Book One: Chapter 1

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The heroes arrive at Land's End bloody, exhausted, but together carrying the massive greataxe of GOOR, a giant abomination of Orcish magic and muscle. The events of the previous night replay again and again in their heads as they trod silently in the dim orange twilight. Sweat beads on their foreheads as the weight of the weapon rubs bruises into their shoulders. Someone gives Paddam a dirty look, who upon reading one of the inscriptions he recognized as the Orcish slur "Mordurr," decided he could not in good conscience touch it.

They arrive at the city gates with barely an ounce of strength left. Hardly anyone is about in town but soon the guards arrive to investigate and before long they are seated across from Orland with water in hand and wet towels on their heads. Simon arrives and begins passing out bread.

"Well, out with it. How in seven hells did you recover that axe? Steal it while he was sleeping?"

Snaps and Finrell share a look. Berrian opens his mouth and raises a finger but draws it back. Thaddius looks at the ceiling then the ground. Finally Paddam pipes up, "Aye, alright then, so there we were…"

A few hours later and every person of note has crowded into Kraken Heads to hear as the tale unfolds. When Paddam finally finishes, Orland pushes his chair back and shakes his head. "I don't believe it. I just cannot believe this tale is true. I have seen you all fight and I won't disrespect your prowess, but there is no way you wiped out an entire Orc battle camp."

"Well, the goblins helped us," Finrell interjects.

“…Right.”

\*\*\*

A day later the scouts return and confirm the heroes’ story. The town immediately launches into celebration. All except for Orland, who upon receiving the news begins to walk towards town hall.
Paddam follows him inside. “What’s right up your arse, then?”
“Nothing. Congratulations.”
An awkward pause ensues.
“…It should have been me.”
“We save the entire town from utter destruction and you’re in here all weepy because you won’t get any of the glory?”
“No, Paddam. It should have been me fighting there with you. It should have been me killing that giant Orc, like I promised; or at least dying in the attempt. It should have been me on trial. It should have been me dying in the battle of Land’s End. Not Martin. It should have been my time back in the Chamber of the Dread Titan when we left those poor girls to die. I should be dead… I can’t do this anymore.”
“Oh come off it you sad sack of bones-“
“I need to show you something. Follow me.”

\*\*\*

Finrell, Thaddius and Toshiro sit under the light of the fireplace, doing their best to interpret the writings recovered from the Orc Camp. “This appears to be a map,” Toshiro points out.

Finrell gives a sideways glance. “You don’t say,” he replies flatly. Soon they manage to decipher most of the labels. “Looks like they’ve been landing from the shores to the East,” muses Thaddius. “Now let’s have a look at these letters.”

> Kahn-Ur,
>
>

> We have re-secured the tower we constructed in Ash Forest. Soon we will complete the siege machines and then finish what Dorokor started. If you have different instructions for us then write back soon, as the time to crush the town is near. If we take it quickly we can use the stones to invade the nearby cities with better walls from the inside.
>
>

> -- GOORR
>
>

“Sounds like we got to them just before they were going to attack.”

> GOORR,
>
>

> Stay the attack until the ritual is complete. Tel Ergunnson gave specific instructions that the beast would grant us an unstoppable ally in battle. With so many of our forces tied up in the hunt in Dwarven territory we cannot waste men on sieges of petty towns. Wing Tower will require every ounce of strength we can muster. Much as I’d like to crush that insolent city… let us just say that Tel is not a wizard to be trifled with. He seems to have a direct connection to Asmodeus. If he says the ritual is worth it, then it must be. He will arrive to finish it personally; show him the respect a commanding officer deserves.
>
>

> -- Kahn-Ur
>
>

“Who the hell is Tel Ergunnson?”

“There’s one more.”

