It is a typical night in the coastal city of Redshore. Sailors, soldiers, and commoners alike trod it's red earthern streets in search of drink, food, or pleasure. In the harbor are a myriad of fishing vessels, even a Corvellian warship or two. A great lighthouse on an outcropping of rock lights the way for ocean travellers at night. A beacon for all those who might wish to come to this pleasant town.
Beyond the harbor is the great Sea of Courage, and it is well known for it's rough and choppy waters. It takes a degree of bravery to sail on such waves and thus it's name. But on this night it is calm and relatively still. A cool ocean breeze comes inland, causing the banner of Grey to flutter overhead.
Lady Elundra Lorechester is ruler here. On a hillock is her modest castle, giving all who go there a good view of the town below and all the areas around. Like her, the castle is an elegant and beautiful place. Like her cousin, the young Duchess Elsbeth Grey, Elundra is thought of quite highly by her people. She rules with a fair hand and all those who know her are charmed by her pleasant courtesies.
Down in the town many of the jumble of buildings have red-tiled roofs. There is little organization to the sprawling structures, being built here and there and merging together at odd angles and twists. It is not very even or ordered, but many decent people live in these winding and twisting streets. It is very much the incarnation of a typical fishing town.
At the docks are several rough and tumble drinking establishments. Of them all the best known is the called the House of Duels. Like most nights it is filled nearly to total capacity with many patrons of many races crowding into it. All the usual suspects are here, guards, merchants, adventurers, thieves and whores.
Overseeing the ebb and flow of the mayhem of drinking, is Fare. She is a stout woman, with thick, blonde hair pulled back over her broad shoulders. For a dwarf she is not that unplesant, but those who think her as being soft or cute often receive a strong punch to the dinky bits of their anatomy.
Standing atop a series of crates Fare looks across the smokey, crowded bar. She sees that there are many newcomers here tonight along with the regulars. People of all types come this way, heading out to sea or to other provinces like Tseraq, Green or other coastal towns in Corvel.
All her long years of tending bar has given her insights to people and who they are, even by just the merest of glances. This evening she sees a few newcomers that catch her eye, and she wonders who they might be.
To one corner is a darkly dressed elf. The way he acts and moves she can tell he prefers to be in the shadows, away from the hustle and bustle of the others there. His cloak bears the clasp of an emerald eagle, the symbol of distant Brudic. At his side is a curved fighting knife. "He's a long way from home," she thinks to herself.
As she gazes at him she sees that there is something else, a certain look in his eye. It is the look of a killer.
Overhead, sipping thimbles of ale, are two diminuitive pixies. Normally she can't stand these pranksterish faeries but the two seem to be as well behaved as can be expected. They watch the activities below, whispering and chattering to each other in their tiny voices. One is hairless, his body covered with delicate, spiral tatoos and little else. The other has spikey hair and a bit more covering his small body. Their thin, transparent wings flutter and twitch as they chat it up.
Fare looks below her counter and in addition to a large, knotted club she also has an array of throwing darts. If the two tiny faeries get out of hand with their activities she knows she can pin one to a wall if need be.
Moving through the people, at knee and waist level, is a sprig. He bumps into them clumsily but is mostly ignored. She hasn't seen many of them before, and this one looks particularly bad off. He wears a floppy hat and his small clothes are torn and dirty. Looking at his hands she can see they are rough and calloused, as if he has endured years if not decades of hard labor.
However she does realize what he is doing. His clumsiness is an act and she knows he is pilfering what he can from those he can. For a moment she thinks of having him thrown out and thoroughly thrashed, but there is something about him, something that almost causes her pity.
Finding a small box he sits down upon it, taking his hat off and runs thick fingers through his dark beard and over his long, pointed ears. To the ignorant they might mistake him for an emaciated dwarf. Sitting there he reaches into a pouch, pulls out some leaves and starts chewing them. Fare frowns in disgust when she watches the sprig spit into a cup with his chewing tobacco, a very foul habit.
The strangest person here though is an orc. He sits at one of the main tables draining stein after stein of beer. He wears what looks like an elven jerkin two sizes too small for him and a red bandanna over his head. He is even wearing two golden earrings. Fare watches in near disbelief as he sings and jests with the other patrons around him, acting very very strange. The people nearby tend to ignore him, for all know what horrible tempers orcs have.
