his ears.

The sword, Astarael, glowed. It was a blue and white light that ran the length of it from pommel to point. She looked him in the eyes and it shook him. “Kneel,” she said.

He did.

The blade rested on his right shoulder and she pronounced a blessing in the same foreign tongue. Then it lifted and came to his left shoulder and she did the same, though it was in a completely strange speech to him.

It was when she said his name that he realized his eyes were clenched shut. His tears were hot behind the lids, unnaturally so. “Yes?” he asked.

“Take Astarael. Be who you were born to be, which is not a title or a station. Your calling is much higher. Go in peace and strength. All our hopes rest on you and on the companions you will soon meet.”

Arturus looked up, but she was gone. The sword stood in the ground in front of him.

Moordin stooped down with a smile and said, simply, “Sleep now.”

And Arturus did.

Dido Appears

NAME:Dido
AGE: somewhere in the mid to late 20's
RACE: Halfling (Changeling)
CLASS: Rogue
WHEREABOUTS: Outside a fairy mound

-

Warm light spread across Dido's face. She blinked, unsure of her whereabouts.

She stretched her arms and spread her fingers, resting them on the tops of the grass blades that covered the entire hill. Slowly, she sat up and looked around.

Dido did not recognize the hilly meadow, or the forest stretching out around it.

She tried to think of how she might have gotten there. She wracked her brain for clues, but none were to be had.

"I guess I'm lost," she said aloud.

She stood up and walked a few paces away from the mound she had been laying on.

Dido surveyed the scenery and decided that the forest might yield some refreshment. She licked her lips in anticipation of ripe berries. She turned to look at the mound, something tugging at the back of her mind, like someone trying to pull a door closed.

"I wonder..."

Dido pursed her lips.

She circled the mound, prodding it with her foot.

"Nah...that's impossible."

She started toward the forest. The door in the back of her mind shut softly, so softly that she was not even aware of it.

A small, delicate creature appeared behind the mound and stared after Dido. A tiny, tinkly voice called after her: "Dido..."

Dido spun around and heard a quiet giggle. She stayed still for a few moments but the voice and the being it belonged to had disappeared.

"Well, I know my name now. Dido." She tried it and found that she liked it.

Dido waited a little longer but quickly lost interest. She was soon hurrying toward the forest, intent on finding some grub, the encounter lost in her memory.

Arturus Priestus

NAME: Arturus Priestus
AGE: 30
RACE: Human
CURRENT OCCUPATION: Palladin/Last Knight of Callon

Arturus Priestus currently serves as the last Knight serving the Steward of Callon, a mountain kingdom in the Northern Lands.

Meet... THE WORLD BORN DEAD

This is Acerak, the leader of the World Born Dead, the Cult of Liches responsible for the summoning or Orannis.

Dmetri Botten

More to come on Dmetri. :-)

Introducing Magnolia Rose Aisling

[I was wondering if, for organization's sake, we could tag all our posts with our particular character's name. This wouldn't necessarily work for the DMs all the time, but for the rest of us it might. Whaddya think? Also, I'm color coordinating my posts...and since I'm a druid, I pick green].

“Maggie and Dmetri, sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n—” rang a little boy’s voice from a bush as he futilely chucked acorns, trying to reach the top of a sycamore.

“Wait, Braden, she’s a druid. It’s probably the tree she’s kissing,” and impressed with his own brilliant witticism the older boy laughed, and fell out of the bush, to see his sister rising from her tree house, her eyes smoldering as her small frame quivered with anger.

“Bevin Aisling and Braden Aisling III, you call me Maggie one more time and I’ll—”

“Oh, leave them alone, they just do it to get a rise out of you,” whispered Dmetri, as he hammered another piece of wood to a trebuchet. Magnolia unwillingly shut her mouth and continued to stare at her brother.

