* The Battle at Deadfield (CHUD RPG Campaign)

Zaran breaks into a sprint towards the main body of the undead force. He is chanting prayers to the Goddess asking for protection for his fellow warriors and himself. The five that have been fighting feel refreshed and have a renewed sense of purpose.

(Feel free to play with the whole protection thing a little. Very subtle though)

Zaran shifts his mace to a two handed grip and dropping to one knee he ducks under a zombie who slashes at him a bastard sword. Zaran swings his weapon and delivers a mighty blow breking the creature in two. He uses the momentum of the swing to bring him to his feet and charges into another of the undead, shoulder first. Brittle bones crack and it's chest cavity collapses.

The talisman atround his neck, a silver circle on an iron chain, begins to glow as though white hot and Zarans chants grow louder. This chanting will continue throughout the battle.

Sig lopes along the uneven turf, angling towards a trio of undead riders some distance from Zaran. The warhammer is carried at chest level in both hands.

Sig unleashes the war bellow of his tribe, and the horses gallop towards him, one rider in front, the other two side-by-side behind it. Sig continues his charge past the first steed, leaning forward and swinging the hammer to his right. The hammer shatters the forelegs of the steed, and its rider somersaults in an awkward heap into the ground.

Sig continues his charge between the following two riders. Both jab at him with rusted iron-tipped spear as he moves past. The point of one is blunted on Sig's splint mail; the other cuts into his flesh under his arm.

Sig roars and swings his hammer over his head into the backbone of the rider who wounded him. The runes on the hammer crackle and burn with blue light as the bones shatter and the skeleton falls from its horse like a puppet whose strings are cut.

Sig turns and sees the third rider trying to stab him. Sig moves under the spear and brings the hammer down on the spine of the horse. The horse collapses in a cloud of bone shards and powder. The skeleton tries to stand but its legs are tangled under the ribs of the horse.

Sig smashes the skeleton cavalry rider's skull with a swing, and its helmet tumbles away.

Sig pauses, and reaches under his arm. He does not grimace as he probes the surface of the wound.

Zaran backs up against one of the monoliths provided Eibon to give himself more stability and some protection. Four of the undead hem him in. The closest swings its sword and he deflects the first blow but it connects with his chest on the back swing. The sound of metal on metal as the ancent weapon scrapes his mail can barely be heard over the thunder.

Zaran crushes its skull with a one handed swing of his mace. With his other hand he retrieves a flask from a belt pouch. He uncorks it with his teeth and makes a broad move with his hand. A crystalline liquid flies from it and with a look upward and a few choice words he once again calls upon the Goddess to aid him. Where the holy water comes into contact with the creatures they begin to glow. The phosphorescence quickly spreads and they collapse into piles of ash.

Fighting unconsciousness, Eibon shakes his head violently. The dark motes that swim before his eyes fade just enough for him to watch his companions regroup.

"This is the wrong kind of adversary.", he mutters. "I'm going to drain myself if this keeps up."

Using his staff to support himself, the mage pulls himself upright. Once again long, black thorns sprout from his ashen staff piercing his hands.

"Not enough", he says grimly and collapses on the baking ground beneath him.

"I need time!", he shouts weakly, hoping those around him hear him as falls into the darkness.

Hearing the blood mage's plea Zaran prays for the Goddess to grant strength to his flagging companion.

(Tindalos, use that if you want, don't if you don't. Gods and goddesses can be a fickle lot.)

Atop a blackened hill overlooking the battlefield, a mile and half to the south, a cloaked figure is perched on an impossibly thin branch. His robes are tattered and smouldering in places, the soles of his boots thick with mud - and worse.

He jerks his neck, feeling the cramped muscles crack and pop. Slowly he stands, still perfectly balanced on the slender branch. His hood covers the upper half of his face, but were the worms and ravens brave enough to pay him attention, they would see a broad smile cross his black lips, revealing blood-red teeth.

He reaches into his cloak, the dark gray skin of his hand decorated with a dizzying tapestry of intricate silver tattoos. He pulls out a small canvas bag and shakes a small amount of dry reddish-brown powder onto a leaf. With great care and delicacy, he rolls the leaf into a makeshift cigar and places one end between his crimson teeth. With a snap of his fingers, the end of the cigar bursts into life and he inhales deeply, turning the entire thing to ash in a matter of seconds. With a low growl, he expels the pungent smoke through his nostrils in two thick plumes, forming grotesque and tortured shapes before becoming lost in the cold air.

