Bran stared nervously at the old armory that served as the manor for the resident Baron of Battlefield Park. He had called a meeting with some of the more prominent citizens of the district in order to make introductions and acquaint himself with the area. He dressed himself in a tunic and breeches, figuring wearing his shaman attire would freak out the locals. Heck, he was going to freak them out anyway, he thought. Rather than carry his three-pointed cloverleaf spear, he wore the elven sword that Des gave him on his hip. He also carried his trusty Clan Bale standard, featuring the blue claw mark on a forest green field. Stepping up to the manor entrance, he was greeted by a butler who, trying his best to hide his astonishment at the sight of the new reptilian Baron, led him into a conference room where there sat three men. The table they sat at was filled with various fruits, vegetables, and desserts. The one on the left was a rotund man with a bald head who looked to be in his forties, wearing a pair of blue overalls. The one in the middle was an elderly man, tall and lanky, with long grey hair, who was eating an éclair. The final man was a young man in his twenties with a handlebar moustache wearing a garish, floppy hat with a fluffy purple feather that looked vaguely like something a courtier would wear.
“Greetings, Baron”, said the rotund man, rising from his seat and moving over to shake Bran’s hand, then pointing him to the head of the table. “I’m glad you made it here. I’ll begin the introductions. My name is John Tiller. I till the fields. I’m also in charge of the local guard and militia. ”
“Nice to meet you John!” said Bran, sitting down.
“Hello, I am Paul Planter. I plant the crops. I also run the tourism council.” said the elderly man with a large smile.
“Nice to meet you too.”
“Bon jour”, sniffed the third man. “My name is Bertrand Farmer.”
“Oh, isss that because you farm the fieldsss?” Bran said.
“Oh no”, said John, pinching the bridge of his nose with his index finger and thumb.
Paul merely covered his face with his hands.
Bertrand erupted. “NO it is not because I farm the fields like some corn-fed hayseed peasant!” My last name is not Farmer, it’s FAHR-MEER! It’s Eighteenth Century French Huguenot! I’m the one that manages the finances for this festering PUSSBALL of a Barony! I’ve pinched pennies, threaded loopholes and cut through mountains of red tape and for WHAT? To be lumped in with the salt of the earth? Well?”
John gets a faraway look on his face as if he’s heard it all before.
Paul slowly wipes his forehead back and forth.
Bran just sat with his jaw slightly dropped.
“I’m a refined gentleman! I have education! Why I once even served as an accountant under the Queen of Poland herself!”
“She was only a Countess”, muttered John.
“YOU BE QUIET!” Bertrand screams at John, “I don’t tell you how to till your fields, plant your crops, or feed those disgusting swine of yours! Don’t presume to tell ME how to do my job!”
“Now, Bert, take it easy . . .” says Paul.
“I will *not* take it easy! I’m fed up with this! I’ve had enough! I’ve been subjected to grossly unfair treatment! I work long hours! No increase in salary! No increase in vacation or even a retirement plan! I haven’t been getting my daily vitamins! My skin is chapped and I’ve gotten a rash from eating your rotten vegetables!”
“What the hell is the matter with you?” growls John.
“Now, John, please . . . “says Paul.
Bertrand thunders on. “All my life I’ve yearned for the day when I could use my God-given skills properly . . . serve a noble King, make enormous sums of money, I would show this world what Bertrand FAHR-MEER could do! But NO!” Here he points at John. “And I know you laugh at me behind my back! You think I am weak and effeminate! But I’ve had my share of torrid love affairs! With WOMEN!”
“Why don’t you just shut the hell up?” says John, more wearily then angrily.
“Now Bert, maybe you should calm down and have some chocolate pie” suggests Paul.
Bertrand yells at John “NO I don’t want to hear it”, then he whirls on Paul, “And don’t call me BERT! I am not one of your slack-jawed yokel friends! I am a refined educated man! I taught Latin at Cambridge! I TAW-HAW-HAWT LATIN AT CA-HAY-HAYMBRIIIIIIIIIDGE!” Bertrand screams, finally descending into open weeping, throwing himself on the table and covering his head with his hands.
John is staring at the ceiling. Paul begins to gently pat Bertrand on the back. “Now, now, Bert, it’s alright . . . “
Bertrand responds with incomphrensible blubbering.
“Oh, come on, it’s not that bad . . . “
Bertrand responds with more blubbering.
“Oh, I don’t know about all that . . . “
“Maybe I should come back later”, offers Bran.
To be continued . . . .
"Kinda . . . *scaly*, ain't he?"
Moderator: Staff
Taking the tour
“He’ll be alright”, says Paul. “Bert, why don’t you go in the kitchen and in a while I’ll make you some of those eggs you like so much.”
“A-hay-eggs Benedict?” Bertrand says between sobs.
“Yes. With the creamy sauce.”
“Huh-huh-hollandaise sauce?”
“Of course.”
Bertrand slowly rose from his seat. “Alright. Alright. I’m sorry, I . . .” He then waved his hands frantically in front of his face as if to shoo away a bee, then ran out of the conference room sobbing. John glared after him.
“He’s a bit high-strung” said Paul, looking nervously at Bran.
After the commotion died down, John and Paul took Bran on a tour of the various places within the Barony.
“Yeah, we had some excitement up here back a few years ago when Mistress Arane was our Baron . . . she called out darn near the whole militia and was drillin’ us day and night for some crazy invasion. But it’s been relatively peaceful since”, John explained, “We’ve got a handle on most of the bandit gangs runnin’ around; we’ve even reclaimed some of the land for farmin’ and such.”
They walked up the path to where the large stone monument to the deceased Overlord Athlstan sat.
“Hopefully we’ll begin to make this a respectable Barony for our families to grow up in Good Lord willin’ . . . knock wood . . . “, here John rapped his fist twice on a nearby oak.
The tour continued out toward where the memorial to Sierra Redwin lay.
“Out here it’s still pretty wild. And way up yonder . . . “, here John points to the top of the highest mountain in the district to the west of where they were, “there’s a Dark Elf. He don’t like anyone hanging around so it’d be best to let sleepin’ dogs lie. Most folk live out by the east wall, closer to the Armory . . . I mean Baron Manor. More protection there, and that’s where we’ve got most of our farmin’ fields and such.”
“Looksss like a pretty nice place”, said Bran.
“Well thankee”, said Paul.
The continued on back to the Armory where Bran caught up on some of the necessary paperwork needed to make the transition of power complete. Some of the local residents would stop by with a pie or a basket of vegetables to be neighborly and welcome him, but most of them were just curious to see their new Baron, having heard from John that he was “the blue-ist, scaliest feller he ever did see”.
To be continued . . .
“A-hay-eggs Benedict?” Bertrand says between sobs.
“Yes. With the creamy sauce.”
“Huh-huh-hollandaise sauce?”
“Of course.”
Bertrand slowly rose from his seat. “Alright. Alright. I’m sorry, I . . .” He then waved his hands frantically in front of his face as if to shoo away a bee, then ran out of the conference room sobbing. John glared after him.
“He’s a bit high-strung” said Paul, looking nervously at Bran.
After the commotion died down, John and Paul took Bran on a tour of the various places within the Barony.
“Yeah, we had some excitement up here back a few years ago when Mistress Arane was our Baron . . . she called out darn near the whole militia and was drillin’ us day and night for some crazy invasion. But it’s been relatively peaceful since”, John explained, “We’ve got a handle on most of the bandit gangs runnin’ around; we’ve even reclaimed some of the land for farmin’ and such.”
They walked up the path to where the large stone monument to the deceased Overlord Athlstan sat.
“Hopefully we’ll begin to make this a respectable Barony for our families to grow up in Good Lord willin’ . . . knock wood . . . “, here John rapped his fist twice on a nearby oak.
