The Undiscovered Country

Preparations

Notes the GM requested.

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The Landing

The arrows were so thick in the air the threatened to blot out the moon. They were pinned down and if the 13th couldn’t regroup they were going to be pin cushions.

For the pint sized spellslinger this meant open ground 30 feet of open ground, no cover save the tiny form of one of his fallen comrades.

“Greysprocket! Get over here dammit, you’re a wizard aint ‘cha” he heard his Captain shouting.

“I’m a Necromancer!” He insisted.


‘I wasn’t trained for this…’ he thought to himself as the supernatural darkness lifted as quickly as it had settled ‘I’m military, I’m a Necromancer, I’m not cut out to fight demon dogs in fairyland!’

They had to get out of here, he had to get them out of here. Thankfully, he had made a successful career of running away and getting out of trouble.

“Hold on t’each other” Mortimer screech, the fear clearly present in his voice. “I know half a dozen ways to not be some where…”


“You can’t ‘learn’ this one Master Morty, this spell isn’t the shield, or the missiles, you can’t calculate angles and transfer energy values, you have to feel it.” the spell mistress announced. In a moment no longer next to the young trainee wizard but across the clearing.

“The secret to any form of teleportation, is wanting to be somewhere with all your focus, all the power you can draw, wanting to be somewhere so much, that for a moment reality forgets that your aren’t.

In a puff of deep blue mist one of his classmates was suddenly standing next to her, looking a little unsteady on his feet. “Nice jump Gawellah!” the Mistress beamed, “now you try Morty….”


“Get over here Greysproket, that’s an order!” The Captain barked again… fine, it was time. He had no desire to jump, but he had even less to run through no-mans-land.

“All the power I can pull in, then focus, want to be there so much”

Private Greysprocket focused on being beside his Captain so much he could smell the man’s cigar smoke… for just a moment reality forgot that he wasn’t


“Just concentrate on the painted X – and jump!”


“We’re bugging outta here right now! Hold on to each other, it ain’t the jump that kills ya…”


When he thought about it later, Morty didn’t even remember seeing the tree, much less being 20 feet up in it. As a boy used to seeing the world from 2 feet up, that was way to much sky between him and the ground!


The arrows pressed against his head from all sides, Private Greysprocket honest didn’t know who was more surprised, the enemy company he now sat in amongst, or, beyond them, The 13th, who – judging by their stunned looks – were assuming he had just made a daring assault.


In an explosion of black mist and midnight blue light, they left the Feywild. A strong wind whipped at the smokey energies of their would-be devourers, and then the howls of rang out.

An instant later they reappeared, the cool fresh air told them they were home… however the assembled company of undead battle mages, told them something else.

“It ain’t the jump that kills ya… …it’s the landing”

Clausis turned slowly, and cocked an eyebrow.

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Illyria: A Story in Song

Song for her Lord

From the Ruins of Hell

Revenge on Clausis

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'The Bard' the ultimate mix tape

Because I’m awesome


No regrets

Drink

Visited Hell

For beardey

I dont care

Good bye Lobash


Fin

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Season 7 Session 3
That was surprising

Illyria drops her darkness spell, but it is too late. Hundreds of these shadowy creatures are looking straight at the party. If they attack, the party is surely doomed. One by one, Illyria, Enderis, Sal, Lubash, No Name and Jack get ready to fight the creatures when they get close, while Mortimer screams at Sal and Jack to tell him somewhere else to go In the Feywild so he can teleport them the hell out of their current predicament.

No answer is forthcoming, but just as all looks lost Mortimer remembers that he also knows the Plane Shift spell that Illyria used to bring hem into the Feywild, and so he can just as easily get them out. No only that, but having previously scryed Clausis’s camp, he can take the party directly there.

Of course, Plane Shift is an imprecise spell, and although Mortimer is sure to get the party into the vicinity of Clausis’s camp, the chances of landing them right in the middle of it must be a million to one.

You know what they say about million to one chances.

