Sons of Balentyne: Session 1

Erika peered out the window of her room. It was getting dark and the town of Almwick was a bleak, barren place even in the day. The war raging to the south was bad enough, every able-bodied man had marched off days before she arrived, and likely died on a goblin spear at Tarrington Fields. It was worse for the women, children, and graybeards that had remained in Almwick. Her arrival was greeted by locked doors, closed lips, and cold stares, but the signs of carnage were obvious. Three stakes still stood in the center of town, charred corpses piled around there bases. At every entrance to the town was a pike, topped by the tar-soaked head of one old man or another, placards identifying them as traitors or heretics, or both.

She stared out the window of a small house on the southern edge of town in which she had taken up residence to await her friends. She had been here a week, and still no one would speak with her, but no one challenged her when she took a bed in the empty house. The house’s prior occupants were piled outside with the rest of the bodies, the mother burned at the stake and her child trampled under hoof by the rogue witch hunters as they rode away. She watched as the tell-tale dust cloud of fast-moving horses approached Almwick. She listened as the already hushed and frightened town grew even quieter.

Erika stepped out of the house and waved as her friends approached. Sir Richard rode at the head, followed closely by Sister Carthix and “Mad” Meinhard Mott. The three of them, heavily armed, clad in battered plate, and prominently displaying Mitra’s holy symbol and the eagle of the Knights of Alerion were likely not helping the villager’s frightened condition.

“Ho, Sir Richard!” she called as they reigned up, “welcome to Almwick, or what’s left of it.”

The knight pulled up his horse just before the pikes and stared intently at the town. “You certainly picked a dour place to wait for us, Ms. Varning. We came as soon as we got your letter…”

“Yes, Makalu told me you were on your way,” Erika said as a hawk swooped down from the housetop to perch on her arm. “Did you pass the wall on your way?”

“Aye Erika,” Meinhard interjected, “and a sea of goblins as well. Which we should be riding back to put an end to. This place looks bad, but Balentyne was worse…”

“Mott, there are hundreds of knights riding from all corners of Talingarde to deal with the goblins, but there is only us to bring justice for these people.”

“Ms. Varning’s right, Meinhard,” Sir Richard replied. “This was an atrocity the likes of which I’ve seldom seen. Even after so long these implements of slaughter still bear the trace of evil. This was no righteous purge, but base murder and terrorism.”

Meinhard and Sister Carthix dismounted, the mail-clad nun looking around at the shuttered houses. “So what have you learned?”

“No one has been willing to speak with me, but luckily the people have been too scared to move about much, so I was able to find plenty of tracks. At least a half-dozen men rode in on the south road from Balentyne and left by the north. Tracks around the fire indicate that they wore heavy mail and their horses were shod for war. Unfortunately, the tracks end quite abruptly about a half-mile outside of town in either direction. They must be using some magic to mask their movements when afield.” She gestured north and west. “Lhotse, went scouting as far as Longsheaf and found similar signs of slaughter in every village up the river. That’s at least eight other towns that were similarly terrorized.”

“Following the Trasik…” Sister Carlotta looked at the river, “do they seek refuge in Farholde?”

“Yes, they do!” came a voice from behind them.

They turned to see a man stumbling into town, wearing armor apparently taken piecemeal from knights and goblins, his left hand wrapped in bloodied bandages, his belt festooned with crude weapons of all kinds, and the silver and sapphire holy symbol of Mitra about his neck.

Meinhard’s hand went to his blade, but Sir Richard positioned his horse between them. “Who are you Sir, and what do you know of the ones who did this?”

The man laughed, “I am Sir Fallon Nightly, Special Inquisitor to the King, and, to some, the bane of Aldencross. I don’t know for sure who did this, but I can hazard a guess. Balentyne was destroyed by a band of witches, the day before the goblins attacked the wall. I have it on good report that they then left by the river, headed for Farholde…”

Sister Carthix stepped around Sir Richard’s horse, “A special inquisitor? This far north?” She stepped towards the man, “You hand Sir, what happened to it?”

“Sister, wait!” Erika said. “The refugees I spoke with on my way north said that Aldencross was set ablaze by one of Mitra’s Witch-Hounds…”

“That is true,” the man replied. “I smelled the witches when I got to Balentyne and searched Aldencross for them, unsuccessfully. When I reached the town’s inn I found that everyone there had been charmed and had the witch’s stink on them. A fight broke out and I was forced to call on Mitra’s Fire to defend myself, but ended up burning the inn and several of the people there in the process. The charmed villagers chased me from the town, and I assume the witches did a good job of spreading the tale of my failure…”

Sister Carthix looked hard into the man’s eyes, “I feel as if you’re not telling us everything…”

The man shrugged, “Fine. After escaping the villagers I was captured by the goblin warlord, Sakkarot Fireaxe, and learned that he was in league with the witches I was hunting. I also learned that the witches had been tracking me by means of a cursed ring I had been tricked into putting on when investigating a jail-break at Branderscar Prison. I took my own hand and the goblins left me for dead when they marched south…”

“You met the Fireaxe?” Sir Richard looked stunned, “and did not slay him?”

“I was outnumbered, unarmed, bound, and helpless…”

“Argh, that’s no excuse!” Meinhard growled. “If I’d been there I would have torn the blooder’s throat out with my teeth!”

“Whatever Mott,” Erika sighed. “As I said, we have more pressing business. If the people who did this are the same people who destroyed Balentyne, and, as Sir Fallon says, also witches and in league with the goblins, then we have to find them, and fast…”

“North then! To Farholde!” Sir Richard looked at Sir Fallon. “Will you ride with us, Sir?”

“I don’t trust him.” Erika and Meinhard said in unison.

“Trust him or not, we’d best take him with us,” Sister Carthix said. “The fact that Sir Richard has not yet taken his head tells us that he is not an evil man, and having a sniffer might be our best bet of finding these witches in knight’s clothing…”

“He’s on foot. He’ll slow us down…”

“Shot up Mott,” Erika sighed again. “If Sir Richard and the Sister have decided to bring him along, then Sir Fallon can ride with me. Rainier can easily carry the two of us.”

Just then another hawk flew in, shrieking.

“What’s that?” Sir Fallon asked, reaching for the axe on his back.

“Lhotse says there are several creatures approaching from the north. Man-like, shambling, smelling of death and smoke.” Erika climbed into her saddle, and pulled Sir Fallon behind her. “Come, quickly, before these poor townfolk have to face any more trauma…”

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Within moments Erika and her, now four, allies were racing north out of town following the directions of her hawks. When they saw the things at a distance, she unleashed a blast of flame in their midst, to little effect. “They resist fire,” she told the others.

“Let see how they like steel!” Meinhard said, the familiar blood-red haze of a rage entering his eyes, and he and Sir Richard urged their horses into a charge. Just when they reached striking distance, Sir Richard’s Gray Lady faltered. Meinhard’s mount dropped dead instantly, sending him crashing to the ground. He stood up sputtering and looked at the things…and immediately went pale.

Sir Richard leaped from Gray Lady’s back, impaling one of the creature’s with his lance and shouting for the horse to continue on. “Bodaks!” he shouted to the others, “do not meet their gaze.” The one he impaled pulled itself forward on the lance and began pummeling him with its fists.

Erika dismounted and give Sir Fallon the reins. “Help them,” she said, aiming a lightning bolt at one of the creatures near Sir Richard. The bolt struck the creature and grounded out into the dirt, seemingly doing it no harm at all.

Sir Fallon drove her horse into the fray, pinning one of the bodak’s under Rainier’s body as the horse fell and stabbing into the creature’s foul eyes with a crude dagger of goblin make. The blade struck home, blinding the bodak, but causing Sir Fallon’s own eyes to seep blood. Sister Carthix rode in behind him, her armor glowing like the sun and blasted the bodak’s with a burst of holy energy.

The bodaks screamed and shrank back from Mitra’s holy light, their undead flesh melting away. Enraged the creatures focusing their dread gazes on Sister Carthix. She averted her eyes, holding her holy symbol firmly before her, but her friends saw her waver, her arms fell, by the time she thought to close her eyes, it was too late. The holy symbol fell from her hands and she collapsed, her eyes burning away into wifts of acrid smoke.

Sir Richard and Meinhard screamed in rage and laid about them with a fury. Meinhard cleaving the heads from two of the beasts that Sister Carthix had weakened, Sir Richard pulling out his holy symbol and destroying two with his own blast of holy positive energy. Still, even as they pressed the assault, Erkia could see them weakening. She thought back to everything she had heard about Bodak’s and suddenly remembered that the creatures lacked any defense against cold.

“Duck!” she shouted, as a cone of icy wind exploded outwards from her hands. Sir Fallon dove to the side, easily evading the blast, Meinhard gritted his teeth and shook off the cold, but Sir Richard and the bodaks took the full brunt of the icy assault. Sir Richard fell to his knees, shivering. The remaining bodaks froze in place.

Sir Fallon and Meinhard set about shattering the frozen bodaks as Erika rushed to help Sir Richard and Sister Carthix. Sir Richard was already healing himself, but the nun was dead.

“Burn her body,” Sir Fallon stated plainly. “This is clearly the work of the witches and anything their undead minions kill is sure to come back as such.”

Meinhard and Sir Richard nodded gravely. They stripped Sister Carthix’s body of any useful possessions, then stood back as Erika called up a gout of flames from her hands to destroy the remains of the nun and their undead assailants.

The cleanup done, Erika and Sir Fallon took Sister Carthix’s horse, Mitra’s Gift, and Meinhard climbed up behind Sir Richard.