"Lend my your eyes, dear brother", growls the mysterious figure, focussing his gaze on the battle far below.

"It would appear I'm needed..."

(Holy snot. Are you here to help us or the critters!!!! wink I can't wait to see this!)

The situation was clearly getting out of hand.

Griff bounced back and forth on his two feet, still expecting the magma to break through the cleric's enchantment and burn him worse than his dead mother's cooking. The others seemed to be taking it in stride, which he was thankful for.

The blue aura around the daggers that twirled in his hands was intensifying. The two skeletal warriors in front of him continued their slow march towards him, and as they got closer the heat from the two blades became unbearable. With a flick of his wrist the blade flew from his right hand, spearing one of the approaching undead between its hollow eye sockets. With a burst of blue flame the creatures skull split in half, the body collapsing to the soil with a loud clatter of bones.

The second creature was close enough to take a swing, and Griff was lucky enough the dodge it. He rolled to his right, and was barely able to stop his momentum inside of the protective shell. The edge of his cloak fluttered into the magma and burst into flame.

Unclasping the metal brooch from his neck, he flung the burning cloth at his attacker. Switching the dagger to his right hand, he used the moment of advantage to lunge at the skeleton, severing the creatures head with a single stroke of the magic blade.

Griff kicked the remaining cinders of his cloak into the lava and retrieved his dagger from the pile of bones. Sparing a cursory glance over his companions, and at the fiery lava which surrounded them, he shrugged at the thought that they were, in all likelihood, still screwed.

Now that the party is closer together and everyone has time to take stock of their surroundings they can see that this man is over six feet tall. He is broadly built, but moves with the grace and econmomy of a seasoned veteran. He leans his warmace against a nearby rock, removes his helm tucking it under his left arm, and mops his brow with his sleeve. His black hair is plastered to his skull and shot through with silver. His face is dark and weathered from long hours in the sun. His dark grey eyes are filled with a peace and kindness, out of step with the rest of him.

A simple brown robe that has been patched and mended to the point where little of the original cloth is left covers his suit of mail. From his broad leather belt hang a number of small pouches and he has a light bedroll strapped tightly to his back in such a way to allow freedom of movement. The only adornment of any kind present is the simple silver ring hanging from an iron chain. His only apparent weapon is the two handed mace still within easy arm's reach.

Looking at his new companions he shrugs and steps forward. "I am Brother Zaran Ilyich, follower of the Goddess. I have been in Her service for six years now. Prior to Her calling I served as bodyguard and man at arms for various kings and princes for more years than I care to talk about. I heard of the troubles that the townsfolk were having here and came to set whatever is causing it to right."

Having said his peace he turns his gaze from the Presence to the others present and waits.

Crunching footsteps cause the party to turn around, wary of further attack.

Behind them stands a tall figure, wrapped in what was presumably once a regal black robe. Now it resembles nothing more than burned and tattered rags. With a swift and fluid motion, he pulls back the hood from his face. His skin is the same dark gray as the mud of the battlefield. Silver patterns and symbols are etched across his forehead and cheeks, criss-crossing his hairless head. His eyes are pure white, but there can be no mistaking him for a blind man. There is very real power in his blank gaze. For a split second, a ragged scar is visible across his throat - as if his jugular had been rudely opened and then healed by some urgent magic. Sensing the scar has been noticed, he pulls his robe closer to his neck.

"Fear not. Had I meant you harm, you would not have heard me approach", he says, his voice like boulders grinding together.

"I am Gomrath"

"Some of you may have heard of me. I have been called necromancer by those simple folk who trade in superstition and fear, but rest assured I am no longer in the employ of the forces of Hades".

He smiles, revealing blood red teeth. A wisp of smoke curls from his lip. A sickly sweet smell of cinnamon and copper drifts over the party. His head dips in a parody of a bow, revealing an intricate and obviously magical symbol carved deep into the flesh of his scalp.

"Although I once called him Master, I had a...disagreement with the lord of that wicked, infernal domain. My life was forfeit, and I was forced to defend myself. Many of his minions fell to my works that day. Now I am condemned to this joyless realm, doing what I can to undo his schemes. I must remain one step ahead of his armies at all times, lest they catch me before I am ready".

With a sweep of his arm, he holds open his cloak revealing dozens of canvas bags hanging from the inside.

"If you have doubts about my skills in mortal combat, then lay them to rest. The powdered remains of those I once served are all I require by way of weaponry. When ingested, their power becomes mine, for a short time. Believe me, I need no clumsy sword or hammer".

