Strikeforce: Shantipole (Part Two): What a Blast!

As alarms blared throughout the asteroid base, the members of Wraith Squadron sprang into action. Almost as one, they pounded down the rocky corridor towards the hangar bay, weapons drawn and grim expressions on their faces. All except for Hate, who of course had no expression but seemed to move in a more jaunty manner than usual, as if savoring the blood-letting to come. As they left the command center, their ear-bead comms crackled into life and Pollard’s voice began to speak reassuringly. ‘Remember, all we need to do is hold the Imps off long enough for Commander Ackbar to retrieve the B-Wing schematics from the data-core and then we can then conduct a fighting withdrawal to the life-pods. I can open and close most of the blast doors from here, so should be able to funnel the scum into a killing zone for you. But I need you to tell me which doors to operate; our cameras are off-line after the initial bombardment. Good luck!’

Moving down the corridor, dodging fleeing Verpine and Alliance techs, the Wraiths split into three groups. Vora Vasch split off first, heading into the Main Power chamber. Surrounded by humming power cylinders, Vora sprinted towards the control panel and began to push buttons, apparently at random. Meanwhile, Hate and Glave charged towards the hangar’s main blast door. Skidding to a halt, to their horror they saw that the door’s housing had been damaged by the Imperial’s opening barrage. Pollard confirmed that he couldn’t operate it remotely, so they had to content themselves with pulling it closed manually. It wouldn’t hold the Imperials, but it might just slow them down.

Kibu and Frost-Bow ran through the base’s rec area to the auxiliary blast door. It too had been damaged, so they drew their primitive weapons and began to hum the battle-songs of their peoples under their breaths as they waited for the inevitable onslaught. They didn’t have long to wait, as a huge shadow fell across the shielded entrance to the hangar bay. The vast bulk of an Imperial Assault shuttle moved into position and a steel and plasteen umbilical deployed directly into the hangar. Immediately, a fire-team of five white-clad Stormtroopers emerged and took up covering positions as more of their kind began to follow them. Turning to Frost-Bow, Kibu signalled that everything would be fine. After all, there could only be one or two hands of Skull-Faces in there, couldn’t there? Maybe two hands and a foot at most? Frost-Bow looked down at the furry fanatic and swallowed nervously…

As the Imperial assault began, Glave had an idea and began to run back towards the command centre. Joined briefly by Vora as she emerged from the Main Generator chamber, Glave began to ask what she’d been up to when he was interrupted by a calm female voice over the comm channel. ‘All personnel: be advised that self-destruct protocols have been initiated. Countdown is in progress. Reactor detonation in T-2 minutes. All personnel: be advised…’ As the computer voice continued its countdown, Vora gave him a wolfish grin and a thumbs-up as they sped past Ackbar and Pollard, both hunched over panels in the command chamber. As they passed, Ackbar looked up: ‘I need more time!’. Glave nodded and ran on; he had a plan.

Meanwhile, Hate had moved over to join Kibu and Frost-Bow at the auxiliary blast door. In the hangar, the newly-arrived Stormtroopers had formed into two groups and were moving towards the hangar’s two entrances. As Kibu gestured excitedly, Frost-Bow fired an arrow high into the air above the approaching Stormtroopers. As it hit the far wall, it fell with an audible clatter, attracting the squad’s attention for a brief moment. But that was all that Kibu needed; with a rapid dash, he charged into the hangar and seemed to disappear amongst the rubble and discarded containers that dotted the floor of the hangar. Before he knew it, Frost-Bow found himself skidding into cover alongside his companion. He waited for the inevitable hail of blaster fire, but incredibly the Imperials appeared not to have noticed them! As if on cue, Hate opened up with her own blaster, attracting the attackers attention whilst the stealthy hunters moved through cover towards the umbilical. Quite what Kibu had in mind Frost-Bow didn’t know, but he hoped it was good. Very good indeed.

Glave finally arrived in the lifeboat bay on the other side of the asteroid base. As he arrived, one of the life-pods blasted away into space carrying the last of the Verpine and Alliance techs. The only life-forms left on the base were Wraith Team, Acbar, Pollard and a bunch of lousy Imperials. Glave examined the  two remaining ‘pods quickly. Although they were only equipped with basic thrusters and repulsor fields to keep them safe from asteroid impact, he thought he could reconfigure the systems to give them a bit more thrust. Grinning to himself and whistling, Glave set to work as the computer calmly whispered its countdown into his ear.

Meanwhile, Vora emerged back into the command centre. She’d decided to give herself the best chance of survival by equipping herself with a vac-suit, but now she’d come back to help Ackbar with the data download. As Ackbar mashed the control panel with his fishy fingers, Vora snorted and gently moved the Commander to one side. With a few deft keystrokes, she completed the download and in a moment held the vital data disk in her hand. Giving the astonished Ackbar and Pollard a wink, Vora ushered them both out of the chamber towards the main hangar: ‘This way, gentle-beings..’

In the hangar, things were becoming tense. Whilst Frost-Bow and a nervous Kibu crept ever-closer to the Imperial shuttle, Hate had kept the Imperials attention away from them. Although the droid had dropped several Stormtroopers, the weight of their return fire was beginning to tell. Sparks jumped from rents in its carapace and an unpleasant burning smell was coming from its motivators. Eventually, even Hate could take no more punishment and it sagged to the floor in a smoking heap. At that moment, Kibu leapt to his furry feet at the entrance to the shuttle’s umbilical. Startled, the Stormtroopers held up their blasters, momentarily unsure of what to do with this harmless-looking alien. Before they could revert to type and start blasting, Kibu reached into his fur and pulled out a thermal detonator! Somehow, in all the confusion he’d managed to ‘acquire’ one of the deadly devices and now stood before the might of the Imperial war machine armed with just this and steely determination. Perhaps it was this, along with a feral grin and a crazed look, that sent the Imperials running back the way they came into the shuttle. Chuckling to himself, Kibu turned towards Frost-Bow and motioned for him to duck as he armed the detonator and threw it over his shoulder after the fleeing Stormtroopers…

Glave was justifiably proud of himself; he’d managed to rig the life-pod so that it responded to his piloting. Ok, it wouldn’t outrun a TIE but it was all he had. Moving along the outside of the asteroid, he was beginning to wonder how he’d get past the bulk of the assault shuttle when he saw an explosing bloom within the shuttle’s cockpit. In a moment, the whole shuttle exploded into a million fragments, small pieces of metal pinging off the life-pod’s hull. Not waiting for an explanation for this apparent miracle, Glave pointed the vessel towards the open hangar. Inside, he could see a group of Stormtroopers turning towards a charging Kibu whilst Frost-Bow raced for the hangar’s auxiliary blast door, no doubt to retrieve Hate’s wreckage. Seeing the Imperials lined up gave Glave an idea; with a yelp of excitement, he sent the life-pod careening through them, scattering them like Selayan bowling pins and giving his crew-mates the opening they needed. As the ‘pod came to rest, Glave opened the hatch and yelled ‘All aboard the Glave Express! Please keep hands, feet and other manipulator extremities within the ‘pod at all times!’

Meanwhile, the computer continued its countdown to destruction. ‘Detonation in T minus one minute and counting: 59. 58. 57…’

(To be continued…)

1. Strikeforce Shantipole: Part One.

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away. . .

These are dark days for the Alliance. Using the new Nebulon-B escort frigate and its mighty armaments, the Empire has virtually ended all raids on cargo convoys. Without the spoils from Imperial convoys, Rebel supplies have become dangerously low. This could spell the end of the Rebellion.

But all is not lost. On a remote base in the Roche Asteroid Field, Commander Ackbar and his team desperately work to complete a new starfighter capable of neutralizing the Nebulon-B. Even now a team of brave Rebels approach the asteroid field, under orders to pick up Ackbar, his team, and the starfighter prototypes and return them safely to Alliance High Command. If they fail, the struggle for freedom may indeed be over. . .