“If these witches can summon such creatures to their aid, then we must hurry…” Sir Richard said.

And hurry they did.

A Week in the Life of a Witch Hunter: Solo Session 3

As he turned away from the burning ruins of the town of Aldencross, Sir Fallon half-collapsed with exhaustion. The mob chasing him had dispersed, but he had been running for hours, and now, after the brief pause, his wounds caught up with him. He unshipped his great axe and used it to help prop himself as he descended the far side of the hill.

When Sir Fallon reached the bottom of the hill he fished in his pockets for his last healing potion and quaffed it greedily. The potion worked its magic, taking the sting out of his burns and softening the pain from his many bruises, but it was not enough. He was tired, and it felt as if he had a cracked rib. With no other options, he began searching for a place to rest, finally settling on a large hollow log. It was a tight squeeze, but just large enough to hold him, and the best shelter the dark woods could provide.

He awoke with the dawn, cold, damp, and aching, crawled out of the fallen log, stumbled what he hoped was a safe distance away and relieved himself. He then crawled back in the log and fell back to sleep. He was next woken by the sound of his own stomach. He tore into his pack and scarfed down the handful of soggy biscuits that he had grabbed on his way out of the keep the morning before searching Aldencross, then, somewhat sated, passed out again. Three days passed there in the fallen log. At some point he apparently woke enough to catch and eat a rabbit, and to bandage his wounds, though he remembered little of it.

When Sir Fallon finally did wake, he found that the pain of his wounds had mostly subsided, to be replaced by the ache of spending days sleeping in the cramped confines of the hollow log still clad in his armor. He was still tired, and felt as if he may have had a fever during those three restless days and nights, but he at least felt as if he might be able to defend himself again. A good thing too, for he woke to the sound of harsh voices speaking not far away. He could not understand what they said, but knew enough to recognize the vile speech of goblins.

He crawled warily out of the log, staying as low to the ground as possible and keeping a hand on his axe. He wished that he had thought to borrow a sword, or at least a knife, from the keep’s armory, for his axe required considerably room to swing properly and would be of little use if the goblins caught him before he was on his feet and clear of the log. Luckily there was a large rock between himself and the speakers, and the disgusting creatures were too caught up in whatever they were talking about to look in that direction.

Free of the log, he hazarded a peek over the rock and saw not only the two speakers, which were, as he suspected, goblins, but dozens, even hundreds more of the creatures. While not well organized, the goblins were well armed and equipped for a march; clearly a war party. More importantly, Sir Fallon was starving. Whatever the foul creatures carried with them for provisions had to be better than starving to death…right?

Sir Fallon slid his axe back into the straps on his back and picked up a sharp-looking stone, which, while not a proper weapon, would be better in close-quarters. He waited. One of the goblins turned towards the rock and lifted its kilt to relieve itself and gasped, seeing Sir Fallon there. The rock took it between the eyes, stunning it. In a flash, Sir Fallon was over the rock, axe in hand, and the urinating goblin’s companion lost its head. Sir Fallon stifled a laugh as the splash of goblin blood began healing his remaining aches and pains. He punched the urinater, which was apparently female, in the face for good measure, then quickly drug the two bodies back behind the rock, pausing only very briefly to make sure the others in the band had not noticed.

He beheaded the second goblin and found it very hard to draw his gaze away from the lifeless eyes of the creature’s head. Finally tearing his eyes away, he stripped them of their gear, claiming a pair of short, crude swords, a number of strange bag-like projectiles, a skin of what he hoped was water, and a couple hands-full of smelly, watery cheese. At least, he hoped it was cheese as he crammed the milky-white globs into his mouth. While he nearly gagged from the smell and it tasted more like spoiled milk than properly cultivated cheese, the stuff was at least edible.

Sir Fallon re-shipped his axe and removed all his armor save for his breastplate, stashing his boots, greaves, cuisse, gauntlets, vambraces, and gorget inside the log. He then shoved the remaining goblin rations into his pack, took up the two swords, and lit out away from the goblin war party, hoping to put some distance between himself and them before any of them thought to look for the two missing ones.

Sir Fallon had not gone far before he spotted another band of goblins. He routed around them only to encounter another, and another. Within the span of a mile he spotted at least six such bands, each larger than the last. Knowing that so many sightings could not be a coincidence, he found a large pine tree and climbed, and there, on the edge of Lake Tarik, he saw it. A huge encampment of goblins, twenty-thousand strong and arrayed for war. A larger force than had ever been seen in all the history of Talingarde.

Sir Fallon half-climbed, half-fell in his haste to get down the tree. He knew that, regardless of the events of the other night, he had to warn the defenders of Tower Balentye about the goblin horde. Somehow he knew that the events in Aldencross and the massing army of goblins had to be related. It could not be a coincidence that the town and keep guarding the gates of Talingarde had been infiltrated by the forces of darkness just days ahead of this mass of savages.

Unfortunately, he had been so intent on the main force of goblins by the lake that he had not spotted the group that had amassed around the base of the tree. He came down right in the middle of them and was immediately grabbed by a pair of large, dark-skinned goblins, and the smaller, faster goblins quickly deprived him of his weapons and gear. He struggled to escape, but the grips of the two goblins holding him were like manacles of iron.

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Sir Fallon was dragged, struggling the entire way and with several beatings, towards the camp on the edge of Lake Tarik. From the ground the camp looked even larger, but somehow less impressive. The goblin army was armed, but only loosely organized. Tents were scattered in haphazard clusters, fires were not banked, weapons lay strewn in piles on the ground, just a little too far from the hands of their intended users. He saw enough disorder that he was sure that, if he could only get free, he could turn it into true chaos…possibly even escape alive…

Sir Fallon was dragged to a large tent on the shore of the lake. While larger than some of the others in the camp, and clearly some sign of status or place of meeting, it was nothing like the pavilions kept by the knights in Talingarde, but rather a makeshift kind of thing of sewn-together bear hides, staked from the outside with crude wooden pegs and ropes woven from animal fur. A banner hanging in front of the tent bore a crude drawing of an axe surrounded by flames. Then he smelled, it. The tang of witchcraft in the air was faint, but smelled very similar to that in Aldencross.

As he was shoved into the tent the smell became stronger. Within was a plain wooden table, bearing a rough diorama of the wall, the Tower Balentyne, and Aldencross. Even the damage from the recent fire was, as best he could guess, accurately represented. Standing behind the table, staring intently at it, was the largest goblin he had ever seen. A great, black beast with shaggy fur and a giant axe strapped across its back. The eyes that examined the table gleamed with the vicious cunning that Sir Fallon had learned to expect from goblins. While filthy, disgusting, and disorganized, goblins were exceptionally bright, especially where it came to spreading mayhem and
destruction. The stink of witchcraft clung to the great goblin like a sickening perfume.

After what seemed like minutes, the large goblin looked up at him and smiled. “Greetings soldier of Talingarde. You arrive on an auspicious day. Tomorrow our great army will storm the gates of Balentyne and conquer your pitiful nation.”

Sir Fallon glared at the goblin and struggled against his captors. The great goblin looked carefully at Sir Fallon, seeming especially intent on his hands, then at the two holding him and, with a wave of his hand, ordered that Sir Fallon be released. The two goblins let go of him and took a step back to stand beside the entrance to the tent.

“I see you serve Thorn’s Girls as well…” the goblin began, holding up a hand bearing a ring identical to the ring of protection Sir Fallon had taken from Branderscar.

The knight, coiled and ready to spring at the goblin, stopped and looked at the goblin incredulously. “What?” he asked.

“Your ring, Sir. It is the same as the one I wear. Perhaps it is presumptuous of me, but I suspect it means that you have met the three lovely girls who presented this one to me.” The goblin smiled. “They are probably watching us right now if you’d like to speak to them.”

Sir Fallon’s eyes grew wide and he reached for the ring on his hand, and, in terror discovered that he could not remove it. He concentrated on the ring and could feel the curse embedded in the item. It must be one of the prisoner’s rings from Branderscar, somehow magically disguised when Aidan had examined it. No wonder the witches had created that storm. They knew he was in Aldencross. He growled and tore at the ring, cursing Sir Aidan and himself for fools.

“I take it you do not wear yours willingly?” The big goblin laughed and stepped around the table. He grunted something to the other goblins, who laughed as well. “What are you doing alone north of your precious wall, soldier of Talingarde?”

“Scouting…” Sir Fallon began.

“Do not lie, Sir,” the goblin interjected. “Scouts from Balentyne always travel in packs and on horseback. I should know, I slew six of them just a few days ago.” The goblin laughed again. “Now let me repeat, why are you here?”

Sir Fallon looked at the big goblin’s ring, his maps, his weapons. He figured he could take as many as a half-dozen of the smaller goblins in a fair fight, but somehow he was certain that this one was more than a match for him. He looked around for an escape route, saw none that presented itself. “Very well,” he said, “I am Sir Fallon Nightly, Special Inquisitor to His Majesty, King Markadian the Brave, the fifth of his name, Protector of the Righteous. I was sent to Balentyne to investigate possible laxities in their soldiery. While there I caught the sent of a witch…”

“Ha! You are one of Mitra’s Hounds?” The goblin laughed at him again. “Is it really true that you can smell sorcery? And yet, you were tricked into putting on one of Thorn’s Girls’ rings?” The tent practically shook under the force of the goblin’s guffaws.

“Thorn’s Girls? You said that before…”

“You smell them, yet you do not know them?” The big goblin leaned back against the table. “They are three of the loveliest females of your species I have ever seen, and believe me, I have defiled a great many of your women. Three girls of exquisite beauty, a blonde, a brunette, and one with hair like fire. And, I may add, most persuasive.”