The tour continued out toward where the memorial to Sierra Redwin lay.
“Out here it’s still pretty wild. And way up yonder . . . “, here John points to the top of the highest mountain in the district to the west of where they were, “there’s a Dark Elf. He don’t like anyone hanging around so it’d be best to let sleepin’ dogs lie. Most folk live out by the east wall, closer to the Armory . . . I mean Baron Manor. More protection there, and that’s where we’ve got most of our farmin’ fields and such.”
“Looksss like a pretty nice place”, said Bran.
“Well thankee”, said Paul.
The continued on back to the Armory where Bran caught up on some of the necessary paperwork needed to make the transition of power complete. Some of the local residents would stop by with a pie or a basket of vegetables to be neighborly and welcome him, but most of them were just curious to see their new Baron, having heard from John that he was “the blue-ist, scaliest feller he ever did see”.
To be continued . . .
A fight over Eggs Benedict
Bran spent the night in the Armory complex, figuring it would be good to stay there for a while and get to know the place. He was awoken rather early in the morning to the sound of verbal fighting below his window.
“I’ve been assaulted by poultry! When will these indignities that I am made to suffer cease?” Bran recognized Bertrand’s voice.
“Betsy’s a good chicken. Who the hell said you could eat those eggs anyway?” John replied.
“Unlike your ditch-digging, *MY* work requires an enormous amount of brain power and proper nutrition! I must have my Eggs Benedict in the morning or I cannot perform the complex calculations that are necessary to complete my tasks.”
“What the hell are you drivin’ at? Just what the hell are you drivin’ at?”
“Oh I can feel your mockeries from here! I know you laugh at me and talk about me behind my back! Well let me tell you something! I’ve had more women than you’ve had hot meals! Why I’ve even impregnated a Baroness!”
“Who the hell wants to hear about your perversities?”
“Now, John, Bert, let’s not fight today, alright?” It was Paul.
“*HE* started it! And don’t think you scare me! Why I personally stood at General Montcalm’s side at the Battle of the Plains of Abraham! I served in the La Sarre Regiment! You don’t frighten me - you - you!”
“Like hell you did.”
“Are you calling me a liar?”
“Message, sir!” a voice Bran didn’t recognize.
“Who’s it for?” Paul replied.
“Farmer Bert, sir.”
“Farmer Bert? Oh no . . . “
“Yes, sir. Mister Farmer, first name Bert.”
“AAAAAAAAAAH! It’s Bert-RAND FAHR-MEER! It’s Eighteenth Century French Huguenot! Oh what would you know about that anyway? Give me that message!” the sound of crinkling paper could be heard, then silence for a few moments. “Thankfully I’ve been called away so that I can properly use my talents for someone who appreciates them! You should have that errant fowl’s feathers plucked for her transgressions.”
“Hell with that, I’ll pluck *your* feather.”
“AAAAAAH! *Give me back my feather you brutish oaf*!” the sound of scuffling could be heard and Bran quickly dressed and ran downstairs.
To be continued . . .
“I’ve been assaulted by poultry! When will these indignities that I am made to suffer cease?” Bran recognized Bertrand’s voice.
“Betsy’s a good chicken. Who the hell said you could eat those eggs anyway?” John replied.
“Unlike your ditch-digging, *MY* work requires an enormous amount of brain power and proper nutrition! I must have my Eggs Benedict in the morning or I cannot perform the complex calculations that are necessary to complete my tasks.”
“What the hell are you drivin’ at? Just what the hell are you drivin’ at?”
“Oh I can feel your mockeries from here! I know you laugh at me and talk about me behind my back! Well let me tell you something! I’ve had more women than you’ve had hot meals! Why I’ve even impregnated a Baroness!”
“Who the hell wants to hear about your perversities?”
“Now, John, Bert, let’s not fight today, alright?” It was Paul.
“*HE* started it! And don’t think you scare me! Why I personally stood at General Montcalm’s side at the Battle of the Plains of Abraham! I served in the La Sarre Regiment! You don’t frighten me - you - you!”
“Like hell you did.”
“Are you calling me a liar?”
“Message, sir!” a voice Bran didn’t recognize.
“Who’s it for?” Paul replied.
“Farmer Bert, sir.”
“Farmer Bert? Oh no . . . “
“Yes, sir. Mister Farmer, first name Bert.”
“AAAAAAAAAAH! It’s Bert-RAND FAHR-MEER! It’s Eighteenth Century French Huguenot! Oh what would you know about that anyway? Give me that message!” the sound of crinkling paper could be heard, then silence for a few moments. “Thankfully I’ve been called away so that I can properly use my talents for someone who appreciates them! You should have that errant fowl’s feathers plucked for her transgressions.”
“Hell with that, I’ll pluck *your* feather.”
“AAAAAAH! *Give me back my feather you brutish oaf*!” the sound of scuffling could be heard and Bran quickly dressed and ran downstairs.
To be continued . . .
Can't you two get along?
Bran made it through the doors of the Armory to see John and Bertrand fighting. Bertrand was spinning his arms like a windmill at John, not hitting anything, while John was trying to wrap his massive hands around Bertrand’s neck while holding his fluffy purple feather. Paul was stuck in the middle, getting squashed while trying to keep the two separated.
“HEY! Break it up! Break it up!” Bran yelled, running over and helping Paul to push John off of Bertrand. Bertrand managed to yank the feather out of John’s hand and stick it back in his garish hat. After they had managed to get John to step back a few paces, Paul went over to hold Bertrand back.
“Bertrand, you sssaid you had a job to do, you should go do it and cool off”, said Bran.
Bertrand glared at John with his nose in the air, gave a little “hmpf”, and stormed over to where his horse was tethered by the Armory. Mounting and giving one last look to John, he said “Uncultured brute.”
“Lying pervert” said John.
Bertrand gave another “hmpf” and rode off towards the city proper. It took both Bran and Paul to keep John from going after him. John glared after Bertrand until he disappeared into the distance.
“Why do you two always have to fight?” Paul complained.
“He’s always so darn prissy with me, it makes me mad.”
“You should be the bigger man then and ignore him.”
“I’m not going to let some sissified pervert walk all over me. I was born here, I work here, and I’m going to die here. He’s just passing through. He needs to learn some manners.”
The three had come by the Armory because they were going to have a meeting in regards to financing more land reclamation. One of the long term goals of the Barony was to increase farming production to the point that not only could they create enough foodstuffs for self-sustainment, but also produce a surplus to begin turning a profit. Bertrand’s huffy exit put an end to that, so Bran followed John and Paul out into the fields to see how the farming projects were coming along.
To be continued . . .
“HEY! Break it up! Break it up!” Bran yelled, running over and helping Paul to push John off of Bertrand. Bertrand managed to yank the feather out of John’s hand and stick it back in his garish hat. After they had managed to get John to step back a few paces, Paul went over to hold Bertrand back.
“Bertrand, you sssaid you had a job to do, you should go do it and cool off”, said Bran.
Bertrand glared at John with his nose in the air, gave a little “hmpf”, and stormed over to where his horse was tethered by the Armory. Mounting and giving one last look to John, he said “Uncultured brute.”
“Lying pervert” said John.
Bertrand gave another “hmpf” and rode off towards the city proper. It took both Bran and Paul to keep John from going after him. John glared after Bertrand until he disappeared into the distance.
“Why do you two always have to fight?” Paul complained.
“He’s always so darn prissy with me, it makes me mad.”
“You should be the bigger man then and ignore him.”
“I’m not going to let some sissified pervert walk all over me. I was born here, I work here, and I’m going to die here. He’s just passing through. He needs to learn some manners.”
