The Kingdom Mine - Let's Play Betrayal at Krondor!

Gorath's Truth

Owyn shuddered. He'd looked at the statue, felt a strange tugging, a sense of vertigo, and then a dizzying rush of movement . The sensations had suddenly intensified, peaked, and then fled entirely, leaving him in what appeared to be a vast cavern. The floor and walls were damp, and the whole was lit by a strange radiance that seemed to be shining from some room down a hallway behind...behind the dragon? The young mage gasped and jerked away even as a strange voice filled his mind.

You were expected, friend.




While your body is lying, safe, still and silent in a cove near Malac's Cross, your mind has journeyed elsewhere. Here...Your arrival has been expected. I am pleased to have you as my honored guest, Owyn Beleforte of Tiburn.

"Me?" Owyn asked, gaping at the dragon for a moment, still trying to catch his bearings.

At journey's end you shall not be as you are nor may you turn back the way you have come. The times ahead of you will be filled with hardship and many times you will believe yourself far less significant than you truly are. In the days to come, you may stand at a critical juncture between Rythar and Mythar and if that comes to pass you should know this: A time comes for all things to die...

Owyn frowned and took a step towards the wondrous beast without realizing it, his brow furrowing as he examined the words that seemed to slip into his mind fully-formed, like his own thoughts and yet somehow distinct and alien. "What does that mean? Who are Rythar and Mythar?"

The dragon barely moved, eyes staying fixed on him, its expression utterly unreadable. If not for the voice in his mind Owyn could almost believe that it was another statue. I can explain in no measure more as you yet understand your world. In years and in wisdom you will come to me again and a great destiny will be upon you by then. You will be ready for the fullness of truth on that distant day. Until such time, you may consult me on other matters.

"Tales say that dragons know their own destinies, but I had not heard that they knew the destinies of others," Owyn murmured, eying the creature curiously and starting to notice other details he had missed before. It was hard to tell in the strange greenish light, but he thought that many of the dragon's scales were gold. However, many others were not natural scales at all, but gems. Rubies, emeralds, sapphires, and diamonds of all shades reshaped and molded to replace the dragon's original hide.

I am no dragon though I wear a dragon's skin. I am the Oracle of the Aal and I am the last of my race. I am ancient, older than dwarf or elf, older than dragons and older than the Valheru who were their masters. Stars that at my birth flamed with violent power have long grown cold, expired. All these things I have seen and farther yet I see into the things that might be.

"You can see the future?" Owyn said, then cursed himself as a fool. Faced with such a strange being and such a rare opportunity and he was asking such stupid and obvious questions.

I can glimpse things that may be. Such was the gift given to all those of my race.

Owyn considered a moment. He wasn't sure that he wanted to know the answer to the question that seemed most natural to ask. Still, after another few heartbeats' silence he spoke. "A moredhel travels with us named Gorath. Is he what he says he is? Can we trust him?"

He is not what he names himself to be, though even he may not know the lie of his heart. He will be a strong ally unto you and I believe he may even be a champion to the kin who now curse his name. A great destiny awaits him should he have the courage to renounce his pain.

Owyn considered the words, then asked another question. "Gorath has told us of a moredhel leader, Delekhan. Will he cross the Teeth of the World and attack the Kingdom?"

Delekhan will never cross the boundary between the Kingdom and the Northlands, but through treachery he will strike a blow against both the Kingdom and his own Nations of the North.

"Can't you be more specific?" Owyn said, and he could hear the desperation creeping into his tone. "Where is he going to strike? What is the nature of this treachery?"

I do not see futures as you imagine, but futures as they perhaps can be. I know only that Delekhan engineers a deceit with six magicians and that it concerns the fate of the Kingdom.

Sighing, the young mage nodded. "I understand...I think I do, at any rate," he said, nodding slowly. "And I'm sorry, Oracle. I don't mean to seem ungrateful, but I'm sure my friends must be worried, and I should return to them. How-"

There was another vertiginous rush, a swirling and sensation of incredible movement that ended in a thud of impact that sent him tumbling forward into the grass at the statue's feet. Then Gorath was there, helping him up, and James was beside him asking questions. "Are you alright? Owyn! What happened?"

"I...I'm fine, I think," Owyn said after a moment, shaking his head and leaning on his staff. "The statue spoke...no, not the statue, but something linked to it spoke to me. An oracle of some sort."

James frowned, glancing suspiciously at the stone dragon. "What did it say?" he demanded even as he began to lead Owyn north and away from the clearing.

"Ask me later. I need some time to think about it. It was like most oracles are supposed to be. Vague, oblique, hard to understand." Owyn said, sighing.

They went north, passing the fork in the trail and rejoining the main road between Malac's Cross and Lyton near the temple that James had mentioned earlier. The squire stopped when he saw the temple, then turned them towards it and picked up his pace once more.

"When the nighthawks were last troublesome, the priesthood of the death goddess were helpful. The guild of death had infiltrated their order, and they might still know something of what the assassins are up to," he said as they approached the temple steps.

"Why infiltrate Lims-Kragma's priesthood?" Owyn asked, frowning.

"There are some in the order who worship all death, not just death's place in the natural order of things," James said, his face grim. "At least, that's about as much as I've been able to gather. Also some people come to the Drawer of Nets' temple to pray for other people's deaths. They're sometimes recruited as customers. We think the Nighthawks have feelers out in the hierarchies of Guis-Wa and Kahooli, for similar reasons."