Sir Fallon fought down his rage.

“Tell me, Special Inquisitor, if I released you right now and promised you safe passage back to Belentyne, would your warnings be of any use?”

Sir Fallon thought for a moment, then sighed, “No.”

“Good, you are smarter than most soldiers. Even at its strongest, Balentyne houses maybe two hundred soldiers. I have a hundred times that many. Even without the girls there to throw open the gates and undermine the tower’s leadership, my hordes would overwhelm the keep within hours.”

Sir Fallon started to respond, but was cut off again. “What? You think that if you return with the knowledge I just provided that you might catch the girls?”

“Yes!” Sir Fallon replied emphatically.

“No! They see your every move, hear our every word. They’ll know where you are and where you are going.” The goblin grinned, “You will never catch them…unless…”

The goblin stood up to his full height, plucked a dagger from the table, and tossed it to Sir Fallon. The knight grabbed the blade out of the air, looked at his hand, and gulped.

“You know what to do. Tomorrow my forces will overrun Balentyne and burn it to the ground. We will slaughter your people and topple your wall. There is nothing you can do to stop it.” The big goblin waved at the map. “By the time we reach the wall, the girls will be gone. Their benefactor will be waiting to pick them up once they signal that the gates have been opened. She tells me that the girls will be taken north to deal with some other task of importance.”

Sir Fallon nodded grimly, laid his hand flat on the table, and began to cut…

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Sakkarot Fireaxe watched as the knight, axe across his back and blood still dripping from the stump that had been his hand, and smiled. “That one is formidable,” he said to his commanders standing beside him.

“Then why let him go great Sakkarot?!”

“Because he is no danger to us. Our war is no longer his concern. He has been beaten and humiliated. All he cares for now is vengeance against the witches. He will stand by and let his country burn as he hunts those girls to the ends of the earth…”

A Week in the Life of a Witch Hunter: Solo Session 2

Sir Fallon was up before dawn to meet with the guards assigned to him. They were a sorry lot, not the worst that the Talingarde armed forces had to offer, but far from the best as well. When they had mustered he took the pile of drawings that the acolytes had made and distributed them, two to a man. He then divided the 50 soldiers, 25 to search the section of Aldencross south of the watch wall, and 25 to accompany him to search the north side.

“Alright men, we have few leads and little time. Our quarry managed to infiltrate Tower Balentyne and murdered several men, so they are not to be underestimated. Always stay in your groups…do not allow yourselves to become separated. You’ve all been here a while, you know the people of Aldencross. Warn them. Question them. We need as many people looking for the perpetrators as possible. If you see anyone you do not know, detain them…And if you detect any threat, sound your signal horns. We need success, not heroes…”

He dismissed the men to their searches, joining the last group out the gate. He sniffed the cold morning air. The smell of magic was weaker outside the keep, faint, but undeniable. The trail inside the keep had run cold as he searched last night. Several guards, though none assigned to him, had the stink on them, but, outside of the rookery and mage’s quarters, their were no concentrations in the tower. That meant that the witches must be in the town…if they had not fled altogether.

The guards spread out once they were out of the keep. They went door to door, knocking, questioning, startling townsfolk from their sleep. They hung the wanted posters at every street crossing, every notice board. Sir Fallon followed, watching them, observing the people that they roused from slumber, sniffing. An hour passed. There was nothing. The town was clean.

And then the rain started.

Just as the sky was lightening a storm blew in, and fast. It had none of the preamble of a natural storm. No clouds moving in. No warning breeze. In just a few minutes the sky changed from a clear spring morning to pouring down sheets of rain. Rain that reeked of witchcraft. Where only a minute ago he had smelled nothing, now the entire city stank. Every drop of rain, every overflowing gutter, every water-streaked window bore the stink of powerful magic. Sir Fallon hung his head in despair and let the rain soak into his boots…he had lost. He wouldn’t be able to sniff out anything as long as this magical deluge lasted. He urged the guards to keep up despite the rain. While he had no chance of sniffing out the witches, they might still find someone who had seen the old serving man from the night before.

It was late evening when Sir Fallon finally called a halt to the search. The guards, sopping wet, regrouped outside the central gate separating the two halves of the town and reported. No one in town had ever seen the man on the posters. Every house had been searched, every person in town had been questioned. The few strangers in town were all merchants, and the guards who had questioned them insisted that they were the most perfectly amiable, good-natured, normal-seeming folks they had ever met.

Only after the last guard had reported did Sir Fallon notice something. Several of the guards, all of whom had reported meeting some of these “good-natured” strangers, has a certain slackness to their features, a slight staring, unfocused quality to their gaze. They had been charmed. He couldn’t smell them, but had found his witches after all…

Sir Fallon questioned the charmed guards, having them recount when and where they had met these kind strangers. After an hour of questioning, he carefully reconstructed the accounts. It seemed as if the witches had been stalking the guards as much as they had been searching for the witches. While the descriptions of the merchants varied, the times and locations of the encounters implied that it was the same three people, working their way systematically through town…and starting from the Inn on the north side of town. The first group of guards to mention them spoke of meeting a nice family of six in the Inn first thing in the morning, just as the storm had started. Sir Fallon dismissed the guards, he could certainly dispel the charms on a few, but too many had been infected. If he was going to cure them he had to find the witches and put an end to their evil.

Fighting the fatigue of having stayed up too late the night before and the sickening smell of a city drenched in magical rain, Sir Fallon ran for the inn as fast as he could. His boots slid in the thick mud and splashed through the deep puddles that made up the streets north of the wall. In many places the water had pooled so deeply that he had to cover his nose to keep from retching at the smell. While his nose had gotten him out of a lot of trouble in the past, his ability to keenly smell out witchcraft now seemed a liability.

Sir Fallon skidded to a stop just outside the door to the inn and shoved open the door to the common room to find the place bustling. While it was not surprising to find the inn busy on such a wet night, he was not ready for the site that greeted him. Wine, ale, and stronger drink were flowing freely and everyone was laughing and carrying on. When he entered their were a few cheers and everyone waved at him…there were even a few random calls of “Norm!” At first he was certain that they had just mistaken him for a local personality, but then he noticed the look. Everyone in the bar, the barkeep, the serving girls, the dancing girls, and every patron had the same slack-faced, glazed-eyed look as the guards. They were all under the witch’s spell, every last one of them.

With a cry of frustration and rage Sir Fallon lashed out at the nearest patron, calling on the holy power of Mitra to undo the witch’s curses. It only took a few blows to cleanse enough people of the enchantment for a brawl to break out. People fled, tables were over turned, chairs and fists went flying. Sir Fallon didn’t care. The entire town had been bewitched right under his nose. The witches could be long gone by now, but they had done their damage. Between the magical storm and the charmed townsfolk he would never be able to find the witches.

He lashed out around him, striking as many people as he could with no thought of defense. The more he could hit, the more he might be able to free. He took blow after blow as the drunken, mind-controlled mob descended on him. But he was strong. The more he hit, the more allies he had. The more he hit the safer the town became.

The fight stretched on for minutes, combatants steadily dropping to the floor or running for safety from the enraged witch-hunter. In the end Sir Fallon found himself faced off against a septet of drunken, charmed dwarves. He had always heard that dwarves were naturally resistant to magic…of course, he’d also never heard of an entire town being enchanted in a day. The thing that always made witches catchable was that they tended to have limited reserves of power. Just as he could not dispel an infinite number of magics, so witches were not supposed to be able to affect people on this scale. But now he had seen it. His powers were spent, and the witches’ clearly were not.

Sir Fallon stumbled with fatigue and took a hard blow to the midsection from the leading dwarf. Sure that this would be the end, he called once more in Mitra—if he could not cure everyone in town, he could at least win this fight. Holy flames engulfed his hand and he threw all his weight behind the next punch…but he wasn’t fast enough. The dwarves upended a table in front of them and the explosive power of his attack caused the old wooden furniture to burst into gleaming life, red and yellow flames licking along its surface.

Only then did Sir Fallon realize what he had done. The place was a matchbox, made entirely of wood from ceiling to floor and everything was soaked in spilled liquor. When the flames reached the kitchen there was an explosion. Flour? Oil? It didn’t matter what had caught, just that it had. The inn filled with fire. He heard breaking glass from above…probably the patrons who had sought refuge in their room escaping through the windows.

He stumbled out into the street to find that a mob had gathered. While people had fled the fight, they had not fled far, and others had come to watch. As the fire spread through the inn the crowd grew. He walked out into the arms of at least a hundred people, the magic-laden puddles of rain and the people’s enchantment-glazed eyes reflected the light of the burning building eerily. Then a cry went up from the people. “Murderer!” they yelled. “Arsonist!” cried others. Fingers pointed his way. Then fists. Then clubs, knives, and pitchforks.

He ran.

As the angry mob chased him out of town, north, towards the cold, uncharted lands north of the Watch Wall he could see the fires spreading. Gouts of flames seemed to leap from building to building as if the fire were a living thing. Where he expected the rain to suppress the fire it did not. Some buildings seemed to ignite without being anywhere near the initial conflagration. By the time he crested the last hill and Aldencross faded from sight the entire town north of the wall was ablaze…

A Week in the Life of a Witch Hunter: Solo Session 1

Dusk was settling as the rider finally caught sight of Tower Balentyne. Sir Fallon reigned in his horse, Cazador, and pulled his cloak tighter about him. Even with the spring thaw coming on, these northern climbs were too cold for his liking. It had been two weeks since he had been reassigned. His friends had been left behind to continue overseeing the repairs to Branderscar Prison, while he had been sent north to the Watch Wall to investigate rumors of impropriety among the garrison.

