Blue Dragon 3

Blue Dragon 3 is an encounter in Civil War.
==Enemies==
* Orc Bloodrager (100 Gold, 100 XP, 100 Energy, 3 HP)
* Orc Spike-Bearer (120 Gold, 120 XP, 120 Energy, 3 HP)
==Transcript==
===Introduction===
It was late when fires appeared on the horizon. Evening's gloom had descended in a thickening mass, crushing the sun into a pink smear across the lowest part of the heavens. The moon oversaw its rival's demise and radiated triumphant silver across the campfires, tents, and the figures moving among them.
Their cart came to a stop with one final shudder. The horses neighed and began to chew the grass, while their exertions rose as wisps of steam in the cooling air. Carolyn dismounted and came over to them. Theadric did the same, and Nevis tried to avoid his gaze.
"Here we are," she said.
"Is there food? Chumgrak is hungry orc!"
She smiled.
"Most new recruits have to forage, but-"
"Forage?" Yaealina said. "We don't get rations?"
"This isn't the gold dragons," Theadric said. "We don't have the king's herds and granaries to get fat on. If you want 'rations', you'll have to show us you deserve them. In battle."
Carolyn seemed to frown at him, but the movement came and went with such swiftness that Nevis couldn't be sure if he'd imagined it. Her face was smiling once more when she turned back to the people in the cart.
"Don't worry. We'll feed you tonight. Let's get into the camp."
Yaealina rose from her cross-legged position and flew into the air in the same smooth, flawless motion. Her lithe body described a perfect arc as she backflipped and landed on her feet beside the vehicle. Her knees didn't even seem to bend to absorb the impact. She might have been made of silk instead of flesh and bone. Everyone gazed at her in awe, even Theadric.
"Just give me a chance to fight," the half-elf said, "and I'll earn those rations."
Ryli growled under her breath, the noise so deep it was almost a purr. She stood up and vaulted over the side. Chumgrak jumped too. The orc's boots touched down with a heavy thunk, right in front of Theadric. He was an inch or two shorter than the tall human but broader and bulkier. Theadric stepped back to clear his path, though his face wore the beginnings of a scowl.
Nevis picked up his bag, stood, put one foot on the edge of the wooden board that made up the cart's side, and leapt down himself. His feet landed in a soft, moist part of the ground. One slid out from under him and he stumbled when he tried to right himself. Ryli caught his arm before he could fall. He murmured his thanks and hoped the others hadn't noticed.
Theadric moved away to talk to one of the dismounting warriors. Nevis exhaled, drawing a quizzical stare from the felpuur cleric.
"Do you-" she began.
"Follow me," Carolyn said.
They joined the others, and Ryli left the question unasked.
The camp was a scattered, eclectic affair. Human men and women, along with people from at least half a dozen other races, stood or lounged around the place in a series of straggling groups, chatting as they gobbled their evening meals. A pair of gnomes in dirty aprons were roasting a piglet over a spit, turning the beast over to blacken its other flank. A female goblin sat on a battered trunk, holding a dead rat with both hands. There was a crunch as she bit into its head. Yaealina grimaced and averted her eyes.
Others whiled away their time with games of chance. A group sat around a wooden board on which they were rolling dice -- faces peering down to see whom fortune would favor. Another played cards, holding their hands close to their chests and glancing at each other askance as though suspecting treachery. Many of the gamblers held tankards, as though the camp were one big open-air tavern. Little piles of coins changed ownership amidst cheers and howls. More cheers and a few wincing faces surrounded a goblin who squatted on a table, one small green hand splayed on its surface. His other hand wielded a dagger, jabbing the point between his fingers in a series of fast, blurry thrusts.
"Hurg!" Carolyn halted and glared. "I told you to stop playing that game!"
"But pinfinger is fun!" the goblin said. He looked up at her, yet the knife kept moving -- stabbing down and pricking the table again and again, unerring. "And-"
"If I catch you doing that one more time, I'll pitch you into the latrines."