They arrive to see Clausis with her troop of silver-masked undead mages – thirty-five in all, grouped into clumps of five each. (Honestly, what has happened to the CGI budget this season?) The party has appeared right in the middle of this lot, taking them completely by surprise.

Jack is the first to react, conjuring a sphere of necrotic energy over Clausis and ten of her mages. Illyria follows up with Feeblemind, trying to stun Clausis’s brain, but unfortunately only giving her a headache. Mortimer wrestles briefly with whether or not to teleport out, before shouting “I’m the necromancer here!” and following Illyria’s lead with another Feeblemind attack. It has no greater effect, alas, as Clausis has prodigious resistance to spells.

No Name runs a wall of fire through one group of mages, and Enderis’s hails of crossbow bolts also reduce their number, but apart from this the party concentrate their attacks on Clausis, with Lubash Dragonslayer charging right up to her and smacking her with his mighty hammer.

With a cry of “I said I’m the necromancer, bitch!” Mortimer blasts Clausis with necrotic power, killing her where she stands before she has had a chance to so much as respond to the incursion into her camp. The undead mages do not, unfortunately, fall down and die with her. Instead, they look about as peeved as undead creatures in silver masks can look, and close in on the party.

The ensuing melee is swift and brutal. Illyria swings into a group of mages with her glaive, and the one that she doesn’t cut into putrid chunks is destroyed when he strikes her Armour of Agathys. Enderis whittles down another clump, while No Name incinerates more with another fiery wall. Lubash, as is his wont, charges towards the enemy, and they oblige him by surrounding him almost twice over. The airborne magical swords of the undead mages prove little threat to our heroes, and soon they are finishing off the enemy.

Meanwhile, Clausis has risen as a zombie under Mortimer’s control. She looks really, really pissed off, but obeys his commands. He asks her to give him her spellbook, but when she reaches into the bag by her side he becomes apprehensive, and makes her stop. Illyria, now covered in gore and ichor from the undead mages she has brutally halved, approaches Mortimer and his new pet, asking “Does this mean I don’t get her head?” Mortimer invites her to help herself, and she promptly decapitates Zombie!Clausis. The neck makes a sound like a chopped cabbage as the glaive goes through .

Mortimer now turns his mind to how to safely retrieve whatever is in the bag. He fails to appreciate Lubash’s efforts to help by trying to open the bag wide and tip it out. Instead, he cuts a hand off of the headless body of Zombie!Clausis and sets it to work, sending it into the bag and pulling it out with a pole. It is clutching a spellbook. Fearing a booby-trap, Mortimer has his Mage Hands open the book carefully. It does not explode, and he does manage to flick through it until he finds some interesting spells. Sal, meanwhile, does a thorough job of looting the battlefield, ending up with a large collection of silver masks.

The party gather themselves together and go off to make camp and rest, still somewhat astonished at was was certainly the most successful complete fuck-up they have ever achieved. So far.

Somewhere, inside a wooden coffin, a scrap of flesh begins to grow.

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Reaching the city
The rise of the ogres union

It was around the time of the great battle that the Ogres union reaches The city of the king. But we loose ‘The Bard’ as a source of information after his tragic death. Fortunately we have court records to give us some idea of what happened as he and his companions interacted with the king. Lobash Dragon slayer had returned from beyond the barrier no longer a lowly minion but a adventure in his own right with accolades to his name. It was also around this time that ‘The Bards’ music and stories of his adventures including Lobash would make them legendary as they were told, retold and spread threw out the entire land. The respect that Lobash inspired spread through the streets. Many threw away his ideas, but some picked them up out of the mud, and that seemed to be enough to start the spark. It was not only Ogres that became interested, many beings living in indentured servitude picked up on his manifesto on freedom, rights and smashing faces.
I often wonder if Lobash Dragon Slayer know what he had started and he set of to battle the silver masks

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Too Many Teef, mon!