Since the destruction of Branderscar and his discovery of the corruption among the guards, the king had been adamant that any similar misconduct be dealt with harshly. Even now, three months later, the prisoners of Branderscar were still at large, somehow evading Mitra’s Watchful Eye. Time and again over the last months, Sir Fallon had pleaded with his majesty to allow him to go in search of the escapees. Finally, though those requests continued to be denied, he was assigned as special inquisitor for the crown, tasked with visiting the keeps along the Watch Wall to ensure that they had no troubles similar to those in Branderscar. Tower Balantyne was the first on his list. Rumors carried by guards, reassigned to other quarters, spoke of the tower’s mage conducting unusual experiments, of alcohol abuse among the captainry, and even of a feud between captains over a woman.

Sir Fallon urged Cazador on, into the town of Aldencross. It was small, dirty, everything he’d come to expect from the borderlands. The roads were cobbled, but the caked mud on the street spoke of excessive traffic from the other side of the Wall, where, he knew, no such efforts at road maintenance would have been made. The Wall itself towered black and foreboding in the early evening shade, separating the two halves of the town. Then, just as he was passing the clean white walls of the town church he smelled it. A witch! More than one actually, recent, and within the walls of Mitra’s holy church.

His hand went to his axe and he spurred Cazador forward with greater haste. A few townsfolk dodged aside as the great warhorse barreled through the streets towards Tower Balentyne. He did not stop until he reached the gates of the keep.

The keep itself was a bustle of activity. Everyone seemed to be awake. Guards patrolled the walls in threes and fours, bullseye lanterns sweeping in every direction, the gates were barred, and Sir Fallon heard a great deal of commotion from within. “Ho!” he called at the gate, “open in the name of His Majesty, King Markadian the Brave, the fifth of his name, Protector of the Righteous!”

“Who’s there?” came the returning cry from the wall.

“Sir Fallon Nightly, Special Inquisitor to His Majesty! I have business with Lord Havelyn!”

Sir Fallon heard a muffled discussion above and then the reply. “Stand clear then, we’re opening the gate. When its down come through quickly, the keep is on alert.”

As soon as Sir Fallon was inside the walls his nostrils flared. The witches had been here too. “What’s happened here?” he demanded of the nearest guard as he dismounted from Cazador.

“There was a murder sir. Magister Tacitus went mad, blasted Old Martin Rayard out a window, and burned the rookery. Then his pet golem got loose. Killed twenty men it did! They say they found most of the bodies, but a passel of servants have gone missing too…”

“Where is Lord Havelyn now?”

“Up in the rookery with Father Donnagin and Captain Eddarly, sir.”

“Very well,” he handed the man his reigns, “see that the horse gets fed and groomed. I’m going to see the commander…”

“Now sir?”

“Now!”



Sir Fallon walked into the rookery to find the bald-pated chaplain, Father Donnagin, a clearly too-attractive-for-his-own-good man in a captain’s uniform, and Lord Havelyn examining a blackened corpse on the floor.
The captain gave him a withering stare as he walked through the door, “Who’re you then? This is a private meeting, officers only.”

Sir Fallon sniffed at him contemptuously. “Shut up. You stink of witch-craft. You shouldn’t be here…”
“You must be Sir Fallon, the Special Inquisitor.” Lord Havelyn stepped past the impolite captain and shook Sir Fallon’s hand. “You’ve arrived just in time, Father Donnagin was just about to interrogate Magister Tacitus.”

“Magister Tacitus?”

“The corpse,” Father Donnagin corrected. “This body belonged to our mage. I was just about to question him regarding the recent events…”

“Then by all means, go ahead.” Sir Fallon knelt beside the body. “It smells as if powerful sorceries were used here recently…”

Father Donnagin placed a blessed wafer in the corpse’s mouth and chanted a prayer to Mitra. “Tacitus of Morimun, Magister of Balentyne, I, Father Donnagin, Chaplain of Balentyne and Archdeacon of Mitra bid you speak. Answer me, who killed you?”

The corpse’s eyes opened in their blackened sockets, and a rattling hiss escaped for its lips. “I did,” it gasped out.

Lord Havelyn shook his head. “Suicide? A monstrous crime. His soul will burn in the fires of Asmodues.” Lord Havelyn bowed his head. “I never would have suspected he was that disturbed.”

Father Donnagin addressed the deceased again, “Magister Tacitus, did you kill Martin Rayard?”

Again the corpse rasped out, “Noooo…”

“Then who killed him?” Father Donnagin looked incredulously at the the mage’s body.

“Servants…”

“This is getting us nowhere.” Sir Fallon interjected, “Father may I question him?”

“I’m afraid that’s the last question allowed by the spell…” Father Donnagin replied. Sure enough, as he spoke, the corpse’s eyes closed and the breath left it. “I will make preparations so that we might question him more after morning prayers.”

“And in the meantime the servants that killed the bird-keeper will have escaped…” Sir Fallon began stalking about the small room. “All of these birds were killed by magic. The walls are burned. Clearly the Magister used his magic to kill himself and destroy the room, but what happened to the rooker.”

“Sir Fallon,” the captain spoke up, “when my men and I were dealing with the Magister’s golem, there was an old serving-man in the Magister’s rooms, and there was another who met us on the stairs as we were rushing to investigate the rookery. A girl.” A gleam in the captain’s eye as he said this told Sir Fallon that the girl was probably an attractive one. “She told us about the Magister blowing up himself and the rookery and killing Old, Mad Martin.”

Sir Fallon sniffed the captain again. “You touched her?”

“Yes? What’s that got to do with anything?”

“She was a witch, her stink is all over you. Where are these two servants now?”

“I…I don’t know sir. They disappeared while we were battling the golem.”

“And where was that? Take me there…”

The captain snapped to attention and led Sir Fallon and the other officers downstairs to the mage’s chambers. The door to the chambers were broken and splintered. A pair of saw-horses had been set in front of the door as a temporary barricade and four guards were stationed in front. Pushing past the guards, Sir Fallon found a room in shambles. Tables and book-cases were knocked over. Huge gouges in the walls and floors, and splatters of blood on every surface showed signs of a great battle. And the smell…
Sir Fallon retched, spilling his last meal on the floor to mingle with the smells of blood and witchcraft. When he had recovered he sniffed around the room, stopping at a gap between two bookcases. “They were here. Several witches. They used some powerful magic in this room…”

“But…” the captain spoke up again. “When we were fighting, I’m sure there was another bookcase there.”

“An illusion?” Sir Fallon began walking around the room, touching everything. “Hmmm…the rest of this seems real enough. Captain…?”

“Eddarly, sir. Captain Zack Eddarly.”

“Captain Eddarly, can you describe the two that you saw?” Sir Fallon turned to the chaplain, “Father Donnagin, can you round up all the other guards who were on duty at the time of the attack?” The chaplain nodded and departed immediately.



After hours of questioning guards Sir Fallon was tired and frustrated. No one in the keep, save Captain Eddarly, had any recollection of having seen the girl the captain had described, even the guards who were with the captain at the time could not remember her. And the captain’s own descriptions were vague and useless, speaking more about her beauty and sense of desperation than any real description of her appearance or features. The more Sir Fallon heard, the more he was convinced that the keep had been infiltrated by witches. The Magister may have been in league with them, and he was certain that Captain Eddarly had been bewitched…and that he might, indeed, still be under their influence.

Sir Fallon went to Lord Havelyn’s rooms and knocked on the door. When he was admitted he bowed to the keep’s commander and explained what he had learned, or not. “I need to begin searching immediately while the trail is still fresh. We have a good description of the old man and he clearly managed to leave the keep before the lock-down. I need as many men as you can spare to begin searching the town for the man, its possible that the witches will be with him.”

Just then, Father Donnagin came in, “the acolytes have finished the drawings you requested Special Inquisitor.”

“Thank you, Father.” Sir Fallon, took the stack of papers from him, stifling a yawn. “I’ll head out at once and begin searching for the culprits.”

“But, Sir,” Father Donnagin interrupted, “its almost two of the morning. Surely you can rest a little before continuing.” Sir Fallon nodded, grudgingly.

“I’ll have fifty of our best men waiting for you buy the gate at sun-up.” Lord Havelyn said. “And I’ll send out the heralds to begin posting the drawings of the old man immediately. When the town awakes we’ll be ready…”

Sir Fallon nodded politely and turned to leave. “I’ll be claiming the Magister’s quarters. If I’m not awake in time for Matins, send an acolyte for me…”

A Week in the Life of a Witch Hunter: Session 7

Eleven people stared at each other around the campfire, eyes darting back and forth to each other, looks of confusion glazing their faces. Beyond the perimeter of light cast by the fire the rest of the king's army slept peacefully.

Sister Carlotta sighed and collapsed to sit on a fallen log pulled up by the fire, "So, does anyone know what's going on?"

"Well, last time I checked you, Tristram, Sir Robert, and Brother Justice were dead. Brother J got thrown off a tower by a spellcasting lion. Tristram had his bones picked clean by cockroaches. And you and Robert fell into a pit and got eaten by a grue." Aidan the Herald piped up.

"Yet, clearly we are not dead." Brother Justice turned to Sir Fallon. "And you're certain that we've been bewitched?"

"Yeah, all of us. The whole campsite reeks of witchcraft, and I'm also detecting several curses."

"Could it all have been an induced Nightmare?"

Sir Willem rubbed his eyes. "I'm too tired for this sh*t. Even if it was just a dream I feel like I've been fighting for days. Now it looks like we have to go back to that f*cking prison tomorrow morning and do it all over again..."

