September 6th, 1973 – Kidnap is such an ugly word

I crossed my legs, mostly so I could lean away from Mr. Smiles “New boss huh?  What label do you work for?  You guys must really be hard up to sign me if you went through all the trouble of kidnapping me and dragging me across the globe.  I do have a new song that will knock you on your ass but it’s not going to come cheap. I have a lot of demands.”

He laughed thinly “Kidnap?  You have a very suspicious mind for a young lady.  We didn’t kidnap you, we set you free.”

I raised an eyebrow “I suppose I was chained to the floor for my own protection then?  And what exactly was I being freed from?  I seem to remember doing just fine.  The heat didn’t work in my apartment but that’s not something that warrants at rescue at this time of year.  My landlord and I have a contentious relationship you see.  I won’t pay my rent until he fixes the heat and he won’t fix the heat until I pay the rent.  It’s a chicken egg situation.”

His look turned to one of curiosity “Is the last thing you remember being in an apartment?”

I chuckled “I know, good looking gal like me home on a Saturday night?  What’s the world coming to?  I went for a bike ride, I had lunch with some friends, I watched a little TV, I practiced the guitar for a while, and then I read a little bit before going to bed.  Next thing I know I’m in . . . Korea?”


“That’s all pretty mundane stuff there Mr. Spock, what’s so fascinating about it?”  He snapped his fingers and one of his dark suited lackeys picked up a newspaper from a nearby stand and handed it to him.  He folded it over and handed it to me. “September sixth huh?  Is that supposed to mean something?  Do you guys use a different calendar here?  Wherever here is?”

He shook his head slowly smiling “No, same calendar, you must have been in that facility for quite a while.  And you remember nothing?”

I sighed theatrically “Look man, I get that you’re trying to creep me out and be mysterious and whatnot but it’s annoying.  Just tell me why you brought me here.”

“I told you, you work for me now.”

“Are you that hard up for singers around here that you have to resort to kidnapping?”

“We have plenty of singers, what we need are fighters.”

I couldn’t help but laugh “Fighters?  Are you high, man?  The last fight I was in was with my sister when I was twelve.  And I remembering thinking at the time that I was a little too old for it.  I’m a musician.  Who could I possible fight?”

He grabbed my arm and I yanked out of his grip instinctively – it wasn’t hard.  It was like pulling away from the hand of a baby.  I did so with such force that my elbow hit the counter and splintered it like when a guy in one of those karate movies slams his hand down on something.

His smile widened “Who indeed.”

I rubbed my elbow “Yeah, I meant to ask about that, what have you done to me?  Why does my head feel like someone is hitting it with a wrench?  And why am I so damn hungry?”

Date unknown – Meet the new boss, etc. etc. you know the rest

Walking up the hill into Madripoor I felt like I was stepping off of a space capsule on another planet.  I’ve traveled quite a bite in the States, the Coalition, and the Republics, I’ve experienced a lot of different places.  But nothing like this.  The sounds, the smells, the feel of the air – it was all different.  Part of the feeling was probably created by not hearing much English.  Some of the people I passed were speaking French but most of them weren’t speaking anything I recognized. 

The crowded homes at the bottom of the hill seemed clearly like the “bad” part of town, but no one bothered me.  Beyond a few curious looks no one paid me any mind at all.  Half the people seemed like they were too busy to notice me and the other half looked too relaxed to care.   I wanted to know where I was, but more than that I wanted a shot, a beer, a pack of Newports, and some FOOD. 

I hadn’t fully passed into the garish high-rise Vegas part of town, but was in a borderlands of sorts when I saw a subway counter type thing with a paunchy old guy serving up . . . something.  Bowls of what looked like grey water with noodles and some fish chunks.  It smelled bad and looked worse but my stomach was rumbling so loudly people were turning to look at me.

The guy behind the counter didn’t speak English or French (I didn’t try Spanish) but I held out the money and he gave me a bowl.  On its own it wasn’t great, but it wasn’t bad.  At that moment it was the BEST THING I EVER TASTED.  Seriously, I cannot express how hungry I was.  I shoved the noodles and chunks into my face with my hands, much to the disgust of the cook/owner/counterman/whatever.  It was pretty gross but I couldn’t help myself.  I didn’t want to.

He tried to give me change but I waved him off and gestured for more food.  After bowl four I started using utensils.  The counterman was shocked by the amount of food I was inhaling in such a short period of time.  After a couple more bowls he gestured at me angrily and shoved some bills back in my hand.  These ones were dark red and pale blue.  It’s quite a color wheel they have going on here with their mint.  I held up one of the bills trying to decipher what was on it. 

“It’s a turtle.”

I turned to see the origin of the voice that had just the smallest hint of a French accent.  It was a smooth looking fellow in a tan leisure suit,  I think I saw Carson wearing that same thing.  The suit, not the guy.  He was one of these types that you can tell is an operator just by looking at him.  Very friendly.  Several guys with him in dark suits didn’t look friendly at all.  But he was the dangerous one.

I turned the bill the other way around “I guess.”

He came and sat on the stool next to me, closer than was necessary “You ran off before we could talk.”

I turned to get a better look at him “You’re from the ship then?  Who are you the skipper?  Where’s your hat?  Where’s Gilligan?”

He smiled humorlessly “I’m your new boss.”

Date unknown – Fresh off the boat

I walked up the weird metal stairs for what seemed like a really long time and came out a short (I mean vertically, I bumped my head) corridor onto the deck of a ship that seemed like a mile long.  Or maybe not the deck, like the side thing?  I don’t know how ships work.  It was a like a walkway.  There was another guy like the one below who was smoking a cigarette and had a strap around his neck.  For some reason I thought it was for a canteen when I first saw it.  It wasn’t.  It was for a gun.  A submachinegun maybe?  I know about as much about guns as I do about ships.  He frowned at me and said something in a language I didn’t understand.