Temple



Once inside, an acolyte agreed to lead them to the high priestess, and they stared about them in amazement as they were led into her presence. There were no walls in the high priestess' chamber. James struggled to imagine how any such room could fit within the confines of the Temple, seeming as vast as any river valley through which he had ever passed. Even more startling had been the winding maze-like corridors the death acolyte had led them through to reach the room.

"Few rush to speak to our lady. I am curious to know why you wish to converse with us." the high priestess said softly. A gauzy black pavilion draped her throne, obscuring from view all but her lithe form limned in witchlight and a single pale foot which she rested upon a skull carved of onyx. "Why do you call on the Drawer of Nets?"

Seeing no point in lying to her, James shrugged. "Curiosity, as much as anything High Priestess. I wished to learn a little more about what awaits me when I am no longer living and you, short of the Mother Matriarch in Rillanon, are probably the one with the best answers. I do not like surprises."

"Unless you are prepared to devote your life to her services, I cannot help you. It is not something I may merely unfold for you in an hour or an afternoon," she said. I will say this. There is no joy or love in her realm, but neither is there sorrow or pain. You have nothing to fear of her unless you swear the oaths of a Nighthawk."

"Why? What would that mean?" James asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Pain everlasting," the high priestess replied. "Those who are Nighthawks have sworn a dark oath, and those of them that are known as the Black Slayers swear the darkest oaths of all, allying themselves to other gods or goddesses who would hold them free of the portal of death at the price of their souls. Once a man becomes a Black Slayer, he may only be called into her halls by an invocation of Lims-Kragma herself, the Prayer of Final Rest."

"Is there no other way, your holiness?" asked Owyn. "What of a magician's magic?"

The high priestess was silent for a long time before replying, and her answer was reluctant. "There was, I think, some cooperation between one of our order and a mage when dealing with the last outbreak of Black Slayers. They may have found some way for the prayer of Final Rest to be...mimicked by sorcery..."

Owyn nodded. "Thank you, your holiness," he said, bowing as James took hold of his shoulder and led him away from the shrouded pavilion.




Not far east of the temple, Gorath spotted another glint of metal off the road, and again it was a dead moredhel near a cache. Two chests lay on the far side of a low rise and a few scattered clumps of trees, and the three were already cresting the rise Owyn realized why the moredhel was dead. A triangle of poles rose around the corpse, and they found their way blocked by yet another of The Six's magical traps.

It's a Trap



James stared, and then slowly shook his head. "I wonder why that one died," he muttered, pointing to the dead moredhel. "The solution to this one is easy. Watch yourselves, though."

Before Owyn had time to ask James what he meant the squire was moving, quickly pushing the transparent crystals between the two fire traps and watching with satisfaction as their magical flame overloaded two of the three poles, shutting them down and opening a path to the chests. "See?" he said, smiling as they strode through and began to work on one of the chests.

They soon had them all open, and while most of the contents were common enough James paused at a strange key.

((Ok folks, had an uneven few days and it threw me off my stride. I should have another set of posts either before I go to bed tonight or sometime tomorrow. Good news is I solved my Highcastle integration problem. It's a bit arbitrary, but hopefully no more forced than your average RPG detour.))

They moved on, passing an abandoned inn around mid-day. Owyn peered through gaping holes where the valuable glass window panes had been removed. A bird nest rested in the corner of an upper floor's window, and as they passed a magpie slipped out from under the old building's eaves.



After that, there was little to look at as they travelled. The land began to grow hilly to the west as they approached the town of Lyton. Several times they stopped to investigate containers revealed by Owyn's scrying, but in every case but one they found nothing but ordinary supplies. One chest, half-buried in a field of waist-high grass, held a single small ruby, and James pocketed the stone before they returned to the road.



Lyton was a small farming community eking out a living in the plains between Dimwood to the north and the less fertile and rockier land that lay south towards the Sea of the Kingdoms. The local lord was little more than a particularly successful farmer himself, and so James was startled when they were stopped at the outskirts of the town by a half dozen hard-faced men in Lyton livery carrying battered broadswords and heavy crossbows.

"Alright, gents," said the largest of the men, grinning as he held up a gloved hand to bar their way. "We're the local tax collectors, and there's a fee for passage on the road," he said, and James and Gorath eyed each other as they looked the party of "officials" over. Their livery was clean and new as if just dyed the week before but their faces were dirty, their hair was slick with grease, and their well-maintained weapons looked as if they'd seen hard and repeated use.

"I see. And how is this new taxed assesed?" James asked even as Owyn began to gather his will and one of Gorath's hands slipped down to his waist, gripping his sheath and thumbing his sword an inch or two from its scabbard.

"Oh, it's quite simply, my lord," the leader replied, his dark eyes moving slowly over the fine doublet that was visible under James' LaMutian armor. "We put you at sword- and bolt-point, you show us what you've got, we take what you've got, and you're free to pass along your way knowing that you've done the good Lord Lyton and the King in Rillanon a great service."

"Again, I see..." the squire murmured. He doubted his status would swing much weight with the men, but it was worth a try before things devolved completely. "And if I told you I was a senior squire of the court at Krondor, an advisor to Prince Arutha, and on a mission from his highness of no small importance to the security of the Western Realm, and I demanded to be taken to speak with Lord Lyton?"

Some of the men in Lyton colors looked less certain at that, glancing at the leader, but his face only hardened. "In that case, I'd have to take steps," he growled, drawing his sword. "Kill 'em!"

Fight to the Death

"Owyn!" James shouted, sprinting forward and to his left with Gorath while the young mage began to chant. Their one real advantage was that the thugs turned "tax collector" hadn't realized that Owyn was a mage in time, and now the young noble's hand was lashing out, casting the swirling ball of flame towards the toughs as they turned to face the mage's two companions and found themselves looking straight into the setting sun. They faltered, squinting into the glare, and so never saw the mage's spell until it struck them and filled the air with a rush of heat and a sickening smell.