He brushes his fingers across the small bags, lovingly. Just touching them seems to distract him. It almost seems as if he's whispering something to them under his breath.

Silence falls as he pulls himself out of his reverie.

"It appears we may have a common purpose. Despite my dabblings in the shadows, I am still bound by the same laws and gods as you. I will travel with you, for as long as neccesary. I trust there will be no complaint?"

Without waiting for an answer, he kneels in the filth of the battlefield and begins gathering the remains of the fallen enemy. Sensing eyes still on him, he looks up at the party and gives another smoke-wreathed smile.

"Crude, but useful" he grins.

Eibon glances towards the smoke mouthed necromancer, "How timely your arrival, Gomrath. You and I have words to speak with one another." Looking back at the Presence calling itself Scakarr he finishes, "But we shall save all of that for later..."

Bowing his head ever so slightly the blood mage speaks to the deity before his companions.

"Scakarr, I am The Blood Mage, Eibon. My pain is my own."

"Long ago, I was a normal man. But through deeds of my own, I ran afoul of forces far darker than were ever meant to be uncovered in this realm or any other. Sufficed to say many things changed as a result."

"Now my magiks feed on my own blood and the blood of others. I serve no King, no country. I find companions where I may. I wander... Searching... Waiting... For something. I know not what."

"Perhaps I have been waiting for you, Scakarr."

The dwarf stands quietly, contemplating the situation. His oaken crossbow, stock cushioned with deerhide, is strapped across his pack. His wrought-iron axe is alongside it. The bleeding from the wound under his arm has stopped, but dried blood has matted his leather gloves. He rests his hands on the pommel of his massive warhammer, which is standing head-downward on the ground. The runes on the head of the warhammer which glowed earlier are now cold. He slowly shifts his gaze from person to person from under his battered war cap.

There is very little in the way of what you would call decoration on the dwarf, even the slightest token to the dwarven gods of courage or battle are absent. The only item of note is a steel ring which hangs near the end of his braided beard.

When Sig speaks, the party quickly gathers there are probably many things the dwarf would rather be doing than speaking, let alone of himself or his past.

Sig spits a clot of bloody saliva in the dust. The words seem to struggle to escape from beneath his beard. "I am Sig Stoneforge. I...was... Chief Warden of the lower halls of Kashtan."

There is no more.

The learned among you remember this dwarven citadel, home to skilled miners and smiths, and one of the few communities which opened its gates to men and elves. But what happened to it? Did it fall to a horde of dark elves or goblins, or was it abandoned? The stronghold seemed to empty overnight, stories tell, and bards rarely agree as to the cause of its demise, whether it be violence or a curse or disease. The only point upon which the storytellers agree is that it was swift.

As Sig's gaze falls upon Scakarr, you see there will be no more on this for now.

Brother Zaran removes robe and his armor down to a simple gray tinc and pants. He wraps his armor in his robe and unrolls his bedroll. He kneels and sends up a prayer of thanksgiving to the Goddess for carrying his companions and himself safely through the battle and fopr protection in the caverns.

Upon completing his prayers he accepts a skin of water, some bread, and a joint of meat from one of the townsfolk. He refuses any offer of money as reward for the battle.

After his simple meal he sits and observes his companions. As he lookes at Eibos and Gomrath a broad smile crosses his face. It's followed by a head shake and a breif chuckle.

Gomrath crouches on the ground and reaches into his robes, pulling out a leather satchel. The townsfolk give him a wide berth, and some of them whisper in recognition, muttering prayers under their breath. If the necromancer is aware of their attention, he does not show it. For a brief second his blank eyes seem to lock on Eibon, and an enigmatic grin flashes across his face before he turns his attention to the task at hand.

From the satchel he pulls a blackened iron bowl and a handful of strange dry leaves. He grinds the leaves into the bowl with the ball of his hand, and then spits into it. Holding his left hand over the bowl, the silver tattoos on his wrist seem to writhe in the fading light of the sun. The tattoos draw back across his wrist like razor-thin blades, and thick black-red blood flows into the bowl. With a wave of his right hand, the bowl bursts into flame - flickering blue to green. Wiping his wrist on his filthy robes, he begins picking through the gruesome stack of battlefield casualties, sniffing at smashed skulls and even running his tongue along the slippery coils of gut in search of remnants that still hold a trace of the infernal magics which gave them life. He tosses aside many parts both recognisable and mangled, setting aside whichever pieces of bone and meat suit his unnatural needs.