It’s been a while since I’ve had a gun pointed at me.  I don’t care for it.  It was a stupid thing to do, but I turned my back to him because I wanted to get away.  He barked something at me and I turned back to see he had the gun in his hands and was shouting.  I told him in French that I didn’t know what he was saying and he jerked the barrel of his gun to the side like he was telling me to do something.  I don’t know what he was trying to communicate.  Did he want me to jump over the side?

I know porthole isn’t the right word, but that’s what I keep thinking was at the top of the stairs.  It was like a big metal protuberance – I guess it was like the fire door on the roof of an apartment building.  I grabbed at the door because I wanted to put something between me and the gun but when I seized it the door ripped off the hinges (or whatever) like it was held on by toothpaste.  When it tore off the frame it flew out of my hands and slammed into the gunman, knocking him over the side.  I saw his cigarette sitting on the desk and I grabbed it, taking a deep drag.  It was the worst cigarette I ever tasted but it felt so good.    

I was a little afraid to look over the side, but I had to.  I didn’t hear a splash and I saw why.  The man was lying on a . . . wharf maybe?  Is that those things for ships are called?  Was it a jetty?  A pier?  Whatever it was it was ten or twelve feet down.  The man was still moving, which was good, but he wasn’t moving enough to shoot me, which was even better. 

I didn’t see any way down in the immediate area and I didn’t want to explore so I finished the cigarette and then jumped over the side myself.  That was probably a bad idea as well.  I landed on that concrete (or whatever) like I was stepping out of bed, I’ve hurt myself worse stumbling on heels.  I grabbed some more garish red and purple bills out of the groaning gunman’s pocket and headed away from the water.

The city that lay before me was like nothing I had ever seen before.  It was built on an upward slope, the bottom portion closest to the water was a massive sprawl of bungalows and row houses that were piled on top of each other like debris that the tide had carried in.  Directly behind them was an explosion of bright lights and flashy buildings like the Vegas strip had exploded to cover an entire city the size of Chicago. 

I’m pretty sure that Madripoor isn’t in Arkansas

Date unknown – Welcome to Madripoor

I’ve woken up with enough hang-overs to know a hang-over when I bump into one.  This wasn’t one.  My head felt like a bus was parked on it.  But the real tip off was how hungry I was.  I’ve known lean times, I’ve gone a couple days without eating many times.  Once I was so hungry I started blacking out.  This was way worse than that.  I don’t know what starvation feels like but this must be it.  I’ve never been starving and hung over at the same time.

Another bigger tip off that something was up was the fact that I was chained to the floor of what appeared to be the hold of a ship.  Not chained, it wasn’t a chain, it was like metal rope.  Is that something?  I guess it was cable?  It was looped through cuffs on my forearms and then through rings on the floor.  I saw similar set-ups all around holding stacks of shipping boxes in place.

It was cold and dark down there and I should have been scared out of my wits but honestly all I could think about was how hungry I was.  I felt like my stomach was turned inside out and I was digesting myself.  I heard someone either singing or mumbling softly to themselves and called out.  In the dim light I saw a man appear that I thought was Filipino maybe.  I don’t know why but my first impression was that he was dressed like a lumberjack.  When he saw me sitting up he said something in a language I didn’t understand.  I wanted to ask him if he had a Marathon bar in his pocket but I managed to make myself ask a more relevant question. 

“What’s going on?”

When he spoke English he did so with a French accent “You’re not supposed to be awake.”

“Where am I?  What’s happened?”

He turned to walk away and I stood up to go after him.  The wires or cords or whatever they were holding me weren’t long enough for me to stand up but they snapped when I pulled on them.  It sounded like a gunshot in there when they broke.  Those metal cables were about the thickness of a magic marker but they broke like they were shoelaces.  It wasn’t easy but it wasn’t hard either.  At the sound we both flinched and ducked, and then the man turned around to stare at me wide-eyed.

“You . . . . shouldn’t be able to do that.”

“What did you do to me?”

I didn’t even raise my voice but he cowered like I was holding a running chainsaw “Don’t hurt me, I just work here!”

He started speaking in a language I don’t understand again as I ripped the metal things off my forearms and dropped them to the floor with a loud clank.  He looked up at me, his eyes soggy with fear.  I’ve never had anyone look at me like that before.  It made me a little sick to my stomach.  Which, somehow, only made me hungrier.  He clutched a hand to his chest and barely whispered. 

“Are you going to kill me?”

“What are you talking about?  How could I kill anyone?”  I looked down at the broken cables “I mean . . . I guess . . . look man just tell me what’s going on.  Why am I here?”

He kept begging me not to hurt him in English and French and sometimes in other languages I don’t know.  It was really freaking me out so I headed for what looked like some kind of stairs.  Then I turned back and held out my hand.

“Gimmie your money.  I’m going to need some cash to get home and I feel like you owe me.”  He reached into his pocket and stuffed some crinkled bills in my hand. “What is this?  Monopoly money?  It’s purple.  And there’s a moose on it!”  He stuttered something I didn’t catch “What was that?”

“It’s a whale.”

“What?”  I turned one of the bills sideways and looked at it closely, maybe it was some kind of Picasso whale.  “Where am I?!”


“Is that in Arkansas?”

Who’s going to tell Ela’s momma that her little girl ain’t coming home?

By now the word of Ela’s death has probably hit all the major news media outlets.  I was a little stunned yesterday when I was rolling that up.  It would be easy to bring her back, death is cheap in Pathfinder and D&D after all, but that’s the coward’s way.