The three had come by the Armory because they were going to have a meeting in regards to financing more land reclamation. One of the long term goals of the Barony was to increase farming production to the point that not only could they create enough foodstuffs for self-sustainment, but also produce a surplus to begin turning a profit. Bertrand’s huffy exit put an end to that, so Bran followed John and Paul out into the fields to see how the farming projects were coming along.
To be continued . . .
The importance of Spinach
Bran saw that even in the spring, there were rows and rows of lettuce heads. “Hey, how can all thessse cropsss grow while it’sss ssstill cold?”
“Well Baron, these are spring crops. Lettuce has to be grown and harvested in the spring while it’s cool, or else it will bolt”, John explained.
“Bolt? What doesss that mean?”
“That means it will go to seed early, and the leaves will stop growing. We plant the leafy vegetables like spinach and kale early, and harvest them around this time. If you know when to plant certain crops, you can have a continuous food supply all year round.”
“We make some good money sellin’ our crops to the high-falootin’ crowd in the city. They like to use our organic crops for their spinach soufflés and such. Hee hee!” said Paul.
“Our biggest problem is finding suitable land to farm. With all the rocks and woods around here, there’s not much room for farming, and it takes a lot of manpower to clear the land. We may have to find some different sources of revenue in order to build the funds for land clearing.”
Bran, John, and Paul returned to the Armory, and discussed some strategies for increasing revenue. Then John and Paul returned to the fields to do their farm work and agreed to meet the next day with Bertrand to finalize a few things.
The next morning around nine o’clock they all filed into the conference room. Bertrand and John exchanged sideways glares before they sat down on either side of Paul. Paul nervously munched on a prune Danish.
“WELL . . . “ Bertrand began, “I met with one of my . . . close, personal friends in the restauranteur supply business in New Haven”, he sniffed importantly. “As you know, the current trend of fresh green salads in the restaurant business could mean big profits for this Barony . . . should we take advantage of it.” Here he shot another sidelong glance at John.
John’s jaw tightened.
“Anyway, this friend of mind was interested in our most recent crop of spinach and lettuce in particular. He reminded me that the current price for a hundredweight of spinach is 30 silver nobles, but I of course”, here he chuckles to himself as if to suggest he is too clever for his own good, “reminded him of our close proximity to his warehouses and supply routes here in the city. So . . . I was able to get the price up to THIRTY-FIVE silver nobles per hundredweight! Now what do you think of that?”
To be continued . . .
“Well Baron, these are spring crops. Lettuce has to be grown and harvested in the spring while it’s cool, or else it will bolt”, John explained.
“Bolt? What doesss that mean?”
“That means it will go to seed early, and the leaves will stop growing. We plant the leafy vegetables like spinach and kale early, and harvest them around this time. If you know when to plant certain crops, you can have a continuous food supply all year round.”
“We make some good money sellin’ our crops to the high-falootin’ crowd in the city. They like to use our organic crops for their spinach soufflés and such. Hee hee!” said Paul.
“Our biggest problem is finding suitable land to farm. With all the rocks and woods around here, there’s not much room for farming, and it takes a lot of manpower to clear the land. We may have to find some different sources of revenue in order to build the funds for land clearing.”
Bran, John, and Paul returned to the Armory, and discussed some strategies for increasing revenue. Then John and Paul returned to the fields to do their farm work and agreed to meet the next day with Bertrand to finalize a few things.
The next morning around nine o’clock they all filed into the conference room. Bertrand and John exchanged sideways glares before they sat down on either side of Paul. Paul nervously munched on a prune Danish.
“WELL . . . “ Bertrand began, “I met with one of my . . . close, personal friends in the restauranteur supply business in New Haven”, he sniffed importantly. “As you know, the current trend of fresh green salads in the restaurant business could mean big profits for this Barony . . . should we take advantage of it.” Here he shot another sidelong glance at John.
John’s jaw tightened.
“Anyway, this friend of mind was interested in our most recent crop of spinach and lettuce in particular. He reminded me that the current price for a hundredweight of spinach is 30 silver nobles, but I of course”, here he chuckles to himself as if to suggest he is too clever for his own good, “reminded him of our close proximity to his warehouses and supply routes here in the city. So . . . I was able to get the price up to THIRTY-FIVE silver nobles per hundredweight! Now what do you think of that?”
To be continued . . .
They're fighting over spinach
“It sounds too good to be true”, replied John, narrowing his eyes.
“And what is *THAT* supposed to mean? I’m about to land you a deal where you’re going to make over two thousand silver nobles an acre and you’re going to start with your petty quibbling?”
“How the hell am I supposed to know you’re telling the truth? You could be getting three thousand silver nobles an acre and putting the profits in your own pocket!”
“OH so first I’m a LIAR, and now I’m a THIEF, is that it?”
“Well if the silly looking shoe fits . . . “
“I’m sick and tired of this abuse! I humiliate myself on a daily basis trying to keep this outdated, backwoods Barony in the black, and what thanks do I get for it? If you think you can do my job so much better, than why don’t you do it yourself?”
“You better watch your mouth.”
“Don’t you threaten me! Don’t you try to insult my manhood! Why I have more “ammunition” in *my* “cannon” then . . . HURRKKKK!”
John had leaped up and grabbed Bertrand by the throat, while Bertrand was feebly pounding on John’s arms trying to get him off.
“Hey! Hey! What’sss the matter with you two?” Bran and Paul went back to work trying to separate the two. After prying John’s hands off of Bertrand’s throat, John waved his arms angrily and stormed out of the room. “Ahhh I’m going out in the fields!” He left the Armory without a backward glance.
“Why do you two have to fight all the time? Why can’t you try to get along with John?” Bran asked.
“He doesn’t appreciate all the hard work I do for this Barony. He thinks he’s more of a man than me and he’s constantly picking on me! It’s intolerable!”
Bran wondered if there was any way that he was going to be able to keep these two from killing each other.
Far off in the north woods . . . deep within the shadows, two yellow lights could be seen, eyes that were peering out as if watching. A rustling of leaves and twigs could be heard, and then a figure emerged from the darkness. Nearly four and a half feet in height, the figure had dark green skin, large protruding teeth, yellow eyes, and dirty black hair that started at the top of his head and ran down his back. He wore a dirty, patchwork leather jerkin as armor, and carried a spiked mace. Sniffing loudly, the creature moved through the forest, scouting the area. Soon another creature with a similar appearance joined him.
“Have you found any signs of danger?” the first creature said.
“None so far. Most of the humans live further south and east. This land is still untamed. We can use it as a forward base. We should report back to the Chieftain at once!”
“This place is ripe for the plucking. It will bring much glory to the Tribe of the Dark Spears. We must alert and assemble the tribe!”
“Time *is* of the essence, comrade.” The second creature agreed.
“Then let us return and prepare. The Chieftain will want to hear our report.”
The two creatures hurried back into the deep forests of the north.
To be continued . . .
“And what is *THAT* supposed to mean? I’m about to land you a deal where you’re going to make over two thousand silver nobles an acre and you’re going to start with your petty quibbling?”
“How the hell am I supposed to know you’re telling the truth? You could be getting three thousand silver nobles an acre and putting the profits in your own pocket!”
“OH so first I’m a LIAR, and now I’m a THIEF, is that it?”
“Well if the silly looking shoe fits . . . “
“I’m sick and tired of this abuse! I humiliate myself on a daily basis trying to keep this outdated, backwoods Barony in the black, and what thanks do I get for it? If you think you can do my job so much better, than why don’t you do it yourself?”
“You better watch your mouth.”
“Don’t you threaten me! Don’t you try to insult my manhood! Why I have more “ammunition” in *my* “cannon” then . . . HURRKKKK!”