Satisfied with his haul, he passes the grim souvenirs slowly through the dancing flames, drying them out almost immediately, with a loud hiss and a stink of burnt pork. With a care bordering on reverence, he then crumbles the dessicated foes into more of his tiny canvas bags and buries them in the folds of his cloak.

His work complete, he pulls his hood back over his face and slips a hand-made cheroot between his lips. The tip glows red, and the necromancer begins to gently sway and whisper to himself, clouds of sweet smoke billowing from beneath his cowl.

The townsfolk hang back, unsure if he is sleeping or merely waiting...

Sig approaches a commoner and inquires as to the location of the towns smith. Receiving directions, disappears for several hours amongst the gathered townsfolk, and returns carrying a large duffelbag. Finding a quiet corner in view of his comrades and a view of the horizon, he goes about his routines. He neatly lays his purchases on the ground, which include three score heavy crossbow bolts; 2 large flasks of oil; a coil of heavy twine; a handful of iron spikes; a sizable chunk of salted meat; and a fresh waterskin. He also carries a small pouch.

Sig kneels in front of his purchases and removes his cap. His grey hair is matted and tangled, and he quickly neatens it with the help of a metal comb. He then places the miscellaneous items neatly in his pack. He seems quite focused on his task; his movements are swift and economical, with no wasted motion.

Sig unfolds a leather cloth and lays it at his feet. Kneeling, he empties the contents of the pouch on the ground: more than two dozen heavy double-tipped quarrel heads. It is clear they have been just been forged. Sig also removes a large stone mold, each shaped to cast three bolt tips. Those schooled in the art can detect a strong dweomer of magic from the mold. Sig carefully fits one of the new points to each of his recently purchased bolts. He then lightly binds them together so one bolt may be removed at a time, and with haste.

Sig also examines his melee weapons, running a thickly calloused thumb across the axe blade and testing the bindings on the hilt of the hammer.

Finally, laying both weapons at his side, he removes his armor. The splint mail has clearly seen its share of battles, but none of the links are broken, nor are the reinforced plates cracked. Nodding with satisfaction, he lays it on the ground and places the metal cap atop it.

Sig stands and stretches, vertebrae cracking along his spine. He sits with his back to a wall and removes from a side pouch a finely carved pipe. He fills it with tobacco from a small vial crafted from pearl.

Sig sits and watches the sunset quietly smoking his pipe, a reward for completing his chores. He rests unarmored, but with his weapons close at hand.

(Is it too late for me to get in on this?)

Before leaving fot the underground, Zaran will offer to bless each member of the party individually. The procedure is simple enough. He will say a short prayer and annoint the individuals hrad and hands with a circle of oil. He will also offer to annoint their weapons.

Sig thanks him for his service and asks that Zaran bless several of his crossbow bolts, as well.

Gomrath doesn't even look up at the offer, but from deep within the folds of his hood, a finger of smoke curls into the night air.

"I think I may be beyond your blessings. Save your ministrations for those who still have a soul to save".

"No one's soul is beyond the power of the Goddess, but as you will. My prayers are still with you Gomrath."

He dips each of them in oil and prays over them en masse. As the prayer finishes, the bolts all briefly glow blue white and as the glow fades a dim blue-white band appears around the bolts' circumference.