I’ll be taking a different coward’s way.  I’m going to continue with the same character in a new story with the same basic framework.  I’m going to update Ela’s stodgy image and give her the sleek, dazzling veneer of the 1970’s.  Plus superpowers. 

My plan is for this new story to have 80% less content.  I realized when I stumbled across a similar D&D blog that I liked that if you’re coming in in the middle there’s no way you’re ever going to care enough to read the thousands of pages of backlog.  By not posting 3-10 pages every day for 2 years I hope it will be more approachable. 

Also my goal is to make Ela 60% less reprehensible. 

I’ll be tinkering with the site a bit to make it more awesome and 70s-riffic and then I’ll get started with the stuff. 

In the meantime if you just can’t live without my awkward writing please check out my other tale – my girlfriend has said that it made her uncomfortable only twice!

I know what you’re thinking, “Jeremy, you were born in the 70’s but do you actually know anything about them?”  Heck no, but this will be an alternative world where stuff is different so it’s fine.   If you read the new story and ever think “that doesn’t seem right” I did that on purpose.  That’s a choice.  Worldbuilding.  Etc. 

Montumazin 1 Year 888 (New Imperial Calendar) part 2

I’m going to admit something to you folks, despite living in Paladore for more than fifteen I don’t know what it is, I mean formally.  The Kingdom is made up of counties and those counties are administered by Counts and Countesses.  That’s pretty straightforward.  Cathars is the capital of Cymrile County and the Count lives there sometimes.  I know that Dukes are the next level above Counts but below the King.  What I don’t know is what they are actually in charge of.  You’d think that there would be duchies made up of counties and Dukes would be in charge of those, logically that makes sense.  But there are not enough counties for that.  Paladore is not the capital of a Duchy.  So what is Paladore then other than the place where Duke Eaglevane lives?  What is it the capital of?  Nothing?  

I think there are three Dukes that are in charge of all the counties and the other Dukes do stuff with trade or the military or something?  My education really gave me the short shrift on civics and political sciences but I know seventeen different ways to courtesy and so much about fashion and makeup.  Alsio it didn’t teach me what short shrift means.  What I do know that is back in olden times (not the Old Empire though, I don’t think, I got shafted on history too) Paladore was two separate cities that were in separate kingdoms right on the border.  When the THE Kingdom was formed they were forced together like reluctant lovers – not unlike the actual King and Queen at the time.  

It’s easy to tell that Paladore used to be two cities because on one side you have grand towering buildings, sprawling manor houses, bustling markets, and all manner of comforts and opulence.  The other side?  Not so much.  You ever see a turnip that looks fine on the top but the bottom part, which is scraggy and ugly even on a good turnip, is rotting away?  Paladore is a like that, right on the “border” there’s a big band of normal urban sprawl but it gives way to blight the farther you travel across that invisible boundary.  There’s no name for that boundary but everyone knows it’s there.  

I heap a lot of scorn on Graltontown, and justifiably so, but the truth of the matter is that the far west parts of Paladore are even worse.  Because of the scale if nothing else.  The only thing in this world that can make me think for a single moment that maybe city life isn’t the way to go is a glimpse of the crushing poverty and misery if those crumbling parts of west Paladore.  

“Ela what does this have to do with anything?”

I’m getting to it, hold your horses.  Living in the Duke’s palace I didn’t have many glimpses of that part of the city – even on the rare occasion he wanted to go “slumming” we went nowhere near the actual slums.  But when I was a child and was first brought there we passed through west Paladore and I saw something that I will never forget.  A woman, a girl really, was handing a shiv to what could have either been her younger sister or her daughter and saying this “If they see you run, if you can’t get away go for the eyes or the groin first, then the throat.”  That sums up west Paladore in a nutshell.  It’s good advice as well.  For me I changed it a little bit – first keep them talking, if that fails then run, and if that fails then you go for the groin stab.  

I’m fantastic at the talking part.  The running away part depends on where it is – in the country I’m not so good, in the city I’m great at that too.  When it comes to the stabbing I’m better than I ever thought (or wanted) to be but in the final analysis I’m just a mediocre stabber.  I’m good at catching people off-guard and getting the first strike, but if that first attack doesn’t end things or at least seriously debilitate whoever’s on the other end of the stabbing it often puts me in a spot of trouble.  

Keep them talking, avoid conflict, and if that doesn’t work run like the Hells.  And if that doesn’t work fight like the Hells – all thirteen of them.  I suppose I should add in a fourth step, one that has served me well on several occasions – if you can’t beat them beg for mercy.  Beg like you’ve never begged before.  Discard all shreds of dignity and grovel like the most pathetic harmless defeated worm that ever lived.  Offer bribes, flatter them, cry like a damn baby, do whatever you have to do to get them to be lenient.   This is all in service of the number one rule that necessitates all others – stay alive no matter the cost.  

I’ve broken a lot of rules, tons of them in fact, but that was one rule I hoped I would never be on the wrong side of.  Things started off promisingly enough, the undead wolf beast (that was clearly NOT an undead werewolf because that would be ridiculous) was willing to talk.  The problem was that it didn’t seem to have any wants or needs.  Nor did a rotting half-man half wolf waking corpse find me attractive or interesting or useful in any way that I could work with.  After an auspicious opening in a few minutes it was clear that the undead thing was losing interest in talking and gaining interest in attacking.  

I’ll give myself credit for having enough awareness to know that.  Cold comfort, but that’s all the comfort I’m likely to get from here on out.  Since we were in a small office running wasn’t really an option.  I could have backed through the door into the other smaller room and hoped there was a window I could dive out, but I was worried about the thing’s quickness – plus the stalhounds were out there, which I assumed were under the control of this thing.  So that didn’t seem like a good option.

