Elves in the Temple - a Co8 FanFic and partial walk thru

damn straight it is.

 

The gnolls asked me to pay them money when I met them. I told them to sod off and ended up killing them. >.> No caravan for meeee.

 

OK, I found the caravan, should a dialogue trigger
or something? Oh and another thing, my Ranger
tracked there something like a treasure map2
and a dying woman, although I can't find anything
there.

 

The dying woman should tell you about the Gnoll attack. You can't save her. If Meleny is there, she has a short dialog. There's nothing else to do there.

 

The problem is that the dialogue does not
trigger. I have the latest Co8 mod with the
newest Cumulative fixes. Heh.

 

Part the Seventeenth: Consequences

From the Journals of Jack B. Swift, Professional Adventurer, published 585, Greyhawk Press

It was drizzling. Grey sky, cool air. On another day I’d have enjoyed it. It was a nice change from the swamps that fill the central Flanaess.

We had to find Tillahi. She was somewhere in the Temple. To get into the Temple without raising alarms, we needed Lareth. We’d been in Hommlet when he got away from us. The only thing that I could think of was to hunt around Hommlet and the Moathouse and hope we could pick up his trail.

We walked Hommlet’s wide, well maintained, and nearly empty main road, heading for the smithy. Mel at least was looking happy, almost swaggering, one hand on Fox’s bicep and the other gesturing as she detailed the politics of village life. Considering Hommlet’s odd history, they probably were pretty complicated. Bar, Perry and Dio were engaged in a quiet but intense debate. I considered getting closer and trying to listen in a bit, but I knew I’d hear about it all eventually. Besides, Dio would’ve spotted me if I’d tried, and that could have been a problem. I was glad to see Dio so much a part of the conversation again. Kate was sticking close to me, which I minded not at all.

Brother Smyth, a stocky and normally cheerful man, was working at his anvil when we arrived. He was called “Brother” because he was ordained in the Old Faith and “Smyth” because he was a smith. Sometimes with those back country names, you get exactly what it says on the package.

Smyth treated us to a blank faced stare.

“Interesting choice of traveling companions you have” he said.

“Pardon?” I asked.

“I hear tell you’ve been traveling with one of the bandits. Some say the head bandit.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about” I lied.

He continued to stare, saying nothing.

“We have goods to sell” I told him.

Kate took out the miniature chest and spoke the code word. The full sized chest appeared, and we began unloading. Amazing how a mid sized pile of only slightly dented and blood stained armor and weapons can warm up relations with a merchant.

We didn’t offer Lareth’s gear. I had plans for it

We began the haggling.

“I’ll give you 100 gold for the lot” he said. “Some good scrap metal here.”

“No need to insult us” I said, taking Kate’s raven from her and letting it get it’s footing on my shoulder. The bird flapped its black wings once or twice for balance, all the time glaring at Smyth, head at an angle. “There are two suits of chain here worth a hundred gold or more by themselves. Not to mention good sharp swords and axes. Make a real offer.”

Smyth crossed his very large arms and scowled. “That may be true. Still, we’re farmers and merchants here. Ask young Meleny, she’ll tell you that. Not much call for weapons. Maybe I can go to 200 gold.”

Fox passed me his raven, and now both birds balanced on my shoulders, heads darting side to side, little black eyes staring right at Smyth. “You stock more weapons than most quartermasters,” I said, “and so do the traders up the lane. The leather worker stocks hide armor, and the cabinet maker sells bows and shields. Hells, your tailor takes a couple of thick shirts, stuffs some goose feathers between and tries to sell it as cloth armor. Someone has to be buying the stuff. Tell you what, I’ll give you all of this for 1400 gold, and it’s cheap at the price.”

Smyth smiled slightly, but his eyes were on the ravens. “The armor’s bent and broken. It’ll take days of work before anyone would buy it. The weapons aren’t any better. What do you say to 500 gold?”

One of the ravens let out a demented caw, jumped up in a small explosion of black feathers, swooped overhead, and performed a natural bodily function on Smyth’s anvil.

“Noun!” He waved the bird away. “Control that thing!”

The raven settled back on my shoulder.

Smyth agreed to a very good price just to get rid of us. He had the coin for it, too. There’s nothing quite like the looting economy.