Two of the men fell immediately, and a third crashed to the ground a moment later when Gorath buried a bolt in his throat. Owyn was breathing hard, but he too ran to the northwest, trying to get behind James and Gorath and put the sun at his back. The three remaining men spread out slowly, two with swords drawn, the third carefully drawing a bead on the young mage. Owyn darted right, then left, then right again before twisting and diving frantically to try and throw off the aim of the crossbowman. He failed.

The jerking and darting managed to keep the bolt from striking soundly, but its head still dug a painful gash along Owyn's arm, sending his staff clattering to the ground. Almost instantly the burn of the wound was supplanted by a feverish heat that seemed to spread down his arm and up into his chest, and the young noble's forehead prickled with sweat. He stumbled, trying to remember the words for another spell and failing. "Poisoned..." he called out to James, but the squire was busy, set upon by the two remaining swordsman while the man with the crossbow reloaded.

Gorath glanced to James, then to Owyn, and swore, rushing to help his friend. James had given them each one of the small glass beads of silverthorn antidote, and he could see Owyn fumbling at his belt pouches. But the mage's fingers were clumsy and slow, losing strength and coordination rapidly. The moredhel secured his own bead, then cracked the hollow glass bead along an etched seam and tipping the halves into Owyn's mouth. Owyn greedily drank down the contents, immediately feeling a rush of warmth spreading through his limbs as it neutralized the silverthorn coursing through his veins. He sighed in relief and slumped back while Gorath stood and spun, hoping that James was still standing.

He was. His elven blade rang off his attackers' heavier swords again and again. The squire wasn't the swordsman Arutha or Locklear was, but he held his own. Still, Gorath could see that each time one of the rogues struck, the other slipped a little further to James' side, and that soon the squire would have an enemy at his back. He changed, shouting a battle cry in moredhel that distracted the nearer of the two thugs long enough for Gorath to batter his blade down and run him through. Freed from the need to deal with two opponents James seized the initiative again, and in another minute the tax collector found James' sword gliding down his own until the crossguard's locked.

The thug grinned as he felt James' grip weaken, and he suddenly sprang forward, trying to simultaneously wrench his blade free and knock the squire to the ground. As he lunged, however, James suddenly let go with one hand, applying just enough force to his sword's hilt to keep the guards and blades locked even as his other hand darted to his belt, drew a dagger, and drove it neatly between the tax collector's ribs...

((Ok, one post only, but it's a start. More to follow.))

I like the description of the battle, and I'm looking forward to the next set of posts, but I thought I'd point out the small typo (Locklear instead of James).

((Thanks Kaisal, fixed it. Actually it looks like I did it repeatedly during that scene and I have no clue why.))

James gasped for breath as he crouched to pull his dagger from between the thug's ribs. "Owyn? Are you alright?" He asksed, canting his head at the mage while Gorath held Owyn steady.

"I'll be fine," Owyn said, shaking his head a little. "Just a little light-headed from the after-effects of the poison and the antidote." He frowned and nudged one of the dead men with a boot. "But who were these men? Not Lyton's picked men, attacking a Squire of the prince's court..."

Gorath's lips were thin and his eyes were dark as he looked to James and Owyn in turn. "We shall have to speak with your lord Lyton," he said. "Soon."

James nodded, and they quickly moved northeast into town. Lyton was less deserted than Eggley but no less dead once the sun had set. Every window was shut, every door bolted, every shutter barred. When the squire knocked at one of the smaller homes there was an almost immediate sound of frantic movement inside the house. Then silence. He knocked again. Nothing.

"Hello?" he called. Silence. "Is anybody there? We are weary travelers and seek only a moment of your time, and perhaps a drink of water." James waited patiently for a moment, then said sternly, "Look, we know you're in there. We heard you moving about."

Finally, with the door still closed, a man replied weakly, "We know who you really are. We will have the rest of the taxes as soon as we get the money."

No amount of arguing or explaining could convince the man of the truth. The door remained closed.

Owyn frowned as they neared the inn. "The people are running scared. We definately need to speak with Lord Lyton," he murmured, holding the door for his companions before slipping inside himself.

Inn



James asked for company. Smiling a tad nervously at them, the man accepted the offer of fellowship and told a number of tales about his works for Lord Lyton. Unsure what in the man's manner inspired his trust, James responded likewise by telling him a few of the details of their trip to Romney, though omitting the specifics about Gorath's part in things.

"Ah we! I don't envy you that," the man said, waving his hands. "I'd not be heading anywhere near the river, not for no amount of silver. Not me."

"Why is that?" James asked.

"Awful troubles there. The Guild of the Romney and the Riverpullers Guild are as good as at war. If you ask me, some bloke down Silden way is trying to stir up things. I've heard he's even got a few sneaks what are posing as members of other guilds, even carrying forged guild seals. Saw a group of them with Max Feeber, that greedy bastard out west of here."

When the man excused himself to go answer nature's call, James pondered for a moment the things he had learned. While it seemed wildly improbable that the events that were going on around them were somehow connected, he had seen the plots of Murmandamus previous to the last uprising and those circumstances had left him jaded. It made him none the more comfortable that he was now escorting a former ally of that moredhel monster.

When the man returned, Owyn asked the question that had been bothering him ever since the bloody encounter outside town. "Why are Lord Lyton's men shaking down merchants?" he asked, and wasn't entirely surprised when their table mate darted a nervous glance towards the door.