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Vora Vasch felt entirely at home at the controls of the ‘Trillenium Kestrel’, the YT-1300 Light Freighter her team had been assigned for this mission. She’d logged many hours of flight time on this type of vessel, and she could fly it with her eyes closed. In the co-pilot seat next to her slumped a young human, his pressure suit seeming at least one size too large for his lanky frame. As she glanced over at him, Vora grinned at the petulant look on his face. ‘Come on, Vora! When’s it going to be my go? You promised me I could fly through the asteroid field!’ Vora smiled at him and pulled on the controls of the ship, sending it into a crazy spiral around a lazily tumbling asteroid. Despite himself, the younger human let out a whoop of glee and Vora laughed out loud, her Twilek tentacles swinging from side to side. Behind them both, a metallic form braced itself against the bulkhead whilst shouts of alarm came from further back in the ship’s crew compartment. ‘Observation: Meatbags Vora Vasch and Glave Gizarm are happy, but the other meatbags are not. Why is this?’ As a reprogrammed Imperial Assassin Droid, H4-3T (or ‘Hate’ as it was called) was well-versed in the anatomy and physiology of most humanoids and how best to render them messily inoperative, but the psychology of living beings remained beyond it. Not that this bothered it overmuch, but it liked to learn new things all the same.

‘Come on, Hate’ yelled the young human, ‘going fast is fun!’. Unlike the rest of the crew, Glave Gizarm hadn’t had any bad experiences of the Empire when growing up. In fact, he’d had a peaceful upbringing. He’d only joined the Rebellion because they were short of pilots and because the discipline was usually pretty relaxed. Glave didn’t like authority or people who stopped him having fun.

As he spoke, two angry faces peered into the cockpit, one of them talking rapidly in his own complex language. The speaker was a member of the diminutive humanoid species known as the Ewok. To many humans, their inquisitive manner and resemblance to a traditional child’s toy meant that they were rarely taken seriously. But this crew had seen Kibu the Ewok in combat. He was a skilled hunter, adept at laying traps and ambushes to bring down much larger foes. And when his foes were brought down to his level, he was merciless. He’d only become part of the team after they’d landed on his homeworld of Endor; his natural (some would say uncontrollable) inquisitiveness led to the stowaway being found by the crew asleep and surrounded by empty ration packs, long after they’d blasted through an Imperial blockade with no plans to return. The story of the final crew member was somewhat similar; Frost-Bow likewise hailed from a low-technology society on a backwater world. Like many such places, the Empire had taken the resources they needed by force, devastating both the ecology and the lives of the tough natives. Frost-Bow had developed a deep hatred for the Empire and now fought it using his trusty bow and sword. Kibu and Frost-Bow had developed a close friendship and often fought side-by-side, yelling war-cries in their native tongues.

The team had quickly become a legend throughout the local Alliance network, their ability to move fast and hit hard proving invaluable in the type of insurgency warfare the Rebels were becoming increasingly reliant on. After their last raid on an Imperial black site engaged in testing bacteriological weapons, the team had been given the callsign ‘Wraith’ for their ability to pass unseen through Imperial lines.

Suddenly, the ‘Kestrel’s proximity alert klaxon began to howl. ‘TIE fighters!’ yelled Vora. ‘Battle-stations, everyone!’. As the crew rushed to their places, three of the dreaded Imperial starfighters emerged from the shadow of a large asteroid. Ignoring the Imperial patrol leader’s orders to heave to, Vora sent their ship twisting and jinking towards the denser asteroid field ahead. Whilst the pilot concentrated on keeping them in one piece, Hate worked the deflector shield controls whilst reminding everyone that it, unlike them, could function perfectly well in vacuum. Meanwhile, Glave and Frost-Bow manned the laser cannons, in Frost-Bow’s case whilst receiving enthusiastic help from an excited Kibu.

A short, sharp battle ensued, with the hapless Imperial pilots being led a merry dance through the tumbling asteroids. Vora pushed the Kestrel into ever-more terrifying twists and turns whilst the others peppered the Imperials with (mostly) accurate laser fire. Finally, the last TIE exploded into motes of burning dust as it impacted the side of an asteroid as had the rest of the patrol. Finally, the crew could carry on to their destination; a secret Rebel base, deep in the densest part of the Roche Asteroid Field.

The co-ordinates led them to an hourglass-shaped asteroid; points of light penetrated the asteroid's outer crust, highlighting air vents and repulsor-beam projectors. As the ‘Kestrel’ circled the spinning chunk of rock, the crew noticed an opening in the asteroid's side. Clearly a hangar bay, several figures could be seen moving about within its lighted interior. As Vora moved the ship in to final approach, the com unit crackled to life. "Freighter, identify yourself immediately and state your business." Whilst Vora gave the appropriate codes, Glave began to hop from foot to foot, a pained expression on his face. With a sigh, Vora eased herself out of the pilot’s seat to allow the human pilot to take the stick. Unfortunately, his excitement got the better of him and he managed to scraped off several layers of paint against the hangar entrance before settling the ship unsteadily in the centre of the hangar. Whilst the rest of the crew pointedly pretended not to notice, a voice came from the control room, clearly choking back a laugh. ‘"Nice flying, freighter pilot. Park her anywhere. Feel free to stretch your legs. An escort will arrive momentarily."

The small hangar bay appeared functional and efficient, a control tower jutting out over the hangar deck. Apparently carved and hollowed out of the natural rock, the bay barely held their ship. While the ceiling rose high overhead, the walls remained uncomfortably close. A mixture of instrument panels, cooling veins, and patches of natural reddish-brown stone covered the bay walls and a wide stone passage led out of the chamber. As the crew emerged from their ship, they were approached by a group of insectoid creatures. Kibu, with his great knowledge of alien species, identified them as Verpine; a peaceful race with a talent for working with technology, particularly starships.

After a brief but frustrating discussion with the lead Verpine, a large adult named Suskafoo, another figure, dressed in a simple brown tunic and matching cape, emerged from the corridor and strode towards them. A member of the aquatic race known as the Quarren, the newcomer addressed the Verpine sharply in their own tongue. Chirping back angrily, the Verpine took their leave. After watching the Verpine disappear down the corridor, the Quarren turned to the crew. "Greetings, I am Lieutenant Salin Glek, aide to Commander Ackbar," he said in halting Basic. "I trust you have a prime reason for jeopardizing the security of this base?" A further bad-tempered exchange took place, during which Glek demanded they turn over any information to him rather than Ackbar. Finally, a battered-looking human entered the hangar, interrupting an enraged Kibu whilst kicking Glek in the shins. Identifying himself as Pollard, another of Ackbar’s aides, he then conducted them to the base’s command center.

Across the room, hunched intently over a display terminal, were Suskafoo, the two young Verpine, and a Mon Calamari. Pollard led the crew toward them, announcing "Commander Ackbar. These are the messengers." Ackbar welcomed them but was disturbed to hear about their run-in with an Imperial patrol. Ignoring Glek’s biting comments about how the team had probably  led the Imperials straight to the base, the crew handed over the holo-disk to Ackbar. Noting the contents were eyes-only, Ackbar dismissed the room’s occupants before viewing it. On it, Mon Mothma herself ordered Ackbar to proceed with his B-Wing prototypes to join up with a Rebel fleet in the Pothor Sector; moreover, the crew were ordered to stay with Ackbar and ensure his safe arrival at the designated rendezvous point.

When the Alliance staff were finally readmitted to the command centre, the crew immediately noticed that Glek was absent. When Pollard mumbled something about seeing him heading in the direction of the hangar bay, the crew turned as one towards the bank of monitor panels showing the interior of the base; to their shock, the hangar bay was empty. There was no sign of Glek, or the ‘Trillenium Kestrel’ for that matter!