I looked through his stock after we were done. The quality was fair and he did have an impressive selection of weapons for a three farm village, but there was nothing that would be an improvement on what we already had.

“Is this your best?” The cabinet maker had held back his best stuff until we secured his wood supply. I thought Smyth might have a similar trade in mind. Sometimes these towns work that way.

He gave me another blank look. “I can get my hands on Dwarfish steel,” he said, “but it’ll take time, and I have a full work load.”

He paused.

“If you want to see my best work,” said Brother Smyth, “Bring me the head of a giant.”

“A giant?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“And where would we find a giant?”

“Not my problem” said Brother Smyth, and went back to hammering.

We spent the rest of the afternoon shopping, and having similar conversations.

“They say you’re working with the bandits” a tradesman would blurt out.

“Bandit” a guard would mutter under the breath as we passed.

They’d mutter softly and quickly, as most people are reluctant to be directly belligerent towards a well armed group of suspected criminals.

We’d cleaned out a bandits nest and then let the head man escape. “Bandit” was the least of what the townsfolk were whispering.

A visit to the church gave us a chance to sell off most of the potions we’d picked up in the Moathouse, and a visit to the Jeweler’s got rid of the gems and jewelry. The cabinet maker gave us a good price on a load of crossbows, and the leatherworker took a load of armor that Smyth hadn’t been willing to bargain on. The tailor paid us a small fortune for an Elven Cloak we’d found on an ogre. A visit to Burne’s Tower got Kate a load of new scrolls, in part paid for in trade. Burne and Fox had a short riddle contest, which earned us a few scrolls more.

We were rolling in cash. Not literally; we had it in sacks. Still, the trip through the Moathouse had been more than profitable.

Large, plain and clean, smelling of smoke and old beer, that night the Inn of the Welcome Wench almost felt like home. The usual crowd was in the main room.

Elmo, a heavy drinking militiaman built like a small castle.

Spugnoir, a scholarly type paying his way as a wandering scribe.

Furnok, a gambler and confidence man also passing through.

One of the brewer’s apprentices, a young man with the charm and good looks of the aspiring back alley thug.

Valden, the wheel & wainwright. His wife was part of Hommlet’s informal witch’s coven. She’d been missing for weeks.

The innkeeper and his wife.

Barbara was looking around, a dark expression on her face. I saw her staring at the spots by the fire where Turuko and Kobort used to hold court, and the spot by the door where Zert once lurked. All had been part of the group that ambushed us outside of the Moathouse.

It’s a sad thing to have killed a drinking buddy.

We headed up to our rooms.

“Real beds!” Kate was smiling. She looked over at me and arched her back, her smile widening. Firelight shone on her pale skin. Her violet eyes held my gaze for a few very long seconds. My eyes wandered down. I felt a deep appreciation for the artistry that had gone into the design of her corset.

I smiled back, but the whole group of us had to talk.

“We’re flush with cash” I said, trying for eye contact with the whole team, “and we’re well provisioned. Make whatever preparations you think we need, and then get some rest.”

“How shall we start the search for Lareth?” asked Perry.

“No one trusts us.” Meleny controlled her voice, but grief was there. “People I’ve known all my life don’t trust me. No one will talk to us.”

Barbara’s mouth was a thin line. “Those traders will know. Rannos and Gremag. We just need to ask them.”

“There’s a problem with that” said Fox. Barbara glared at him for a second, then let out a breath and calmed. Fox looked nervous but continued. “We knew Rannos and Gremag were working for the Temple. We blackmailed them over it, twice.” He looked at me. “Why doesn’t matter.” He paused, and I nodded.

“Someone,” said Fox, “recognized Lareth, and spread the rumor that we were working with him. He was the hidden master of that Moathouse gang, and yet someone recognized him. It had to be Rannos, Gremag, or someone who worked for them. The other townsfolk couldn’t have known him on sight.”

I felt queasy, but I agreed. I waited for Fox to finish.

“If we march in there and smack them around, even if we can get them to talk, they’re part of this community. Except for Meleny, we’re not.” He and she looked at each other, and she nodded. “They’ll have the guards on us. Fighting our way out will mean killing good men.”