Sir Reginald shook his head, "If we dreamed it all we might find something completely different in there..."

"Enough of this! I'm not letting that witch mess with our heads any more. Hold still this won't hurt much..." Sir Fallon walked up to Sir Reginald and punched him in the face.

----

Sir Fallon woke up in a cold sweat. The combined smells of blood, woodsmoke, rotting flesh, and witchcraft immediately assaulting his sensitive nose. Eyes still closed his hand slowly reached for his axe. Once the weapon was firmly in hand he opened his eyes and looked around. He was in his tent. It was night. In the distance he heard the "All clear!" call of night watchmen changing shifts.

He crept out of his tent and looked around. They were in the keep. He noted the tents of his six friends, the slightly bulged tarp on the ground covering the bodies of Robert, Tristram, Justice, and Sister Carlotta, and Sir Reginald sitting by the fire clutching his eye. "You okay?"

Sir Reginald pulled his hand away to reveal a black eye. "What'd you hit me for?"

"Haven't you studied basic spellcraft? Dream manipulation is a form of Illusion. Mitra has blessed me with the ability to remove such effects, but only if I have a foe to strike. You just happened to be the nearest of us...and I remembered that we had been sharing a tent."

"So we dreamed all of that? Bloody hell!" Sir Reginald clutched at his swollen eye, "You killed that lion, right? How is he still messing with us all?"

"Yes, and no." Sir Fallon pointed at the sky. "See that star...it fell at dusk, but has returned. That must be the lion's star. Something brought it back."

"F*cking witches! So something raised the lion and now its going to f*ck with our dreams..." Sir Reginald walked to the other tents. "I'm going to wake the others and make sure they're okay."

Sir Reginald woke everyone and checked to make sure their four fallen friends were still corpses. The seven friends then spent the rest of the night sitting around the fire. Not much was said, but no one slept.

When the trumpeters announced the arrival of the king and his army come morning our heroes were quite tired. They lined up to meet the royal commanders in front of the gatehouse, dark circles beneath their eyes and each stoically ignoring the aches of combat and the throbbing of their remaining wounds. The king and his commanders listened patiently as the party explained the situation at the prison, the hordes of undead plaguing the place, the lion-witch, the corrupt garrison sergeant, and their troubling dreams from the night before.

King Markadian IV nodded sagely, "Our diviners have already been searching for the escaped prisoners and have come up with nothing. Every indication is that they have vanished off the face of Tel-Avi or else have some powerful magic concealing them even from the Eyes of Mitra. They will continue searching but we may have to simply wait until they show themselves. We will send proclamation to all of the hunters that they are at large."

"In the meantime, Sir Reginald, we are giving the command of this prison to you and your companions. Sufficient troops to re-garrison the keep will be left under your command. We will return to court and begin searching for a suitable replacement to serve as Warden. It is our wish that you remain here and bring this prison back up to our standards before the escapees are found. Use whatever resources you need to repair and re-fortify the walls and keep."

"My lord," Sir Fallon stepped forward, "I cannot just sit by knowing that there are such dangerous criminals at large. Please, give us leave to go and track down these miscreants."

"No, good Sir. By your own words you have admitted that you are vulnerable to the influence of these witches and we cannot have you wasting time searching the countryside for that which even Mitra cannot see. When we know something more we will see that you are all returned to active service. For now, we need this prison repaired and ready to take on new prisoners." The king's tone was final. Sir Fallon nodded and returned to line with the others.

"As soon as a new warden has been selected you will be relieved. For now, you all have your orders. You are dismissed..."

A Week in the Life of a Witch Hunter: Session 6

The party awoke in the night to the sound of the nuns, Sister Carlotta and Sister Eloquence screaming, their piteous cries filling the dark halls of the keep. Just below their screams could be heard chanting, three deep sonorous voices intoning words unfit for mortal ears.

Aidan the Herald and Sir Ainsley rushed down the corridor, stumbling over the rotting and still slightly animate corpses of the prison's guards. "What the f*ck!" Aidan exclaimed, "How did they get both girls?"

"Nevermind that," said Ainsley, "I thought Carlotta was dead. Was the whole thing some f*cked up dream?! Mitra save us, where are the others." They rushed on, kicking bodies aside. Around the next corner they plowed headlong into Tristram, the three tumbling into a heap. "Tristram?! I thought you were dead too." The Lion, as he was called, did not respond, but mearly raised his head, revealing the bloody and empty sockets of his eyes and the blazing pentagram branded into his forehead. The thing that had been Tristram lashed out at his two companions with a sword already slick with blood.

Aidan parried Tristram's blows then dove to the ground as Aisley let lose a gout of flame from his gun. Tristram's pained cries overwhelmed all other sound save the shrill screaming of the nuns as his bodied toppled in a burning heap. "WHAT...THE...F*CK!" Aidan reiterated.

----

The knights, Sir Fallon, Sir Reginald, Sir Willem, and Sir Robert strained mightily against their chains but they wouldn't budge. Just outside of the cell they could hear Aidan's cursing and the screams of the women.

"How did we get here?" Sir Willem inquired of the others. "The last thing I remember we had just cleared the keep..."

"Witchcraft!" Sir Fallon insisted, "I can feel it everywhere. They must have taken us in the night while we slept."

"But those screams, they sound like Sister Carlotta..." Sir Robert shook his head. "Didn't she die?"

"What about you? I watched you die with my own eyes..." Sir Fallon glared at the paladin. "You reek of witchcraft as well. Another illusion sent to torment us? Another undead beast in disguise put here to catch us unawares?"

"No, its me, I swear it in Mitra's name."

Outside the chanting grew louder, another voice chiming in with the three. Ainsley, hearing his friends voices from inside the cell blew the lock off and rushed in. "Aidan, looks like the whole gang's here..."

"Aside from the ones that turned into undead horrors you mean?" Aidan stepped gingerly into the cell behind him. "Where is Squire Filth?"

"Who?" Sir Reginald gave the herald a quizzical look.

"The dwarf. He came here with you last night."

"Oh...I haven't seen him. Maybe he's in another cell. How did you two get free?"

"What do you mean free?" Ainsley interjected. "We woke up in our tents to screaming. When we came out everyone else was gone. It was like the whole army just vanished. We came to find the girls and instead we find you all trapped in a cell and Tristram's corpse standing guard."

"Speaking of corpses..." Fallon nodded his head towards Sir Robert, "I saw him die and he smells like a bloody witch. Get me out of these chains so I can deal with it..." Aidan looked at Sir Fallon, nodded and began picking the lock on his chains.

"No, I swear. How can you think I was dead?" Sir Robert looked to each of his friends, "We were just together last night. We killed the witch-lion. I was injured. Sister Eloquence nursed me back to health..."

Aidan shook his head. "He's clearly lying." He stepped back and Sir Fallon stood, walked purposefully over to Sir Robert, and broke the paladin's neck.

Aidan wasted no time blowing the shackles off of the others, "Quickly, we have to find the girls."

----

The five friends found the knights' weapons and armor stashed in the next cell and rushed towards the sound of the screaming. The ran down corridor after corridor and down two flights of stairs before reaching a large iron-bound door, charred and blackened, and carved in a crude hand with numerous unholy sigils and prayers to the dark god Asmodeus.

Sir Fallon rushed the door, beating it to splinters with his flaming axe. Beyond the door they saw the two nuns, naked, screaming, and tied to an altar of black basalt. Three lions stood before the altar, their fur soaked with blood and their inhuman mouths chanting infernal prayers. Behind the altar stood Brother Justice, looking quite alive, dressed in black robes and sporting a pair of large curving horns on his head. He smiled at them as the door burst open and plunged his readied dagger into Sister Eloquence's breast, silencing her screams.

Enraged, the Knights of Mitra charged the unholy abomination. They were met by the three lions, one breathing a gout of flame which quickly consumed Sir Willem. The second pounced upon Sir Reginald, tearing his throat out with one critical strike of its mighty jaws. The last sprouted black bat-like wings and began clawing at Sir Ainsley.

Aidan and Fallon slipped bast the beasts, and rushed the altar where the demonic Brother Justice had disrobed and was beginning to have his way with Sister Carlotta. Aidan stabbed at the perversion of his friend, running both the priest and Sister Carlotta though as Sir Fallon took off his head.

Aidan shoved Brother Justice's corpse off of the nuns only to see that they were both already dead and rotten. The two turned, terrified, to see their friends lying burned and torn and the three witch-lions closing in on them.

---

Aidan and Fallon both awoke with a scream. A fire crackled around the campsite where the eleven friends had bedded down for the knight. Squire Filth and Brother Justice sat on watch, nibbling on the remnants of the roast hind they had for supper the evening before. Aidan looked around to see the two Sisters and his other five brothers-in-arms sleeping peacefully, their breasts rising in falling with their rhythmic breath.

"What happened brothers?" Brother Justice knelt next to the two of them.

"I had a horrible dream..." Sir Fallon, sniffed the air, "I think I was bewitched. I can still smell the stink of sorcery in the air."

"I had a dream too," Aidan spoke up, "we had all been captured. There was fire and chanting. Everyone was killed...and you..." he looked at Brother Justice, his eyes widening, "You appeared to be possessed by a demon...you had taken the Sisters and sacrificed them upon some dark altar, then you set the lions on us."

"Lions brother?"

"Yes, three lions." Sir Fallon stood up, "It seems we had the same dream."

"Well I'm hoping that's no premonition..." Squire Worthless Filth filth handed Aiden a wineskin. "We're set to reach the prison tomorrow morning..."