He looks over to Fare and gives her a toothy grin, raising his mug to her. "You've got a wonderful place here lass, most magnificent!" This leaves her almost speechless, for orcs are not known for their manners at all. There is an odd sparkle to his blue eyes and he seems to be the happiest orc she has ever seen.
With a sigh she hopes that nothing bad happens and that this is as weird as it is going to get that night.
The night wears on and no major brawls break out. Glancing outside a window Fare decides it is time to provide the evening's entertainment. With a clap of her hands to draw attention she jumps up to the top of the bar.
"All right! Listen up! We aren't called the House of Duels for nothing!" There is the usual laughter and cheers from the crowd as Fare goes into her speech. "We have fights here for fun, to first blood. If you want to place bets or buy the winner a drink it's all up to you! If you are a bit squemish I suggest you go to the Temple of Rellian where things are a bit more calm!"
Fare turns her head, scanning over everyone here, settling in on one person in particular. "Olar! You are our champion! Are you ready for some duelling?"
The crowd laughs as he stands up, reaching a height of nearly seven feet. It is a massive orc, with rippling muscles, scars and spikey hair. Taking a bottle from the table he shatters it across his head much to the great amusement of everyone there.
"You betcha! Any of you tough enough to mess with Olar?" He sneers, looking this way and that.
"I'll take ya on," says a young and obviously drunken man. From his uniform he's obviously one of the town guards and his companions laugh and shove him forward. They know what is going to happen. "My name's Brit," he says, pulling out his sword rather clumsily, knocking some glasses off a nearby table. "I'm gonna mess you up!"
Olar laughs, throwing back his head showing off a mouth full of large, fanged teeth. "You make me laugh, little man!"
The lumbering orc draws out an axe and moves in close while the rest of the bar cheer the two combatants on. While this is happening the poorly dressed sprig goes along bumping more and more people.
Swinging overhead Olar's axe is crudely blocked by Brit's sword as he parries. The poor man doesn't even see the fist coming in at his face. Olar strikes him square between the eyes sending his sword flying and him crashing back into a table making a rather large and splashy mess.
The whole bar erupts in applause and laughter as Olar roars triumphantly and pounds his chest. "I'm Olar! I'm the champion! Nobody can take me down!"
From the top of the bar Fare claps along with everyone else. When the raucus begins to die down she yells out. "Anybody else?"
Then, the strangely dressed orc stands up, setting his drink down. "I will." The people of the bar look him over and though he is indeed an orc Olar is a good head taller and much more muscular than this one.
Fare cocks her head and looks over to him. "Are you sure?"
He gives a courteous bow, and then a large, toothy grin. "Certainly my lady. I'll try and not hurt your champion too much."
This causes even more laughter from the unruly crowd. Olar chuckles some himself, but doesn't quite know what to make of this oddly dressed orc that speaks so well. "What's yer name, boy?" He asks, limbering up his axe arm.
He turns to face him and gives him a two fingered salute. "Why, I am Maurice. Maurice le Chavilier." When he says this everyone laughs even harder than before. Olar even slams his hand down on a table because he is nearly choking.
"That's one of the funniest names I ever heard boy!"
The strangely dressed orc just smiles and nods, drawing out a long, thin saber from his side. "Shall we begin?" He asks quite politely.
Olar grunts and comes in at him fast, hoping to use the axe and fist combination he had done before on the hapless guard Brit. He swings the weapon down and with incredible speed Maurice ducks out of the way and then pokes the tip of his saber into the other orc's bulging forearm.
The crowd gasps, and Olar holds up his arm, seeing the tiny cut beginning to well up with blood. His mouth drops open in surprise and looks back at Maurice. With a flourish of his sword Maurice sheathes his blade and sits back down, much to the surprise of all.
Standing up high Fare shakes her head some, for this has taken her quite off guard. "Uh, who did you say you were?"
"Maurice le Chavilier, dear lady." He smiles pleasantly and drinks down another ale.
As the night goes on there are a few more duels, but none are as quick or surprising as the one between Maurice and Olar. Empty glasses get piled high and everyone has a good time, but always Fare keeps an eye on the newcomer. She watches him try to pick up several of the barmaids, who do a pretty good job in keeping their composure when they turn him down.