“All true,” I said, “but I have a plan.”

Kate and Fox spent much of the night scribing stacks of scrolls.

The next morning we set out early. I’d passed around Lareth’s gear. Perry wore his breastplate, a black steel shell harder than it had any right to be. Perry was also wearing a belt I hadn’t seen before, a thick leather girdle marked with dwarfish runes. Dio held Lareth’s club, a distinctive thing, light yellow wood harder than iron. Barbara sported Lareth’s ring.

We headed for Rannos and Gremag’s shop. The pair scowled at us as we entered. Rannos was a big man, tall and remarkably fat. Gremag was whip lean, his face rat-like. Their guard, a shabby looking man in ill fitting armor, shifted to attention in the corner.

“You again” said Rannos. “What do you want?”

I could see Gremag’s eyes taking in Lareth’s gear.

“Just here to trade” I said. “How much can I get for these?”

I pulled Lareth’s plate boots out of my pack.

He paid a few coppers for them. We left.

“Now what?” asked Kate.

“Now,” I said, “we go to Emridy Meadows.”

The team looked at me.

“We need the good will of the most powerful people in Hommlet. One of them is the High Priest, Terjon. He wanted us to check the Meadows before we went to the Moathouse. We go there now for him, and give Rannos and Gremag some time to stew.”

Kate nodded, and then Fox. Perry nodded as well. We set off.

I figured it would take at least a day or two before Rannos and Gremag would get nervous enough to act. I was wrong.

We were passing through yet another swamp when a man dressed all in black appeared from nowhere and drove a sword through Reynard’s chest.

End Part the Seventeenth

 

Thanks, Ted.

Fixed many typos.

 

Ouch!.........Bravo, I'm on the edge of my seat

 

Part the Eighteenth: Assassins

Barbara slogged through yet another swamp, water pouring into her boots. “Bandit” the villagers had called her. She inhaled, exhaled, tried to relax the muscles in her back and neck.

Dio led the way, finding passage through the bogs, flanked always by her dog. Barbara and Perry followed. Jack took the center, with Kate, Reynard, and Meleny close behind. Barbara glanced back over her shoulder and smiled slightly at the sight of Mel’s chicken, hopping and flapping along in the rear.

There was a sudden splashing of bog water.

Seemingly from nowhere, a man dressed all in black appeared beside Kate. Kate, with speed and grace rare even in an Elf, threw herself backwards and away from the intruder, simultaneously loosing a jet of flame from her hand.

The man in black smoothly swayed out of the way the jet of fire, revealing a gleaming rapier in his right hand and a slightly curved short blade in his left. Spinning forwards, he plunged the rapier through Reynard’s chest and pulled it clear. Blood sprayed from the wound as Reynard fell.

The brief silence was broken by Meleny’s scream.

“For the murder of Lareth the Beautiful,” said the man in black.

Jack Swift tumbled like an acrobat behind the deadly swordsman and launched a spear strike. The black garbed assassin twisted slightly, turning the blow. Jack’s spear point scraped against mail concealed beneath the assassin’s cloak.

Barbara opened her mind to the song of Kord. Her own rage and the power of her god seemed to pull her forward, arcing her sword in a blow that could have torn a man in half. Persephone struck as well, her axe tearing through the air.

The man in black twisted and spun, using short blade and rapier to angle the incoming blows away with casual skill.

Dionysia moved in as well, closing the box around the foe, slashing with her scimitar. The man in black evaded the blow with a sudden twist of the hips. With a rage fueled squawk, Meleny’s battle chicken took the opportunity move in and land a sudden, bloody peck on the assassin’s thigh.

Meleny rushed through the water and pulled Reynard’s body up into her arms. Her desperate, whispered prayers passed out over the waters. They were without visible effect.

Kate focused now, and let forth a second jet of flame from her finger tips. This time, boxed in on all sides, the assassin was unable to leap away. The fire took him across the right shoulder and chest. Cloth burned and peeled away, and exposed chain mail heated red, branding the flesh beneath. Snarling, the swordsman struck, trying to open the trap. His rapier skewered Barbara’s side, and his short blade opened a deep, wide cut across her stomach.