Suddenly, warning sirens began to scream throughout the asteroid complex and a voice boomed from the command center com unit. "Hangar bay to Commander Ackbar! Sir, an unidentified craft is approaching this asteroid. It's closing fast, and it doesn't respond to our signals. Wait. . . it's an Imperial assault shuttle! Repeat, an Imperial. . ." Two explosions rocked the base, showering dust and small rocks on the crew. The screens monitoring the asteroid's interior flashed white and flicked off. Turning to Pollard, "There's no way we can hold out against firepower of that magnitude. We just don't have enough soldiers. Give the evacuation signal."

Pollard nodded and turned, shouting into his com unit, "Emergency evacuation! All personnel immediately report to the life-boat bay. This is no drill!" The base shuddered as the assault shuttle continued its bombardment. With each explosion, the lights flickered ominously.

Ackbar regarded the crew, his huge eyes wide. "If I don't retrieve the two-man B-wing configuration files from this computer, then everything we've worked for will be lost. I need time!"

(To be continued…)

9. A Voice from Beyond.

For a moment, the crew stood in silence, not quite believing what they’d seen or heard. Behind them could be heard the strained breathing of the xeno scientist Yola Wu. Although they she couldn’t be seen in the darkness of her apartment, Dar and Bonto  could feel the anxiety pouring from her in waves. Less attuned to the feelings of others than his companions, Vapour just held out his hand towards the wall but pulled back before touching it, as though it were a wild animal. ‘What the actual f… Did you see that? Tell me you saw that too!’ Mutely, they nodded before all three of them turned back towards the alien scientist. Yola Wu sat on the edge of her sleeping platform, legs drawn up beneath her and her arms thrown around her head protectively. Rocking slightly, she seemed to be saying the same word over and over again, sending shivers down the crew’s spines…

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After escaping from the black site on Sonhandra, Teslan, Lucky and Highball had considered their next move. The things they’d seen on the eternally dark side of the tidally-locked planet had shaken them to their core, but nothing more so than the sight of a humanoid pressure suit apparently encasing a gaseous entity, especially when it momentarily regarded them with a human face… Whilst Lucky continued to decrypt the files they’d extracted from the black site’s data core, Teslan and Highball contacted their crewmates. They’d felt completely out of their depth on the Sonhandra job and had their suspicions about how honest their employers had been. True, the Sahi’ir had provided them with the co-ordinates of the base as well as one of their stealth modules; even now, two of the identical and androgynous Sahi’ir Choir were sitting silently in the rear of the vessel, waiting for further instructions. But the crew couldn’t shake the feeling that they’d been hung out to dry by the powerful Sahi’ir for some reason. With that in mind, the crew sent a message via the underground comm network for Dar, Bonto and Vapour to meet them at The Cove in the Rin system, outside immediate Sahi’ir influence.

The Cove was a haven for pirates, smugglers and assorted ne’er do wells throughout the Procyon Sector. Thousands of years ago, a Precursor artefact of some sort had been all-but annihilated, leaving a cloud of debris that could disrupt any Hegemonic sensor suite at anything but point-blank range. At some point, an enterprising group of misfits had hit upon the idea of creating a safe port for those needing privacy or somewhere out of the reach of the Hegemony, and so The Cove was born. Ever-expanding, The Cove was built out of the hulks of ships of all types, bolted and plasma-welded together in the depths of the sensor fog. It was always changing its position within the cloud to throw off those who weren’t in the know, but those with the right connections were able to find it. By the time that Teslan, Lucky and Highball reached The Cove aboard the ‘Dark Blade’, the ‘Lazy Susan’ were already waiting for them. Mindful that the ‘Dark Blade’ was an Ashen Knives vessel, they rendezvoused with the Susan deep within the cloud to avoid any unnecessary entanglements.

Sitting in the Lazy Susan’s galley, the full crew considered what they knew and what their next moves might be. They were all in agreement that the Sahi’ir couldn’t be trusted; wealthy and generous patrons they might be, but that didn’t count for much if you were dead. Lucky had managed to decrypt much of the data they’d retrieved from Sonhandra, although the content didn’t give them much comfort. It appeared that whoever was operating the site was collecting Precursor artefacts for some purpose. Although the purpose wasn’t clear, one file in particular contained casualty projections relating to the Iota system. Whatever their unknown opposition were up to could cause billions of deaths…
As to their opposition, things were not a great deal clearer. They were apparently connected to a group of scientists that had disappeared in a failed attempt to access the dormant jumpgate in the Holt system a decade ago. Although the research was classified, the hacking skills of the group had revealed some of the scientists involved; Boyer, Stanz, Mark and Venker. Of these, Nils Boyer was the most prominent, so the crew focused on him first. Early on in their research, the crew came across the name Yola Wu. Wu was a well-known and brilliant research physicist specialising in the study of jumpgates; despite the fact of her xeno heritage, Wu had risen to a prestigious research position at the Khalud Academy on Shimaya. Although Wu and Boyer had made many breakthroughs, their academic relationship had broken down a couple of years before the Holt Incident, as it had become known. Although the trail was now over a decade old, the crew decided to follow this up first to see if any answers could be found.

So it was that Bonto, Dar and Vapour found themselves once more on Shimaya, posing as fellow academics in an attempt to speak with Dr Wu. Despite some evident unrest on the Khalud Academy campus (or perhaps because of it), the crew managed to gain access to Dr Wu’s research assistant, a young human female by the name of Gaia Bartok. Inexperienced as she was, ‘Dr Squam’ found it easy to charm his way into an interview with Wu. The good doctor had a large top-floor apartment in a comfortable hab-block on the campus, but as soon as they entered the crew felt something was wrong. Although Wu initially responded to discrete questions, as darkness fell and the questions moved onto the Holt Incident she became more and more agitated, her glance darting more and more to a patch of blank wall in the main living area. Gradually, everyone present felt an increasing sense of foreboding as static electricity began to build up in Wu’s apartment. With a groan of despair, Wu fell to the floor and began to weep anxiously as she mumbled to herself inaudibly. Suddenly, the temperature dropped and the glow globes began to flicker rapidly; something, somewhere was draining energy from the local area on a huge scale. As the crew watched disbelievingly, the patch of wall that had so fascinated Wu began to bulge outwards, forming what appeared to be a human face, mouth opening and closing wordlessly. Her voice cracking in terror, Wu shouted one phrase before lapsing into silence: ‘Nils! It’s Nils, come back from hell to claim me!’

8. Black Night is a Long Way from Home

Seen from a distance, the matte-black ship seemed to arc lazily towards the unchanging blackness of Sonhandra’s dark side. In contrast to the serenity of its progress, the atmosphere on board was anything but serene. Whilst the ship’s autopilot sounded regular status updates, the ship’s crew dealt with their nervousness in the best way they could and reflected on the events that had brought them to this point. 

Following the ‘Lazy Susan’s’ successful rescue of the kidnapped xenoarchaelogist and the artefact, its crew had returned to Indri, bloody but triumphant from their confrontation with the Ashen Knives. During their struggle, the crew had accessed some data protected by heavy-duty ‘black ICe’: the sort that fried synapses rather than reveal its secrets.  However, the Sahi’ir had access to resources most could only dream of, and had been able to crack the encryption to reveal the truth within. Intriguingly (or worryingly, depending on your point of view), the files contained only a set of coordinates relating to a specific point on the mystery-shrouded dark side of Sonhandra in the Holt system.