Fare eventually comes over to his table to bring him some more drink. "Good bladework with your sword there. You're pretty quick for an orc."
With that Maurice laughs heartily, putting a hand to his chest as if he might pop a rib out of place he finds it so funny. "Dear lady, you are mistaken. I am no orc. I am an elf!"
"Uh huh," she says, placing another drink down. "You sure about that?"
With a smile he nods his head. "Why of course! It is so strange that so many people of late have made the same error that you have. I am a bit confused as to why they think that way you know." He gives her a wink and continues to drink.
"Oookay . . ." Politely Fare inclines her head and goes back to the bar. "He's insane," she whispers under her breath.
Up above the two pixies watch the night's proceedings with interest. The hairless one with tatoos is named Dalin, and he is very much a pranksterish youngster. The other is Galith who has come this way from the nearby province called Green to see more of the world.
"The biggers sure are very strange," says Dalin. "They like to fight and call it fun! It doesn't look like much fun to me."
Galith nods his tiny head, scratching some behind his pointy ears. The bits of drink he's been having have made him a bit dizzy. "Well, I know the biggers some. I've lived with them for two years now, nearly my whole life. The one thing is they are all a bit on the crazy side."
Dalin points down to the new champion orc. "Like that one? I heard him tell the dwarf lady he was an elf."
"Exactly!" Says Galith excitedly. "They are all mad."
From outside the bar comes the distant screams of people in terror. Instantly everyone charges outside to see what all this commotion is. Buildings are on fire, and people go running hysterically through the twisting streets. There is a lot of confusion as to what is going on.
As the people pass, scattering about, all see what they are running from. Behind them comes a marching band of soldiers. They wear turbans and bear the green sashes of the nation Kilmoor, the greatest enemies of Corvel. They march through the streets with their curved swords killing everyone in their way.
Many wars have been fought between Corvel and Kilmoor, and all have been long and bloody. For centuries there has always been strife between the island nation and the provinces of Corvel to the north. The Corvellians follow the ways of the Creator and his prophet Rellian. The Kilmoorians are worshippers of dragon gods and chaos. For the past few years there has been an uneasy peace between the two nations. However, that now seems to have come to a violent end.
Olar, Brit and the guards head immediately towards the roving bands of Kilmoorians. The two groups roar at each other and charge. There is a tangible aura of hatred between them, for after all Kilmoor and Corvel are indeed arch enemies.
The two tides impact and the sounds of clashing steel and the screams of dying men fills the air. Olar, the former champion at the House of Duels, uses his axe quite well and it is soon dripping in Kilmoorian blood. "For King Cedric!" He bellows, hacking and slashing back into the bearded foe.
At the palace of Lady Elundra there seems to be a great fire and a huge, dark winged creature comes flapping in, landing at it's walls. Great talons grab at the stone and it's long, serpentine neck turns it's triangular shaped head. The monster roars and sparks jet from it's incredible jaws.
Eyes open in fear and terror as all who see it realize what the beast is. It is a dragon with a black garbed rider on it's back. Such beasts are nearly undefeatable.
Maurice goes charging up the hill, towards the burning palace. Behind him comes the ragged-looking sprig, the shadowy elven warrior from Brudic, and the two pixies, Galith and Dalin. While most of the soldiers are battling down in the harbor, this small band goes charging the other way.
Getting to the walls the big orc leaps up and with unbelievable dexterity he hops to it's top, brandishing his saber in his hand. The elf tries to do the same, but has to catch himself from falling, scrambling the rest of the way up. The sprig doesn't try to jump, he just starts climbing on the many creeping vines that cover it. Galith and Dalin just buzz on over.
Inside the walls are a large number of Kilmoorian warriors, battling a small contingent of soldiers. The guards are outnumbered three to one, and though they are fighting valiantly they will not prevail. Once they are dead they will certainly head into the palace and murder Lady Ellundra or worse.
Maurice and the elf both look at each other, an understanding in their eyes. Then both dive down into the fray, hacking and slashing with mad abandon.