John had leaped up and grabbed Bertrand by the throat, while Bertrand was feebly pounding on John’s arms trying to get him off.
“Hey! Hey! What’sss the matter with you two?” Bran and Paul went back to work trying to separate the two. After prying John’s hands off of Bertrand’s throat, John waved his arms angrily and stormed out of the room. “Ahhh I’m going out in the fields!” He left the Armory without a backward glance.
“Why do you two have to fight all the time? Why can’t you try to get along with John?” Bran asked.
“He doesn’t appreciate all the hard work I do for this Barony. He thinks he’s more of a man than me and he’s constantly picking on me! It’s intolerable!”
Bran wondered if there was any way that he was going to be able to keep these two from killing each other.
Far off in the north woods . . . deep within the shadows, two yellow lights could be seen, eyes that were peering out as if watching. A rustling of leaves and twigs could be heard, and then a figure emerged from the darkness. Nearly four and a half feet in height, the figure had dark green skin, large protruding teeth, yellow eyes, and dirty black hair that started at the top of his head and ran down his back. He wore a dirty, patchwork leather jerkin as armor, and carried a spiked mace. Sniffing loudly, the creature moved through the forest, scouting the area. Soon another creature with a similar appearance joined him.
“Have you found any signs of danger?” the first creature said.
“None so far. Most of the humans live further south and east. This land is still untamed. We can use it as a forward base. We should report back to the Chieftain at once!”
“This place is ripe for the plucking. It will bring much glory to the Tribe of the Dark Spears. We must alert and assemble the tribe!”
“Time *is* of the essence, comrade.” The second creature agreed.
“Then let us return and prepare. The Chieftain will want to hear our report.”
The two creatures hurried back into the deep forests of the north.
To be continued . . .
The first attack
As twilight fell on the Battlefield Park Barony, the northern woods came alive with the sounds of rustling and marching. Moving quickly through the wood, a hundred of the green-skinned creatures made there way through the foliage. They were all dressed in the same dirty, patchwork leather jerkins, and they carried spears that were painted black. As darkness fell, they made their way to one of the outermost farms, the farm of Niall Smith. Charging through the fields of freshly planted corn, they formed a line on the edge of the cluster of buildings around the farmhouse. Almost as one, they pulled out torches and lit them on fire.
Niall had a long day. Tilling the rocky soil in that part of the Barony was hard work, and it had taken quite a long time to get the corn fields ready. Tomorrow he would start on the soybean fields. Niall was a middle-aged man about six feet tall with red hair. He was well muscled from all his years of working a farm. He lived there with his wife, son and daughter. After dinner and a few hours of reading and sitting by the fire, he and his wife went to bed. Niall was awoken a few hours later by the sound of battle cries, crackling wood, and the smell of smoke. Leaping out of bed and running to the window, he saw one of his barns on fire, and dozens of the green-skinned creatures with torches, setting everything they could ablaze.
“My God! Goblins!” he cried.
Shaking his wife awake, he told her what was happening, and she gave a fearful cry. Niall ran to the bedrooms of his children and hurried them to the back door of the house.
“We’re going to the stable, and we’ll ride for help”, he said. Pushing the door open, he was immediately confronted with three goblins, howling and waving their black spears at him. He grabbed a pitchfork that he had set by the door the day before and prepared to fend them off.
“GO!” he screamed. “Get to the horses! Ride!”
“Niall!” his wife screamed.
“GO!” he screamed again. He charged at the first goblin, knocking his spear away and planting the prongs of the pitchfork into its chest, it howled in shock and pain before falling backwards to the ground, dead. Unfortunately for Niall, that gave the other two goblins time to jump him from either side. Growling and struggling, he was able to throw one off of him and into the side of his house, while the other one grabbed his pitchfork and they began a tug-of-war. More goblins were appearing from the burning barn and Niall knew he was done for. He looked desperately over his shoulder and saw his wife and kids galloping away from the stable and towards the east. Niall turned back and shoved the shaft of the pitchfork into the face of the goblin he was struggling with, and then turned to face the new threat. But he was too late. At least a dozen of the green-skinned creatures jumped on him and drove their black spears into his chest. Niall hit the ground, and the last thing he saw was his barn burning in the distance, the black smoke rising into the night sky.
To be continued . . .
Niall had a long day. Tilling the rocky soil in that part of the Barony was hard work, and it had taken quite a long time to get the corn fields ready. Tomorrow he would start on the soybean fields. Niall was a middle-aged man about six feet tall with red hair. He was well muscled from all his years of working a farm. He lived there with his wife, son and daughter. After dinner and a few hours of reading and sitting by the fire, he and his wife went to bed. Niall was awoken a few hours later by the sound of battle cries, crackling wood, and the smell of smoke. Leaping out of bed and running to the window, he saw one of his barns on fire, and dozens of the green-skinned creatures with torches, setting everything they could ablaze.
“My God! Goblins!” he cried.
Shaking his wife awake, he told her what was happening, and she gave a fearful cry. Niall ran to the bedrooms of his children and hurried them to the back door of the house.
“We’re going to the stable, and we’ll ride for help”, he said. Pushing the door open, he was immediately confronted with three goblins, howling and waving their black spears at him. He grabbed a pitchfork that he had set by the door the day before and prepared to fend them off.
“GO!” he screamed. “Get to the horses! Ride!”
“Niall!” his wife screamed.
“GO!” he screamed again. He charged at the first goblin, knocking his spear away and planting the prongs of the pitchfork into its chest, it howled in shock and pain before falling backwards to the ground, dead. Unfortunately for Niall, that gave the other two goblins time to jump him from either side. Growling and struggling, he was able to throw one off of him and into the side of his house, while the other one grabbed his pitchfork and they began a tug-of-war. More goblins were appearing from the burning barn and Niall knew he was done for. He looked desperately over his shoulder and saw his wife and kids galloping away from the stable and towards the east. Niall turned back and shoved the shaft of the pitchfork into the face of the goblin he was struggling with, and then turned to face the new threat. But he was too late. At least a dozen of the green-skinned creatures jumped on him and drove their black spears into his chest. Niall hit the ground, and the last thing he saw was his barn burning in the distance, the black smoke rising into the night sky.
To be continued . . .
The Ride of Thomas Collins
Sobbing and hysterical, Niall’s wife, Rosemary, rode into the neighboring farm that was owned by Thomas Collins. Thomas, an elderly man with a grey crew cut, awoke from his bed with a start as he heard banging on his front door. Thomas lit the oil lamp on the nightstand, grabbed his sword from next to his bed, and rumbled down the stairs wondering who it could be. When he opened his door, Rosemarie practically fell into his arms, crying about how Niall was gone and her farm burned to ashes. Thomas tried to comfort her as best as he could, while her son and daughter told Thomas about what had happened on the Smith farm.
“A Goblin attack! We’ve got to get to the Armory! They’ll probably head this way!”
Thomas explained to Rosemary and her children how it wouldn’t be safe there, and they needed to get to the Armory and the militia immediately. Rosemary was still inconsolable, but he and her son were able to get her back into the saddle, and Thomas rode with them east towards the distant Armory.
It took them about a half an hour, they had to slow to a trot a few times to keep Rosemary stable, but they rounded the mountains and made it to the Armory where Bran was sleeping.
“Baron! Sir Bran!” Thomas called through the door, as he banged on it with his fist.
Bran, bleary-eyed, awoke, having heard the commotion downstairs. Putting on some breeches and a tunic, he went down and opened the door to see what the matter was.
“Sir Bran! I . . . ulp!” gaping openly, Thomas looked at the new Baron of the district for the first time. He had heard the stories, but it didn’t quite prepare him for an almost six foot tall, bipedal, blue-scaled lizard staring at him with yellow, blinking eyes.