The best bet maybe would have been to try and make it out the front door and onto Stranger.  The beast was between me and that door unfortunately.  What I should have done knowing what I know now is started maneuvering for the door when we first started talking and it was still being amiable, relatively speaking.  But I didn’t know then what I know now.  

So fighting it was.  When it became clear that it was time for violence I did manage to strike the first blow, sweeping it off its feet with this stick I found in Wolcott’s emergency stash.  It doesn’t look like much, but it must be lousy with magic because there’s no way I could have done that all on my own.  I would have liked to wallop a few folks with that, it’s too bad I didn’t get to have it for long.  Speaking of, I really miss that magic walking stick that I had made.  That thing was great.  I don’t usually get attached to things, especially magic things, but I really liked that walking stick.  It had so many things that it could do and it looked great.  It saved my bacon dozens of times.  Plus it was just fun.

But what really would have helped us those boots I used to have that let me run up walls like a squirrel up a tree.  Those were really useful.  If I could have gotten out the window and up the side to the roof now that’s an entirely different situation.  But as they say it’s a dead craftsman who blames their lack of tools.  I suppose I should have overcome my revulsion and learned to do some magic myself instead of relying on items.  I’m sure I could have done it based on the wizards I’ve met. They weren’t the brightest bunch so I bet I could have learned to be great at magic.  I just hate it so much.  I guess for all my talk I was as hamstrung by pride as anyone.  I don’t like magic so I didn’t want to learn magic.  So I didn’t.  I should be better than that, I did all kinds of things I didn’t want to do.  

So I got in the first hit, and maybe one more after that, but then it was all undead wolf-monster from thereon out.  I fought as hard as I could, I assure you of that, but it didn’t amount to much – I’m just not much of a fighter really.  As several people warned me would happen I ran into someone (something really) that was immune to my charms and tricks and was stronger and tougher than I could fight in my wildest dreams.  And as you folks well know I’ve had some wild dreams.  

Getting ripped apart by an undead wolfman was very painful, don’t think it wasn’t, but honestly I’ve had worse.  All the beatings and stabbings and acidings I’ve endured over the last two years were training for this moment I guess.  It wasn’t a painless death but any means, far from it, but it wasn’t so bad all things considered.  I’m sure many people would have wished worse upon me.

Remember that time that guy strangled me and I almost died, or maybe did die for a little while?  Sure you do, it was when I was ransacking the house of the people that the Juosts displaced.  During that strangling and almost death (or death)I had an out of body experience – I was floating outside of my body and I could see what was happening.  This time was nothing like that.  Everything just went black and that was it.  I couldn’t see anything, there was nothing to see.  I don’t think I exist anymore so how could I see anything?  So maybe that’s how you know the difference between a near death experience and death.   

The same guy showed up as that time though.  Out of the darkness the tall, jet-black skeleton with a long, bony tail, and the massive black-feathered wings of a crow.  Over its odd bird-skull face was a bronze mask that appeared to be of the face of the creature inside.  It was very, very, very slowing coming my way.   

But he wasn’t alone.   Coming from another direction was the thoughtful looking bear-like “angel” that was the size of a small house.  And from yet another direction was my old friend Poor Annie, the massive black canine looking like a tiny lapdog in comparison to the huge bear-angel.  I get the feeling that time no longer means anything, yet it still seemed like it took forever for them to get to me – all arriving at the same time.

“So” I said without body or voice “What comes next?” 

Out of character interlude – a couple magic items and some serious jibber-jabber

Whenever I do a non-story post (except for the map posts which are the best) I feel like I’m cheating.  Then I remember that I only have one reader so it’s fine. 

I read a lot of D&D blogs because I am very cool and have a rich full life.  Many of these blogs talk about problems during games and many of those problems, in my opinion, stem from people taking the game too seriously.  However I would say I prefer too serious to not serious enough.

Roleplaying is by its nature kind of silly, but unbearable silliness is a quick turn off for me in a game.  Passing no judgements of course, but I don’t like being in a game where someone says they want to play an Elvis Presley impersonator that fell through wormhole and is now in D&D and has magic blue suede shoes.  Let’s take our silliness a little seriously can we?

I like wrestling, which is very silly, and everyone knows that I like it so sometimes they try to inject it into our games when I’m a player.  They’ll introduce a magic lucha mask or a +1 Folding Chair into the game.  I hate it.  Quit getting your chocolate on your peanut butter.

I admit that sometimes I am the culprit of too much silliness.  Especially when I first started playing Shadowrun.  I’m going to blame other people for that though.  The other people in the game were all DEEPLY versed in Shadowrun lore and knew everything about everything.  I knew nothing.  So I often had no clue what was going on.  Plus they characters were often involved in super-secret shit that only they and the GM got to know about so even when I knew what was going on I didn’t know what was going on.  So my character mostly did stuff that made no sense.  But it was a cry for help.

I’ve been accused, rightfully so, of not being good at bringing along new players – but they were just as bad.  Come on guys in 1994, give me a break, tell me something about the campaign and how it works.  I play with a dude now who’s really skilled at nurturing new players, I find it fascinating and grotesque both.

One time the Coen Brothers made a movie called A Serious Man.  It’s the kind of movie where after it ends you go “whoa, I’m going to have to think about that for a while” but instead you immediately forget that you ever saw it.  The internet can probably tell me what the opening scene of that movie was about but I’ll never remember to look it up.

I take this blog way too seriously, but not too too seriously.  Such as, it annoys me that there’s a blog that has 20,000 followers that literally does nothing but post how many followers it has but I’m not going to lose sleep over it.  Not much sleep anyway. 