"I don't know why the damned fool hired them," the stocky, dark-haired man said, thick fingers drumming on the tabletop, "but they're not sworn men. They're a mercenary company, a bad bunch from down by the two Keshes. I guess they made themselves unpalatable to both sides, and they were headed north of the Kingdom when the Lord hired 'em. Don't know why, but for over a month now they've more or less run the town. They've left the townsfolk proper mostly alone so far, but people are starting to get nervous."

"I see..." James said, nodding and setting a few royals on the table. "Drink on us tonight, friend, and thank you."



They slipped upstairs to their beds, and the next morning they were up well before dawn and heading for Lord Lyton's modest estate. Twice they saw six or eight-man patrols, but both times James was able to guide them past without incident, and the sun was just rising when they slipped through Lyton's corn fields and cow pastures and arrived at the manor house.

A servant met them at the door. She ushered them inside and led them to a partitioned corner of the room. Pulling back the curtain, she revealed a gangly man with a white beard and snow grey hair who introduced himself as Lord Lyton.

"Please forgive my humble accommodations," he sighed. "My financial situation has been compromised by the death of my lord, Earl Presser of Romney." Suddenly, he brightened, "Perhaps you fine gentlemen would be willing to assist me in a small matter..."

"What could we do to help you?" asked James, narrowing his eyes at the man.

"Well, Squire James," Lyton began, a feeble smile tugging at his lips. "You may have noticed that I am having difficulties controlling my men?"

"You mean the mercenaries you hired and put in your livery, and are now running your lands like bandits," James snarled.

"Now, understand, it's not like that," Lyton said, lifting one thin hand. The lord sighed again, "I was to equip six knights and send them to Romney for my former lord, but his holdings were bestowed on his half-brother following his death, and he wishes me to deliver 12 fully equipped knights to Malac's Cross."

"A knight's equippage is more than just the armor, you know. It's his weapons, his horse, his tack, his barding and the upkeep of his squires, and Lyton is not a rich land. So..." the lord trailed off, shrugging. "I made a mistake. We've only ever had perhaps thirty armed men in my service and they're mostly part-time farmers. There's nothing they can do against two hundred experienced mercenaries except get themselves killed. The same's true of the garrison at Questor's View. Romney is in chaos, and Silden is a cesspool. I could ask for help at Malac's Cross but Pashk, the leader of this band says he's men there that will know if I send to help, and that they're watching the temples for days in any direction, and that my people and my person will suffer if I try to bring Kingdom forces down on them..."

James sighed and looked slightly disgusted. "...So you want us to go to...where? LaMut? Cavall Keep? And bring you back the equipment for your knights and enough forces to drive off these brigands?"

"Yes," Lyton admitted, seeming to shrink in his chair. "And I'm afraid I need you to go to Highcastle..."

"What?!" exclaimed Owyn, jumping to his feet. "Milord, that's several hundred miles from here and clear on the other side of the Dimwood! It would take us..."

"Less time to return than you believe," Lyton said, and this time there was a hint of decisiveness in his voice, "because I am owed certain favors by the high priestess of the temple of Dala near Highcastle. Her order will use the mandala system to move you to the temple of Lims-Kragma south of here, and I have a letter of introduction to Baron Highcastle already being prepared."

James shifted uneasily. "Lord Lyton, you can select-"

"No one else for this. My men are known, as are the people under my care. I have neglected my duties to them and when these men are gone you can send a report to Arutha and see me stripped of my title if you so choose. At my age and without issue it is likely to be a moot point in any case. No. I need you, Squire James. Besides," and here Lyton's eyes seemed suddenly shrewd. "you're not going to be able to move safely east with this hanging over your heads."

There was a long, uncomfortable silence. "Fine, snapped James, nodding sharply. "But be sure, Lord Lyton, that I will be sending word to Arutha."

I guess this is how we're going to Highcastle.

The goddess protector of those too weak to protect themselves? Appropriate.

((The optional Highcastle area quest is centered around the temple of Dala there. Serendipity, and I wanted to use the mandalas as a way of explaining rapid travel. That said, I've opened up another matter for audience vote

There are two main ways of getting to that area. Going west past the ruins of Sethanon and a sidequest with a good reward, then north to Tyr-Sog via Hawk's Hollow and Loriel, then east towards Highcastle. OR, cutting due north through the Dimwood, where there are lots and lots of chests and so on. The Dimwood is the main storyline area for one of the last chapters, but is totally optional until that point. I'll do the Sethanon-area quest either way, it's just a matter of doing it on the way there or the way back, and of whether it makes sense for them to take a day or two to solve it now that they have a "mission".))

I think it makes more sense for them to do the Sethanon quest on the way back, rather than on the way there, maybe cut through the Dimwood, take the Sethanon path back out? I dunno though, I'm shocked at how much I've completely forgot about this game to be honest, I really should replay it at some point.

I figured, but it does work so nicely. That guy needs all the help he can get.

Head up via Sethanon, then mandala-portal back? The Dimwood may have neat stuff (like kaisel, I have long forgotten what), but from a storyline perspective I imagine they'd want to stay well out of it at this point for their own safety.

Ok, if there's no more votes by tomorrow evening I'll be the tie-breaker. I'm using the window to try and collect more writing and so on.

Head through Sethanon. The Dimwood sounds scary and dangerous.

Trees are only scary when they're epileptic. Go through Dimwood. Mandala back.

Dimwood, they shouldn't want to be discovered off their intended path; when they're going in the right direction, it makes sense to take the main roads.