Barbara staggered, and nearly fell. Anger alone held her upright. Anger contracted muscles, pulled tendons like puppet’s strings, and drove the upwards sweep of her sword so fast it seemed to move almost slowly. The man in black tried to throw himself backwards, but the burning blade slashed into him, pulling his mail shirt across his skin, leaving a deep and bloody gash from left hip to right shoulder.

Bloody and reeling now, still the assassin managed to keep his feet, a dancer’s side step taking him out of the way of Dio’s swiftly chopping axe and Jack’s thrusting spear. The step took him directly into a spinning blow from Dio’s scimitar.

The scimitar smashed deep into the assassin’s side, shattering ribs and driving un-breached chain mail into flesh.

The man in black fell back into the water. Jack placed his spear point against the assassin’s chest.

“How do you know we killed Lareth?” asked Jack.

“You sold his boots” the assassin whispered, eyes on the spear tip, trying to gather his strength.

Jack pushed him under the water. The assassin thrashed briefly, and was then still. Jack continued to hold him under the water for some time.

Barbara bit back a groan as Dio prayed over her wounds. The wide cuts began to seal themselves. Meleny continued weeping, holding Reynard.

Persephone knelt in the water beside her, and pulled a scroll from her pack. Placing a hand on Reynard’s cooling flesh, she began to read. The words hung in the air, just beyond hearing. Swamp sounds stilled.

Reynard opened his eyes, and gasped for breath.

Later, after wounds had been tended and the assassin’s body stripped, Jack poured over a letter the assassin had been carrying while Kate and Perry examined the dead man’s gear.

Barbara weighed the short blade in her left hand while holding her radiant long sword in her right.

Jack looked up, and addressed the group.

“We’re going back to Hommlet.”

End Part the Eighteenth

 

Wow . . . that was a sweet read.

 

With a rage fueled squak, Meleny’s battle chicken took the opportunity to move in and land a sudden, bloody peck on the assassin’s thigh.
This Battle Chicken would make Boo proud.

ps......Boo, Minsc's minature giant space hamster

Great writing skill, I sure hope OB1 has something to do with KOTB dialogues.
Can't wait for the next installment.

 

Part the Nineteenth: Assassins II

“I don’t like it” said Rannos Davl, scowling. The big man paced the interior of the trading post, and glared at his partner, Gremag.

The thin man shrugged, and turned his own nervous, rat-like stare on Raimol. “Is that all you were told?”

Raimol nodded miserably. “That’s all, sirs. Burne’s guards are to keep a watch on you, both of you.” The ex-militia man’s armor had never fit well, but he’d never before found it quite this uncomfortable. He stood to what he hoped was attention. “You’re not to leave the village, sirs.”

“Unacceptable.” Rannos growled, continuing his pacing. The man moved quickly for all his bulk. His small eyes focused tightly on Raimol. “If we chose to leave, would you report it? Would you betray me, little man?”

Pulling back, Raimol shook his head. “No sir!” He turned to Gremag. “Never, sirs!”

Rannos, still scowling, turned his eyes back to Gremag, erasing Raimol temporarily from his world. Raimol slumped in relief.

“We still have the powder,” said Gremag, “and the Teamster’s son. We could load up some carts and be gone by morning.”

“No,” said Rannos. “No. Let me think.” The fat man moved to his desk and began shuffling papers. Gremag watched warily, and then began quietly looking through the stock. Wouldn’t hurt to know what was where, just in case.

Raimol spent close to an hour standing at parade rest, trying to make himself small. He wasn’t much of a thinker, but a thought was knocking at the door of the thatch roofed cottage of his mind. Working for the Traders had been good. They paid more than the militia or Burne, and the work was easier. Stand around looking tough (as well as he could), contract out to the occasional caravan (and report its route to the traders, and know when to wander home), and keep in touch with his old friends in the militia and Burne’s Badgers. Now, whispered the thought just outside his head, things were less good. Now might be a good time to get gone.

The thought was still trying to gain entry when the doors opened, and just over a half dozen heavily armed travelers, one dog and one chicken crowded into the trading post.

“You dare come in here!” blustered Gremag, “Out! My shop is closed to you!”