Stumbling on that blog was a fun reminder that if you do something genuine it’s tough to get attention because if you’re serious about something you have to be really good at it.  If you do something stupid people can get on board to matter what.

It reminds me of the early days of the internet (I’m old) when a friend I played Warhammer 40k with all the time used to often complain that there was a website that just showed live video of meat rotting.  He couldn’t understand why anyone would go to that website – that he went to all the time to see how many people went to it.  You see kids in those days websites had little counters on the bottom that showed how many people visited it.  It was a primitive time. 

I hope in the future when they talk about the internet as we use it they actually do think it was a series of tubes delivering packages.  I think historians get most things 33% right at best. 

Once I stopped playing tabletop wargames I fell out of touch with that dude because we didn’t have much else in common.  That bothers me occasionally, but such is life.  If you’re reading this dude, which seems insanely unlikely, how’s it going? 

Vagabond’s Staff

This sturdy ironwood walking stick is free of any markings or adornments. 

In the hands of a wielder with a home of any kind the Vagabond’s Staff functions as a masterwork club.  When used by someone without a fixed residence or landholdings it becomes a +3 Impact Leveraging Greatclub that grants the wielder a +1 luck bonus to skill checks and saving throws. This enhanced form can be planted into the ground and transformed into a guardian as per the Liveoak spell.  Once this ability has been used it cannot be used again until a new owner has traveled at least 100 miles with the staff in their possession.  

Wanderer’s Boots

These rugged and solid wyvernskin boots are unremarkable and plain despite their exotic material.  They are incredibly light and comfortable, with thin soles reinforced by strips of tough hide that provide an unexpected amount of support and protection to the foot. 

Wearing these boots grants a +4 bonus on the Constitution checks made to continue running and to avoid nonlethal damage from a forced march.  These boots also protect the wearer’s feet as if they had hardness 10. This hardness applies only against effects that directly affect the target’s feet, such as caltrops, spike growth, spike stones, or stepping into lava. 

Montumazin 1 Year 888 (New Imperial Calendar)

Sending a Vieland army to attack Three Rivers isn’t the most satisfying of revenge on the Lumber Consortium but I’m not confident that I’m going to secure any better.  I’m reluctantly crossing them off the List while reserving the right to further avenge myself on them at a later date.  I don’t feel great about it but they’re proving to be a tough nut to crack.  Królewna & Bonifacja Trading Company was reckoned to be on be one of the movers and shakers in the Kingdom but I was able to completely ruin them without too much trouble.  It helped that they were complicit in treasonous activity but even so they had a lot of clout in the halls of power and they still went down hard.  The Lumber Consortium on the other hand I don’t think has any influence outside of the County, or very little, and they’re proving to be a far more stubborn opponent. Maybe the fact that their providence is smaller helps them?  K&B most likely had people trying to drag them down I gave them the chance.  Perhaps no one with enough power to do anything cares about the Lumber Consortium.

Point is I’m done with them for now.  I tried to the road back to Narhold and that displeased the collar around my neck forcing me northward.  And since the road north is crawling with Vieland soldiers (for some reason) I took off into the woods.  That always works well for me.  As you might imagine a gigantic warhorse is not well suited for picking your way through the trees and underbrush so I did significantly more leading than riding.  I had to use my Beastspeech several times to keep the big lummox moving.  In case you were wondering animals can be jerks.  And this guy is.  It’s probably not really his fault, I’m sure he was bred and trained to be like this, but that doesn’t make it any less annoying.  I’ve heard tell that  the savages that live out on the plains indulge in horse-fighting instead of  civilized bloodsports like dog-fighting or bear-baiting.  In my less charitable moments that’s where I feel this fellow belongs.

Since I can’t ride him and since he probably needs a ton of food and since I don’t really care about all that armor he’s carrying I was thinking about just turning him loose.  But just about the time I was convincing myself to do that was also the time when I noticed a form in the underbrush stalking after us.  Some folks call them stalhounds, others call them festrogs, they have many names – but a rose by any other name would smell as rotting.  Whatever you call them what they are is undead wolves with slack limbs and empty eyes driven by the needed to slaughter the living – and not just kill, terrorize and dismember first.  I would imagine it was keeping its distance on account of big hairy brute beside me, if I had been alone I’m sure it would have attacked.

Certain types, your intellectuals and academics and whatnot like to speculate on why the living dead spend all their time trying to kill us.  Is it because they envy the living?  Is it because of the dark magic that propels them forward?  Is it to avenge their own deaths against the entire world?  This is a great example of pointless conjecture – the undead want to kill us, does it really matter why?  I can assure you when you have a zombie wolf eyeballing you (metaphorically, as they have no remaining eyes) you don’t worry about its motivations in the least. 

The crossbow I stole from the commander was as huge and awkward as his stupid jerk horse.  It makes no sense for an officer to have something like this, it’s not like he’s going to be standing shoulder to shoulder with a unit of crossbowmen firing at the enemy, he should have a smaller weapon that he can keep around all the time in case things go sideways.  I managed to get it loaded once and fire at the skulking beast but I don’t think I hit it and I gave up on the idea of a second shot quickly.  I can barely raise the thing to my shoulder.  I suppose if it comes at me I can throw the crossbow at it, this thing weights thirty pounds it feels like.

The good news is with this murder-collar on me for once I can always make sure I’m heading essentially in the right direction – if I get turned around it lets me know by starting to kill me.  The bad news is that as the day wore on several more undead wolves turned up the join the very slow silent “hunt”.  Anticipating that they would eventually reach a critical mass where a single warhorse wasn’t going to keep them at bay anymore my first thought was to mount up and ride, despite the dangers of doing so in dense woods, but I quickly realized that was futile – the chances of enduring beyond the capacity of a living wolfpack is a tough prospect, and if there’s one thing the undead have going for them it’s that they don’t get tired and they don’t give up. 