((Ok, Dimwood north, Sethanon and Nia's Shop sidequest on the way back. For reference, this is going to be a -straight- South-to-North traverse. Dimwood is fairly big and so we'll be missing a lot, which is actually good because it leaves stuff for us to see when we come back "for real". Post will be up tonight, but the first one might just be another truckload of riddles for you all.))

They turned west away from Lyton, and as they travelled James fumed. Owyn and Gorath kept silent for a time, but soon the silence thickened until the young mage could not bear to go another mile without the air being cleared.

"Why are we going along with this, James?" He burst out. "I'm sure the garrison at Questor's View is inexperienced too, but why are we going all the way to Highcastle of all places? Gods above, we could be back in Krondor faster, and use the chapel to Astalon at the palace to-"

"Teleport a company of Lancers right into a trap!" James cut him off, almost shouting. "Lyton's idiocy has blocked the road to Silden and Romney, so he's right, we have no damned choice but to help him. There are Nighthawks on these roads. Remember what the moredhel said?" and the squire jabbed a finger at Gorath's chest." The guild of death is using its members to spy for Delekhan. If they know we're going to Romney, the trap we're laying there will fail, and if they know about this little errand we're on then they will be waiting for us when we get back to Lyton!"

Owyn bristled, almost ready to yell back at the squire if only to give vent to his own frustration, but then Gorath was between him, a strong hand on each of their shoulders as the dark elf pushed them apart. It wasn't until they were moved back that the young mage realized that he and James had been barely a foot apart. "Squire James is right, Owyn," Gorath murmured. "We have no choice in this. We also have no choice in the path we must take. We must cut north through the Dimwood."

James started, then sighed. "Damn...no, you're right," he said, raising a hand to forestall further comment. "I just don't like the idea of trekking through the place with just the three of us. I have bad memories of the last time I was there..."

He fell silent and they continued, passing several farms before a larger cluster of houses marked the southern outskirts of what had once been the barony of Sethanon.



"Is this all that remains?" Gorath asked, glancing north to where a broad path twisted into the hills. The way was wide but overgrown. Bushes and ground cover eroded the road's border while sparse patches of grass sprung from its center.

"No," James said, his voice quiet. "The ruins are perhaps two hours' walk from here. No one goes to the city itself after the battle. The folk around here say that it's haunted, and I've heard some things from Pug that make me believe it."

Gorath nodded, and silence fell while they approached a small tavern and shop that looked at each other across the road.

Inn





"I was offering, miss, to buy you a drink..." James said, one eyebrow raised even as he tried to calm the young woman's sudden panic.

The woman blinked, shook her head, then took a deep breath before continuing. "Oh...oh, sorry. I was thinking you were stopping in to buy something from my goods store across the road. I'm Nia, by the way, and since my father's death I've had the run of these two places, the tavern here and the goods store across the way. You know I've had folks in here, four a week by last count, all offering money for a sword made by a hermit up North. Fool that I am I sent the word out that it was for sale, but that was before things started happening in my store. I've closed up things for a bit, since...well, since."

"Closed your store?" Owyn asked stepping to James' side. "Why? What sorts of things were going on in there?"

"You'll think I'm foolish," Nia said, sighing again. "Gods, I think I'm foolish..."

"Tell me and I'll listen," James said, then offered her a lopsided grin. "If I laugh once, even once, you may upend a cask of ale over my head."

Nia's smile was a little wan, but genuine. "You'll pay for the cask if I do," she said. "All right then. I'll tell you. In the past few weeks, I've seen a man prowling about in my shop-"

James grinned wider at that. "That's easy enough," he said, shrugging. "Between my companions and myself, we can get rid of your prowler by dinnertime tomorrow."

Nia raised an eyebrow, and she seemed to be recovering because her next words were said in a light and almost playful tone. "Can you now? You run through ghosts as easy as that, poleax poltergeists in your spare time?"

Owyn frowned. "Ghosts? This prowler of yours is a ghost?"

"Told you that you wouldn't believe me," the woman said, shrugging. "I'll put it to you though. If you can find a way to put the ghost in my shop to rest, then I'll reopen my shop and give you the Galon Griefmaker that I bought from the hermit. Simple as that."

James nodded, smiling. "That offer is nearly as attractive as the woman delivering it. Thank you, fair lady."



They stopped long enough to eat a meal and to purchase several weeks of rations from Nia and then moved on. "A griefmaker is an excellent weapon," Gorath said as they passed to the west of the road to the ruins of Sethanon. "It might help us a great deal."

"Yes, but there's no time now," James said. "Perhaps after we've dealt with Lyton's little problem."

They camped without incident that night, and it was early the next day when they reached a misty gap in the hills where the path diverged. "West to Eggley, and north to Dimwood," James muttered, scowling into the grey drifts of fog. "North it is."

For days they moved in mist, the moisture soaking into their clothes by day and chilling them by night. They stopped only once aside from their brief and uncomfortable periods of sleep. On the second day out from the remants of Sethanon, a telltale glint from the crest of a hill led the three to a pair of moredhel chests shoved part-way under a small bush. While most of the contents were mundane, there was a small scroll that Owyn snatched eagerly. He studied it over the next day or so of travel and the third night explained that the spell, "Thoughts Like Clouds", could be used to scatter the will and concentration of another spellcaster.

When at last the hills sloped downward on the fifth day, the fog lifted and they found themselves standing at the edge of a great wood. Owyn gasped at the sight. He'd heard of the Dimwood, but never seen it.

"Don't be fooled," James said, smiling wryly. "It's as much grasslands as woods, not like the Green Heart up by Crydee and Elvandar. Let's go."

