The Spoils of War

[Xarkly 17299]

 

 

 

For the third time that day, Harryl cursed his luck.

 

For nearly a whole year of the Norlandic War, he had been cooped up in Senntisten, left as a minor garrison officer while the rest of the army followed the Horenic banner down the Timberwoods Road with the might of Renatus-Marna behind them, bringing holy death upon the pagan populace with each skirmish fought and won. The unstoppable tide of righteous steel rolled over all Norland, and Harryl had been left back home to guard a city left with only old men, women and children. Every day, at sunrise and sunset, he made his way to the Adamant Cathedral and prayed that might have a share in the glory before it was too late, and every pagan lay dead and buried. He was granted his wish, in a way -- but being deployed to Norland long after the capital had fallen to keep the peace had not been his idea of glory. 

 

There's no sense in wetting your breeches if you have to wear them afterwards, he thought begrudgingly to himself. That was what his dear nan used to tell him when he let his complaints get the better of him. He supposed it was not all that bad. He had his own command now, even if it was of only a dozen men. They trailed after him now as he made his way down the Timberwoods road, not far from what remained of Cyrilsburg. Mounted on his pale-skinned gelding, he glanced over his shoulder to find his unit - common horsemen, clad in chainmail and gambessons with the royal Renatian crest sewn onto their breasts and open bascinets framing their common, hard-featured faces. With their lances held skywards to scratch at the clear but warmthless sky, they chatted amiably with one another for the most part, exchanging lewd jokes and reminiscing about home. None of them particularly wanted to be there, but unlike Harryl, they managed to smile about it regardless.

 

"Keep up," he barked over his shoulder. Nearly fifty feet lay between him and the rest of the unit. "And enough yappering. Are you lame swines here to keep the King's peace or chat like women over tea?"

 

With grumbled protests, the men dug their heels into their mounts and cantered up to join Harryl. The sprawling copses of old trees that characterised the Timberwoods gave way to a sloped field, with the trodden road spearing through it as it ran towards Norland proper. Swathes of colourful flowers bloomed in the places of trees, and a salty sea wind rolled along the plains, sending the black-and-purple streamers tied to the soldier's lances snapping. 

 

"Eugh," came a grunt from one of the riders trailing Harryl. "Which one of you passed gas?" His face was contorted in disgust, but he was smiling all the same.

 

"Oh, sweet God, I smell it too," one of the other men echoed him. "Smells like Jaem." Laughter rippled out among the men as Jaem, the youngest of the soldiers, hurriedly began to protest that it had not been him. His voice became drowned out by the laughs.

 

Damnable fools. Harryl grit his teeth. Instead of fighting under my King's banner, I'm left with these louts arguing about their damned farts.

 

"Actually, it smells more like one of Juilan's to me," another man said. Conversation continued to bubble between them, but Harryl was not listening. He had frozen in his saddle.

 

"Eh? Captain?" came Juilan's voice he nearly ran his horse into him.

 

"That's not a fart," Harryl hissed. As the wind picked up into a gust, the smell stung his nostrils. "That's the smell of decay." 

 

The smiles melted from the soldiers' faces. Pushing up in their saddles, concerned glances scoured the field. Harryl sniffed the wind, and caught the scent. "This way," he growled, and heeled his gelding off the road, and up the gentle slope. Exchanging uneasy stares, his men followed suit. It took just five minutes of cantering up the slope, trampling flowers beneath their hooves, until Harryl spotted something just passed a solitary windmill. It looked like a stretch of field just like any other, only it was shrouded in thick mist. 

 

One of the soldiers balked. "Mist? On a Sun's Smile day, at only noon?" 

 

Fingering his lance, Harryl slowed his gelding to a walk as he approached the mist. The air grew thick as he neared, and the sickly-sweet smell of decay grew heavy.  When he realised his men were not following, he craned his neck back and gave them his worst scowl. "God give me patience! You're all ball-less bumpkins, are you!? Scared of some bloody mist and a bad smell?" With inaudible murmurs of protest, the man gripped their lances and hestiantly followed. All their mounts - Harryl's included - began to wicker and bray nervously as the first white strands of mist touched them.