The sprig makes it to the top of the wall, sees what is happening, nearly exhausted from the long run. However he has a special hatred of Kilmoorians and looks over to where the dragon is, perched on the wall, surveying the battle below like some general. It's rider, in dark dragon-armor, seems to be quite pleased with what is happening.
Using his small size and stealth, he begins to creep towards it.
Galith and Dalin see the carnage below and gaze in awe at the massive dragon. "Don't you think we should run away?" Asks Galith.
"What would be the fun in that," laughs Dalin. The two pixies fly that way, knowing full well such a great beast, though mighty and powerful, is a bit slow. A trail of glittering light surrounds them as they fly.
When they make it to there they begin to harass the great dragon and it's rider with minor spells of irritation and glamor. Dancing lights whirl about the rider's head, the Dragon suddenly has flowers sprouting from his horns.
The reptillian monster roars in rage at such insults and swipes at the flittering pixies as they madly circle about. Even the rider takes out a jagged sword and takes a few swipes at the annoying little faerie folk. He curses from behind his helm and shakes his fist.
"You accursed bugs! I am going to squash you!"
The two laugh and keep up their incessant torment of the mighty warrior and his great dragon mount. All the while the sprig creeps closer and closer.
Together Maurice and his elven companion hack, stab, and chop their way through the surprised enemy, not expecting to be struck at from the rear. They are killed several at a time, not knowing what is happening and by the time they do it is too late. Before too long the vicious conflict is over, their leader having been knocked to the ground a blade held at his throat.
"Yield," says Maurice, his saber already covered with blood.
The commander, dressed in dark dragon-hide armor, slowly, reluctantly, brings his hands up in surrender.
At the wall the dragon and it's rider see this happening, even though they are being annoyed by the flittering pixies. The dragon flaps it's wings, preparing to gain some height. It sucks in deeply, inhaling as much air as it can. For when it exhales it will unleash a tidal wave of flame and incinerate all those who are below.
Seeing his chance the sprig brings a triangular throwing knife to his hand and then throws it with all his strength at the great beast. The blade buzzes through the air and strikes exactly where he wanted it to. Right into it's eye.
The dragon vomits forth the flame, mixed in with a thundrous cry of agony. Fire spews into the sky, touching nothing but looking rather spectacular. The gout of fire can be seen for miles away. It flaps it's great wings furiously and takes off, shaking it's massive head back and forth in pain. The sprig gets another blade ready but the dragon flies off to the south and does not return.
The captain of Elundra's guards takes the surviving Kilmoorians prisoner. Their hands are bound tightly behind their backs and they are moved off into the dungeon. He salutes the two who came to their aid. "I'm Captain Scrimm, and I'm quite grateful for what you two fellows did for us."
"We just did our duty for king and country, sir." Says the big orc.
"Just who are you?"
He bows courteously. "I am Maurice leChavilier. I do not know who my fellow warrior is."
The elf smirks some, wiping the blood off his curved blade on the turban of one of the fallen enemies. "I'm Kazier. I'm from up north in Brudic."
"Really?" Says Maurice somewhat excited. "My home is there too, at Sword Keep. It we seems we have more than just being elves in common."
"Hmm?" Says Kazier raising an eyebrow, wondering if what he heard was right.
Soon Galith and Dalin join the victors below as well as the sprig. The sprig is somewhat reluctant to talk to anyone but does tell them his name.
"I'm Dril. Dril Moonblade." He then spits out some more of his tobacco, splattering it in the face of a dead Kilmoorian nearby.
The armored Scrimm nods. "Well you have all fought well. Maurice, Kazier, Dril, Galith, and Dalin. If you had not come to the palace I fear that Lady Elundra might have been captured."
Below in the harbor the invaders have been slain or pushed back into the sea. They have all been driven back in fierce street to street fighting. Though they have been defeated it was at a high cost, for both Olar and Brit have fallen in defense of Redshore.
The survivors tend to the both the wounded and the dead, thanking the Creator they were not all slain in this surprise attack.
Scrimm walks among the bodies, looking at the fallen. There is a look of sadness to him. "Well, this means war you know. They'll be back."
"Peace never lasts," says the sprig in a rather surly voice. "It always fails."
Chronicled by Ken Paynter aka...Maurice leChevalier
Forward to Session 2