Weary and damaged, both physically and psychologically, the ‘Susan’s’ original crew were in no state to head into who-knew-what. However, the crew’s reputation had grown over the past months as one that ‘got things done’, and one that could attract rich and powerful backers to boot. Unsurprisingly, this had attracted a steady stream of hopefuls wanting to bask in their reflected glory. Most were turned away without a second thought, but three of them had shown just enough promise to earn at least a hearing. The youngest of them was a Baseline Human named Teslan Decampos. His Spacer heritage was obvious from his thin, rangy body, a result of spending his formative years in zero-g. Even after all the years humanity had travelled the stars, an unenhanced human spending a childhood in zero-g was still condemned to an adulthood of brittle bones and painful joints. But Baseline Spacers were a proud breed, and bore snapped bones and distorted limbs as a badge of honour. This particular Spacer had something in his favour, however; he was that rarest of beings, a machine empath. Whereas Sparks could talk to the ‘Susan’ through his cybernetic implants, Teslan instinctively ‘knew’ the condition of a machine just by touching it. Machines seemed to want to please him somehow, and the drones he continually tinkered with appeared to have an almost touching devotion to their creator. Perhaps related to this ability, Teslan was also sensitive to the Way and its weird effects far more than his companions. As the black ship moved towards the surface, Teslan seemed quite unconcerned, playing with his latest drone creation.

The second of the new recruits was not all that ‘new’. Dr H Y ‘Highball’ Sorenson was a Baseline Human in early middle-age, of proud, traditional Colonist stock. Carrying on the family tradition of medicine, Highball’s career had started out well enough. After completing his medical training, he’d signed up for a internship on a Mendicant-sponsored programme providing care to civilians caught up in the Sector’s incessant brushfire conflicts. This transformative experience taught Highball two things. One: he was a damned good combat medic, able to move easily across front lines without getting shot, his dedication to the patient acting as his passport. Two: he enjoyed the high from synthetic xenoadrenaline far too much, especially as the compound was highly illegal. However, his Mendicant sponsors were willing to overlook his foibles due to his ‘go anywhere’ attitude.  When the Mendicants fell out of favour after supporting the wrong side in the Hegemonic Accession, however, Highball found himself out in the cold. After wandering from place to place, he was introduced to the crew of the ‘Susan’ through his now-underground Mendicant contacts. Now, he sat staring at Teslan as he tinkered with his drone, turning a hypospray of his latest synthex compound over and over in his hands, savouring the anticipation of the hit it would give him. 

The final member of the crew was Deas Pascher, or ‘Lucky’ to his friends. Lucky had been everywhere and seen everything, usually whilst trying to throw off either his bad creditors or those who felt his luck at games of chance had been ‘enhanced’ in some way. Like Teslan, he’d seen how the blue-collar masses of the Hegemony lived their lives, and from an early age decided he wanted no part of it. Although his family had saved to give him the best education they could, all that he’d taken from it was an appreciation for the finer things in life; music, art, food, drugs... It was something of a guilty relief when the family scrap business went under and he could walk away into the life of a scoundrel and gambler. He spent the next several years conning, gambling and smuggling his way around the Sector; anything that could fund his lifestyle without being actual work. During a job supplying weapons to some doomed Indents trying to throw off the corporate yoke, he’d met Highball and they’d developed a professional rapport. So, when the crew of the Susan began to make waves in the Sector, Lucky had tagged along to see what was on offer.

As expected, the craft’s internal lights began to dim as it crossed the 2.5 km mark above the planet’s surface. Or rather, the lights themselves stayed as normal, but the crew’s ability to perceive the light began to falter. In a galaxy full of strange things, the dark side of Sonhandra stood out as being a beacon of downright weirdness. The surface itself was pitch black, and sensors were unable scan the surface. Assuming this was due to some sort of Precursor interference effect, the early explorers had tried to observe the surface using enhanced human eyesight through optics; still nothing. They’d then tried to send automated probes to the planet surface. The probes had returned as per their programming, recording devices running. Eagerly, the scientists had viewed the logs, but found the sections that should have revealed the planet’s secrets were just static. Manned probes had been sent, but the terrified Indent occupants had lost consciousness on approaching the surface and, although apparently unharmed on their return, had no memory of their trip. Eventually everything had been tried, but to the frustration of all, nothing worked. Eventually, the Hegemony gave it up as a bad job and moved on to other, more profitable activities. But, armed with a set of coordinates from the Ashen Knives vessel, this crew were about to take a step in to the unknown. As their vision failed, the crew also felt consciousness slipping away from them. A slight hiss followed by a contented sigh told Teslan and Lucky that Highball had found his own way of dealing with the situation, leaving them alone with their fears as consciousness fled…

When the three crew regained consciousness, they found that their ship was stationery. Status panels indicated that their docking umbilical had been engaged, but to what was unclear. Apprehensively, the three donned vac-suits and ventured out of the airlock. Ahead of them was a standard blast door of Hegemonic origin. However, the material surrounding it was altogether stranger. It appeared to be a hard black substance, but not of any material their scanners could analyse. To Teslan, the material seemed...alive somehow, but neither machine nor organic in nature. However, the door had a familiar locking mechanism, so Teslan got to work opening it. Beyond was a circular passageway of the same dark material with a gridwork of metal forming the floor. As they moved forward a passageway to the right came into view. Gingerly, Teslan held out one of his drones to extend one of its optics around the corner. Through his wrist-mounted comp-pad, Teslan saw a standard security droid stamping forward; clearly, he’d triggered some security protocol on entering the complex. Thinking quickly, he tasked one of his drones to move past the side corridor and speed ahead further into the darkened corridors. Apparently, the security droids were only equipped with basic algorithms; whoever had established this  facility clearly didn’t expect any unwelcome visitors, so these were more an afterthought than a serious attempt at security. As the crew held their breath, the lumbering droid reached the intersection... and turned away from where they shrunk back against the wall, following the decoy drone as it sped around the corner. As its simple brain began to consider its next move, the three slipped around the corner and headed off the way the droid had come. As they passed a row of heavily armed but immobile security droids, the crew heaved a sigh of relief.

Carefully, they made their way deeper into the complex. As they did so, it seemed to them that shadows began to move of their own accord and more than once they thought they heard their names being whispered just on the edge of hearing. The feeling of being watched increased, as did their nervousness until eventually, they arrived at a T-junction. As they watched, the black material of the tunnel wall seemed to bulge outwards. To their horror, the bulging matter began to twist and change, forming what appeared to be a screaming face. As the whispers grew louder, the crew felt their sanity began to slip. Thinking quickly, Teslan grabbed his companions arms and began to speak to them; of their homes, their hopes, anything that could ground them in reality. As he did so, the wild look began to fade from their eyes and the tunnel wall became just that once more. 

Shaken, the crew moved onwards until ahead of them, they could hear evidence of activity. The tunnel finally opened outwards into a large, well-lit cavern. In the centre of the cavern was a large data core with a dozen or more analysis droids spread around it, each working on a different Precursor artefact. Next to the data core was a humanoid figure clad in what appeared to be a standard heavy vac-suit, although its helmet had been heavily modified with a framework of cables and wires of unknown purpose surrounding it. The figure seemed to be conducting the activities of the analysis droids as if they were an orchestra, and the air was filled with the chatter of machine language as they reported their findings. As they crouched behind a rack holding unknown devices, Teslan sent  forward his last drone to link with the data core, to see if any information could be downloaded. However, there was too much interference to allow remote access to the core, so Lucky decided to put his nickname to the test and crept forward to download the data from the drone. His luck held out just long enough to access the data, but on his return he caught some equipment on his vac-suit, causing it to clatter to the ground. Immediately, the figure turned and gave the crew their first view of what lay behind the face-plate. Instead of the expected human or xeno form, it appeared that the vac suit was occupied by some sort of gaseous form. As they watched, it formed itself into an approximation of a human face for a moment before once again becoming a swirling gas. The horrifying sight was compounded by the voice that echoed from the suit’s vox; although it spoke standard, it seemed to fade in and out of hearing, and seemed to be heard as much in their minds as through their ears.