"Tomorrow?" Aidan looked confused. "Didn't we investigate the prison yesterday? I remember it was overrun with undead...and..."

Sir Fallon spoke up, "...and everyone died. Sister Carlotta, Sir Robert, Tristram, and..." he looked hard at Brother Justice, "and you Brother. Devored by a lion."

"Another dream perhaps?" Brather Justice nodded his head in a brief prayer.

"We'd best wake t'others." Squire Filth began walking around the camp shaking everyone. "Up and at 'em, seems like there's witch's work afoot..."

A Week in the Life of a Witch Hunter: Session 5

The remnants of our gallant band, Sir Fallon, Sir Willem, Sir Ainsley, and Aidan the Herald, breathed a sigh of relief as the lion stopped moving and set about seeing to their fallen friends.

His eyes straining in the oppressive darkness of the dungeons and hurting from the sudden burst of glittering lights just moments before, Sir Fallon dug a torch out of his backpack and fumbled to get it lit. “Mitra! It smells like sh*t down here…”

“Ugh, that’s for certain,” Sir Willem agreed, tearing a strip from his cloak to cover his nose. “I’m also still detecting a significant amount of magic…”

With the added light from Fallon’s torch, Sir Ainsley gazed around the small guardroom they had fallen into and pointed at an empty side chamber. “Lets move Robert and Sister Carlotta in there. We’ll have to come back for them after we finish exploring.” The others agreed and hauled the corpses of their friends away from the site of the melee.

With Sir Fallon and his torch in the lead, the four cautiously moved into the cell block. All of the cell doors were open or missing, some apparently torn from their hinges or bashed down by some incredible force. The entire area reeked of excrement, the walls were charred and blackened, and the hallway was filled with an ankle-deep layer of spoiled and rotten fruit.

“What happened here?” said Aidan, carefully examining the bent and battered remains of a heavy iron portcullis which had served as the door of the final cell at the end of the hall.

“They were holding an ogre.” Ainsley stepped into the cell and pointed at some overly large manacles. “This must have been its cell.”

Fallon stepped in behind Sir Ainsley and looked at a large hole in the wall, “So, whoever was in that cell must have tunneled through the wall and freed the ogre. Then the ogre broke the gate down and freed the other prisoners…”

Ainsley pointed at the hole, “How’d the ones in that cell get free then?”

“Hey!” Sir Wllem called from the adjacent cell, “I’m detecting a couple more auras in here.”

Aidan stuck his head in the door and immediately retched from the smell. The floor was almost knee deep with feces and rotting vegetation and was swarming with flies and maggots.

“At least its not more roaches.” Willem opined, then plunged his gauntleted hands down into the waste and began fishing around. Moments later he came up with a ring, a rather fresh finger still attached to it. “Check this out.” He tossed the finger to Aidan and reached back into the filth, coming up with three more rings.

Aidan vomited again as he caught the chunk of flesh.
“That’s a goblin finger.” Sir Fallon pointed out.
Gasping Aidan nodded, “yeah, and the ring is a dungeon ring. You use them to keep track of prisoners…”
“So the goblin cut…or tore off…his finger so that the warden couldn’t track him? Then used that blind-spot in the scrying to take the time to dig in to the ogre?”

“These three are different.” Willem handed the other rings to Aidan and the two examined them carefully.
“Aha! That’s how they broke out…” Aidan held up the first ring. “A ring of the ram. It’s out of charges, but still has some residual magic to it. With this they could have blown that whole in the wall in a jiff. They probably just threw it away when it ran out.” He wiped the ring off and slipped it onto his finger, then handed the others back to Willem. “Maybe one of the king’s mages can recharge it for me…”
“What about the others?” Sir Fallon interjected.
“A ring of protection and a ring of sustenance. Someone must have smuggled them in to the prisoners, but, chained up, they probably fumbled and dropped them in this offal while trying to figure out which one was the Ram.”

“Somewhat plausible…” Sir Fallon took the other two. “You’re sure there is nothing funny about these?”

“No, I’m quite certain about the ID on those. I agree its weird that they would leave these behind.” Aiden looked at the piles of filth. “Of course, if I’d been chained up in that, I’d be in a hurry to get as far away as possible…”

Fallon nodded, “who wants these?” Aisley took the ring of sustenance and Sir Fallon put on the other. “Alright, looks like there is nothing down here. Lets head upstairs. The sergeant in charge of this place should have had a manifest of all the prisoners. I want to know what’s up with this witch-lion…and what could have made all of those undead.”

The party made its way back to the guardroom. Sir Ainsley pulled the rope and grapple out of his pack and climbed up to the upper floor. As they were hauling the bodies of Sir Robert and Sister Carlotta up they heard a loud trumpet call from beyond the walls. “Hey guys,” Sir Ainsley called down, “the cavalry has arrived!”

The four companions finished climbing out of the pit and, carefully carrying their friends bodies, walked out of the keep to see a large contingent of the kings army, including a trio of the Sisters of Saint Erentrude, a half-dozen mounted knights, several archers and foot soldiers, and a score of dwarven irregulars. The dwarves had quickly errected a bridge across the pit by the gatehouse and the army was mustering in the courtyard.

As the party emerged they were met by Sir Reginald Starbreaker, the commander of the expeditionary force, accompanied by Sister Eloquence, who led the nuns, and a dwarf, who Sir Reginald referred to simply as “Worthless Filth”.

After the introductions, Sister Eloquence went away with the four companions to see to their fallen. Sir Reginald and the dwarf set the troops to work with practiced efficiency. Archers and crossbowmen moved to the top of the gatehouse and took up defensive positions over entrance. Foot soldiers began setting up camp. The two Erentrudine Sisters went about blessing the remains of the undead to keep them from rising again. “Worthless” set his dwarves to scouring the keep, searching it from top to bottom for any further traps or hazards.

After about an hour a runner returned from the keep carrying a sheaf of papers. “From the commander’s quarters sir.” He handed them to Sir Reginald, “I think you should see these.”

Sir Reginald called the others together and they examined the papers.

“Wow!” Ainsley exclaimed, reading the documents aloud to the others, “Midnight poker games in the gatehouse…only half the recommended garrison…and the sergeant was skimming funds. No wonder the prisoners escaped!”
Aidan peered over his shoulder, “That might explain where the prisoners got those rings. The sergeant would have had free access to their cells. If he was corrupt he could easily have smuggled tools and magic items to them without arousing too much suspicion…”

Sir Reginald nodded. “We’re setting up camp here for the night. We need to be absolutely certain that the prison has been secured before we leave. The king is sending a force to re-occupy the keep in the morning. In the meantime, I suggest that you all get some rest…”

There was much agreement with that and everyone retired to their assigned tents to sleep.

A Week in the Life of a Witch Hunter: Session 4

The friends looked around the courtyard, then back to each other. Sister Carlotta raised a quizzical eyebrow, “Inside?” The others nodded and moved cautiously towards the doors of the inner keep. The doors were open and creaking in the light breeze that bristled through the courtyard.

“Hey,” Aidan looked at the others, “wasn’t this place supposed to be warded against magic?”
“It is…” Sister Carlotta waved a hand around her, “the place is built on a primal magic zone. Any casting here carries the risk of unexpected and catastrophic results. We’ve just been lucky so far…”
“So what’ll happen if we’re unlucky?”
“Ummm…raining fire…the ground coming to life to attack you…that sort of thing…”

Sir Fallon peered inside the main hall. Other than burn marks and bloodstains it looked like the keep had been stripped and abandoned. “The stairs at the end of this hall should lead down to the prison cells. Let’s check there first…”

The group approached the stairs slowly, carefully searching the floors, ceiling, and every passed doorway for traps or other surprises. Sir Robert took the lead as they neared the stairs, “It looks all clear up here, but I sense a great evil below, everyone be on your guard.”

Sister Carlotta nodded, “Yeah…I’m detecting a huge amount of magic…Abjuration, Necromancy, Conjuration. Judging from this we should be ready for more undead. Possibly even a bound demon or the like.”

Sir Willem waved his hand and said a brief prayer, “Alright, that should shield us all from evil.”

“Good idea,” Sister Carlotta nodded, “I can hide some of us from any undead below.” She began to chant and suddenly the entire hallway went black.
“Sh*t!” Aidan exclaimed, “We just got unlucky didn’t we?”

A roar rang out through the hallway behind them.

“Everyone downstairs!” Sister Carlotta yelled.
“What?!” came the collective cry.
“I don’t want to fight blind. The spell should be localized to this level. Our lights should work once we’re out of it.” She pushed past the others towards the stairs and gave a sudden cry of alarm as her feet stepped into open air. Sir Willem, able to see in the darkness, reached out but were unable to catch her as she appeared to tumble through the stairs.

As she struggled to her feet she felt something long and snake-like reach around her and bite her leg, causing her to feel suddenly weaker. Then a pair of jaws clamped onto her arm, and claws tore at her, bearing her to the ground.

Sir Robert leaped into the darkness, landing awkwardly, but still on his feat and stabbed blindly at the snarling thing tearing at the nun. It gave a hideous cry, but Sister Carlotta’s screams only intensified as a swarm of biting insects poured from the wound.

The others felt something large rush past them, Sir Fallon swung widely, feeling his blade connect, but it was Aidan that cried out. Below Sir Robert felt five-hundred pounds of fur and claws come crashing down on him, and his armor being crushed as a pair of mighty jaws locked onto him.

Sir Fallon quickly followed, his blade bursting into flames as he dove into the pit. This time his blow struck true and the lion let out a growl of pain, but did not release Sir Robert, but he quickly succumbed to the pain of the swarming insects.