The goblin sighed, stopped, and flipped the knife over his shoulder -- above his startled audience. They ducked and dived, allowing Nevis to glimpse the archery butt behind them. The dagger had landed in the little red circle at its center.
"Find yourselves sleeping places wherever you want," Carolyn said. She pointed towards one of the tents. "Then go see the quartermaster. We're short on other supplies, but we've got weapons."
"Then food?" Chumgrak asked.
"Then food."
She walked away, with an expression which seemed to indicate that a certain goblin was about to be punched in the face. The other people from the cart wandered off towards a campfire -- where they exchanged greetings with a group of rebels. Nevis, Ryli, Yaealina, and Chumgrak were left alone in the middle of the bizarre gathering.
"Where-" Nevis said.
Yaealina strode off without waiting to hear what he had to say. Chumgrak looked at her departing back, looked at him, shrugged, and plodded after her. Nevis followed too. So did Ryli, though she made another of the little hisses he was becoming accustomed to.
The half-elf moved like a thin shadow. When a group of ale-quaffing Nords staggered into her path, she flitted between them without slowing or hesitating. Chumgrak tried to follow in her wake.
"Sorry!" the orc said. His shoulders managed to send two men and a woman stumbling. "Sorry!"
Yaealina made for a fire at the edge of the camp. Its crackling flames wrestled the deepening dark, their orange-yellow illumination untenanted save for a lone man who was combing a prodigious tangle of beard. She put her pack down on the opposite side.
"This fire taken?" Chumgrak asked.
"Na. 'Elp yourself," the man said.
They all placed their belongings around it, then headed back through the camp -- to the tent Carolyn had indicated. Here too Yaealina led the way. She walked between the canvas flaps, pushing them aside as though the place were her own. The rest of them entered with more deference.
"We were told to report here," the half-elf said.
A large table rested across the middle of the tent, like a shopkeeper's counter. A one-eyed woman sat behind it. She looked up from her plate of bread and old, hard cheese, displaying the pitchfork embroidered on her eyepatch. It was horizontal, prongs pointing towards her remaining eye as though seeking to puncture it or else directing foes to complete her blinding.
"I'm Kel, and I have weapons." She jabbed over her shoulder with a crusty heel of bread, towards the piles of ill-matching arms, each a heap of sharp or spiky steel. "You joined at the right time. A bunch of bandits attacked one of our caravans, and ended up 'donating' their stuff to the war effort instead."
"I have my own weapons," Yaealina said.
"Let's see."
The half-elf reached for the small of her back, hands sliding under her cloak. Each emerged holding a knife -- drawn from their sheaths without the slightest sound. One was straight as an arrow, the other curved. Both seemed to drink the candlelight that danced across their razor edges.
"Fine blades you have there." Kel put the bread down and held out her hand.
"Only I touch them."
"Fair enough." She shrugged and looked at Chumgrak. "What about you?"
"Chumgrak needs axe!"
"Do you know how to use one?"
"Of course! Chumgrak killed seven men with axe."
"What happened to it?"
"It broke on soldier's head. He must have had magic helmet. Or magic head..."
"Let's see what we've got."
Kel got up and went over to the weapons. She rummaged around for some moments, turned her head, scrutinized the orc, then continued rummaging. At last she hefted something from a pile and brought it back to the table -- managing its weight with both arms. Nevis supposed it was an axe, though it was so large it might have been some sort of siege engine instead. The haft was thicker than his arm. And its head... The blade looked like it could split a horse in two.
Chumgrak took it from her and grinned.
"Go take a few swings to see how you like the weight," she said.
The orc took up a martial stance and angled the weapon. The rest of them cried out and ducked.
"Not in here!" Kel said. "Not in here!"
"Oh... Chumgrak will swing this outside!"
He lumbered from the tent, leaving the rest of them to recover their poise. The quartermaster watched him leave and shook her head from side to side.
"What about you?" she said.
"I'm a cleric," Ryli replied.
"You still might need to shank or bash someone."