“You’ll what? Leaf me to death? I’m so scared!” Bevin, although eleven years old, had largely been kept out of Magnolia’s burgeoning calling as a druid, and had no idea what sort of damage she could do if her mother had not prohibited her from using her “talent” on her brothers. “What’s your little boyfriend building up there anyway? I thought it was against your code to cut down the innocent trees!” yelled Bevin mockingly.

“If you insist on spreading the fallacious notion that I would harm any of these beautiful creatures, I must assert with full force that the pieces being used to construct this tr—” at this Dmetri kicked her to prevent the secret from spilling out—“ahem…this transportation device are ones we found lying around the woods.”

“Transportation device?” yelled Braden up to the tree incredulously. He was disappointed that his brilliant sister, whom he loved but teased along with Bevin, was not constructing something more fascinating. His curly blond locks were full of sticks and leaves, and his small round nose was running. Magnolia wanted to go down and mother her young brother, but knew Bevin would not allow it. It was teasing time.

“Yes. A wagon. For transporting sick animals,” and Magnolia sat down, satisfied that her lie was consistent with her character and that her brothers wouldn’t suspect a thing.

“Good thing I kicked you. How could you be so absentminded? They’re the reason we’re building this thing. To prevent ambushes.” He winked at his friend. Magnolia smiled knowingly, and leaned against a branch as she thought about the might of their vengeance.

Dmetri and Magnolia were neighbors, were both thirteen, and were highly intelligent for their few short years. But somehow, though similar in upbringing and intellect, Dmetri seemed to retain a great deal more of common sense and reserve than his “Gnoli.” He was the only one allowed to nickname her, and the only one to come up with the clever idea of making the “g” in Magnolia silent. Gnoli highly respected her friend, but neither one of them were romantically interested in the other. Gnoli reacted furiously to the taunts, but Dmetri became strategic.

“Over the course of the week we’ll gather rotten fruit from the woods and our homes, and build a trebuchet to launch them onto your brothers the next time they tease us,” devised Dmetri one night after a particularly embarrassing run-in with Bevin. Their tree-fort Yesunin had been decked with candles and flower petals to create a romantic atmosphere, with a note in Bevin’s childlike scrawl, “A nest for the lovebirds.” The children were furious that their special place had been intruded, and while Magnolia fumed and kicked Dmetri funneled his anger into plotting revenge. Unfortunately, although intelligent, they were still children and still considered lobbing old fruit at a foe the height of abasement.

Magnolia took great delight in the humiliation Bevin would endure, and was consigned to the notion that 6 year old Braden would have to face the consequences of his unholy allegiance with the 11 year old monstrosity. She also looked forward to the day when they could get rid of the filthy sack of rotten food in the corner of their tree fort. The site was supposed to be a place for Dmetri and Magnolia to study and take care of animals, but in the past week had only been used to construct the trebuchet and otherwise avoided.

“It is almost done?”

“Almost…there!” and with one last hammering the device of Bevin’s desecration was complete.

“When shall we lob it?” asked Magnolia excitedly?

“At the height of their hubris. Let them think they’ve wounded or upset you deeply and that you’ve given up, and then we’ll let them have it!” and Dmetri struggled to keep his voice down.

The children were preparing the soggy produce when they heard the flap of wings onlya a few inches behind them. Magnolia froze, and Dmetri slowly turned to see Mrs. Seraphina Aisling, a halfling dragon disciple, her chestnut hair flowing about her blue scaly skin. The Aislings were descendants of the Hilltopple family, famed for their magic abilities and notorious for their roguish ones.
“Hello Mrs. Aisling,” quavered Dmetri.

“Hello Dmetri,” she said formally, and tapped her daughter, still frozen, on the shoulder. Magnolia dropped the produce with a splat and slowly turned her large blue eyes to face her mother’s.

“May I inquire?”

“Vengeance,” Gnoli said, closing her eyes to not see her mother’s disappointment.

“Against Bevin?”

“For intruding on this sacred druidic ground and making a mockery of our place of prayer, meditation, study, and animal care.”

“And so you’re going to stink up the forest by lobbing rotten apples at your brother?” the mother asked, peering warily into the sack beside the children.