As one, the crew turned and began to run back to the ship. As they did so, Lucky stammered something about what he’d seen of the data he’d extracted. Something about casualty estimates in the Iota system that were in the billions...

4. (Mis)Adventures in D&D: Thunder...Thunder...Thundertree!

Long years later, after the Wars of Deliverance had swept the land, the people of Phandalin would remember the legends of the Dark Heroes. On the long winter nights, when wolves and worse howled in the high passes, the town-dwellers made a habit of gathering at the Stonehill Inn where warm food, strong ale and good companionship could still their fears, at least for a short while. Mostly, the stories were of the doings of kings, wizards and heroes hailing from distant lands, rendered safe by their remoteness from the lives of the townspeople. But, when the winter winds howled closest and the roof creaked ominously with the weight of snow, the same cry always went up: ‘Where’s Old Nars Dendrar? We want to hear about the time the Dark Heroes came to Phandalin!’. And Old Nars was duly brought forward to the fireside, a fresh mug of foaming ale pressed into his hand, silence falling over the assembled folk as they waited, breathlessly. They all knew the story, of course; no doubt any of them could have recounted it word for word. But the way Old Nars told it...he made it come alive.

Taking a long pull on his tankard, Old Nars stared into the fire for a moment and, clearing his throat, began to speak. ‘It was fifty summers ago, before the barbarian tribes came down from the mountains and fought the Lords of Neverwinter. It was a bad time and a gang of ruffians had set up shop in Phandalin. Foul beasts they were, bullying and stealing and….murdering folk.’ A sigh passed through the crowd as they remembered that Old Nars’ own father had been killed by the brigands, just for trying to defend his family. ‘Me, my sister and my mother were taken prisoner by the Redbrands, as they liked to call themselves. We were to be sold off as slaves or worse to the goblins that plagued us then. There we were, sat in a cell under the Manor, waiting for whatever evil fate lay in store for us. Two of the scum were sitting guard over us, playing dice and telling us horrible stories about how we’d probably get killed and eaten, in that order if we were lucky!’ Again, the crowd shifted restlessly; mothers hugged their children closer and would-be warriors bragged about how they’d have escaped and taught those beasts a lesson or two. Old Nars just held up a hand and cupped his ear as if listening, and the crowd again fell silent. ‘And then we heard it. At first, it was just a dull clattering as if someone had dropped a pan somewhere. The brigands didn’t hear anything at first, as my ears were younger than theirs. But eventually, the sounds became louder and they stopped playing dice, their faces becoming paler by the minute. A dull clattering became the clash of swords on armour, the sizzle of magic and the thud of crossbow bolts hitting flesh. Louder and louder it became, as if the very hounds of hell were charging through the corridors under the Manor. But the worst of it were the screams. The brigands began to look at each other as they began to recognise the voices. ‘That was Brin’ they said, referring to a long-drawn out screech ending in a wet gurgling cough. ‘Brin’s as tough as nails!’. Next came sounds that reminded me of a butcher’s shop on slaughtering day, with shouted pleas for mercy that were suddenly cut off. The thieves guarding us dropped their dice and drew their weapons, backing away from the door.’

Old Nars took another deep draught of his ale. ‘But what came next was the worst. The noises and begging and pleading had stopped right outside the door to our cells. The silence went on for what seemed like forever and the Redbrands crept forward to the door, fearful expressions on their faces. Suddenly, the door burst open and the Dark Heroes burst in. Course, we didn’t know them by that name then, but you could see what lay in their future even then. Covered head to foot in blood most of them were. Two huge half-orcs charged into the room, a Cleric of Blessed Helm coming after them. All of them had a killing gleam in their eye and the Redbrands charged them hopelessly, knowing their fate was sealed. Behind the warriors and the priest lurked a mysterious fellow in foreign robes, an inscrutable look in his eye and a soul-blasting spell on his lips. And you all know who else was there, don’t you?’ The crowd roared back as if they’d been waiting for this bit, which they had. ‘Abba the Cruel!’. Old Nars continued. ‘Yes, they were all there. Honest Abba, Stone-Hearted Grax, Kang the Mysterious, Dulron the Lost and Og Just-Og. With a spray of blood, the first outlaw was cut down!’ At that, a cheer went up from the crowd. ‘Seeing there was no hope, the second outlaw threw down his arms and begged for mercy, which he got.’ The crowd booed. ‘After freeing my family, the Dark Heroes locked the miscreant in the cells. But as we left, he began to cry and shout for us not to leave him there alone in the dark, where there were things that could eat him or worse’. Old Nars looked around the suddenly quiet common room once more, into the eyes of the listening townsfolk. ‘Honest Abba stepped back into the room for a moment, and then the brigand was silent. That was the mercy any could expect of the Dark Heroes, then and afterwards’.

He continued on with his story, of how the Heroes had led him and his family to safety through corridors strewn with Redbrand dead with wall sprayed with their blood. But anyone taking the trouble to look into Old Nars’ eyes would have seen that, beneath his bluff and jovial exterior, Nars had been changed by what he’d seen under Tresendar Manor. Many was the time he’d woken in the night, shouting in terror for what Young Nars had seen all those years ago. The Heroes had freed his body, but his mind was still locked down there in the dark, where there were things that could eat you…or worse.

*********************************************************************************

But back to the present. After spending a couple of days in Phandalin, recovering and taking advantage of their new-found fame as the ‘Heroes of Tresendar’, the party made their plans. The lure of the gold that Sildar Hallwinter was offering for the destruction of the Cragmaw Goblins was too much for them. They’d had enough of being poor and, whilst fame was all very well,  a large bag of gold was much the better. With that in mind, they’d decided to head for the ruins of the town of Thundertree which lay some three days journey to the north. According to the Halfling Quelline Alderleaf, a druid named Reidoth had last been seen there. He knew the surrounding lands better than anybody, and he might know the location of the Cragmaw’s lair. From there, surely it would be a simple matter to storm it, slaughter everyone they found and claim the reward. Also, the Dendrar woman had said there was a fine jewel hidden beneath the floor of the ruined herbalist’s shop somewhere to the south of the ruined town. Abba for one would not be so careless as to leave such a treasure unclaimed.

And so it was that the Heroes set out one fine morning, their feeling of optimism only dampened by Kang’s passive-aggressive asides. Whilst they were set on their course, Kang was still keen on dealing with the banshee of Conyberry, far to the west. Somehow, he’d got it into his head that the creature knew the location of a powerful spellbook. Promising for the thousandth time that they’d get around to it eventually, the party headed out.

They travelled for three days, sticking mainly to the same road they’d taken south on their journey from Neverwinter. Lone travellers or small groups such as theirs were rare; the lands were dangerous, and travellers usually gathered into larger caravans for protection. They passed a couple of these, but stayed at a safe distance; they knew that caravan guards were paid a bonus for the head of every outlaw they came across, and were not above treating any small group of tough-looking travellers as outlaws regardless of the facts of the matter.  So it was that, discounting a run-in with a marauding group of Goblins, their journey was uneventful and they arrived at the ruins of Thundertree on the afternoon of the third day.