Sister Carlotta managed to get out one last scream of “Fire!” before she the beast that was upon her drained the last of her life. Gritting his teeth, Sir Ainsley pointed his dragon-pistol towards the sound and released a goat of flame that dispersed both the bugs and the darkness, but which badly burned Sir Robert.

In the brief light from the flames, Sir Willem, Sir Ainsley, and Aidan could see the stairs, but not their friends. “Another f*cking illusion!” Aidan blurted, then charged headfirst down the stairs, tumbling into the unseen pit. Seeing their friend vanish before their eyes, Ainsley and Willem disbelieved the illusion and could suddenly see their friends engaged in a deadly struggle against the lion and another undead dog.

The lion tightened his jaws where they were clamped onto Sir Robert’s side and tore at him with its claws, shredding his armor and spilling his entrails over the already dead Sister Carlotta. Landing rather startledly beside the thing, Aidan swung wildly with his sword, landing a telling blow directly in the lion’s face. Sir Willem jumped down beside him, landing badly and twisting his ankle, which was instantly healed in a flash of light by a spell he had laid upon himself beforehand.

In moments Sir Fallon, Sir Willem, and Aidan dispatched the two beasts, but found that they were too late to save their two friends.

A Week in the Life of a Witch Hunter: Session 3

Within the first tower, Sir Robert, Sir Willem, Sir Fallon, and Aidan the Herald rested, occasionally firing a bolt at one of the other towers.
"Archers...we need archers," Aidan said to the others.
"Archers won't help us much if that witch-lion returns." Sir Fallon peered cautiously out of an arrow-slit. "It has taken refuge in the keep. We can leave the towers for later...we have to get to the keep and avenge Brother Justice." He peeked out again, "It looks like the postern door is open as well. I say we get down to the ground entrance and make a run for their."
"But we need rest," Sir Robert complained. "We're out of healing and the courtyard is still full of those bugs..."
"I have spells left," Sir Willem spoke up, "and I'm with Sir Fallon. Let's get off these walls. The lion and his skeletal servants clearly have the advantage up here..."

While the party deliberated, Oswald the scribe sat on his ass and cried. Brother Justice paid him well, even paying him 12 months in advance to accompany him and record his daring deeds, but as he sat outside Branderscar Prison and watched a lion leap from a tower with his master clutched in its jaws, he knew he wasn't getting paid nearly enough to witness this. Shoving his quill back in his saddlebags, he grabbed the reins of Icewind, his master's warhorse, wheeled his donkey around, and rode back to Varyston with all haste.

Sister Carlotta held up a hand to her eyes, straining to see what was making the dust-cloud coming towards the town. "Ainsley, get up here, something's coming...fast!" Ainsley climbed up the low fortifications to stand beside the militant nun. "A rider...riding an ass...and leading a charger," he said, "something must have happened at the prison..." He jumped over the low battlement, landing in a crouch outside the walls.

"Ho, friend, what news?!"

Oswald pulled his panicked steed to a halt with some effort and dismounted shakily. "Demons! Unliving demons have overtaken the prison! Bloody and skeletal and led by a great lion that flies! My master, Brother Justice is fallen! I have seen no sign of his companions...you must send help...NOW!"

Sister Carlotta ran and grabbed her and Ainsley's horses. "Right, we're headed for the prison. You...what is your name, friend?"
"Oswald..."
"Right, Oswald, go into the town and tell the king what you told us, tell him to send a full contingent to re-take the keep. Ainsley...let's go!"

"Nice ass by the way," Ainsley said.
"Oh thank you, it was a gift from my master..." Oswald stammered a reply.
"I wasn't talking to you, Oswald..."

The knight and the nun rode for the prison at top speed, pushing their chargers to their limits and beyond. In just over an hour they reached Branderscar Prison to find the gates open and the place in ruins. They dismounted their exhausted horses and tied them up near the waiting steeds of the vanguard group.
Sir Ainsley shook his head, "What the f*ck happened here?"
"Mind your tongue son," Sister Carlotta pointed at the courtyard where a mass of cockroaches were swarming over a fleshly corpse in armor, "that looks like one of the vanguard...and those bugs don't look friendly."

Sir Ainsley drew out his dragon pistol and loaded it with an incendiary round. "Right, stay behind me." The two walked cautiously towards the gatehouse and paused at the edge of a large, spiked pit. "There's no way across...Up?" he asked.

"Right." Sister Carlotta pulled a rope and grapnel from her saddlebags and threw the line deftly up to the battlements. The two quickly climbed up to the gatehouse roof...

Back within the tower Sir Fallon heard a series of loud bangs. He peaked out the arrow slit to see Sir Ainsley standing atop the gatehouse, arrows falling around him, firing shot after shot at the skeletons, Sister Carlotta standing by his side to reload his musket. Shot after shot rang out, skeletons, even on the farthest towers, being blown to pieces by them more often than not.

With a shout of relief the four friends opened the tower door and ran out onto the walls towards the gatehouse, all but Sir Robert pausing briefly to ogle the beautiful, and somewhat inappropriately garbed, nun. Sir Willem clapped Ainsley on the back when they arrived. "Thank you, brother...and sister, we thought we were done for." Sir Ainsley fired a few more times, taking out the last of the skeletal archers.

"Glad that you're all alright...but I'm out of ammo." Ainsley set down the musket, and pulled out his pistol. "I hope anything else we fight is at closer range..."

"We need to take the towers now," Sister Carlotta said, looking at the distant bones clattering down the sides of the towers and calling upon her extensive religious training. "If we don't bless the corpses, those skeletons will be back up within the hour..."

Aidan the Herald looked over the edge at the courtyard below and shook his head. "We have bigger problems...the bugs can fly..."

"What!" Sir Robert cried, just as the massive swarm crested the battlements.

Sir Willem said a quick and very short prayer to Mitra, causing the bugs to hesitate briefly, allowing Sir Ainley to blast the swarm with a gout of flame from his dragon-pistol, killing thousands of the insects, but not stopping the main mass. Sir Robert and Aidan swung uselessly at the creatures, but Sir Fallon's axe suddenly burst into flames, clearing a swath through the swarm as he swung. Then the swarm was over them...

Everyone in the party save Sir Robert and Sir Ainsley were too distracted by the painful bites to defend themselves. Sir Ainsley fired another incendiary cartridge, seriously depleting the bugs. Retching, Sister Carlotta blurted out "I...have...spells...that would help..." On queue, Sir Robert grabbed her and ran along the wall back towards the tower until she was out of the swarm.

Free of the swarm, Sister Carlotta conjured a blast of wind, somewhat dispersing it, as Sir Robert ran back to help Sir Willem out of the area. Ainsley continued to hold his ground, ignoring the many tiny bites and firing his dragon pistol again. The other struggled to get free of the swarm as it moved to follow them. As the swarm neared Sister Carlotta again, a blast of flame from her hands killed or dispersed the last of the insects.

A burst of positive energy from Sister Carlotta had everyone back on their feet. "Hurry, the skeletons."

"Right," said Sir Robert, "several fell into the courtyard and there are six towers to check for bodies. We'll have to split up." Noticing the despairing and incredulous faces of his friends, he continued, passing out vials of holy water. "No one goes alone. We'll split into three groups. Willem and Aidan take the right towers. Sister Carlotta and Fallon go left. Ainsley and I will take the courtyard. Regroup in the main courtyard when your done...shout if you encounter something."
"Great...that worked well last time." Aidan complained.
"Got a better idea?"
"No..."

They split up...and they ran. Sprinting along the walls and down the stairs, the six friends quickly found the remains of the skeletons and doused them with holy water. The towers were cleared and the walls reclaimed.

In the courtyard, Sir Robert and Sir Ainsley doused Tristram's body, as well as the undead hounds, zombies, and skeletons. When the others joined them Aidan knelt by Tristram's corpse and began looting it.

"Why are you disrespecting the dead?" Sister Carlotta gave him a glaring look.
"He has useful magic items," Aidan responded, holding up a wand and a potion vial, "I'll return them if we manage to raise him, but for now we need all the help we can get."

"Right..." Sister Carlotta turned and examined the other bodies. "Hmmm..." She said, kneeling over one of the zombies. "It has a magic ring." She pulled a plain iron ring off of it, saying a prayer for the deceased's soul. "Can anyone tell what this does?"
Sir Fallon gave it a hairy eye, "leave it...its cursed."

Sister Carlotta sighed and threw the ring into the pit by the gatehouse...

A Week in the Life of a Witch Hunter: Session 2

Aidan screamed. The bard swung helplessly at the flesh-eating insects, trying to keep them off of Tristram’s body, but they were too small, too numerous. Stomp as he might, he could never hope to kill the millions of creatures that assailed him. As the creatures began to crawl up his legs, biting and stinging, he balked. He ran…or tried to run. Overcome by nausea from the pain, he stumbled out of the swarm, dropping his sword, and leaving the creatures to devour Tristram.

Within moments Tristram’s body was gone.

Sir Robert grabbed Aidan by the arm and drew him away from the churning mass of bugs. “There’s nothing you could have done. We have to get out of here, call in reinforcements…” The two ran for the gatehouse to seek cover, Aidan casting spells of curing over them as they went.

Above them on the walls, the rain of arrows seemed unceasing. Sir Fallon was the first up the tower, kicking open the door and taking the stairs two at a time. As he reached the top, his axe burst into flames. With one blow he took the head from the nearest skeletal archer.

Brother Justice stopped at the first landing. Looking out an arrow slit he said a brief prayer to Mitra, pronouncing his judgement upon the foul undead creatures that assailed them, and fired his crossbow, catching one of the skeletons on the opposing tower full in the face with the blessed quarrel.