Bran tilted his head to the side, like a bird would, to get a better look at the stammering man.
“Attack! Sir, we’re under attack by Goblins! The Smith Farm, out by the northern woods!”
Thomas brought Rosemary and her children into the Armory complex, and then he and Bran rode for John’s nearby farm. From there they scattered out to the local homes and farms to get the militia together. Several hours later, as dawn was approaching, they had gotten fifty of the local citizens together on horses to ride for the Smith farm.
To be continued . . .
“A Goblin attack! We’ve got to get to the Armory! They’ll probably head this way!”
Thomas explained to Rosemary and her children how it wouldn’t be safe there, and they needed to get to the Armory and the militia immediately. Rosemary was still inconsolable, but he and her son were able to get her back into the saddle, and Thomas rode with them east towards the distant Armory.
It took them about a half an hour, they had to slow to a trot a few times to keep Rosemary stable, but they rounded the mountains and made it to the Armory where Bran was sleeping.
“Baron! Sir Bran!” Thomas called through the door, as he banged on it with his fist.
Bran, bleary-eyed, awoke, having heard the commotion downstairs. Putting on some breeches and a tunic, he went down and opened the door to see what the matter was.
“Sir Bran! I . . . ulp!” gaping openly, Thomas looked at the new Baron of the district for the first time. He had heard the stories, but it didn’t quite prepare him for an almost six foot tall, bipedal, blue-scaled lizard staring at him with yellow, blinking eyes.
Bran tilted his head to the side, like a bird would, to get a better look at the stammering man.
“Attack! Sir, we’re under attack by Goblins! The Smith Farm, out by the northern woods!”
Thomas brought Rosemary and her children into the Armory complex, and then he and Bran rode for John’s nearby farm. From there they scattered out to the local homes and farms to get the militia together. Several hours later, as dawn was approaching, they had gotten fifty of the local citizens together on horses to ride for the Smith farm.
To be continued . . .
The fate of the Smith Farm
They rode towards the west, led by John, Bran, and Thomas, heading towards the mountains. Galloping with urgency, they rode past the mountains and came to the Smith Farm. Plumes of smoke were still funneling skywards from the burned out shells of buildings. The militiamen dismounted, and forming a battle line, they advanced slowly towards the compound, as a few scouts who were still mounted galloped ahead, looking for signs of the enemy. As the militiamen marched into the compound, the scouts returned, reporting all was quiet, and no one was found. The militia began to break up and filter around to the buildings, looking for evidence of who was responsible. John, Bran, and Thomas rounded the side of the farmhouse, where they found Niall’s body.
Niall lay on his back, face looking upwards to the sky, with dozens of puncture wounds caused by spears all over his body. Surrounding him was exactly twelve black colored spears driven into the ground in a circle.
“Good Lord!” cried Thomas. “Who could do such a thing?”
As time wore on, the militia found that the Smith Farm had been stripped of all valuables and foodstuffs. All that had been left by the enemy were the spears around Niall’s body.
Scouts had been sent into the northern woods to see if they could determine where the goblin band went. Bran had a meeting after the militia returned from the Smith Farm to determine the best course of action. John, Paul, and Thomas were there, and Bertrand was informed and en route.
“We need to assemble the whole militia and prepare for a battle. This is serious business. I knew Niall well and I’m not going to let this go”, said John. John had been grim ever since they left the Smith Farm.
Bran knew that something had to be done, but he was incredibly nervous. He had never been in a military-style battle before, and the whole ordeal seemed overwhelming. Why was this happening now, all of a sudden? Would he be able to lead men into battle? Why would they follow *him*?
Just then Rosemary busted into the conference room. “Where is the Baron? I demand to speak to him!”
To be continued . . .
Niall lay on his back, face looking upwards to the sky, with dozens of puncture wounds caused by spears all over his body. Surrounding him was exactly twelve black colored spears driven into the ground in a circle.
“Good Lord!” cried Thomas. “Who could do such a thing?”
As time wore on, the militia found that the Smith Farm had been stripped of all valuables and foodstuffs. All that had been left by the enemy were the spears around Niall’s body.
Scouts had been sent into the northern woods to see if they could determine where the goblin band went. Bran had a meeting after the militia returned from the Smith Farm to determine the best course of action. John, Paul, and Thomas were there, and Bertrand was informed and en route.
“We need to assemble the whole militia and prepare for a battle. This is serious business. I knew Niall well and I’m not going to let this go”, said John. John had been grim ever since they left the Smith Farm.
Bran knew that something had to be done, but he was incredibly nervous. He had never been in a military-style battle before, and the whole ordeal seemed overwhelming. Why was this happening now, all of a sudden? Would he be able to lead men into battle? Why would they follow *him*?
Just then Rosemary busted into the conference room. “Where is the Baron? I demand to speak to him!”
To be continued . . .
Preparing for battle
Thomas rose and tried to restrain her. “Rose! Please, we’re trying to organize things . . . “
“What are you talking about? Why aren’t you out there right now avenging my husband?”
John rose from his seat as well and tried to help Thomas. “Rose, please, let us take care of this. We’ll get justice for Niall.”
“I don’t want to hear it!” Rose struggled with the two men and slipped around them, running up to Bran. “Are you going to do something about my husband? Or are you just one of those fake Barons that breeze in here and don’t take their responsibilities seriously? My husband is dead and something must be done about it!”
John and Thomas finally got a hold of Rose and tried to coax her out of the room. Bran stood up.
“Missss Rossse, I will avenge your husssband. I promissse.”
Rose stopped her struggling and stared at Bran. Then she nodded, and crying, she turned and hurriedly left the room. John and Thomas turned and looked at Bran.
“Get the militia ready. We’ll march for the northern woodsss asss sssoon asss possssible.”
“Alright, Baron.” John nodded, then he and Thomas left the Armory to alert the local militiamen.
The preparations took most of the day as all the able-bodied men of the district assembled outside the Armory. News began to filter in from the scouts that were sent into the northern woods of a goblin tribe that was preparing to attack more of the outlying farms. The scouts informed the locals of the impending threat, and refugees began to stream towards the Armory as well. The Battlefield Park district was the least populated area of RhyDin City, but they were able to gather about five hundred militiamen for the coming battle. Most of the men were dressed in padded or leather armor, and carried some sort of polearm, with a knife as a secondary weapon. The militia was split into three companies for better flexibility. John, Paul, and Bertrand would each lead one of the companies. They would camp for the night at the Armory and move out at dawn.
To be continued . . .
“What are you talking about? Why aren’t you out there right now avenging my husband?”
John rose from his seat as well and tried to help Thomas. “Rose, please, let us take care of this. We’ll get justice for Niall.”
“I don’t want to hear it!” Rose struggled with the two men and slipped around them, running up to Bran. “Are you going to do something about my husband? Or are you just one of those fake Barons that breeze in here and don’t take their responsibilities seriously? My husband is dead and something must be done about it!”
John and Thomas finally got a hold of Rose and tried to coax her out of the room. Bran stood up.
“Missss Rossse, I will avenge your husssband. I promissse.”
Rose stopped her struggling and stared at Bran. Then she nodded, and crying, she turned and hurriedly left the room. John and Thomas turned and looked at Bran.
“Get the militia ready. We’ll march for the northern woodsss asss sssoon asss possssible.”
“Alright, Baron.” John nodded, then he and Thomas left the Armory to alert the local militiamen.