....As you make your way towards the center of town, you see a sign for The Tilted Unicorn, a tavern, up ahead. It is a worn-down place, filled with the tales of a thousand different lands from men of all walks of life and species. Men like yourself.
The door swings open and a tall fellow walks-or is thrown-out onto the street. He stands up, dazed, and looks towards the bar. He smiles, obviously soused.
The fellow stands about six feet tall, with gold locks curled upon his head. You can smell the stench from here and see the flies buzzing around his unwashed hair and beard. His trousers fit loosly around his long legs, and his pale chest can be seen under his torn tunic. He wears a circular cap cocked back on his forehead. Aside from his thick boots and leather vest, the only thing of value on his body is an amulet hanging underneath his shirt. The shape is strange, but you remember it as a Jerusalem Cross.
Staggering down the street, still smiling, he sings an old folk tune.
“I’m drunk toooodayyyyyy...and I’m rareeeellly sooooober...I wish I had wings to flyyyyy...to flyyyyyy....”
The sight of your armor and weapons interrupts his song .
“Ah,” he says, “Good gentlemen. God has informed me of your quest. Granted, I was in the middle of a beautiful act so often performed by men, women, dogs, and sheep-sometimes all at once, but this was not the case here, yet the Almighty, my saviour, who rescued me from a drunken haze one dreary night with a flash of light and set me on my feet. He didn’t mind the drunken part much, but it was the wasteful nature of my youthful days spent in a town like this one, up North, you see, that made him quite angry. That’s why, I suppose, he took from me everything he could--my friends, my sentry position at the castle-chief of the guards, y’know, a Lieutenant, my beautiful wife Charmine and our daughter Abigail, just six months when God’s fever took them.”
He pauses for dramatic effect. The man is performing for you, but a sincerity and truth lies beneath his words. After several moments he continues.
“That was six years ago. SIX!” He shouts, startling you. “However, the rest of the tune you know, I became a drunken buffoon, doomed to waste away in taverns and inns, the friend everyone knows but no one speaks of. I have them-or did, anyway-and you do too, there’s no denying it, yet God had other things planned for me. Now, instead of being a simple drunkard, I am an talented simple drunkard, wandering these lands and living off my wits, doing as He will have me do. And now, He has led me to you. Or, as I wrote in song, part of an epic poem called Darkness Loathes The Light of God-
I am just a poor boy, though my story’s seldom told
I have squandered my resistance for a pocketful of mumbles
Such are promises
All lies in jest! Still the man hears what he wants to hear and disregards the rest
When I left my home and family, I was no more than a boy
In the company of strangers with the quiet of a sentry station
Left them scared! Laying low, seeking out the poor reporters where the ragged people go, looking for the places only they would know
Lai-la-lai, lai la la lai, lai la lai, la la la la la la la la lai!
Seeking only workman’s wages, I come looking for a job
But I get no offers-”
He pauses. A confused look fills his face, then a charming grin breaks out. It’s endearing as he bows to you, interrupting his performance.
“Yes, yes, I know, what happens to our feckless hero that is I, that is what you wonder. And find out you shall! But I must depart, however briefly, to retrive an item only temporarilly lost. My knapsack, you see, carrying all my personal possesions save my body, which I joyfully lost while in the arms of a tender young babe named Samantha. One moment, gentlemen-”
The man swings open the door to the tavern, bronze light spilling out in a rectangle onto the dirt street. He steps in, and immediatly you hear the cries of “OUT!” from men and women.
“Ah, dear fellows, you see, I have returned, sober and ready for another roll in the hay...Caroline, my dear, let’s retire upstairs to experience God’s love through me. Come, I’ll show you the true meaning of ‘infinate love’.... No? Perhaps a game of ‘Hurl The Halfling’, bets beginning at two silver pieces per yard...I guess not!...Well then, now that I have retrieved my possessions, I must depart...I know, I know you are all disappointed that you have spent too little time with so much greatnesss, yet I must leave you. The Heavenly Father, far above us all but most certainly above you, has called me, and I must answer. He’s God, after all...Do not patronize me with your looks, they will get you nowhere!...Still, I must leave you with something...A song!
All my bags are packed
I’m ready to go
I’m standing here out-
Salvadore, everyone loves a critic but your language is IN-ex-CUS-able!...If you do not cease I will be forced to respond in kind...I see. A joke. An orc, a dwarf, and an elf walk into a church...”
The noise from inside the Tilting Unicorn grows louder, obscuring the rest of the joke. All you hear is the punchline “So that’s why orcs count elves as their unnatural ancestors!” followed by screams of “OUT!” and offended laughter.
The man, wearing a large knapsack and carrying a wooden quarterstaff, walks out of the bar. Before he walks towards you, he drops his trousers and shows his buttocks towards the bar.
“Wankers!” he shouts.
Pulling up his pants, he approaches you.
“Gentlemen, great warriors, I implore you, was my humor adequate?”
A rough growl comes from behind him, a figure standing in the shadows. “Not funny. Orcs not elf. Orcs ORC!”
He turns and looks up at the figure, a massive half-orc eight feet tall with arms able to lift a fully weighed quarterhorse.
“Oh, Uggind, have my difficult words offended your impertinent sensiblities.” He claps a hand to his mouth in mock terror. “I should have known better before telling that nasty joke.”
The half-orc points a crooked finger the size of a pork sausage at him. “You mean. Me of-of-of-en-” His voice strains around the syllables.
“Come, now, dear fellow,” the rogue says. “I know you can get that wretched tongue of yours around more than two syllables. In fact, you might even be able-”
Uggind stops trying to state his anger and begins showing it. He swings a gnarled paw at the rogue, who steps out of the way. The half-orc, not the greatest of fighters, swings again, staggering down the street. The rogue dashes out of the way each time, dancing between his paws, spinning around on the quarterstaff like a ferocious acrobat.
“ARGGHHHHHH!!!” Uggind screams. He charges the rogue.
Without missing a beat, the rogue drops the staff and the dashing act. He spreads his stance and waits for the half-orc to charge him. Speeding up, Uggind bends over for maximum impact.
Just before Uggind crashes into the stranger, the man steps out of the way. He does not escape without hitting the half-orc, colliding into his upper chest before ducking under the orc’s beefy arm.
Uggind runs a few feet further, then drops to his knees. A gilt dagger lies in his upper chest-precisely where the rogue hit him.
The rogue saunters forward and withdraws the dagger. Uggind collapses into the street with a great thunder.
The rogue faces you.
“Don’t worry, dear chaps, our friend Uggind is not harmed, he’s merely sleeping. See, in my travels to the East, I met a most attractive lady by the name of Lee. After we got to “know” each other, she tried to poison me. But I had gained wisdom in the art of poison while walking the roads of the Western East, and thus resisted. She recognized my quest for knowledge, and taught me her ways, both chemical and carnal. And thus I was able to stabilize our friend, the orc, here before us, without harm to myself or himself. Granted, he’ll have a serious ache in his arse come morn, but that does come with the territory, does it not? I rather think it does.”
Seeing your impatience with his length of words, he skips over the history and goes straight to the introduction.
“Ah, yes, well, let’s get straight to the meat and potatoes of this journey, shall we? The Almighty has informed me of your names, so I must introduce myself to you. I am Peter of the North, rogue, scholar, bard, poet, drunkard, and gentleman. Friend to friendless, hope for the hopless, preacher for the unconverted, warrior for the Lord, servant of Christ, and finder of lost antiquites. But you can call me Pete.”
He reaches into his vest pocket and takes out a bag of coins with a flourish. The bag is made of flesh, commonly used by orcs and their kin to store valuables.
Pete looks at you, grinning. He tosses the bag up into the air. “And in times of crisis, do I panic? I think not!”
He catches the bag and rolls it back into his pocket.
Pete reaches over, picks up his staff, and looks towards the road out of town.
“And now, it is time for the grand adventure to begin.”