Sir Willem dashed through the tower, pushing open the far door and continuing to run on. “Finish here, I’m taking the next one!” he called to the others. As he ran he called out to Mitra for might, growing to twice his size and swelling with courage. The arrows continued to fall as he charged. He caught two on his shield, but a third took him in the leg. He stumbled through the door to the second tower and paused to draw out the projectile and heal himself.

Behind him, Brother Justice’s second bolt also struck true, clearing the archers from the far tower. Sir Fallon swung wildly at the second archer near him, missing on his first swing, but knocking the creature from the battlements with a quick reversal, sending it to shatter on the cobblestones below. He turned and withdrew back into the tower, taking two arrows from one of the other towers.

He and Brother Justice regrouped with Aidan and Robert at the base of the tower.

“Tristram is dead,” Robert told them matter-of-factly. “Aidan and I have both exhausted our capacity for healing, and he is without a weapon.”

Brother Justice shook his head and handed Aidan his sword, “Here take this, I’ll cover you all with my bow. I still have power left. We’ve cleared two towers, which leaves only four left, but its a long dash in the open to the others.” Just then they heard a roar of victory from Sir Willem and the clatter of bones in the courtyard. “Make that three towers left…”

Brother Justice cast a blessing over the party and resumed his position at the arrow slit. The others ran on to the second tower, joining up with Sir Willem just as he reached the bottom. Regrouped, they ran for the third tower. Then they heard a deafening roar behind them, followed by Brother Justice’s screaming…

Brother Justice turned away from the arrow slit to reload, just in time to see 500 pounds of angry cat charging up the stairs at him. He reached for his sword, but found it missing. Then the beast was on him and passed him, two claws raking his face and leaving horrible scars. It stopped at the next landing and pivoted, turning for another charge. He managed to load his crossbow and plant a single bolt in the creature as it plowed into him, grabbing his arm in its massive jaws. He barely had time to scream before the creature ripped out his throat.

The others rushed back, but were too late. As they neared the first tower they saw the lion, perched atop the tower, dangling Brother Justice off the edge by its jaws. They watched in horror as the beast dropped his body to splatter on the walls at their feet. Then it leaped…

The party readied themselves, expecting the beast to crash into them, but strangely, it seemed to pause in mid-air, unleashing a laugh-like roar…and then there were five of them. The party scattered as the pride of lions came crashing down onto to the wall, only Sir Robert holding his ground to strike at the creatures as they landed.

The first one he struck vanished without a sound. “More illusions!” The others looked closer and saw that only one lion was real, the others looking like ghostly outlines. The one lion though, went strait for Sir Fallon, unleashing a roar that sounded disturbingly like his name. The lion landed a single claw on the knight as it sped by, but the one wound seemed to blossom, opening a horrible gash in his side and immediately necrotizing the flesh around it.

Sir Fallon sniffed the air as the thing went past and his face went white, “The lion’s a witch!”

Aidan began singing an inspiring song and the friends charged the monstrosity. Sir Fallon and Sir Willem each landed blows on the thing, but it leaped off the battlement, landing easily in the courtyard below and ran into the keep. “Sh*t!!!” Sir Fallon exclaimed.

The arrows kept coming.

The party grabbed what was left of Brother Justice and ran into the tower, slamming the doors behind them…

A Week in the Life of a Witch Hunter: Session 1

"...and what do you burn apart from witches?"

As if rehearsed Aidan the Herald shouted his reply to Brother Justice, "More Witches!" The others in their party burst out laughing at the jest. It had been only a few hours since the six companions had left the town of Varyston and the rest of their company behind, but already they had returned to the easy companionship of the road. These men were the vanguard, the chosen elite of the royal army which had been dispatched to retrieve the various vile criminals being held in Branderscar Prison for execution.

"Do you believe what the old man in town said?" Sir Willem asked the others.

"Oh, I never take such warnings lightly." Sir Fallon Nightly said sniffing the air. "I don't doubt that he heard a commotion at the prison last night. I'm sure..."

Just then a deafening roar broke in on their thoughts, followed by a large, tawny-maned lion leaping from the undergrowth on the side of the Old Road, startling their horses and speeding away. Before Aidan could say "What the?!" A giant toad leaped out behind the lion, but quickly turned its attention to the fresh horse-flesh. Brother Justice fired a quarrel after the retreating lion, but the beast vanished back into the forest.

Sir Robert couched his lance and charged the toad, skewering it mightily, but the beast still lived and locked its massive jaws around the throat of Robert's horse, pulling the creature to the ground and unhorsing Robert. Sir Fallon rushed to his aid, cleaving the beast's head off with a single blow from his mighty axe.

Sir Willem knelt beside the horse and examined the wound, "The bite was poisoned, there's nothing I can do for him." Sir Robert nodded gravely and put the poor animal out of its misery. Lord Tristram (called "The Lion") pulled Robert up behind him on his horse and they continued on to the prison.

As they approached the gates of the prison their faces fell. "What the?!" cried Aidan, calling upon his familiar catch-phrase. Before them stood a ruin; towers collapsed, gates broken open, and smoke rising from the burned-out husk of the keep.

Brother Justice made to ride closer, but Sir Robert held up his hand, "Hold Brother. I sense great evil here."

"No sh*t?!" Tristram rolled his eyes at the paladin and pointed to the square beyond the gates, where they could just make out several bodies, arrayed in the form of a pentagram around a smashed statue of St. Dothan the Just.

"Blasphemy!" cried Sir Willem, who charged into the gate and vanished, both the knight and his horse falling, with a great cry, through the ground under the gatehouse. The others approached cautiously, still able to hear their friend's cries of alarm and pain, but seeing no sign of him or the pit where he had fallen. Sir Fallon dismounted and examined the ground. "An illusion," he told the others, and proceeded to strike the ground, dispelling the sorcery.

Beneath the illusion they saw a great pit, filling the entire area between the gates and perhaps 20 feet deep. Sir Willem's horse was dead, impaled on a number of sharpened wooden stakes embedded in ground. Sir Willem himself was mostly unharmed, but was helpless to climb out of the pit in his armor. The party dismounted and Aidan through a rope down to Sir Willem, while Sir Fallon sniffed around. "There were witches here, and recently. We must assume that the prisoners have escaped, but its possible that the witches that made this trap are still inside..."

After a quick vote, the party decided to climb down and traverse the pit to investigate the rest of the prison. Tristram went down first and crossed to secure a rope on the far side. Sir Willem came next, followed closely by the others, and just as Tristram was helping Sir Willem back out of the pit a horrible hissing sound was heard, and a torrent of boiling oil spilled down upon the party from the ruins of the gatehouse. All were badly burned, and as they scrambled to climb out a rain of heavy stones came down upon them, knocking Aidan the Herald unconcious and sending him tumbling back into the pit.

Sir Robert jumped into the pit and healed Aidan. Meanwhile up top, a rain of arrows began to fall on the party, seemingly out of nowhere. The party dove for cover behind some nearby rubble as Sir Fallon charged the nearest wall, punching it with a cry of rage. Immediately the walls of the keep shimmered, wavering like a mirage, and revealed the keep to be whole, intact, and manned by a small army of bloody, animate corpses.

"This way!" Sir Willem called, dropping a _fog cloud_ over the courtyard and rushing into the gatehouse and up the stairs. Sir Fallon and Brother Justice bolted after him and Tristram threw another rope into the pit to aid Robert and the Herald. On the second level of the gatehouse the three knights encountered an equal number of skeletons manning the murder-holes, each covered in flames. Brother Justice waved the others towards the stairs up to the walls and called upon the power of Mitra, instantly turning the three undead creatures to dust.

Bursting onto the roof of the gatehouse, Sir Willem encountered a pair of blood-soaked skeletons armed with longbows. He lowered a shoulder and charged, knocking one off the battlement, but taking an arrow in the shoulder from the other. Sir Fallon, close on his heals came up and planted his axe squarely into the ribcage of the other. Sadly, the beast was not felled, and began to claw at Sir Fallon's face with its bony hands.

Brother Justice came up behind the others and dispatched the remaining skeleton with a disrupting bolt of positive energy. "Careful," he called to the others, "these ones heal." Sir Willem cast a communal protection over the three of them and they ran for the nearest tower, carefully dodging the continuing rain of arrows.

Below Sir Robert and the two bards carefully approached the pentagram of bodies in the courtyard, convinced that the unholy symbol must be powering their undead assailants. Aidan looked at the corpses and raised a hand to stop the others, "Wait. Those are clearly more zombies." Sir Robert nodded and presented his holy symbol, burning the foul creatures with the holy light of Mitra.

Just then a half-dozen slavering, undead dogs burst from the nearby kennel and charged the three on the ground. Sir Robert reacted quickly and stepped in front of Aidan, taking a defensive stance. One of the dogs lashed at Sir Robert with an impossibly long tongue, snaking around his shield to latch onto his face, draining his blood and weakening him greatly. Two others charged Aidan, biting and clawing, but unable to get past Sir Robert's defenses.

The other three charged Tristram, striking him several times with bites, tongues, and their powerful paws. One grabbed Tristram by the leg and dragged him to the ground. channeling his magic into his sword and striking it mightily, and causing a swarm of hungry, flesh-eating cockroaches to spill out. Tristram screamed as the bugs and the dogs tore into him. One dog finally grabbing his throat and tearing it out just as Sir Robert expended the last of his divine power to burn them all to dust.

Aidan conjured a small earthquake to destroy the remnants of the unholy icon on the ground and charged into the ever-growing swarm of biting insects to recover Tristram's body.

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