Unfortunately I wasn’t coming up with a second thought very quickly.  It was hard to tell how many of the beasts there were as the day worse on since it was dark and they kept to the shadows, but I’m pretty sure there were at least six, and based on the stench there could have been more.  However many they were they were emboldened enough to get closer.  I think attack was imminent when I spotted a lumber camp in the distance.  I leapt onto Stanger’s back and set him to as fast as a gallop as I thought prudent given the terrain.  Still I was almost thrown away just by the force of him moving beneath me – it was a jolt to the spine when he started running in earnest.  I don’t think he liked those creatures sneaking about any more than I did.  They didn’t chase us, which is always unsettling.  Whenever you run away from a deadly menace and it just watches you go you have to wonder what’s you’re running towards.

The camp was abandoned, what with the war and all, but there were six men in a line in the middle of the place – hands tied behind them.  Five had been beheaded, one on the end had had his throat slashed, maybe the ax had gotten dull before they got to him but if anyone should have a good supply of sharp axes it would be loggers.  They weren’t wearing uniforms but I think they were Vielanders.  With that cheery sight revealed I headed for what is generally the most secure building in a place like this – the paymaster’s hut.  I tied the reins over the saddlehorn to make sure they wouldn’t get in Stranger’s way, refraining from touching him as I used the Beastspeech.

“If those things come up here stomp them in the head, keep your back to the wall here, make sure they don’t get behind you.”

He horse-snorted “I don’t need you tell me how to fight wolves female.”

See what I mean?  Jerk.  I went inside and checked the hidden compartment that I know now is usually in these places – I’ve been in a depressing amount of lumber camps at this point.  It was empty, the entire place had been cleaned out other than a massive desk that was probably too heavy to shift easily.  Even the chair for the desk was gone.  I took a seat to consider my options.

“I don’t remember inviting you in.”

The voice belonged to a shaggy wolfman that was couching in the corner.  It was covered with dark fur that was matted and tangled in ways that looked painful.  There’s no way I could have overlooked it but yet there it was catching me unawares.  When I think of a werewolf I think of a full wolf-head with a long snout but this being wasn’t like that – it was more like a wolf-skin face stretched over a flat noseless human skull.  It wasn’t a good look.  Not helping the overall appearance was the fact that this was clearly dead – not only were its guts splitting out of its belly like an apron but it had deep gouges across both arms and the back of the neck.  Whatever it was it was deader than a doornail, yet there it crouched.

“I let myself in.”

It made an odd coughing noise “Hasn’t anyone told you that’s very inconsiderate?  What would your mother say?  Not to mention it can be very dangerous as well, you never know who could be home.”

“Clearly.  I thought that werewolves turned back into humans when they died, how do you end up a zombie werewolf?”

“How should I know?”

“Because you are one?”

It made a raspy wheezing noise that I think was supposed to be laughter, sounded like it really had to work to push out that rattle “Zombie werewolf, that’s a good one.”

Montresor 30 Year 888 (New Imperial Calendar) part 2

The good thing about soldiers is that they’re used to following orders.  Before his partner could get back Vanger and I tossed the body of his commander into the bedroom (you know, the onewhere I killed Wolcott that one time) and shut the door.  When the other guard came running back with a confused lieutenant (is there any other kind?) he backed up my story that the shapeshifter had slashed at us with shapeshifter claws and then ran away after Vanger valiantly and bravely stabbed it, hence all the blood.  Aside from being used to following orders he was probably also motivated by the desire not to be executed for murdering his commanding officer.  I have no idea how well the shapeshifter defense works in a military tribunal but if he stopped to think about it I wonder what he would have done.  Thankfully he didn’t.  The lieutenant was all excited about rallying the men to find the escaped spy but I threw a blanket over that enthusiasm.

“Belay that order Lieutenant, think about what you’re saying for a moment, how do you suggest that we find a person or creature capable of changing form on a whim?  What you’re talking about would be worse than a wild goose chase.  We know one thing, right now, for certain, I am the real commander of this outfit.  So I am going to issue an order and that order will be carried out no matter who seems to appear and countermand it.  Gather up all the other officers and bring them here Lieutenant, I need to address you all at that same time.  If you get back here and Vanger is not with me DO NOT LISTEN TO ANYTHING I SAY.  From now on Vanger and I are joined at the hip, that way you know it’s the real me.  We’d be holding hands right now if regulations didn’t say that we can’t.  If you see me or Vanger alone that person is an imposter.  Now hurry up damn it, we don’t have a lot of time!”

Vanger looked desperately like he wanted to say something but the other guard was there trying to look like he knew what was going on.  A few minutes later the Lieutenant came jogging back with a handful of captains and a major or two along with some various other hangers-on.

“At ease men.  A Kingdom agent with the ability to disguise themselves as anyone in the area.  But that’s not going to be a problem because these two men can right here right now vouch that I am the true commander of this outfit.  Here’s what we’re going to do.  Our Ulpine allies have captured the Compass River and cut off Three Rivers from the rest of the county.  But as usual they need us to do the real work.  Get everyone ready to move and head up the road to Three Rivers to join the assault.  In three days I want you across the river and in four days I want you to be inside the walls.”

A tall peacock looking fellow frowned “But sir our orders are . . .”

I gave him a look “I know what our orders are Captain.  They no longer matter.  As of right now our only priority is capturing Three Rivers.  Forget everything else.”

A commander master sergeant with a rugged sergeanty jawline piped up “What about the prisoners sir?”

“Turn them loose, they no longer matter.”