Thundertree itself was a mess; a jumble of ruined buildings and some that were intact with shuttered windows. The Heroes soon discovered that the ruined buildings were infested with horrible, man-shaped beings formed of stinking plant matter. Also, they found that the intact buildings had been shuttered to keep things in rather than out; a nasty encounter with a group of foul undead creatures had proven this, their dead flesh sending out plumes of choking dust with each blow. But it was Kang who discovered the worst thing about Thundertree; the ruined tower in the center of the town harboured not undead or plant-creatures, but a slumbering dragon! Fear coursing through their hearts, the Heroes pushed on, but very quietly indeed; even Kang kept his complaints to himself as they moved towards a shuttered building…

27. Waterday/ Stasis Week to Clayday/ Movement Week/ Fire Season 1618

(With thanks to Doc)

‘That is not a good omen’ mutter Bofrost under his breath as the companions approached the stone ramp leading to the Royal Gate. High above them reared the impossible majesty of the Royal Palace itself, bathed in early morning sunlight as it clung to the side of a ridge of the Quivin Mountains. For the past several days the heroes had been planning the liberation of the Red Hands of Hofstaring Tree-leaper. Although they’d been made skittish by unusual Lunar comings and goings within the City of Shadows, they’d been reassured when the troops assembled within the Southern Gate had packed up and marched off southwards. At their head had been Fazzur Wideread, so it was obviously an important mission that would take some time. After such a period of uncertainty, the heroes’ confidence had been raised by the reduced number of Lunar warriors within the city walls. Furthermore, their plan was sound; sneak into the citadel, steal the Red Hands before Temertain’s feast, then disappear amongst the crowds with the Royal fool hopefully none the wiser. Yes; their plan was a good one and Randel and Terrastal had come up with a couple of ruses that should make success a certainty.

But now as they moved towards the ramp, the voice may have been Bofrost’s but he spoke for all of them. As they’d moved through the darkened city, the quiet of the early morning streets not yet warmed by Yelm’s rays, they’d become aware of shouts and wails ahead of them. As they came closer to its source, the wailing began to resolve itself into separate voices; harsh Lunar voices shouting commands and warnings, the sound of hammering and, above it all, the all-too-familiar sound of human misery. Rounding a sudden corner, the cause of the noise became clear; ahead stood a line of ten crosses, nine of them already bearing the writhing form of some poor unfortunate condemned to the form of execution favoured by the Lunars. Around the foot of the crosses was gathered a crowd of Orlanthi, voices raised in anger, misery and sorrow, held back by a line of hard-face Lunar warriors with spears. As the companions came closer, the final cross was hoisted into its prepared socket and with a shock Terrastal recognised its occupant. Just before his recent encounter with a soon-to-be-dead Lunar soldier in the People’s Square, he’d spoken to an old man and a young girl who’d been begging there. At the time, they’d been wary of Terrastal and his anti-Lunar words and had left the area before the killing. However, in their zeal to find whoever had been responsible, the Lunars had scooped up the old man. Although he was clearly not a warrior by any measure, the Lunar interest in retribution had outweighed their interest in truth and so now he too sagged forward in Terrastal’s place, paying the price of rebellion.

Their work done the Lunars stood guard yawning and sharing bread, the wailing of the crowd washing over them unremarked. Amongst the crowd stood the heroes, dressed as servants and bearing wine barrels concealing their weapons within. Glancing over to Terrastal, Randel noted he was standing rigid, his lip bloody from where he’d bitten into it. The cold realisation that Terrastal was going to do something unwise churned his stomach, and he reached out to grip his arm. Sandene and Bofrost noticed this and shuffled their feet; nervously in the case of Bofrost, and into a fighting stance for Sandene. Oblivious, Yrsa stared open-mouthed at the misery before her and marvelled once more at the horrors that people were capable of.

Terrastal was in torment. He knew that he was responsible for this man’s death. Some of the others were no doubt criminals and deserved their fate, but the old man had been blameless. None of his companions knew of this so he could walk away without a stain on his honour, but the sheer injustice was too much to bear. Tensing, Terrastal made ready to launch himself at the Lunars and wash away their grins with their own blood. As he did so, he suddenly felt a hand gripping his arm. Turning angrily, he found himself staring directly into Randel’s tense face. ‘Remember Baranthos, Terrastal!’ he hissed urgently. ‘Remember Ernalsulva!’ At this, Randel felt Terrastal go suddenly rigid and he feared his words had been in vain. But then Terrastal slumped forward and allowed himself to be led away, head down.

Leaving the sorry scene behind them, the companions walked up the ramp to the gate. As before, Lunar warriors stood guard over the stream of servants and other functionaries moving in and out of the palace. At this early hour, no palanquins bearing Lunar or Sartarite nobility were in evidence and the guards appeared watchful but relaxed. Behind them, the companions pulled a cart bearing small barrels marked with the crest of the Konthassos clan, the makers of the finest clearwine anywhere in Dragon Pass. Yrsa carried one more barrel over her shoulder, this one containing their weapons. As they joined the line of those heading into the palace, Yrsa did her best to look unconcerned, but to the others her studied attempt at nonchalance seemed to radiate guilt like heat from a roaring fire.

Eventually, the heroes reached the guard checkpoint. Terrastal and Randel engaged in some friendly banter with the Lunar guards, albeit through gritted teeth in Terrastal’s case. After a few questions and a having secured a promise from Randel to keep some clearwine on one side for the senior guard on duty, the band made to enter the palace. As they did so, Yrsa shifted the barrel on her shoulder and caused the weapons inside to clink in a most suspicious manner. Yrsa simply froze on the spot and looked around mutely to her friends for help. Thinking quickly, Sandene slapped Yrsa hard and berated her furiously in her native Tarshite before turning to the guards apologetically. ‘Masters, please forgive her for her clumsiness. She is my sister-daughter and it’s my curse to care for the simple-minded lunk’ Randel joined in and offered the guards a bottle of clearwine he’d been saving for a ‘special occasion’. In this way, the tension was broken and the companions were allowed through the servants’ entrance. As they turned the corner, Terrastal looked back and saw one of the younger guards looking after them with a look of suspicion. Once out of sight of the guards, Sandene muttered an apology to the hurt-looking Yrsa whilst Randel wiped a bead of sweat from his brow. Taking a moment to collect their thoughts before proceeding with their plan, the heroes realised that Bofrost had gone missing. Risking a look back around the corner, they could see no sign that their Sage had been detained. In fact, the last that any of them could remember seeing Bofrost was in the crowd at the crucifixion. However, they quickly decided that Bofrost would have to look after himself until they had completed their mission to retrieve the Red Hands.

Moving further into the palace, they quickly came caught up in all the controlled chaos necessary to provide the luxury demanded by the noble classes. Servants rushed in all directions on errands of their own or of their masters; to the Sartarites’ dismay, many of them wore slave collars. Although the taking of thralls was common in the constant inter-clan conflicts of Dragon Pass, slavery was an almost exclusively Lunar custom. Pushing their way forward through the crowds, the smell of food became overpowering and soon they came to the great kitchens. Compared to this, the previous crowds had been but a small gathering. The kitchens were filled with shouted instructions and shrill rebukes; slaves ran here and there carrying platters piled high with all manner of food or great amphorae of wine and ale; small children played under tables, stealing chunks of bread when no-one was looking. In the center of it all sat a vast, sweaty woman on a raised chair. She seemed to be the still point of the storm, dominating all around her through the force of her will. Wherever her piggy eyes fell, slaves and freemen alike quailed before her and rushed to do her bidding. Anyone not moving quickly enough for her liking received a sharp whack with a thin cane to hurry them along. Sandene and Terrastal knew this could only be one person; Berra Stone, the Prince’s Dish-thane and corrupt terror of the lower orders.

Her face fixed in a disgusted grimace, Sandene immediately marched forward and stood before Berra’s greasy bulk. Berra regarded Sandene cautiously; this was no kitchen-worm to be beaten, that much was certain. As her companions watched, Sandene stepped forward and spoke directly into the dish-thane’s ear. Even from this distance, the shock on Berra’s face at Sandene’s words was clear. However, what was most surprising was the speed and agility with which Berra threw herself backwards, away from Sandene and into a stumpy-legged but rapid waddle towards the far door. For a moment, Sandene stood in shock as Berra sent plates and people flying in her desperation to escape. The other kitchen staff pretended not to notice what was going on; Berra’s underlings quickly learned to develop selective blindness and deafness where Berra was concerned, lest she find some reason to have the skin whipped from their backs as a punishment for misplace curiosity.