Tuck tuck tuck tuck – tuck tuck tuck tuck – tuck tuck tuck tuck went the pellet drum, spun between two skinny pale green fingers.

Shakashakashakashakashakashaka, went the small stones inside their bamboo tube as they shook up and left and right and down.

Patter patter jump stomp – patter patter jump stomp – patter patter jump stomp, the large long toed skinny feet thwacked out across the damp ground.

“Aeya ou haeyara!” “Aeya ou haeyara!” “Aeya ou haeyara!” filled the air in a surprisingly deep baritone for the skinny, lanky, creature that so rhythmically chanted it.

“Woot the bleedin ‘ell is that one doin?” “ ‘e ‘avin a sponsored fit or somet?” went the confused cries of the human farmers looking on.

Drum cast his big eyes to the grey skies and furrowed a his brow against the inside of the wooden tiki mask.

dat good enough for em today

He decided, watching a fresh one gawp at him. He danced this dance most mornings, and always there was one of them who thought he was mad, but were their crops growing? (Surprisingly) yes. Had the snowstorms blighted their fields? No. Had the heavens opened and drown this ground back to the marsh it had been, no, they were still here thanks to his efforts.

Ama rain dansa, I supposed to be bringin’ de storms and the tempests, ama not supposed
to be; Drum – ‘Dances-wid-drizzle’

He thought to himself despondently. He feared they would never understand the natural ways:

Asking der big invisible face inta sky to miraculously make sure dey din alla die of a hungaz,
stead’a askin the spirits of the storms to have mercy, direct like! Well stick’em for de day,
Me knees be ballin killin meh!

The Shaman loped across the refugee camp… while other orcs marched with heavy, sturdy strides, Drum’s high and lanky frame had given him a sort of stopped lop… He made toward his own tribal gathering, Krom’s tribal gadderin’ – he thought to himself, though in truth the orc who had united the two clans showed hardly any taste for leadership, though, Drum would be the first to admit; the world had more need of Krom, mighty War-chief than it did him sat listening to arguments, playing that never ending game of:

Who’s Goat is it Anyway?

And some how it was Drum who’d stepped up, by failing to step back. Still, that had given him a chance to quietly set an agenda that encouraged Deh Olden wayz. Even as he walked he saw two boys at play, one in a tiki mask, the other a crude mask of a bakra, a devil! They shouted the old stories at each other as they clacked wooden swords, where once they would have simply fought and made trouble bickering about who would be the better warrior.

As he approached his hut, he resigned himself to practice some of the old ways today.

A space cleared in the center of the floor, Drum did a full circle of the room, long limbs stretched up to the high places younger arms couldn’t reach, nimble fingers plucked dried leaves and weeds from the bottom of deep clay jars.

Steel struck flint, and the spark caught in the bowl. The old wood, far older than Drum himself, began to warm as the leaves and weed and dried mushrooms began to smoulder and smoke. Drum places the bowl of the pipe some way in front of him, leaned back and put the long neck of it against his lips, leaning it casually against a tusk. He breathed deeply, and exhaled…

“Halaassssah!”

Before long the hut was full of thick grey ropes of smoke, that described long flowing tides around the room, rather than simply billow like clouds. He asked the smoke for a vision of Krom, but no vision came, he felt the bonds of the world loosen, his mind, his conscience expanding to great the spirits, but no vision came.

The next day Drum had decided. He would ask the East and West winds, and the spirits of the skies who looked down on the High Chief where he was, but as he danced around his totem, the winds were hushed and the spirits could not say.

On the third day drum was solemn throughout the morning. He was brooding and troubled in Council, and absent from the fires come supper. Instead he sat under the moon, on the only elevated ground in those deep dark marshes. He sat cross legged, long form stooped over a bowl made from a shell that rested in his lap. It was full of water and reflected the dim moonlight over the elongated nose and ears of Drum as he stared down into it’s depths.