The travelers ignored him, positioning themselves around the post’s main room. One of the men and the two most heavily armed women flanked Rannos. Raimol found himself flanked by the dog and the chicken. The Elf girl and the red-cloaked human male stopped at the door, while the Dwarf positioned herself between them and Gremag.

The chicken stared up at Raimol with unblinking avian animosity. The dog began to growl. Raimol clutched his crossbow.

“We won’t buy or sell from you, Jack” said Rannos. “You have no business here.”

Jack casually drew a beautifully well balanced rapier. “You sent a killer after us, Davl.” Jack pointed the rapier towards the fat man. “He talked.”

The fat man met the eyes of his young accuser. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Jack stared back. “We told Burne about your saboteur in the labor camp, and about the courier. He’s bringing you before the council.”

Rannos let out a short, harsh chuckle. “You’re a fool.” He glanced at the others. “You’re all fools.”

Jack's knuckles whitened on the rapier’s handle, but his face remained calm.

Rannos gave an ugly, piggish grin. “Let me tell you the future, Jack Swift. We will go before the council, respected businessmen speaking to our peers. Burne will make your accusations, the accusations of suspected bandits. We will demand proof.”

Rannos leaned in towards Jack. “What evidence will Burne offer, boy? Your word? The word of a vagrant versus the word of a villager? The so called saboteur is long gone, or so I’m told. The alleged courier from the temple? Can you produce him?”

Jack’s mouth twitched. Rannos leaned in closer. “You have nothing. You are nothing. You are a joke. Now get out.”

Jack’s right arm twitched, the elbow beginning to straighten, the rapier point beginning to move forwards, when Reynard the Fox began to speak.

“Once upon a time,” he called, occult harmonics in his words, “there was a comely witch who preyed upon the men of a small village. She would approach the men one at a time, and invite them out to the woods. The next morning they’d wake, their privy members entirely gone. A passing knight, a Paladin of Cuthbert renowned for his prowess and piety, swore his aid. That very night the knight patrolled the village on foot, swearing he’d find the loathsome witch, while his squire remained behind in the stables. In the morning the Paladin returned. Grim faced, he announced to the villagers and his squire that he had failed to locate the foe. He then retired to his room at the inn. That night, the squire, a good hearted lad, waited until near midnight for the knight to rise and resume his patrol. Finally, the squire set out to find the witch on his own. Patrolling just outside the village he saw the loveliest girl he could imagine, a brown eyed buxom beauty with a smile full of promises. The next morning the squire awoke in the forest, his manhood misplaced. Too ashamed to face his master, the young squire spent the entire day searching the woods. At dusk, traveling along a stream, he heard a strange rustling in the trees. Looking up, he saw the slender legs and feet of a young woman dangling from the branches of an ancient oak. The squire drew his dagger and ran to the girl, pulling her from the tree and pressing his blade between her breasts. Just before he plunged it home, the young witch cried for mercy. ‘Young Master,’ she said, ‘slay me not, for I can restore you! See a wonder!’ With that, the witch reached into a hollow in the tree, and pulled forth a nest. The squire stood amazed, for in the nest were the privy members of a score of men or more, all still alive, wriggling and moving one upon another like so many snakes or worms. ‘See, young master’ said the witch, ‘your loss may yet be redeemed. Just point out the one you wish, and it shall be yours.” The young squire’s eyes were drawn to one member larger and livelier than all the rest, a proud organ clearly the prize of the flock. He reached for that member, only to be stopped by the witch's cry. ‘No, young master! Of all my lovelies, I can’t surrender that one. It belongs to the Paladin.’”

Rannos Davl began to chuckle, and then to guffaw. Overwhelmed by laughter, he collapsed, helpless, on the floor.

Jack thrust the rapier downwards, driving it through Davl’s shoulder. Davl shrieked, and then resumed laughing. Gremag, seeing the way the wind was blowing, drew a fistful of powder from his inner pocket and threw it in the air. In a flash he vanished.

Raimol, panic stricken, fired off his crossbow, only to face the magically sharp teeth of the dog and the battle chicken’s baleful beak. Raimol fell in a small, furious storm of fur and feathers.

A few seconds later, amidst pointed jabs and cutting swipes, Rannos Davl died laughing.

End Part the Nineteenth