 

"I think this is close to one of them mass graves, Captain," Jaem intoned uncertainly. "Where they buried all them pagans after the battle."

 

"That would explain the smell," Harryl said pensively. But not the the mist. 

 

Just a few moments passed until they were engulfed by mist on all sides. It fell them on like heavy fog, so that Harryl could hardly see the next rider just six feet behind him. The air was filled with the sounds of nervous horses, but Harryl heeled his gelding forward regardless. His heart began to pound like a drum, and then a figure shifted in front of him in the mist. A brief second later, and it was gone -- but Harryl was certain that he had seen the figure's face.

 

"Nan?" he called urgently. "Nan! Nan! It's me, Harryl! What are you doing out here, Nan?" With renewed vigour, he pressed his boots into his gelding's side and galloped into the mist. He heard his men calling out in alarm behind him, but their shouts fell on deaf ears.

 

Suddenly, the mist parted, and for a moment Harryl could not believe his eyes. He stood on a peninsula, facing a bridge of stone that spanned out towards a walled city on an island. The summer sun glistened against the soft waves as they gently lapped against the grassy shore, and gulls filled the air with their shrill chorus. H-how can this be? There was no mistaking - this was Metz. He was at his childhood home once more. He moved down the bridge, his steps staggered with awe and shock, but he moved like he was in a dream. The streets and the houses melted around him, forming misty but familiar images of the place that Harryl had grown up in. It seemed like just a few footsteps before he found himself outside his nan's purple door. It was open.

 

With shaky breaths and his heart pounding like a drum - though oddly Harryl could not deduce why - he stepped inside. There, in her spacious parlour, his grey-haired nan sat cradling a porcellain cup form which curls of steam rose. 

 

"Harryl!" she exclaimed in her warm, frail voice. It was edged with a distance, though, as if he she were shouting inside a cavern. "Come, your tea is ready!" She began to shuffle towards him. Her movements were slow, and almost blurry, as if she were moving underwater.

 

"Nan," Harryl breathed, and he smiled for what felt like the first time in months. With a gauntleted hand, he reached out to take the cup. It vanished into tendrils of mist in his hands, and there came a sharp, searing pain in his chest. Robbed of breath, Harryl glanced down to a see a long, spined claw slicing through his gambeson. He glanced up to his nan, but she was not there. Instead, a tall, hunched figure with elongated limbs and tight skin pulled over a misshapen face looked at him with round, oval eyes. The scenes of Metz and his nan's house vanished in that same plume of mist; Harryl stood on the trodden fields near Norland where they had fought their skirmishes, and he felt the blood pump out from his wound. In front of him, the Boggen gnashed its teeth and licked its lips in anticipation.

 

For the fourth time that day, Harryl cursed his luck.

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BOUNTY: THE SPOILS OF WAR

 

Following the Norland-Renatus war and the death toll incurred, necrophages have flocked to the former frontier to feed on the dead. Most notable of these creatures at the Boggens, beastial creatures that form a mist that creates illusions to turn its prey mad in the moments before death. There are three Boggen Dens near the roads leading from Renatus towards Norland, though the Boggens will often dare to attack unwary travellers on the road. If left unchecked, the creatures will breed, and spread to other parts of Atlas for feeding.

 

DEN ONE: THE WOODS

 

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DEN TWO: THE FIELD

 

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DEN THREE: THE SWAMP

 

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Players can participate in this bounty by locating one of these dens and contacting me, preferably on Discord (Conor#8203). Happy hunting! 

 

 

[HopeOfFuture 2]

Illondr would look at the board and would journey towards the dens preparing for whatever lies ahead

[Elad™ 560]

Moved to The Great Library. It shall be sorted into the appropriate category shortly.

 

If you feel this is a mistake, please contact myself or any FM and we'll restore it.