Peacock’s eyebrows shot up “But sir, our orders . . .”

“Captain don’t make me tell you again, forget those orders.  There is a Kingdom relief force heading here right now and we’re not going to waste any more time and manpower on this anthill of a village.  Capturing Three Rivers is the key to securing this entire region.  So that’s what you’re going to do, is that clear?”

He nodded, somewhat nervously but more in the way of a pouty child.

“Now the important part.  I can’t have Vanger sitting my lap the entire way to Three Rivers to verify my identity.  Which is why we won’t be going.  I am issuing this order now, proceed to Three Rivers with all haste and attack. Major you are taking command of this operation.  But all you of you men here in this room take heed – of the Major or myself or anyone else, up to and including the King shows up and tells you do anything other than proceed to Three Rivers with all haste and attack DO NOT LISTEN TO THEM.  This is the order I am giving and nothing in the Heavens or Hells will change that no matter how reasonable it seems.  If you see ‘me’ turn up in your camp place that person under lock and key.  Is that clear?  You are to proceed to Three Rivers and attack, this order cannot be countermanded by anyone.  Is that understood?  If the Major or anyone else gives a different order remove them from command and place them in chains.  Any change in directions or tactics needs to be confirmed in the presence of the next man up the chain.  I want each man here to say individually that they understand.”

Once all that rigmarole was done and they scurried off to start yelling and whatever else it is that officers do Vanger grabbed at me desperately.

“What are we going to do?”

I shrugged him off “Relax private, we’re in the clear, they’ll go off to attack Three Rivers and you can return home or back to your base or whatever it is soldiers do who get separated from their unit.  You have to admit that’s a pretty good shapeshifter protocol I came up with there wasn’t it?  Seems like something the army should train for.  I think that’s pretty simple magic.  It probably happens all the time, spies and whatnot.”

He hissed dreadfully in a whisper “But you’re the shapeshifter.”

I elbow him away “Back off me man, you don’t have to spit in my ear, I know.  Look, you’re freaking out, just sit in the corner and don’t say or do anything and this will all over shortly.”

He slumped down in the corner like a man who’d been kicked in the head by an oxen.  I finished off the commander’s whiskey while I ransacked his home. The man only had forty damn gold.  What a rip off.  I guess the Vieland armor doesn’t pay any better than ours.  He had a suit of armor that weighed nine thousand pounds.  Even mounted I don’t understand how they wear that stuff.  I had Vanger help me load it onto the commander’s mount – a big ugly brute of a horse who looked at me suspiciously until I used my Beastspeech to chat with him and explain that I was his new best friend.

While Vanger was out messing with big hunks of metal armor it have me a chance to take a look at Wolcott’s secret stash, which I didn’t get a chance to check out last time.  He didn’t have any gold in there for some reason – what kind of emergency stash is that – but he did have some useful items, including some scrolls and wands.  Was Wolcott a magic user?  I never got that sense.  I guess some people learn how to use scrolls that other magic people make for them.  Since there was nothing else to do I searched the rest of the place thoroughly while the Vielanders got themselves into marching order and Vanger sat in the corner looking traumatized.  Some of these military types are shockingly fragile.  No one they come back from war all crazy in the head. 

It was only a couple hours until the Vieland force was ready to move, which I have to admit it pretty impressive.  There were more them them than I expected, probably five hundred men –headed north on the road to Three Rivers leaving behind several dozen confused and bruised Gevudians.  Vanger and I watched as they marched into the trees and out of sight. He looked at me urgently.

“What do we do now?”

I patted him on the shoulder “Don’t worry Vanger, I have a plan.”

I stepped out of Wolcott’s house/the commander’s post looking like myself, my disguise having well worn off by now, with a very nervous man in a Vielander uniform on my side.  I beckoned all the Gevudaners over to listen to my pronouncement.

“Greetings fellow Kingdomers, I have negotiated your freedom.  You’re welcome.  I would suggest that you loot whatever is left here and get out of this area as soon as possible.  Head north to Gib’s Tor maybe?  There are not a lot of good options.  You could head for Graltondown but I think that place is going to be sacked soon, and Three Rivers is fucked as well.  Basically what I’m saying is that it’s everyone for themselves.  I wouldn’t hang around in this forest for sure, there’s a lot of bad shit going down in here.” I leapt onto the commander’s horse “Anyway, goodbye and good luck!” I heard Vanger yelling behind me as I spurred my hoses away from the ruins of Gevudan.     

Montresor 30 Year 888 (New Imperial Calendar)

When I first heard that Vieland had captured Gevudan I wondered why they would bother.  Later on when I uncovered their operation with the traitors in the Lodge Woods it made a little more sense.  When I first heard that my jailers/guards/minders were taking to Three Rivers by way of Gevudan I said “Isn’t that village in enemy hands?”  I was assured that it had been retaken by the brave men of the King’s Army.  Our first indication that the statement about Gevudan being back in the poxy bosom of the Kingdom might be incorrect is when a few miles away the guy who’s name I didn’t learn and who never said or did anything both said and did something.  What he did was catch an arrow in the thigh and what he said was “I’m shot.”  Very calmly as if saying “hey look at that bird over there.”

I had mentioned several times to my jailers/guards/minders that wearing the uniforms of the Duke’s Guard this close to enemy territory was perhaps not the best idea but as usual I was ignored.  I’m no expert on fieldcraft but I feel that when you’re moving through a warzone it’s best to do so in plain clothes.  Bolbec, Findley, and Cavnas ran for cover as another arrow snapped the unknown soldier’s head back by hitting him in the face.  I’ve seen a depressingly high number of people get shot through the face in the past two years.  Granted I shot most of them but still.  I went the other way with it, I let loose a very convincing scream of terror and ran towards the Vieland patrol that was shooting at us.  As if I was a captive escaping from my captors, which is what I was.