“First de ‘erbs” he instructed himself, scooping a handful of green paste from a mortar beside him.
“Den de egg” he said and his expressive mouth curled up into a smile, he didn’t know why, but that part always amused him.
“Den de blood!”

The knife made the neatest of nicks in his forefinger, he stirred the waters with the lanky digit.

His soft chant spread gently round the moss covered rotting trees that framed him.

“Okay now, time to be showing me da Chief” and as he watched the picture in the pool changed

“Ya’ha mon, where is he? What does he see?”

Bats shrieked and fled for their lives as the turtle shell bowl clattered off a tree and long pale green limbs flailed, as the raindancer uncoiled like a spring and backed up a half dozen staggering paces

“By alla Spirits what was dat ting?! De Chief be fightin’ bakra wid way toon many teef mon!”

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Cocktail Menu

The Craven Raven

where service comes first

A La Carte Menu

Orange Cunt (5 sp)

Brithian Vermouth and Hibraxan Whisky complement the juice of a whole blood orange. You won’t believe how good this cocktail is. It’s a great cocktail. The best.

May Queen (1 gp)

Andace rum, Escaparan spirit and Gilfran Blue, topped with juniper liqueur to make our most uncompromising cocktail yet. Not for the faint hearted.

Free Bird (6 sp)

With apple brandy direct from the northern barony of Lakehill, new-barrel Riverside golden liqueur and a fresh zing of lemon, this old classic is making a comeback.

Old Crow (8 sp)

Vintage Therian brandy meets the sharpness of Escaparan schnapps, with a dash of rosewater for a nostalgic finish.

Exiled Emperor (2 gp)

Precise measures of plum brandy from Eastern Karolithia, liqueurs from the Wayfarer Islands and sharp Aqua Vitae from the Great Shigocan Lakes blended expertly into a long, smooth, sophisticated cocktail that you will wish would never end.

Angelic Chancellor (3 gp)

Dark rum and cherry liqueur, topped with rich cream. Unassuming and surprisingly strong.

Goldsmith (10gp)

Flakes of real gold suspended in rich southwestern spirits for the ultimate expression of privilege

Tasting Menu (8 gp)

A selection of our most distinctive and popular cocktails, served on a presentation tray with a platter of breads and cured meats

Management reserves the right to refuse service at any time. No liability for illness or hangovers is accepted. Old men with maps may be required to pay a deposit.

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Season 7 Session 2

As the King presents Javier Asturo, Tuakiin surreptitiously asks Mortimer to get him out of here. This Mortimer does, no questions asked, quickly Dimension Dooring back into the Vizier’s office before Javier spots Tuakiin.

Or that’s what he tries to do, anyway. Unfortunately for Mortimer and Tuakiin, the Vizier’s office is magically warded against this form of entry, and the are instead transported to rocky ground outside of the city. About 200 feet in the air above it. A swift casting of Feather Fall prevents disaster, and they have the leisure as they drift gently down to the rocks to discuss their situation.

Back in the palace, the Vizier has noticed Mortimer and Tuakiin’s sudden departure, and decided it is mightily suspicious. He gives orders that the two should be detained if they show up again, and not overly gently. Meanwhile the King is still in full flow, revealing how Javier has been crucial to bolstering the kingdom’s defences by creating harrowblades from dragon eggs, including those sent south by Lady Anarië, and asks the adventurers if they know of any other dragons from whom eggs could be obtained. Krom tells him of the dragon Venomfang, in the town of Thundertree to the north, and the King is grateful for the information.

Illyria then steps forward, revealing that Clausis and her thirty undead mages are somewhere to the south, and proposing that a small group of adventurers should go and deal with her. The King summons Krom, Illyria and Jack to a council of war, while Lubash and No Name go into the city. Finding a quiet corner, Illyria drops some of her blood into her silver bowl (it instantly turns black) and attempts to scry for Mortimer’s whereabouts, but the blood stays black.