(Has Nick got enough bandwidth if that essay was Rath not overdoing it? wink )

(didn't want to be the first to comment. wink )

(oooh nested quotes and smilies...)

(one thing - I don't think General Logan stated this is campaign is taking place on Earth (or did he?) - we should probably clear 'new' deities with him before use)

(Damn. I thought we were on Eternia. I've got my furry underpants on and everything...)

(ah, yes, but you see the christianity in my character is part of his mysterious past...If you want me to change it, I'll gladly comply. Sorry if it was sort of lengthy, I got inspired yesterday for a character and punched it out. I can start over if you like....)

(S'cool with me Rath but hey I'm a real cool frood and im wearing my furry underpants inside out.)

(all right, I will change my deity. Peter of the North is now a servant of Oldimarra, the god of rogues. That's directly from the D&D Third Edition handbook-which I never liked, but I promised to play nice. And my posts will be much shorter from now on, I promise. Thanks for having me)

(this sort of got lost in the confusion of the new character. I guess we're supposed to start from here. )

The crowd of panicked townsfolk, having already seen more bloodshed and wonder in one evening than they will ever see again, part like blades of grass as Gomrath makes his way through the throng.

He seems utterly unimpressed by the dazzling deity standing before him. But then, if what he says is true, this is a man who has spat in the face of the Lord of the underworld and lived to tell the tale. The mere prescence of divinity is not enough to force him to his knees in awe.

"Times pressing", he barks, as if Scakarr were no more than a surly barkeep. "Where are the rest of your pawns? I've got work to do."

"Tread carefully Necromancer. We are not all pawns." A flash of steel in up til now peaceful eyes.

"I for one am here at my own will not that of my Goddess or of this so called Outcast. You would do well to be more respectful. I think we are all impatient to see this foul business put to an end."

Having said his peace the warrior/priest shoulders his warmace and waits on Scakarr.

(My apologies as well...I am heading out to CHUDwest a little early, like tomorrow A.M. I *really* hope to see some of you there! What Scott (Waco) said - please use Sig as an NPC, have him use warhammer, axe, and crossbow - but please don't fill in his backstory until I return or the General does so! Merci, and good luck!)