D&D Story Segment

[Cyro]

Warning: This isn't a full story, in fact I've just realised it doesn't even contain the main characters name. I'll do my best to edit it later:

“Gods Damn ye Elf! You should have left me to me fate, Left me to die with honour!” bawled the crazed Dwarf, the fires of bloodlust still flickering about his eyes.

“And what would that have accomplished? What greater purpose would have been served?” rebutted his companion, using all of his strength to hold the dwarf back. He knew that if he truly wanted the dwarf could have easily broken his grip, and that it was their friendship that was truly holding him back with greater strength than his arms ever could.

“I’d have me bloody honour, damn you!” countered the Dwarf, though with more sorrow than battle fever emanating through his gruff tones this time.

“And then what? I can’t save these people alone! Would you let them die for your vaunted ‘honour’? Look into their eyes, the women, the children, and then tell them you’d let them die for your precious sense of ‘honour’.” Demanded the elf with as much vigour, determination and wisdom as his wearied form could muster.

“Gods damn ye… gods damn ye an’ yer senses” muttered the dwarf as exhaustion set into his blooded and battered body. He was still stammering and murmuring as he collapsed into unconsciousness, his battle rage entirely spent.

He had won the argument through shear fortitude that he had come through the battle significantly less wounded than the dwarf. He set to work placing magical wards at the entrance to the cave that would alert the occupants and their two remaining guardians, as well as hopefully damage the invaders. Once his magic was spent he covered his fallen comrade in his bed roll, found a relatively comfortable corner of the cave and too collapsed from exhaustion.



Mavick convulsed at the sight before him. It wasn’t the burning township of Nalkain, now forever to be spoken of in the past tense. It wasn’t the bloodstained battlefield or the mutilated livestock. It wasn’t even the dead soldiers he’d fought with; no longer embracing eternal slumber they had been promised. He was focused on one thing, the rotting and bubbling remains of his former master crawling its way onto his feet. The smell of charred human flesh hung in the air, serving only to heighten his all consuming terror. Mavick never even finished emptying the contents of this stomach before the merciful darkness of unconsciousness overcame him. He never woke up again.

The skeletal form of Mavicks former master, Sire Valin Grethan, sworn knight of The Order of the Most Radiant Heart, mounted once more the already lifeless form of the once vigorous, loyal gelding. His first action as a mindless slave of the necromantic arts was to spear his unconscious, undefended pupil’s heart into the ground, a final act to torment the now departed spirit of the noble knight. A dark, barely audible cackle arose from the hill overlooking the remains of the once peaceful fishing village. The hooded form of the Necromancer responsible for the massacre of the village and corruption of its defenders, gazed upon his newest creation before razing the newest of the knights squires to join the dearly departed as little more than an afterthought. His main focus was the knight. He had read that the noblest spirits corrupted into the vilest minions of the dark arts but even beneath his cowl the shocked expression upon the black mages face was evident, he could feel the dark aura emanating from the twisted mockery of life.

“Perfect, perfect…” purred the unusually melodious voice. The dark wizard has only ever felt one aura of deeper evil than the fallen knights, his own. “My army has its general and soon Faerûn shall have a new master.” He concluded in a low murmur.

The undead minions stood perfectly still as the shadows engulfed them. Moments later all that was left at the village was fire and destruction.

Fire, destruction and a sign of things to come.



The villagers of Nalkain were cooking what little provisions they had recovered as the Elf stirred. Glarin was half way through devouring and gave a throaty growl and half a nod to acknowledge him. As he pulled himself to his still aching feet and dusted himself off he felt as to the conditions of the wards he’d placed. They were intact. In fact, if he judged correctly, it was high morn, the orcs had been given more than enough time to regroup and attempt to assault them. Surely even those foul creatures could have tracked them to the cave.

He decided to put the worries out of his mind, at least until he addressed the morn immanent danger of his stomach’s growling revealing their location.