At the council of war, Illyria continues to argue for a special mission to take out Clausis. The King is not initially convinced that one woman with a small force is significant enough to be bothered with, but when Illyria makes an impassioned case that she is the most dangerous enemy of all, having the power to bend reality to her will and destroy entire planes of existence, and that she should have her head cut off as a matter of urgency the king gives assent to Illyria’s plan to make her a foot shorter. As for Krom, his proposal that the orcs in the WItchwood should harry the enemy army’s rear also meets with approval. He further points out that the elves in Not!Lothlorien could be useful allies, and arrangements are made for a message to be sent to them.

Meanwhile, Lubash has taken a trip to the ghetto of Ogretown to spread the word about the Ogres’ Union. Resplendent in his fine cape, flowing locks and dragontooth necklace, he cuts a dashing figure, but unfortunately his impromptu speech to a group of ogre labourers does not go down as well as he had hoped. Indeed, they appear ready to attack him, until he faces them down with his tales of wrestling and killing dragons, at which point they decide a fight isn’t worth it and he scatters some pamphlets before departing with a swish of his cape.

No Name has more domestic concerns. She goes to Jonathan’s lodgings, and tries to persuade him to oppose the King’s plan to create harrowblades from dragon eggs. Jonathan is having none of it, however. He has little time for her arguments for the rights of animals, and is firmly of the belief that the King is justified in doing whatever it takes to defend the kingdom.

Having descended onto the rocks (which do not, thankfully, explode in a burst of fireballs), Mortimer and Tuakiin start walking back towards the city, observed by the guards on the walls. Tuakiin wants Mortimer to get him within striking range of Javier, but Mortimer feels this will be easier said than done. On the way, Tuakiin gets Mortimer to send a magical message to Venomfang. He even writes it out for him in phonetic Draconic, for added credibility. The message is a warning that people will be coming to steal her eggs. Venomfang responds, in common, naturally, thanking Tuakiin for the warning and emphasising just how much she likes treasure.

Avoiding the main gate, they make for an anonymous part of the wall that they might pass through magically. While they are deciding what to do, guards gather on the wall above, calling less than respectfully down to them. Tuakiin’s insistence that the guards bring Javier Asturo out to face him prove ineffectual, although he does at least finally convince the guards to take him seriously enough to send a messenger to the palace.

The council of war over, Jack, Illyria and Krom make for the Craven Raven, an upmarket drinking establishment, where an unobtrusive man silently appraises their likely wealth before discreetly nodding to the maitre d’ to welcome them. Fortunately Illyria is in fine (albeit goth as fuck) clothes and jewellery, and Krom is a Clan Chief, so all is well and they settle in a booth and start downing Goldsmiths, the most ludicrously expensive cocktails on the menu. In due course Lubash arrives, then No Name and Jonathan, and they start working their way through the tasting menu while wondering where Mortimer and Tuakiin have got to. Illyria even tries sitting back for a while and letting her arcane eye rove the streets in search of them, but to no avail.

Outside the wall, Mortimer finally decides that the best plan is for him and Tuakiin to go into the Ethereal Plane (also known as the Grey Wastes). He cast his spell, and they find themselves in the grey desert, where they can see the shadowy shapes of the wall, the guards above them… and the Grand Vizier, standing in front of them, as ethereal as they are. He points out to them how suspicious it was that they vanished from the King’s audience just after military secrets had been revealed. Tuakiin tells him of his feud with Javier. The Vizier values Javier’s services, but evidently has little friendship for him, as he cuts a deal with Tuakiin. If Tuakiin can deliver Venomfang to fight for the King, the Vizier will give him Javier. They duly get in touch with Venomfang again and a deal is struck. Venomfang will fight the King’s enemies in return for half the current contents of the treasury and five magic items, three of which she can claim from the battlefield and two from Theria.

This business concluded, Mortimer and Tuakiin are free to move through the city once more. Having received a magical message from Jack telling him where the rest of the party are busy getting drunk, they are swiftly reunited with their friends. They now turn their attention to Clausis. Mortimer attempts to pin down her location by scrying her once more, but this time looking up at the sky and using his own clearly ceremonial dagger to make a map of the stars by stabbing a board. Inspecting the star patterns, No Name is able to estimate how far south Clausis is, but not how far east or west she may be. Still, this is better than nothing.