> GOORR,
>
>

> The Kahn-Ur instructed me to write to you. I am currently behind schedule but should still be there in time for the completion of the ritual. If I am delayed at length dealing with the so-called Blades simply slow the flow of magic into the focusing chamber as to avoid the culmination until I have arrived. You DO NOT want to deal with the creature in its natural state. That would be a mistake and a regrettable one for anything alive in your camp. I will be by as soon as I’ve finished consulting with the Scion of Orcus at the Occulary.
>
>

> -- Tel Ergunnson
>
>

Finrell spies a seal at the bottom of Tel Ergonnson’s letter, then mutters under his breath. “*I recognize that insignia.”*

\*\*\*

“I’m not telling you which to choose, only you can make that decision,” Lance tells Gar Rabgabble quite matter-of-factly. “The plea agreement clearly stated you could have your eyes gouged out or you could be banished from the city permanently. Now, that seems like a pretty easy choice to me. But it’s up to you.”
“I want to speak to Orland.”
“Like I said before, no. Sorry if you misunderstood the deal, but it’s time to make a decision. Now I’m not keeping this iron poker red hot forever.”
Gar holds out his shackles and the guard removes them. “Not much of a choice.”
“Sure it is. And I think you just made the right one. If you ever step foot in this town again you’re dead. Understand?”
“You know I’ll die out there with no supplies, horse, map, weapons, food…?
“Here’s hoping,” Lance chirps, already turning around to walk back through the city gates.

\*\*\*

Orland leads Paddam to the back of the Town Hall. “Effective immediately I’m stepping down as Sheriff. I can’t do this job any more. I’m too old, too tired, and too weak. Without Urbest around to stir the people up and without any goblins or orcs to burn it down maybe I can finally retire in peace without worrying about these people.”
Paddam simply nods, unsure of what to say.
“An election will be called, and someone has to run for Sheriff… I think it should be you. Don’t argue with me about it – I’m not going to force you. You just seem like the only one out of that bunch out for more than a buck, a pat on the back, or a good story. I don’t know. Just an old man’s hunch. The Firbolg seems okay but I’m too old fashioned to recommend someone who does as much drugs as he must.”
“Why have ya brought me back here, Orland? To convince me to run for Sheriff? That’s it?”
“No.” Orland draws back a curtain revealing a large, empty room.
“Is it …invisible?”
“No. Look,” Orland says, motioning to the floor.
A large, oval, pearlescent stone is inlaid into the floor, covering the center of the room. Around it are many inlaid gems. The surface is ten feet across.
“Looks expensive.”
“And in disrepair. When I won my first election many years ago, the previous Sheriff showed me this room. That, Paddam, is a portal stone. I’ve never had an occasion so dire to need it, but even if I had, I wouldn’t know how. Maybe someone in your group can fix it if it’s broken or otherwise figure it out. They say these were built long ago in the Pre Curse era, relics of a lost time. When used properly it connects to a network of other such stones. I know, for example, Betegar contains such a stone. But unfortunately I don’t know more.”
“Well that’s a right bit of help.”

\*\*\*

Berrian sips on his mug, going over the details of the night before. The tavern is quiet as the finishing touches are being placed on the first official Kraken Heads batch. He turns his head as a hooded figure walks into the bar. Dropping the hood a windburnt old man emerges, grey of beard and of head. A hearty smile is on his face, though.
“Greetings. I am Barth, a bard. I have come to this fine city to learn of its heroes and spread their tales. May I trouble you to recount your adventures, sir?”
“Pull up a chair and a mug. But I must warn you, the beer is not ready quite yet.

\*\*\*

One fist full of dirt at a time, he inches forward. Grasping. Pulling. Tugging. Spittle blows in and out of his mouth, mixed with dirt, as he heaves and sighs working his way towards the tree line. Orcs are running every which way. Fires are roaring. He hears a loud crash but doesn’t dare to look back. *If I can just get past the tree line, maybe I can hide myself*. After what seems like an eternity, sure every second along the way that soon an Orc will grab him from behind. He crawls past the first tree. Exhausted, he props his mostly tied up body against the side facing the forest. *Who am I fooling? At best I die out here, alone*. The sounds are fading now. He relaxes. Then drifts.
Was it hours, days later when he finally comes to? No matter, it is still dark outside. But something isn’t right. There is a smell of phosphorous in the air. He blinks a few times, looking around for something to cut his ropes.
And out of the corner of his eye he spots it.
*What fell creature is that…?*
He sits motionless, certain it is staring at him. And then his fear is confirmed as it makes its way forward, slowly. Too scared to move and too tired to fight, he simply begins to shake as it gets closer.
The glowing reptilian abomination opens wide its jaw as it draws near, revealing a bright mouth dripping with glowing purple drool filling the gaping maw.
“Now, now bessy. I’m sure we can work something out. Has anyone told you what a, er, pretty lass you are?”