“Desecration must not go unpunished. Fragrance must be sacrificed for the greater good.”

“What did Bevin do, and why didn’t you tell me?”

“He turned this sacred ground into a den of fornication.” At this the laugh that Mrs. Aisling had been repressing unfortunately escaped her lips. It was hard for Seraphina not to laugh at her daughter’s verbose and lofty language. Magnolia knew that sex wasn’t necessarily evil, but enjoyed employing the word because it gave Bevin’s deed a more insidious air. But her mother’s stifled guffaw would prevent her from ever using it again.

“You let mother handle these things, all right? When you two handle them it escalates. You lob fruit, they’ll come up with something equally disgusting, and your place of prayer and care may only receive more desecration.”

“Will you punish him thoroughly?”

“Yes, but only if your promise to leave all punishment to my discretion.”

Gnoli turned to her friend. Dmetri, although somewhat disappointed, grinned wryly. “At least we have an awesome trebuchet.”

“That is true,” and Seraphina knelt by it and examined the children’s handiwork. “It’s a shame you won’t get to use it.”

“Hey! Maggot Face!” came the familiar taunt hundreds of feet below. “It’s awfully quiet up there! You making out with Dmetri or the tree!?”

Seraphina stood up, reached into the sack, and placed one indeterminable piece of produce in the instrument.

“Dmetri. Fire. At Bevin only. Just this once,” she instructed. Eager to use the machine, Dmetri hurried behind it, pulled the lever and a few seconds later the children heard a familiar splat and the giggles of a four year old.

“Bevin’s got poo face! Poo face!” and Braden ran around giggling excitedly, knowing that his sister wouldn’t disappoint him.

Bevin wiped the brown mush from his head and began to yell, “I’m coming up—“ when the visage of his mother hovered over the edge.

“I’m coming up to apologize…for my rudeness,” he said sheepishly.

“Is that so? You were planning on that as you insulted your sister in front of her friend? Seems inconsistent.”

“I’m a temperamental kinda guy…”

“Well that is true. No, you’ve been up here more that you ought to. We’ll come down to you.” And Seraphina grabbed the children under each arm and alighted down to the ground softly.
Magnolia stood by her mother’s side and continued to glare at her younger brother.

“So, Bevin, what was this about an apology?”

“Oh right,” and he looked at his sister with a mix of anger and defeat. “’m Sorry.”

“Louder and enunciated,” said Seraphina.

“I’m sorry for messing with your fort and for call you names.”
Seraphina turned to her daughter. “What do you say Magnolia?”

“Apology accepted,” but she continued to fume behind her mother’s wing.

Seraphina took a handkerchief out of her pocket and began to wipe Bevin’s face. “You’re lucky I was there. This mess would be a lot worse.”

“You did this!?” and Bevin recoiled from his mother.

“Yes, I gave them permission to do it. You can’t constantly hurt people and expect them to just take it, Bevin. Your sister and Dmetri deserve your respect. A little playful teasing is one thing; but calling her names and intruding in her space isn’t fair.”

Bevin hung his head. Infuriating his sister was one thing, but he did respect his mother and didn’t want to disappoint her. “I’ll try harder,” he said, and allowed his mother to clean his face and plant a kiss on his rosy cheek.

Braden looked around at the spectacle and hugged Magnolia’s knees. “I’s sorry. I think it good if you kiss Dmetri. I like him. I wasn’t trying to hurt Maggie.” At this moment, Braden became the second person who was allowed to nickname her.

“It’s okay Braden. I understand how it is to get carried away,” she said sorrowfully, as she had considered lobbing this precious boy with rotten fruit as well as her incorrigible brother.

“And Bevin, if you’ll call a cease fire, Dmetri and I won’t use the trebuchet against you. Promise.”

Bevin smiled at his sister and went to hug her but she stepped back.

“What is it? I thought we were friends now?”

“You still smell like unidentifiable produce.”

“Well you smell like—“

“Bevin,” came the warning call from their mother.