After a  moment of stunned inactivity, Sandene, Yrsa, Terrastal and Randel surged after the fleeing dish-thane. Desperation lent them speed and they caught up with Berra at the same time.  Thinking quickly, Terrastal summoned the spirit of silence gifted to him by Orlanth which settled over the shrieking woman like a cloak. Berra’s voice was immediately cut off, although from her face it was clear she was still shrieking at the top of her lungs. Whilst Terrastal and Sandene grabbed the woman, her face contorted with rage, Randel prayed to Issaries for the aid of his spirit of Befuddlement. As he spoke the last syllables of his invocation, he was relieved to see the dish-thane’s sweating face become slack and her eyes glaze over. As a curious servant passed by, Yrsa made a gesture as if holding a bottle to her lips. ‘Don’t worry about Berra, she’s just had a few too many today already’, to which the servant replied with a long-suffering roll of her eyes; this was clearly not an unusual situation in the Royal Kitchens.

Murmuring words of reassurance to Berra, the group quickly marched her into the Great Hall and across the echoing floor. At this time of day, it was mostly empty with functionaries either still abed or observing their daily devotions to their patron deities. The only observers to the staggering progress of Berra and her companions were two Lunar warriors standing guard outside the Royal Vaults. They’d clearly been on duty all night, as they both stifled yawns as the heroes approached. ‘Berra’s been sampling the Prince’s wines again’ whispered Terrastal to the guards as he leaned in close, hoping that this would be a familiar occurrence to them also. Seeing the nods, Randel pressed on. ‘We need to take this priceless wine into the Vaults, but Berra’s too far gone to do it by herself’. Seeing their doubtful looks, Randel continued ‘this is the finest clearwine, fit for the Prince himself. Of course, seeing as you’re charged with the Prince’s safety, it’s only fair that you should be able to try it for yourselves. Just to make sure it hasn’t gone off, or anything’. At this, the Lunars perked up and each of them gratefully took a draught from Randel’s proffered flask. Almost immediately, they began to sag forward as their knees began to give way. Sandene grinned wolfishly; the White Sisters at the House of Healing had been most understanding in providing certain herbs that could be used in small quantities to dull the phantom pain from her healed scars. The packet she’d been given was supposed to be taken daily for the next moon; Sandene had merely poured the whole lot into the small flask that the guards had half-drained in one swallow.

Before the guards had slumped to the floor, Yrsa had grabbed the Vault keys dangling from Berra’s belt and opened the door. Berra was ushered inside and given the flask to drink from and the guards were unceremoniously left in a heap just inside the door. As the others dodged inside, Yrsa took one peek into the main hall to see if they’d been observed; all seemed quiet, thanks be to Redalda.

Now that they’d reached their goal, the companions took stock of their surroundings. Ahead of them rose arch after arch, marvelously carved into bold geometric patterns so beloved of the Mostali. On either side were stacked crate after crate of valuable items. Wine, foodstuffs, textiles, finely-wrought weapons, figurines of unknown heroes and gods; countless treasures, above which hung the still, heavy air richly scented with the aroma of rare and exotic spices. Regardless, all eyes were drawn to a raised dais at the far end of the chamber upon which stood a stone cube almost as tall as Terrastal. As they approached, they noted that it was seamless with no obvious lock or means of opening. Standing before it, they realised they hadn’t ever properly thought through how they were to open it. According to Bofrost’s research, the Prince’s Strongbox could only be opened by one of the Royal House of Sartar. They realised now that they’d never really thought they’d get this far, so why bother solving an insoluble problem? Yet here they were, in the Vault standing before the Strongbox without a handy Sartarite Royal nearby. What to do?

‘Perhaps…’ started Randel and stopped. The others looked at him expectantly. ‘Perhaps..’ he began again, before stopping once more and shaking his head. ‘Perhaps what, Randel?’ said Terrastal with exaggerated patience. Hesitantly, Randel outlined his wild plan. ‘As the Royal House of Sartar is descended from Orlanth, each descendant will have some of Orlanth’s ‘blood’ in his or her veins, yes?’ Screwing up their faces in thought, the others nodded slowly. ‘So perhaps…if we hold a ceremony to worship Orlanth, whoever leads the ceremony will embody Orlanth. And if they touch the Strongbox at the height of the worship ceremony, that might be enough to fulfill the whole ‘Royal House of Sartar’ thing?’. Yrsa, Randel and Terrastal looked at each other uncertainly. After a  moment, Sandene voiced what they were all thinking: ‘Why not? What’s the worst that can happen?’.

Quickly, a space was cleared and Sandene began to pace around Terrastal as he closed his eyes. As she began to stamp rhythmically, Terrastal began to sway and clap intermittently as he summoned his guardian spirits to forge a link to the Godtime. A sense of pressure began to build in the underground chamber, and Yrsa and Randel felt their hackles rise, as if in the presence of an unpredicatable and dangerous creature. Sandene began to twirl and stamp more fiercely, and suddenly Terrastal’s off-beat clapping locked into her stamped pattern. Randel and Yrsa began to sway and summon their own tutelary  spirits, caught up as they were in the ceremony being enacted before them. Yrsa began to scrape at the ground with her foot and it seemed to Randel that he caught the scent of trampled grass and herd animals. With a sudden surge of alarm, Randel tried to whisper to Yrsa but found his tongue forming words in a language he did not know. From Yrsa’s puzzled expression it was clear she didn’t understand him, but to his own delight he realised that he could understand every word. Suddenly, the spirit of his God overtook him and he laughed aloud with delight; into his mind sprang unbidden the knowledge of every language ever spoken, human or otherwise. Exulting in the sheer ecstasy of the moment,  he began to speak aloud in languages that were either long-dead or yet to be spoken by future generations. Yrsa didn’t notice; she was lost in the sensation of running headlong over over infinite grasslands, four strong legs powering her onwards. Around her, the infinite herd thundered onwards, strengthening her with unity of purpose and direction. As her spirit-self ran, she felt her brow began to tingle as Redalda’s Fire rune began to pulse in time with her hoof-beats.

As Randel and Yrsa became lost in their own divine connections, Sandene looked down and found herself…changed. Her skin was the black of the grave and a necklace of the skulls of oath-breakers hung about her neck, each one chattering endlessly bemoaning their broken vows. As she whirled and stamped, she looked up at Terrastal through bloody tears and beheld him as Orlanth incarnate. His skin the blue of the sky and what remained of his hair and beard crackled with lightning as he laughed with the sheer joy of the storm. As he laughed, thunder seemed to rumble and the Vault was flooded with the smell of dry earth after a thunderstorm. Looking around, he spoke with a voice that seemed the palace’s foundations. ‘My brother and sisters take my hands and join with me!’ His voice cut through their separate ecstasies and they walked forward. As one, they walked forward and placed their hands on the Prince’s Stronbox. The power of Orlanth, Issaries and Redalda flowed through them into the box and it split open in two parts silently. As quickly as it came, the sense of divine otherness fled and all three slumped forward, exhausted.

Sandene reluctantly felt the Goddess’ power drain from her. As she danced she had BEEN Babeestor Gor, wading ankle deep in the blood of her mother’s enemies in the dark hell where oath-breakers were sent. But oddly, the abiding memory was not the slashing ax or the rending teeth, but the larger part that her Goddess played in the cosmic cycle – why retribution  and punishment  of those who strayed was not just the right thing to do, but absolutely necessary to maintain the Great Compromise. Almost gratefully, she slid into the peace of the Goddess and knew no more.