Heh, as odd as it may sound, the Galon Griefmaker is probably my favorite weapon in the game since it looks pretty awesome. It also seemed to be around that point that my characters went from being pretty okay to being slaughtering machines. Then again, I may be misremembering since I haven't played this in years.

((I won't be waiting for you guys this time because I have a lot of catching up to do, and because I'm confident you'll all be able to solve these relatively quickly. The only one I might cheat on is a chest that requires knowledge of the in-game lore that's easy to miss playing through, let alone reading through in LP form. I'll solve that one and one other lore-related riddle if you guys can't.))

Riddles and Locks

1)

2)

3)

4)

5)

6)

7)

8)

9)

10)

11)

12)

1)Bark
2)Icicle
3)Snowflake
5)Couple
6)Torch
7)Sanity
8)Honey
9)Haste

Yeah, I know a few of mine are probably wrong.

1) bark
2) breath
3) yesterday
4) future

7. TEMPER
10. BOTTLE
12. HORSEMAN, or maybe CAVALIER? The latter has fewer existing letters lined up, though. Since every cylinder has only four positions, there are usually one or two letters already correct.

((A few, but not bad. At what point should I give hints, the letters for all the wheels, or just move on, guys?))




As James had said, the Dimwood was not a single stretch of woodlands, and the road they followed passed alternately through small copses and groves standing in broad grassy fields and through larger and dimly lit woods. The trees here were relatively thin and tall compared to the oaks that proliferated in the eastern kingdom, and Owyn stared up in interest as their nearly branch-less trunks rose to a high overlapping canopy that blocked the light but left the impression that they could be moving through some vast and open hall supported by rounded wooden pillars.

The first day passed uneventfully, enough, but on their second day traversing the dimwood a large plume of smoke and steam warned them of activity ahead. James motioned them off the path and crept away, leaving the other two to sit and worry until he returned perhaps a quarter hour later.

"Moredhel," the squire whispered, hunkering down beside them where an unusually large tree had fallen and provided a bit of concealment. "At least a dozen, and they've been here for weeks."

"Are you sure?" Gorath murmured, squinting ahead to where the path turned behind a low hill.

"Quite," James replied, sighing. "They've been here long enough to dig into a copse on the other side of that hill. You can see where they've been burying their waste, and they've not only set up snares and tripwires forty or fifty yards around their camp, they've half-buried their tents to conceal their outline, built blinds for their sentry posts, and cleared the sight lines for at least a hundred yards in front of every one of those blinds. If some idiot hadn't thrown water on a cookfire to extinguish it we wouldn't have even seen the smoke. I got there just in time to watch the idiot get his throat cut."

Owyn winced. "So, what do we do?" he whispered back.

"Go around, and do so quietly," Gorath answered for James, shrugging. "It is the only thing we can do. If we fight anyone here we must make sure there are no survivors, and we cannot guarantee that or even our own survival against a dozen enemy."

James glanced at Gorath when the moredhel referred to his kinsmen as the enemy, but said nothing, and in another moment they were ready. If not for the elven footwear Owyn was still wearing, he would have given them away half a dozen times. As it was, at several points James had to grab the squire's shoulder to keep him from spooking ground-nesting birds into flight or from grasping at a sapling for support and making its top rustle and sway.



It was slow going, though they did find several caches, including a moredhel chest and another with a relatively easy lock that yielded a ruby and emerald in a small pouch. James grinned and carefully tucked the gem pouch inside his tunic before re-tightening his armor. "Well now, next time we're in Malac's Cross perhaps I can take Ivan up on that offer of a chess match," he murmured.



They swung far, far west of the copse, using the hills and the growing darkness to mask their movement as the sun's last light started to fade from the western sky. Twice Gorath or James had to keep Owyn from silhouetting himself against the crest of a ridge or hill, but by the time night had truly fallen they had passed the moredhel and an abandoned hunter's hut and were resting in a small stand of trees.

Ch. 1 Introduction, Part 2



Gorath frowned. He had been speaking with James, quizzing the squire on the appearance of the other moredhel's clothing and the way they had made camp. He turned back towards Owyn and shrugged, his brow furrowed.



James sighed. "And we have something else to tell Arutha...we may have to slip back into Krondor long enough to get a message to him after all. I don't know how long this can wait."

The next morning they moved. James had suggested travelling by night, but Gorath had overruled him. The dark elf had pointed out that elven hearing and night vision were both sharper than humans, and that their odds of slipping by any more encampments were actually worse at night.

Around noon a loud thrashing and a series of grunts, snorts, and bleats led them to a half-dead deer thrashing against a leg-hold trap. Before either James or Owyn could react Gorath was moving, darting to the side to dodge a lashing hoof before kneeling behind the flailing deer. One hand gripped the young buck's antlers and he yanked back hard, gasping in effort as he forced the animal's neck back just enough for his other hand to stab downward and then rake across, the knife he had drawn as he approached opening the deer's throat. The moredhel held the deer as it quickly lost strength, waiting until the flow of blood and the whistling gasps had stopped to step over the animal's body.

"Why...?" James began, then cut himself off, remembering the few times he'd spoken about hunting with Duke Martin of Crydee.

Owyn shuddered, then moved in to help the dark elf dress the carcass. "How long would he have taken to die if we hadn't come along?" he asked Gorath as they worked.

"Unless he managed to snap his own neck or spine in his thrashing? Days," Gorath growled. "Still, whoever left a snare like this unattended is a fool. Even if the meat did not spoil before he returned it is likely that the scavengers would get it first. Wasteful."

Owyn blinked. "Then you weren't, um, ending its suffering?"

Gorath glanced back at Owyn, his expression unreadable. "It's a deer," he said. "And we can use all the food we can get. Allowing good meat to go bad on the ground is shameful."