Clausis is about a fortnight’s travel away, and Illyria can’t wait that long. She proposes taking the party for a shortcut through the Feywild – she can transport them there, and after a rest bring them back to their home plane near to their estimate of Clausis’s location. She has never been to the Feywild herself, but after consulting with Jack she takes the party to what seems to be a reasonable place.

This does not go entirely as planned. They arrive in a mysterious forest, where huge shadowy creatures gnaw the trees. Broken glass crunches underfoot, as if some massive glass structure had exploded here not long ago. Three of the shadowy creatures see our heroes, and attack. The party manage to do them some serious damage, but unless killed outright these creatures can reform themselves from shadow and dust, regaining their vitality.

Eventually two of the creatures are dead and the third seriously injured after being blasted through a hellish landscape by Illyria. But with all the commotion, the other creatures have started to look up from their gnawing and notice the party. The creatures stretch as far as the eye can see.

Illyria has a plan. She instructs the party to link hands and casts a Darkness spell, which they can’t see through but she can. Her plan is to lead the party through the creatures under the cover of this shroud of darkness. Unfortunately, all the creatures are now looking straight at them – the darkness has just enabled them to see the party more clearly.

Oh dear.

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Till Death us do Part
Or maybe not even then.

Mortimer bandaged his hand: note to self, experiment with crushed glass spell components with your gloves on. He was glad he had finished the copying from Master Burns spell book beforehand. He’d hate to soil it – given the master’s sacrifice he suspected the book should be donated to whatever magical institutions lasted beyond this conflict. For just a moment the devil on his shoulder said “and would you be curating it?” he mentally brushed it aside.

He looked around him, his little clearing in the woods was a quiet spot to study and learn, but the dank atmosphere was awful for the old books! Why had the refugees chosen a swampy forest full of orks as a refuge? I mean it IS called witchwood, that should be a hint to stay away! Oh well, Prestidigitation and mending would keep his books and scrolls in good order and there was a plentiful source of test subjects:

He cast his eyes on the half dozen stupefied squirrels, not so much trying to find their nuts, as wondering what a tree was. He also looked at the pile of unmoving squirrels… that would look bad if anyone found them near him. He put them in his bag with the hands, it would be fine, they’d be moving again in a few hours, assuming he’d got the spell right. Dang… Rema would have killed him for that one.

The pint-size spellslinger was packing up when he heard the hesitant footsteps, it was the classic Civi trying to do the sneaking thing, and thus stepping on ever broken twig and startled animal possible.

He hid the evidence. Brought the XML of his Chil Touch to mind, sneaking up badly on the resident Necromancer of the 13th Free Company, was a mistake you made only once… unless he was feeling especially vindictive.

Finally, around the corner stepped a man in a top hat and tails, or, more accurately a man in top hat and tails that have been sleeping on the ground for weeks and dragging them through swampy forests. His wife was also with him, her black satin and lace petticoats had suffered a similar fate.

“Ah! Master Greysproket is it? Excellent day to you sir, my fiancee and I were wondering if we could have a word? About a sensitive matter”

The man in the mud stained tails requested.

“Okay… who’d you lose? Discounts for gnomes, giants I charge extra, you just can’t get the ectoplasm these days!”

There was a moment of, quite reasonable, pause.

“Err… I… Don’t think I understand?”

“I’m a Necromancer, I can bring your loved ones back, but there’s a price I’m afraid. Also! No Orks! Oh I can do the ritual, but this weird skinny ork fucker with a drum keeps breaking up my rituals and going on about spirits when I try it… so no orks!”

The couple flashed a look between themselves, and then the woman tried

“Oh we, don’t need any magic, we were told you where a priest.”