Gathering their wits, Randel, Yrsa and Terrastal lifted the amphora containing the Red Hands from within the Strongbox. Reverently, they replaced the Hands with the copies they’d prepared before entering the Palace, taken from the body of a common criminal awaiting cremation. With the use of good red dye bargained for by Randel, they made passable copies. Stowing the Red Hands safely in his pack, Terrastal and the others made for the Vault entrance, supporting a stumbling Sandene between them. Pausing only to empty the remainder of the flask of clearwine over the snoring Berra Stone and the two guards and close the door behind them, the heroes left the Vault exhausted but jubilant. They’d done it!

In the Great Hall of the palace, they were now faced with the challenge of escaping from the palace with their hides intact. The palace was now much busier as the day got underway and passers-by were casting curious glances in their direction. As they cast around for the least risky route to freedom, Yrsa heard a scrabbling sound coming from behind a nearby tapestry depicting an erotic Lunar ceremony involving inventive and enthusiastic participants. As her cheeks reddened, she was surprise to see Bofrost’s grimy but grinning face peek out from behind it. Quickly, Bofrost beckoned them forward where they found a passageway leading downwards into the palace’s foundations. As they climbed downwards, Bofrost explained that he’d found reference to this passage in the ancient records of his cult. ‘Tis quite safe’ he said, omitting the dire warnings of fearsome traps in the manuscript he’d found as well as his several lucky escapes from packs of large, fearsome rodents that roamed the labyrinthine catacombs.

Coming round, Sandene had found the others crowding round a curtain with Bofrost’s bearded face peering out cheerfully. Terrastal’s pack looked heavy, she presumed they had achieved their aim of exchanging the Red Hands and if Bofrost had found a back entrance it would certainly help their escape. Mentally, Sandene was still in hell, and she made the clambering, stinking journey through the sewers almost automatically. It wasn’t until Terrastal announced his intention to disarm a Mostali mechanism that she snapped back and offered to guard the rear.

With some ingenuity and a lot of luck, the companions finally emerged into the sunlight of the new day, finding themselves behind some cunningly-place statuary towards the rear of the temple district. Quickly, they gathered their belongings from Farnan Ernaldor at the Colymar Mansion and made their way out of the city’s northern gate, heading towards the Greenstone’s Earth Temple and Ernalsulva.

Mindful of a potential hue and cry should the theft of the Red Hands be discovered, the companions travelled in separate groups through Jonstown before turning east on the road to Greenstone. Aside from almost having to tie Bofrost up to stop him from paying a visit to the Grey Sages of Jonstown, the journey thus far was uneventful. When the heroes turned eastwards, however, the lands became much wilder with travelers only encountered infrequently on the road. At one point, they were attacked by a number of huge, chaos-tainted insects; although they were able to drive them off or kill them with ease, it was still a timely reminder that Chaos was the true enemy. 

Eventually, after some five days on the road the party arrived in Greenstone, weary and travel-sore. The Greenstone Temple was in Malani tribal lands and Yrsa looked about her hopefully as she rode. Noticing this, Sandene rode closer. ‘Your father’s here somewhere, Yrsa. We may not find him this time around, but we’ll come back once Baranthos is safe and together we’ll make the hills run with blood until they hand him back!’ As Yrsa regarded her, a sick look on her face, Sandene grinned and slapped her heartily on the shoulder. ‘You’d do the same for me. What else are friends for?’.

A community of worshippers, pilgrims, and refugees inhabited a village of inns, guest hall, and crafters near the temple. Yrsa, Terrastal, Bofrost and Randel obtained lodgings to rest before presenting themselves at the Temple the following morning. Sandene headed for the barracks of the Temple guardians, everything around her strangely familiar, the smells and echoes of the Earth Temple comforting her. Not that she needed this – her worship ceremony had brought back almost immediately to the Hells, where the Avenging Daughter had been waiting for her, and Sandene knew that when the time was right she would join her Goddess there  But until then, she had work to do. As she unpacked her travelling gear, she smiled as she looked at the dress she had bought in Boldhome. After the scourge of the Lunar demon, Sandene had felt her pain and scarring cut her off from others and had envied the beautiful Earth priestesses as examples of what had been forever denied her.  When the Healers restored her face, Sandene had toyed with exploring a new role, perhaps becoming one of those beautiful priestesses herself. But, as Babeestor Gor had shown her in the Vault, Sandene already had her destiny mapped out. She may wear a dress sometimes, perhaps even experiment with the face paints the Temple Maidens used –it might be nice to have a man without payment – but her heart was happy as an Avenging Daughter.  Lying on the straw barracks pallet Sandene played the game she always did – counting the faces of those she had sent to Hell. The wistful smile playing across her dark face briefly revealed her pointed teeth as she dropped off to sleep.

Greenstone Temple itself was carved into the rock of the hillside. From the outside, it appeared to be a green, square building set flush against the hill and facing east with shrines and altars to numerous goddesses standing at the porch of the building. It was obviously a a place of powerful Earth and Life magic. Entering the antechamber, the companions were made to understand in no uncertain terms that they could pass no further; the grim stares and sharp axes of the Axe Maidens saw to that. The antechamber was an ornate room carved out of green stone covered with carvings of naked goddesses and a few gods, with a single empty chair in the middle of the room and a corridor leading further into the hill. After some time, the Queen of the Temple, Entarios the Supporter, entered the antechamber, accompanied by her daughter Ernalsulva.

Entarios and her daughter wore fine dresses of deep green, trimmed with silver thread and fine furs; jeweled brooches, rings, ear-rings, bracelets and most notably a great golden necklace dripping with green gems completed their regalia. When Terrastal saw Ernalsulva’s beauty, his breath caught despite himself, his usually disdainful attitude defeated by her transcendent glow. But none of this made as much impression on the companions as the grim, pinched expression on Entarios’ face. Entarios greeted the heroes formally and with obvious suspicion, clearly protective of her daughter. ‘So. I take it you have come to call off the Marriage Contest. I understand; it was clearly too much of a challenge for such as you’.

All of a sudden, Terrastal felt his lips move of their own volition as the spirit of Orlanth flowed through him once more. ‘Sweet Green Woman, look at me! I have returned, the Conqueror! None could stand before me and I have done the impossible. Here is the gift you sought. Your Earth must be mine. I am yours, what deeds must I do?’ As he spoke, Bofrost brought out the Red Hands wrapped in cloth of finest weave and presented them to Ernalsulva, head bowed.

Ernalsulva looked from the Hands to her mother and back, clearly astounded by the sight before her. Randel and Yrsa saw competing emotions do battle on Entarios’ face; astonishment that the Hands had been recovered, stubborn pride that her assumptions had been proven wrong and a fear that this upstart and his band would prove themselves equal to the task; any dynastic ambitions she harboured for her daughter would then be lost. In a flash, Entarios’ face hardened and she nodded curtly to her daughter to take the Hands. As she did so, her eyes became unfocussed and she spoke in a halting voice: ‘Though that gift be easy for you, there is yet that which will not be so. In the Upland Marsh is a great heirloom that once belonged to my ancestors. It was taken by a turbulent hero who lost it to the Taker and Waster, the Emperor of the Marsh. So here is my second challenge: the man who wishes to be my husband must bring me my ancestors’ sword. Bring me Wrath - the sword of Indrodar Greydog. It was lost to the Taker and Waster at the Howling Tower. You must bring it back to me.” At this, Entarios took her daughter’s arm and led her away, favouring Terrastal with one final measuring look as she did so. It was clear that the audience was over.

As the heroes stood outside, crestfallen at the poor reception they’d received, Sandene drew herself upright. ‘Well, that’s that, then. If we go into the Upland Marsh we’re all going to die, so we may as well have some fun. Who’s up for a cattle raid?’