The preparations took most of the day as all the able-bodied men of the district assembled outside the Armory. News began to filter in from the scouts that were sent into the northern woods of a goblin tribe that was preparing to attack more of the outlying farms. The scouts informed the locals of the impending threat, and refugees began to stream towards the Armory as well. The Battlefield Park district was the least populated area of RhyDin City, but they were able to gather about five hundred militiamen for the coming battle. Most of the men were dressed in padded or leather armor, and carried some sort of polearm, with a knife as a secondary weapon. The militia was split into three companies for better flexibility. John, Paul, and Bertrand would each lead one of the companies. They would camp for the night at the Armory and move out at dawn.
To be continued . . .
Bertrand arrives and is ready for battle
Morning came and John, Paul, and Bran stood outside the Armory, waiting for the men to assemble for the day’s march. John was dressed in a leather jerkin and carried a massive sledgehammer. Paul was wearing some padded armor with a buckler, and his weapon was a bow made of oak. Bran was wearing some chain mail that he had found in the armory, and was carrying his cloverleaf spear, with his elven sword strapped by his side. John paced in a circle, complaining, because Bertrand hadn’t arrived yet.
“Now where is Bertrand at? First sign of a battle and the yellow coward disappears.”
“He should be here any minute, John, just be patient. Besides, he has battle experience, we’re going to need him for the battle”, said Paul.
“Battle experience? That’s a laugh. All the battle experience he’s ever had is in his head. He can talk big and that’s it. Besides, why the hell would I want to hear for the hundredth time about the time he soiled his britches at the Battle of Fort Oswego?”
Just then, Bertrand appeared, riding around the side of the Armory on a white horse. He dismounted in front of Bran and the others. Bertrand was wearing a white and grey military dress jacket with blue facings and collets. The inside jacket was red, and all the buttons were golden. His black hat was also trimmed with gold, with a white feather stuck in the brim at a roguish angle. The three gaped at the fancy military uniform that Bertrand was wearing.
Bertrand turned to John. “*WAS* in the La Sarre Regiment. *HMPF*.” He then strode over to Bran with his nose in the air. “Lord Baron, I humbly offer my services to lead one of our illustrious companies into battle.”
“I humbly accept. Take the third company on the right wing” Bran couldn’t help but chuckle at Bertrand. Bertrand gave a snappy salute, turned back to his horse, climbed on, and was off to organize his men.
John and Paul watched Bertrand ride off, then turned to look at Bran. Bran just shrugged. “Let’sss get to it, we have a Barony to protect”. John and Paul nodded, then moved off to their respective companies to issue orders to march.
To be continued . . .
“Now where is Bertrand at? First sign of a battle and the yellow coward disappears.”
“He should be here any minute, John, just be patient. Besides, he has battle experience, we’re going to need him for the battle”, said Paul.
“Battle experience? That’s a laugh. All the battle experience he’s ever had is in his head. He can talk big and that’s it. Besides, why the hell would I want to hear for the hundredth time about the time he soiled his britches at the Battle of Fort Oswego?”
Just then, Bertrand appeared, riding around the side of the Armory on a white horse. He dismounted in front of Bran and the others. Bertrand was wearing a white and grey military dress jacket with blue facings and collets. The inside jacket was red, and all the buttons were golden. His black hat was also trimmed with gold, with a white feather stuck in the brim at a roguish angle. The three gaped at the fancy military uniform that Bertrand was wearing.
Bertrand turned to John. “*WAS* in the La Sarre Regiment. *HMPF*.” He then strode over to Bran with his nose in the air. “Lord Baron, I humbly offer my services to lead one of our illustrious companies into battle.”
“I humbly accept. Take the third company on the right wing” Bran couldn’t help but chuckle at Bertrand. Bertrand gave a snappy salute, turned back to his horse, climbed on, and was off to organize his men.
John and Paul watched Bertrand ride off, then turned to look at Bran. Bran just shrugged. “Let’sss get to it, we have a Barony to protect”. John and Paul nodded, then moved off to their respective companies to issue orders to march.
To be continued . . .
The Militia marches to battle
The militia marched all day, moving west to avoid the mountains, then north towards the vast forests. John and Bran were riding horses behind the advancing second company, which would make up the center of their line. As they headed north, scouts began to filter back, telling of how more of the outlying farms had been attacked and burned. Most of the citizens had fled to the Armory, so there was little loss of life. Reports also told of goblin shamans that were invoking spirits to enhance the fighting skills of their troops.
“We’re going to have to do something about that”, said John. “I’ve heard you are skilled in shamanism, Baron, would you be able to stop their magic?”
“Well, I can try”, said Bran. He was learning more and more from his mentor Rezzik during his stay in the Tower of Fire, but he still wasn’t sure that he would be prepared enough to use his shaman powers in battle.
The militia made their way to the outskirts of the northern forests by the afternoon. “We had better stop here for now”, said John, “We don’t want to be caught in the middle of the forest when it gets dark. We can camp here and continue in the morning.”
The militia broke out their makeshift tents and formed a camp on the southern side of the creek. They could see a farm not far away on the northern side. John said it was the Graybill farm.
“That stubborn fool refused to leave his farm. He’s lucky we got here so quick or he’d be roasting in some goblin’s stew right about now”, said John.
The militia companies were laid out so that the first and second companies would face the forest in case of attack, while the third company led by Bertrand would be opposite a stone bridge that led to the Graybill farm in case there was a raid there during the night.
Pickets were sent out to warn of impending attacks, while everyone else settled down for the night. Fires were built here and there to ward off the cold and provide light. A scout reported back the Old Man Graybill was indeed alive and still refused to leave his farm even with the militia so close. Once the preparations were concluded, Bran retired to his tent and slept an uneasy sleep.
To be continued . . .
“We’re going to have to do something about that”, said John. “I’ve heard you are skilled in shamanism, Baron, would you be able to stop their magic?”
“Well, I can try”, said Bran. He was learning more and more from his mentor Rezzik during his stay in the Tower of Fire, but he still wasn’t sure that he would be prepared enough to use his shaman powers in battle.
The militia made their way to the outskirts of the northern forests by the afternoon. “We had better stop here for now”, said John, “We don’t want to be caught in the middle of the forest when it gets dark. We can camp here and continue in the morning.”
The militia broke out their makeshift tents and formed a camp on the southern side of the creek. They could see a farm not far away on the northern side. John said it was the Graybill farm.
“That stubborn fool refused to leave his farm. He’s lucky we got here so quick or he’d be roasting in some goblin’s stew right about now”, said John.
The militia companies were laid out so that the first and second companies would face the forest in case of attack, while the third company led by Bertrand would be opposite a stone bridge that led to the Graybill farm in case there was a raid there during the night.
Pickets were sent out to warn of impending attacks, while everyone else settled down for the night. Fires were built here and there to ward off the cold and provide light. A scout reported back the Old Man Graybill was indeed alive and still refused to leave his farm even with the militia so close. Once the preparations were concluded, Bran retired to his tent and slept an uneasy sleep.
To be continued . . .
Night Skirmish
Bran was sleeping soundly when midnight arrived. He was awoken by the sound of commotion and startled cries. Grabbing his clothes and armor, he dressed himself hurriedly and stepped outside the tent as a militiaman ran up to him with a report.
“Sir! They’re launching flaming arrows at us from the trees across the creek!”
Bran looked at the encampment of the second company and already several of the tents were ablaze, as the militiamen were forming a human chain with buckets to extinguish the flames. He could see the sky lit up as flaming arrows were curving their way over the creek and into the camp from the forest.
“Gather the men on horseback and we’ll rout them out!” Bran cried. Each company was made up of mostly infantry, but there were thirty or forty that were equipped with horses for scouting and flank protection. The band of forty cavalrymen was assembled, and Bran led them over the creek and into the treeline.