As I ran towards them one of the bowmen took aim at me, but I shrieked and threw myself to the ground and he held his shot.  A couple of Vielanders ran out of cover to drag me back off the road.  From what I saw the Duke’s guards didn’t have crossbows or any other missile weapons so there was no return fire, but the Vielanders were still cautious.  A fellow with a cloak that looked like a pair of damn bat wings wearing a stupid pointy hat asked me what the Hells I was doing.  I babbled in a frightened tone about how the Kingdomers had arrested my mistress Lady Krebuleus for treason on account of she was conspiring with Vieland and they grabbed me as well.  I cried tears of relief at being “rescued”, the whole bit.  Batwings Stupidhat dispatches one of his soldiers to run me back to town while they continued their standoff with the Ducal Guard.

Gevudan wasn’t much to look at to begin with, now the place looks like it has been flattened by the stamping feet of giants.  The village has essentially ceased to exist aside from a couple buildings that looked like they had been half burned.  It was just a place for a Vieland military camp now.  For a such a small unimportant place it looked like the fighting have been vicious – there were still bodies lying about and discarded pieces of equipment being picked over by some dead-eyed cattlemen under the guard of Vieland soldiers.  One of the buildings still standing was Wolcott’s home, which is where the soldier took me.  It was weird to be back at the sight of what was probably my most cold blooded killing.  It seemed like the right thing to do at the time, but in retrospect I probably could have some up with a better plan.  It was all bit a much.

The Vielander who had turned the place into a command center of sorts was sour looking fellow with blonde hair that came too far down his forehead.  He tersely asked me who I was and what was going on and then proceeded to interrupt with more questions a third of way into any answer I gave.  The only time he let me talk was when I told him about the Ulpine fleet on the Compass River.  After he questioned me about that at length he gave me a stern gaze, not a real one, more like a teacher who thinks a pupil is being “cheeky”.

“So what you want from me madam?  Your mistress was captured, her plan failed.  Many men died because of her carelessness, letting the plan be discovered.  And you expect what?  Asylum?  To be sent home as a hero?  You’ll find cold welcome for any Kingdomer there.”

“I don’t want anything from you, I was brought here against my will.  I wasn’t coming here to speak with you, I just wanted to get away from my captors.  Truth be told I don’t care a nonce for your war and I resent that my mistress has made me a traitor to my homeland.  But a traitor is what I am now.  If you leave me my to my business I’ll leave you to yours.”

He snorted “I can’t have you wandering around my battlefield like a ghost.”

“What do you propose to do with me then sir?”

“You’ll be my assistant.  You can start right now by fetching me some wine.  If you are disobedient you will be disciplined.  If you serve well you will be treated well.”

I raised an eyebrow “Ooh, disciplined huh?  Kinky.” I put my feet up on his desk “You know I’ve been here before.  This house used to belong to a man named Wolcott.  We had sex and then I cut his throat.  It was part of a scheme I was working, framing another guy for devil worship.  It was pretty convoluted.  I was a little too clever for my own good back then.” I produced a dagger from my secret pocket “You want to see how I did it?  The throat part I mean, not the sex part, that was pretty standard.  I’m sure you can imagine what that looked like fairly easily.”

For a military man he reacted in a gutless way, even for an officer, instead of drawing a weapon to defend himself he ran into the back room and slammed the door, shouting for his guards.  I guess it’s not totally unjustified, he probably thought that I was a doppelganger or a fey tricksteress.  By the time two guards came running in I had taken his form and voice.

I gestured “Get this door down now!  Be careful, she’s a shapeshifter, so whatever you see on the other side don’t get thrown off.  Whoever is in there grab them.”

The two men picked up the desk and hurled it through the door, smashing it to pieces, then awkwardly dragging out their commanding officer who was protesting that I was imposter all the while.  They kept a hold of him but they eyed me warily.

“She’s trying to fool you, but she’s right you know, you don’t know which one of us to trust.  Until further notice you should disregard what either of us says.  You, stay here and make sure that neither one of us leaves, you grab the first officer you can find and bring them here – they’re in charge until we figure this out.”

The commander was apoplectic at being restrained by his own man while the other ran off to obey my orders “I’ll have you court martialed if you don’t release me right now Vanger!”

I rummaged around in the wreckage of the desk and found an intact bottle of Cherrywood Select Whiskey, setting up the chair and taking a seat to have a pull “I tell you what, this day is not going the way I expected.” I shook my head “You can’t put anything past these Kingdomers can you?  Shapeshifting assassins?  What’s next I ask.”

He looked at me suspiciously “Why didn’t you call me Vanger?”

I smiled shortly “Sorry son, but I have no idea what your name is.  I hate to break it to you but I don’t know the names of every man under my command.” I raised the bottle to him “I’m sure as Hells going to remember your name after this though.  Is Vanger your first or last name private?”

The man in his arms shouted desperately “Casan!  Casan Vanger!”

The soldier looked at the man in his arms and then let him go – only to slam a knife into his back.  Blondie’s eyes widened comically as he was stabbed and slipped to the floor.  Vanger retrieved his spear and finished the job of murdering his commanding officer.  He looked over at me with a happy grin.

“I knew the real you wouldn’t know my name sir, but now you do.”

I took another drink and then spoke in my own voice “I like your initiative soldier, I really wasn’t sure what I was going to do when your friend came back.  The bad news is you just killed your commander, which I believe even the Vieland military frowns upon.  The good news is that I have a plan for us.”

I’m not sure I’ve ever see someone more crestfallen.  And I know from crestfallen.