Owyn frowned, but fell silent and just helped his friend prepare and pack the meat. They couldn't take the entire carcass with them, and so there was a deal of waste, but what they could carry, they removed.




((Note to anyone who's read more of the books. None of the maps or other source material I can dig up has the names of the rivers or streams that run through Dimwood. If someone knows them, PM me.))

As they approached one of the major streams that passed through the region. The grass here was shorter than in the other areas they'd passed through, and the stumps of trees were everywhere. Then the reason became clear as they came to a scattering of graves at the center of what must have been a small settlement. Here and there the tarred planks of fences and houses or the scattered stones of an old foundation.

"Woodcutters and trappers had a lot of little settlements in the Dimwood before the moredhel invasion," James murmured as he inspected the graves. "This must have been one of them.

Gorath nodded, then pointed to two of the graves. "These two have been reburied recently," he said. "We should dig them up. My kinsmen are almost certainly using them for supply caches as they were along the King's Highway."

James nodded, and all three set to work. The grave marked 'Marlen Shepherd - Threw a stone at a dragon' they discovered the familiar blue-white sheen of a dragon stone, and beneath 'Forrest Walker - Deadicated' another pair of the elven weedwalkers that silenced footsteps. Gorath took the slippers, James the stone, and they were turning northeast towards the stream and the old bridge they could see spanning it when they noticed something else - a small camp that had been hidden by the faint rise of the the terrain before it sloped down towards the water. The camp was occupied. James cursed and started to run, Gorath and Owyn on his heels, but already he could see a Quegan mercenary and two moredhel scouts spring to their feet, spinning to face them and readying their weapons.

Fight to the Death



The fight was over almost before it had begun.

"Don't let any of them escape," James cried out as he charged, his long elven blade already out and held out low in front of him as he charged the nearest moredhel. The squire barely noticed the bolt that whizzed over his shoulder and barely missed Owyn as his charge put enough force behind his first blow to nearly bisect the crossbow in his opponent's hands while drawing an ugly slash across his collarbone. The moredhel screamed and stumbled backwards, fumbling for his sword, but the squire was on him too fast and in too close, and the cut had weakened his sword arm.

Owyn was gasping as the physical strain of the sudden desperate sprint merged seamlessly into the mental strain of gathering his magic. The young mage recited the words that had become so familiar to him now and sent fire to destroy their enemies, sending the Quegan stumbling and rolling in a desperate attempt to extinguish the flames that engulfed him.

James took advantage of the blast, riding it forward, crashing into the moredhel crossbowman again and grappling with him. The desperate dark elf snapped his head forward, and James had just enough time to twist his nose away so that his cheekbone took the impact of his enemy's forehead. Then it was James' turn and the squire moved fast, hooking a leg behind one of the moredhel's and dumping him to the ground where James' sword finished matters in a single stroke.

The final moredhel was the only one who had time to react, and he charged Gorath screaming curses. Gorath didn't even slow, simply changing the angle of his run so that the momentum of his blade drove his opponent's up and to the side, opening the other dark elf to a downward blow that bit deep into his skull and sent his twitching body crumpling to the ground.

They searched the bodies and the two lockchests that the three had apparently been guarding. From one chest James withdrew a small bundle of clerical oilcloths bound in ribbon. "These will be useful," he murmured, glancing up as Gorath swore.

The dark elf was examining the effects of the crossbowman, lifting a quiver of quarrels and grimacing as he carefully removed a small bundle of thorny twigs from a pouch on the quarrel's sides.





While James and Owyn dragged the corpses closer to the stream where they could be more easily buried in shallow graves, Gorath used the silverthorn. A look of absolute concentration was etched on his face as he prepared bundle after bundle of quarrels with the juices of the plant. Pinching off a single berry in a gloved hand, he crushed it against the quarrel, causing a bloodlike fluid to trickle over each of the tip's surfaces and edges. He would have to take great care not to scratch himself on their heads when he replaced them in their quarrel or the venom would have him dead within minutes.

((Always poison quarrels. One dose of silverthorn will poison your sword for one battle, or it will coat an entire 25-count stack of bolts. This adds a little extra damage which bolts benefit more from at the cost of a bit of accuracy, and it also increases the sale value of the stacks. This becomes worth knowing a bit later on when you gain a source of infinite poison. ))

They crossed the stream and continued north, more than once passing old abandoned camps. Some were old, dating back before the moredhel invasion drove the Kingdom's peasants and franklins from the Dimwood. Others seemed newer, places where the moredhel scouts had made camp. Days passed, and finally they arrived the second bridge.



They crossed, and Gorath motioned for them to stop as he spotted moredhel lockchest tucked into a rotting stump. A few minutes' work had the soft wood peeled away, and a few minutes' more had the riddle solved and lid rising slowly.




((Glory hands are consumed when you cast the Nightfingers spell. Nightfingers lets you steal an item from an enemy in combat as long as it isn't equipped. The thing is, except in very few instances, I'll fight every battle and don't let people escape, so I can just loot people's corpses. As a result, these are mostly good for being sold to the few magic shops in the game.))

((We still need guesses for riddles 5,6, and 11. Should I edit the old posts to show the answers, or give them to you in another format. I liked it when I could work them into the posts, but that means stopping the LP entirely until they've been guessed...))



As the days wore on the small trees they had moved through in the Dimwood's southern stretches gave way wider and wider stretches of grass, marking the end of the Dimwood and the beginning of the cold, high plains of the High Wold. Owyn shivered and Gorath, noticing, smiled slightly.