It all seemed strange to Bran. He never thought that he would ever lead people into battle, but here he was doing just that. The situation demanded immediate action, and his responsibilities weighed heavily on him, and this combination drove him to act rather than hesitate. He could feel the spirits of his ancestors compelling him to battle, they urged him on, and the bloodlust began to rise within him.
Breaking through the treeline, Bran could see that the goblins there were a small detachment, meant to harass and disrupt their encampment. Most of the goblins, seeing that their job was done, and wishing to avoid the cavalrymen, began streaming back into the forest. Bran and his troops chased them as best as they could, making their way through the dense foliage, but the going was difficult. Some of the goblin raiders were struck down, but the majority was able to blend back into the woods. The cavalrymen pursued them for a distance, then broke off and returned to camp.
“We’re going to have to proceed on foot if we want to root these goblins out”, said John, as he met with Bran on his return.
“Let’sss jussst try to get sssome sssleep. We’ll enter the woodsss in the morning”, said Bran.
Once the militiamen were calmed, and the threat gone, normal picket duty resumed, and everyone tried to get some rest for what they knew would be an eventful morning.
To be continued . . .
“Sir! They’re launching flaming arrows at us from the trees across the creek!”
Bran looked at the encampment of the second company and already several of the tents were ablaze, as the militiamen were forming a human chain with buckets to extinguish the flames. He could see the sky lit up as flaming arrows were curving their way over the creek and into the camp from the forest.
“Gather the men on horseback and we’ll rout them out!” Bran cried. Each company was made up of mostly infantry, but there were thirty or forty that were equipped with horses for scouting and flank protection. The band of forty cavalrymen was assembled, and Bran led them over the creek and into the treeline.
It all seemed strange to Bran. He never thought that he would ever lead people into battle, but here he was doing just that. The situation demanded immediate action, and his responsibilities weighed heavily on him, and this combination drove him to act rather than hesitate. He could feel the spirits of his ancestors compelling him to battle, they urged him on, and the bloodlust began to rise within him.
Breaking through the treeline, Bran could see that the goblins there were a small detachment, meant to harass and disrupt their encampment. Most of the goblins, seeing that their job was done, and wishing to avoid the cavalrymen, began streaming back into the forest. Bran and his troops chased them as best as they could, making their way through the dense foliage, but the going was difficult. Some of the goblin raiders were struck down, but the majority was able to blend back into the woods. The cavalrymen pursued them for a distance, then broke off and returned to camp.
“We’re going to have to proceed on foot if we want to root these goblins out”, said John, as he met with Bran on his return.
“Let’sss jussst try to get sssome sssleep. We’ll enter the woodsss in the morning”, said Bran.
Once the militiamen were calmed, and the threat gone, normal picket duty resumed, and everyone tried to get some rest for what they knew would be an eventful morning.
To be continued . . .
Third Company enters the Graybill Farm
Dawn came. The goblins had not attacked again during the night, but the pickets reported activity within the woods; strange chants, swirling lights, the beating of drums. The militia companies moved into formation, and prepared to enter the woods in front of them. The first and second companies proceeded through the creek and into the woods, while Bertrand’s third company passed over the stone bridge and into the collective buildings that made up the Graybill farm.
Bran marched behind the second company alongside John and Thomas. The woods were strangely quiet as the companies had moved forward, but soon they heard the whiz of arrows from ahead, and the men raised their wooden shields to protect themselves. As they pressed on farther, the arrows became thicker, and grunts and shouts could be heard as the goblins began to skirmish with them.
“Stay close! Forward, quickly!” yelled John. The militiamen broke into a trot, and began to press forward through the wood, avoiding the trees and underbrush as best as they could.
Bertrand rode primly on his white horse behind Third Company as they crossed the stone bridge onto Old Man Graybill’s lands. Marching up the dirt road to the farmhouse, they stopped so that Bertrand could check the premises. Dismounting his horse, he strode over to the door and knocked twice, removed his hat, and stuck his nose in the air.
Old Man Graybill answered, a spindly man with a hawkish nose and a bad temper.
“Bonjour, Monsieur Graybill. I am Captain Bertrand FAHR-MEER of the Battlefield Park Militia, Third Company. We have arrived to ensure your safety and protection. Have you seen much activity our enemies lately?”
“It’s about durn time you showed up, my farm was almost burnt to the ground! What’s going on around here when the Baron lets goblins run around loose killin’ and burnin’ and whatnot! That’s the government for ya!”
Bertrand nose went higher into the air and he glared down at the farmer. “I assure you, Monsieur, we arrived as soon as we possibly could. Now, if you could inform me as too any sighting of these goblins, it would be of much assistance, si vous plait.”
“Dad blamed government . . . yeah I seen ‘em, millin’ around my corn fields!” Graybill pointed out north to where his fields lay. “How am I supposed to plant my crops with those things runnin’ around, you tell me that?”
“Listen, you . . . “ Bertrand was about to give Old Man Graybill an angry retort when one of his sergeants, Gene Clarke, came running up.
“Captain! Sir! Massed goblin formations are coming our way! There’s hundreds of them!”
To be continued . . .
Bran marched behind the second company alongside John and Thomas. The woods were strangely quiet as the companies had moved forward, but soon they heard the whiz of arrows from ahead, and the men raised their wooden shields to protect themselves. As they pressed on farther, the arrows became thicker, and grunts and shouts could be heard as the goblins began to skirmish with them.
“Stay close! Forward, quickly!” yelled John. The militiamen broke into a trot, and began to press forward through the wood, avoiding the trees and underbrush as best as they could.
Bertrand rode primly on his white horse behind Third Company as they crossed the stone bridge onto Old Man Graybill’s lands. Marching up the dirt road to the farmhouse, they stopped so that Bertrand could check the premises. Dismounting his horse, he strode over to the door and knocked twice, removed his hat, and stuck his nose in the air.
Old Man Graybill answered, a spindly man with a hawkish nose and a bad temper.
“Bonjour, Monsieur Graybill. I am Captain Bertrand FAHR-MEER of the Battlefield Park Militia, Third Company. We have arrived to ensure your safety and protection. Have you seen much activity our enemies lately?”
“It’s about durn time you showed up, my farm was almost burnt to the ground! What’s going on around here when the Baron lets goblins run around loose killin’ and burnin’ and whatnot! That’s the government for ya!”
Bertrand nose went higher into the air and he glared down at the farmer. “I assure you, Monsieur, we arrived as soon as we possibly could. Now, if you could inform me as too any sighting of these goblins, it would be of much assistance, si vous plait.”
“Dad blamed government . . . yeah I seen ‘em, millin’ around my corn fields!” Graybill pointed out north to where his fields lay. “How am I supposed to plant my crops with those things runnin’ around, you tell me that?”
“Listen, you . . . “ Bertrand was about to give Old Man Graybill an angry retort when one of his sergeants, Gene Clarke, came running up.
“Captain! Sir! Massed goblin formations are coming our way! There’s hundreds of them!”
To be continued . . .
Gunderdun's Prayer Part 1
Several weeks ago . . .
Gunderdun was the Cheiftan and Shaman of the Tribe of the Dark Spears, a wild clan of goblins that lived in the dense forests north of RhyDin City. Although he had focused his life on serving the Goblin God Maglubiyet, and trained extensively in the ways of the shaman, he happened to be the tallest and strongest of his tribe. Eventually, through the attrition of battle and lack of competition, Gunderdun rose naturally into the leadership role of his tribe. Gunderdun was nearly five feet tall, and his green skinned face had all the markings of a warrior that had won his authority the hard way. His attire featured the skulls of animals and enemies that he had killed; his clothing was red and fastened with leather straps.