The felpuur held out her right paw. Claws flicked out from each fingertip.
"I'll use these."
"If you're sure... And you, lad?"
Nevis felt their gazes on him, penetrating, judging.
"I see you've got a sling." She gestured at his belt, where he'd wedged the weapon. "Don't think we have any ammunition for you, but there're plenty of rocks out there."
"I have bullets." He tapped the pouch.
"Got anything else for if they get close?"
"No."
"Want something?"
He found his gaze drawn to Yaealina, to that beautiful, cynical smile. She'd respect a warrior, not a peasant slinger...
"A sword." He tried to say it like Theadric would have. Heroic and martial, but also casual -- as if he was the kind of man who walked into shops and demanded swords as often as another might ask for bread. "Please."
"Know how to use one?"
"Oh... I... I've..."
"What does your dad do?"
"He's a... fisherman." Nevis didn't glance at Yaealina, but he thought her lips formed a slight sneer in the corner of his vision.
"Then you've gutted fish before, haven't you?"
"Yes."
"I'll get you a knife. Just make sure you practice with it, okay? Maybe this one can help you."
He met Yaealina's gaze. She looked as if someone had told her to clean a pigsty with her bare hands.
"Here," Kel said. "The sheath's seen better days, but it'll keep you from cutting off your tackle before your wedding night."
Nevis' cheeks burned. But he took the weapon and thanked her. The leather scabbard and grip were both worn and battered. There were scratches all over the pommel and dents on the guard. Yet when he pulled it out the blade was good. Still strong and sharp. And the weapon fit well in his hand, its weight comforting but not encumbering. It was good and it was his. Warmth bubbled in his breast.
===Conclusion===
It's always easier when it's orcs. This thought occurs to you without pleasure or perturbation, but as an immutable fact. Something to know and harness. A tool. Natural reaction used to feed the fires of war.
Killing comes easily to you. From the days when you were raised on tales of the Dragon-Rider and the training of your family's masters, you knew your blade would be red. Because the Kasans are heroes. And heroes kill. But even then, your first time wasn't easy. Now, after you've ended so many lives with sword and spell, you sometimes forget that. Fighting alongside these rebels has reminded you. They're brave men and women -- those who've chosen to fight for their family, their country, their liberty. Yet many of them lack the murderous mind that can drive a sword into an enemy's heart. They halt and hesitate, and in battle an instant of uncertainty might bring about their destruction.
That's why the news of an orc warband, one allied with Crenus, was so welcome. Because they're the other. Different in shape, smell, visage, and hue. A %man% who'd shy away from putting a knife through a fellow human's eye will find it easier when %his% foe is a brutish greenskin, a monster of ferocious muscles and savage tusks. To a peasant who's never dealt with orcs before, they seem as alien and hostile as a manticore or chimera.
"Help! Help!"
Of course, there are downsides too...
The man comes shrieking past, a dark patch seeping across his groin and turning the brown trousers almost black. His hands are empty. They pump in the air as he runs, having cast aside whatever weapons of war they carried a moment earlier. His face is a grinning rictus. All wide eyes and haphazard, crumbling teeth. A jester might set it in clay and fashion himself a new mask from the mold. But there's nothing amusing about the hulking enemy charging behind him -- axe raised to split his skull or sever his spine.
He screams. The orc roars. You intervene.
Your sword stroke catches the greenskin unaware. Enchanted steel, a slack swordsman's savior and a skilled one's greatest ally, shears through thick muscle and hard bone. His hand and axe hit the ground. It's so quick, clean, sudden that he doesn't even feel it at first. His arm completes the motion, swinging down at the peasant as if trying to mime violence or bludgeon him with an invisible weapon. Instead blood sprays from the stump. A second strike puts him down.
The man recovers his courage. He screams a war cry, a wordless howl, and stomps on the dying orc's head. Again, and again, and again -- while the wetness spreads down his trouser leg.
Today he ran, but tomorrow he'll be braver. Bloodlust will harden him.
Such are the ways of war.
Category:Civil War