"You should accustom yourself to the feeling now," the dark elf murmured. "It will not get better."

The young mage nodded and they pressed on. Owyn would ask for a halt now and then to scry, but it seemed as if they had left the moredhel scouts and their Quegan allies behind them, at least until they reached the foothills of the Teeth of the World. However, at the very edge of the Dimwood they received an unpleasant surprise.

It was the breeze that saved them. The wind had been coming from the north all day, and so they caught the scent of poorly maintained horses before they saw the small band of moredhel. Gorath smelled it first, and soon they'd taken shelter in a small stand of trees, watching as a trio of riders flanked by a pair of moredhel approached. The horses were in a terrible state, ungroomed and with open sores where their tack had rubbed them raw and stinking. A woman rode each horse, and they watched the two warriors that led them with an expression that Owyn could read as contempt even from fifty feet away.

"Witches," hissed Gorath, his eyes widening as he got a better look. James frowned from where he was wiping down his sword with one of the magic-imbued oilcloths and passed another to Gorath as the dark elf continued, "I do not know what could have brought them into Delekhan's service, but-"

Just then one of the women snapped her gaze directly towards the stand of trees and cried out. Gorath and James drew their swords and charged, and there was just enough time for Owyn to belatedly sense the scrying that had given them away before the fight began.

((Witches or Witch Hags are more dedicated spellcasters than the yellow-cloaked moredhel you've seen in earlier battles. They carry no metal and so are immune to Skyfire, and they're also immune to Flamecast. As a result, it is imperative to close with them very, very aggressively because they like to cast Grief of 1000 Nights which I'll show you in the battle description.))

Charge into Battle



This time it was the enemy spellcasters that were ready for them. Even as James and Gorath charged the women began to incant, their hands flashing to create the patterns through which they could pour their will. Twin booms flattened the grass, and James shuddered and stumbled as a white hot icepick seemed to ram itself between his eyes, ribbons of blood leaking from ears, eyes, and nose. Gorath was blasted from his feet, shuddering as a bolt of lightning struck his upraised sword from out of a cloudless sky. Only Owyn was left for the moment, and he was pressed by the repeated blows of one of the witches' guardians while the other prepared to dispatch James.

Still, their enemies' advantage was only temporary. James rallied, managing a clumsy parry that turned aside the moredhel's sword and allowed him to lung forward. He drove his opponent back towards two of the witches, disrupting their concentration and denying them the use of their magic.

Gorath stood as well, and managed a spastic run towards Owyn, forcing the young mage's attacker to turn and face him even as the remnants of the magical attack made muscles burn and spasm at random. Owyn, freed by Gorath's attack, seized the opportunity and began a spell of his own, his fingers dancing before he poured his will into the structure and sent it hurtling at the furthest witch.

The moredhel woman shuddered, then blinked. She raised her hands to cast again but her movements were clumsy and slow and after a moment she lowered her hands again, brow furrowing as she tried to regather the wits that Owyn's spell had scattered. Owyn cast again, crippling a second witch, and then began to craft a spell of invitation that would draw the other spellcasters to him.

Gorath, meanwhile, wielded his enhanced blade with vicious skill. With the power of the oilcloth on the blade his sword actually broke the other moredhel's, bending it into a bow that lashed back against the descending sword and shattered. The other dark elf cried out as slivers of his own sword lanced into his skin, the sound cut off suddenly as Gorath cut him nearly in half.

James almost ignored the second warrior, deflecting his blows and focusing on one of the witches who stumbled backwards before him. However, he missed the threat behind him, the last witch unaffected by Owyn's spells, and as he prepared to press home his attack a sudden sense of lethargy overcame him. What was the point? He'd watched thousands die at Armengar and Sethanon and he was still fighting moredhel. The squire crashed to his hands and knees, the blood streaking his cheeks diluted by the tears that coursed down them now as he sobbed openly, completely ignorant of the warrior who now moved to finish him.

But even as the moredhel seized his chance Gorath was there, striking the head from one witch's shoulders and nearly wrenching the final warrior's sword from his grip on the backstroke. Owyn rushed to help him, his magic drawing the other witches towards his friend's blade, and one after the other they fell, leaving the mage to crouch at James' side and unravel the spell that locked him in paroxysms of grief.

While Gorath began to search the bodies Owyn let his mind reach out, feeling for the pattern of the energy woven around James, searching for a place where he could begin to unravel it. Finally, Owyn found it and set to work, quickly stripping the energy away and leaving James a bit light-headed but otherwise healthy, ready to continue the journey.



James' legs ached. It seemed that he'd been walking for eternity, and the long stretch of road which led to the north did nothing for his enthusiasm. The days passed slowly, but they passed, and slowly the High Wold gave way to the foothills and the pass that would lead them to the northern settlements of the Western Realm.



Snow capped the mountains. James motioned for a temporary halt as they came through the pass into their new surroundings. Vaguely he could sense the cold that was coming down from the north and could imagine it would be even colder on the other side of the Teeth of the World.

((I've slowed down a bit for now, but I haven't stopped. Let me know if one or two posts about this length per day are enough, not enough, etc, so I know if I should try to cover more events per post. The resumption of school may affect this of course, but I'm hoping I can sustain this rate.))

6. Indalecio's got to be on the right track... how about [COALS].
11. I want to say [GLOVES], but that's not 8 letters....

EDIT:Oh yeah, [GAUNTLETS]. I'm forgetting my Pseudo-Medieval-European-Fantasy Wardrobe Tropes!

Editing glitch? That first paragraph seems truncated.

Privacy is what I keep thinking for 5, but thats 7 letters, not 6.

Along those lines, how about SECRET?