“Me? Relig….” and then he stopped, because it dawn on him, ever since the winter festival that had messed with his mind… the death of Asmodeus on this side of the world, had once again given him divine power as a priest of the Undead Gods.

“Of a kind” he replied instead “But I think you need to speak to the lay-preachers of The One who didn’t die with the clerics covering our retreat, I’m not your conventional….”

“We know….” came the interruption. “A few months back we met a dwarf cleric in the pub, she was inspirational, she showed us that The Morning Star was no enemy of The One, no Villain as the religion makes him out to be, but the other side of the coin, the check and balance. The more we thought about it, the more we found ourselves worshiping, an…. other… option… “ the man hinted at, fearing to say the name.

“Asmodeus?”

The both winced

“Right… he’s a fair guy, total power tap, got some weird ideas about free will, but that shouldn’t come up now”…”Errr, by which I mean; an honoured divine force who I was fortunate to also worship under the Dwarf you speak of, we prayed together.”

Mortimer noticed he was sweating, a mean feat for someone usually perma-chilled by the necromantic power that bubbled inside him.

But at this admission, the couple seemed to visibly relax.

“It’s impossible to get a Asmodean wedding in this group, The One is such a publicity whore.”

Mortimer coughed, as a priest of the Undead Gods’ he felt he had to be a little unbiased. They were after all equally dead where he came from…

“So you’ll do it then? We need to be married before the Horde get us, no of us have very long!

“Well: I don’t know, the Father in the church charges a fee right? I wouldn’t want to undersell his Az’iness by not even asking that, I trade in precious stones?” the midnight clad wizard offered.

“I… don’t think we could stretch that far, I am a simple coffin builder and my wife is a tailor’s daughter, we brought only the stocks of our trade with us to the camp, precious little gold.. Perhaps we could make you a suit? Your robes are a little last season.”

Mortimer was oblivious to the fashion comment, it literally didn’t computer.

“Coffin builder you say? Do you have anything in really good wood, silk lined?”

“I have 1 item in stock, it was rather my pension plan piece but….”

“Can’t put a price on love, right? And how many other priests of Asmodeus are you going to find ‘roun dez parts?

“It’s true, we were astonished when we heard a rumour one was with the refugees, if you can honor us before the Morning Star, we can pay what you ask.

“Amen to that” the robed figure bluffed, failing to realise it meant “we agree”.

The next he knew he was standing outside a roughly sown together marquee at the back of the pub. At day-break there was a moment where the sun pulsed with light, he recited the prayers he had heard from carreg, he cut the hand of the groom (well he wasn’t going to injure himself, and it seemed like a religion of self sacrifice) and reached the end of the rites he had observed… The couple looked at him expectantly.

Yes, because he was of course the best person to ad-lib on human mating rituals? To him it was like understanding that damn fool skinny orks’ dancing.

“Er… by the power vested in me by The Unde…. I mean vastly underrated lord of light, Azmodeus, I now pronounce you Man and Wife, you may, do that lip press thing to the bride everyone likes doing!”

Having finally shrugged off the vestments of a god he suspected he’d help kill, Mortimer tried to slip through the crowd.

Eventually he found a moment to interrupt the groom

“Oh hey! I was wondering it I could give you a little extra task to the coffin you promised…”

The groom looked sutabley afraid, Mortimer handed him a bowl, inside which was dull water, with a square patch of skin floating in it. The Coffin Builder noted a matching bandage around the arm.

“I won’t be needing your payment right away, but if you could put this in there, that would be swell, y’know? It’s What Asmodeus would want…”

His recently married couple totally confused, they retired to their reception, he made his best to leave.

Only making it as far as the gate before a farmer type intercepted him:

“You were a wonderful meister, clearly the gods favour you, I don’t suppose you know anything about blessing crops?”

Mortimer froze for a moment, not at the man, but the size of the gem in his ring….

“Oh I’m an expert at exacting the god’s wrath against weeds… but I’m afraid there’s a price…”

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