“Like roses. Because you spend a lot of time with flowers. Because you’re a druid. And that’s cool. Power over trees seems pretty cool."

Torchlights

The torches lining the edges of the village flickered.

It felt like the movements of Kiera Nohlan’s stomach. Like lunch was squirming its way back up.

It was a sensation she had not felt in quite some time. Not since she had first joined the sisterhood of clerics dedicated to Pelor. In the decades since, she had fought many undead, seen the holy light of Pelor rend waves of enemies asunder, and won many battles in his name. She had grown used to the feeling of a coming storm, but tonight there was something different. Something off, just beneath the surface of her soul.

Perhaps it was that she was the lone empowered player in this battle. The rest were old farmers or teenage boys with pitchforks and a few shreds of hope. The mountainside village had heard and seen villages further down become engulfed in the advancing army of undead.

It was a story that had been filtering through the ranks of Pelor’s church for some months now. Massive armies of undead rising from nowhere, some of the bodies barely working as ancient bones ground together with no muscle left. Villages had fought generations of ancestors and enemies from thousands of years past as great and ancient cemeteries emptied themselves out.

It was sickening.

Kiera had been sent here to rally a last stand. Alone. Normally this would not be the case, but the church had engaged itself in so many of these battles of late that it had found itself stretched thinner than in its recorded history.

It had realized too late that this was a war, fought from afar by some enemy far more powerful than it had considered.

The nausea pinged her, causing her to pause. The sun had dipped below the horizon and a deep darkness had fallen, like a shroud, across the world. Only the torches, flickering and uneven and untrustworthy in their shadow-casting remained to light the way.

She had been walking the line of “soldiers” trying to offer what encouragement she could. She had cast what buffing spells she could, but each trip to the magical fabric felt more difficult to complete, as if she were reaching farther and farther into a pool of thickening water each time. Finally, she felt so tired from it that she knew she had to conserve her strength.

But, she thought with a grim smile, the undead army wouldn’t know what hit it. In case of sympathizers or spies she hadn’t mentioned it, but a domain rod was concealed in her pack. When the first bones ground across the torchline, she would unleash it. No men would die tonight with any blessing.

“Ma’am,” came the young, unsteady voice of a boy named Torrin. She looked back, a brow raised. “I thought I saw a shadow, ma’am. Flit ‘cross the light line.”

Kiera nodded. She made her way to the center of the line and waited, her right hand slipping to her pack, which was slung low for easy access. As she slipped it in, the bright glow of the rod flashed out for just a second.

And that’s when she saw it. A shadow just behind the cast line of the torchlight, red eyes eyeing her.

The creature charged. It was not an ancient, grinding thing but rather a fairly new corpse. Or was it a corpse?

No, she realized. No, it was human. And it stank of dark magics. A necromancer. He rushed the line and his soldiers swept behind him. Kiera swung the rod up and out, raised it high and uttered a prayer to activate it –

It shone bright, nearly blinding, forcing the necromancer to slow and shield his eyes. Kiera smiled. Thank Pelor, she thought.

And then the rod’s light died.

Completely.

She looked up, off guard, and saw that it was merely a scepter cased in glass. Whatever divine power had resided within it, channeled from some other place was… gone.

Gone.

Dark.

Like the sun dipped below the horizon.

The sun on her breastplate.

Pelor’s power had faded.

She turned back to the attack a moment too late as a long dagger struck true in the seams of her armor. A one in a million critical shot from the necromancer, who was now nose to nose with her.

Something churned in her throat. It was not her lunch.

She couched, blood spluttering up from her insides. From a punctured lung and heart.

She slumped over, barely registering the sting as the dagger dragged away from her flesh.

The light had gone out.

The sun had dipped below the horizon.

She realized, with an odd twinge, that it had been harder to cast spells because Pelor was slipping away. The feeling beneath her soul was… absence.

No light was trustworthy now. All the world was bathed, at best, in wavering and untrustworthy torches.

And they would be snuffed out.