One day Gunderdun was sitting in his thatched hut of straw, meditating over a bubbling pot of leaves, grasses, and bones, attempting to commune with the Gods, seeking direction. Gunderdun had fought a costly battle with a local tribe of Orcs. It seemed that the Tribe of the Dark Spears would not last long. Its warriors were being slowly killed off; other larger tribes of stronger warriors were encroaching on their territory. Gunderdun needed help, and as a shaman, his first duty was to consult the Gods. Rarely had Gunderdun ever heard anything back from his prayers, but the rituals helped to give him focus and steady his mind, and perhaps that would be enough to help him formulate a plan.
This time, however, his prayer was answered.
As the smoke from the fire filled his hut, Gunderdun opened his eyes to see a round, black skinned face coalescing in front of him. The face had the pointed ears of a goblin, and red eyes that seemed to be on fire, flames rising up past its eyebrows. Gunderdun knew immediately who it was and fell on his face, groveling.
“Oh mighty Maglubiyet! God of the Fiery Eyes! Lord of the Depths and the Darkness! You humble your unworthy servant with your presence!”
“SILENCE! OF COURSE YOU ARE UNWORTHY! YOUR CONSTANT GRIPING IS GRATING ON MY NERVES. WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME? BE QUICK ABOUT IT.”
“Oh Mighty Lord, your power is great and . . .”
“SILENCE! WHAT DID I JUST SAY TO YOU?” Maglubiyet’s eyes flared dangerously.
“Muh-muh-My Lord, I would request your assistance in saving the Tribe of the Dark Spears from extinction. We have lost many warriors, and are hard pressed by other tribes and creatures who want our lands. I fear we cannot stand against them for long.”
“HMM. DO NOT THINK THAT I HAVE NOT SEEN THE PLIGHT OF YOUR TRIBE, SHAMAN. YOUR PERIL IS INDEED AS YOU SAY. NORMALLY, I WOULD LEAVE YOU TO YOUR FATE. THE WEAK MUST BE ERADICATED. BUT I HAVE SEEN A VISION – AN OBJECT OF POWER. ACQUIRING THIS OBJECT WOULD GIVE ME GREAT STRENGTH, AND I WOULD CONSIDER YOUR TRIBE WORTH SAVING.”
Maglubiyet’s face slowly began to dissolve in the smoke, and form into a picture of a wizard’s rod, with a silver handle and a large, black stone with milky white ripples.
“THIS IS THE WAND OF MELTHEEL, A HUMAN SORCERER THAT LIVED IN AGES PAST. HE USED ITS POWER TO CREATE HIS OWN KINGDOM AND ARMY. HIS GOAL WAS THE CONQUEST OF THIS HUMAN CITY:”
Here the smoke shifted once again, showing a detailed map of RhyDin City and its suburbs.
“IF HE HAD REACHED HIS GOAL, HE WOULD HAVE GAINED ENOUGH POWER TO RULE YOUR WORLD. UNFORTUNATELY FOR HIM:”
Another vision appeared, a violent thunderstorm was soaking dead, bloody bodies strewn over a rocky ground and patches of scorched earth, and the Wand of Meltheel still clutched in the dead, cold hand of its owner, who himself was slowly sinking into the mud. Behind him was a curious formation of rocks which looked like four claws sticking out of the earth. Time seemed to rapidly pass, the bodies vanished, some grass and a few trees grew, but the formation stayed the same.
“HERE IS WHERE YOUR TARGET LIES. IN A PLACE CALLED THE RAVINE OF THE FOUR CLAWS. IN A PLACE CALLED THE BATTLEFIELD PARK. IN RHYDIN CITY.”
To be continued . . .
Gunderdun was the Cheiftan and Shaman of the Tribe of the Dark Spears, a wild clan of goblins that lived in the dense forests north of RhyDin City. Although he had focused his life on serving the Goblin God Maglubiyet, and trained extensively in the ways of the shaman, he happened to be the tallest and strongest of his tribe. Eventually, through the attrition of battle and lack of competition, Gunderdun rose naturally into the leadership role of his tribe. Gunderdun was nearly five feet tall, and his green skinned face had all the markings of a warrior that had won his authority the hard way. His attire featured the skulls of animals and enemies that he had killed; his clothing was red and fastened with leather straps.
One day Gunderdun was sitting in his thatched hut of straw, meditating over a bubbling pot of leaves, grasses, and bones, attempting to commune with the Gods, seeking direction. Gunderdun had fought a costly battle with a local tribe of Orcs. It seemed that the Tribe of the Dark Spears would not last long. Its warriors were being slowly killed off; other larger tribes of stronger warriors were encroaching on their territory. Gunderdun needed help, and as a shaman, his first duty was to consult the Gods. Rarely had Gunderdun ever heard anything back from his prayers, but the rituals helped to give him focus and steady his mind, and perhaps that would be enough to help him formulate a plan.
This time, however, his prayer was answered.
As the smoke from the fire filled his hut, Gunderdun opened his eyes to see a round, black skinned face coalescing in front of him. The face had the pointed ears of a goblin, and red eyes that seemed to be on fire, flames rising up past its eyebrows. Gunderdun knew immediately who it was and fell on his face, groveling.
“Oh mighty Maglubiyet! God of the Fiery Eyes! Lord of the Depths and the Darkness! You humble your unworthy servant with your presence!”
“SILENCE! OF COURSE YOU ARE UNWORTHY! YOUR CONSTANT GRIPING IS GRATING ON MY NERVES. WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME? BE QUICK ABOUT IT.”
“Oh Mighty Lord, your power is great and . . .”
“SILENCE! WHAT DID I JUST SAY TO YOU?” Maglubiyet’s eyes flared dangerously.
“Muh-muh-My Lord, I would request your assistance in saving the Tribe of the Dark Spears from extinction. We have lost many warriors, and are hard pressed by other tribes and creatures who want our lands. I fear we cannot stand against them for long.”
“HMM. DO NOT THINK THAT I HAVE NOT SEEN THE PLIGHT OF YOUR TRIBE, SHAMAN. YOUR PERIL IS INDEED AS YOU SAY. NORMALLY, I WOULD LEAVE YOU TO YOUR FATE. THE WEAK MUST BE ERADICATED. BUT I HAVE SEEN A VISION – AN OBJECT OF POWER. ACQUIRING THIS OBJECT WOULD GIVE ME GREAT STRENGTH, AND I WOULD CONSIDER YOUR TRIBE WORTH SAVING.”
Maglubiyet’s face slowly began to dissolve in the smoke, and form into a picture of a wizard’s rod, with a silver handle and a large, black stone with milky white ripples.
“THIS IS THE WAND OF MELTHEEL, A HUMAN SORCERER THAT LIVED IN AGES PAST. HE USED ITS POWER TO CREATE HIS OWN KINGDOM AND ARMY. HIS GOAL WAS THE CONQUEST OF THIS HUMAN CITY:”
Here the smoke shifted once again, showing a detailed map of RhyDin City and its suburbs.
“IF HE HAD REACHED HIS GOAL, HE WOULD HAVE GAINED ENOUGH POWER TO RULE YOUR WORLD. UNFORTUNATELY FOR HIM:”
Another vision appeared, a violent thunderstorm was soaking dead, bloody bodies strewn over a rocky ground and patches of scorched earth, and the Wand of Meltheel still clutched in the dead, cold hand of its owner, who himself was slowly sinking into the mud. Behind him was a curious formation of rocks which looked like four claws sticking out of the earth. Time seemed to rapidly pass, the bodies vanished, some grass and a few trees grew, but the formation stayed the same.
“HERE IS WHERE YOUR TARGET LIES. IN A PLACE CALLED THE RAVINE OF THE FOUR CLAWS. IN A PLACE CALLED THE BATTLEFIELD PARK. IN RHYDIN CITY.”
To be continued . . .
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