Time Drag(s)on

Vogir glances at his digital watch.

Are those approaching Dark riders ever going to arrive?

Thundering hooves

Vogir grinds his back heel into the dirt and adjusts his grip on his magical longbow.

The battle raging below, though fraught, seems under control. Orestes, Indigo and the new dwarf are handling the remaining ‘Dark riders’, leaving he and Zavia to watch for whoever’s approaching.

He’d assumed it was just the two unencountered ‘Dark riders’ but the crescendoing volume of the hoof beats was making him less and less sure.

Vogir’s earlier confidence has become a distant memory.

Who’s rushing toward them?

Can his martialistic friends finish their opponents before more enemies arrive?

A feeling of dread washes over him.

The clever ambush they’d set to kill a couple of the ‘Dark riders’ now seems more of a trap for themselves.

Vogir’s sweaty palms force him to readjust his grip yet again.

Help from above

Vogir nocks another arrow and releases it into the melee below. These ‘Dark-riders’ don’t seem so tough. (Especially when he can pick them off from range, atop a cliff-face.)

They were chasing two, but have attracted five of the lizardy bastards. Not really a surprise, as they’d not only pursued them but alerted them of their presence.

Still, five vs. five weren’t too scary odds.

Orestes, Indigo and the newly joined dwarf; Mjoorvitnir were handling the hand-to-hand fighting, while the gnomess; Zavia and he played interference.

True, his arrows weren’t bothering the Dark-riders too much and Zavia’s illusions were being breached…

Still, the battle was definitely going their way.

Two or three of these ‘relentless’ dragon-borns were already down and even the terminally reckless Orestes was still on his trotters.

Vogir’s smile falters though as he hears the thundering sound of horses hooves approach from the distance…

Dead cat bounce

As he looks down from the rooftop at the others slaughtering the two hags, Vogir smiles at the little gnomess Zavia.

Despite being in the ‘forbidden lands’, despite being pursued by the seven ‘Black riders’, he’s never laughed more or felt more happy.

The teleportation trick that she’d performed and he’d copied was hilarious.

Making the monstrous cat suddenly appear twenty feet in the air and letting it drop to the ground…

Twice!

The ‘poor’ creature never stood a chance.

Now, after a night’s rest in the relative safety of the farmhouse, they can press on towards the dwarven Mjoovitnir’s homeland.

When’s a secret not a secret?

For the first time in the fortnight, since his companions left Fewham, Vogir relaxes. Lord Rician has reduced his guard numbers to that of before the threat he’d made.

He’d kept out of sight, watching from outside the town perimeter.

What was weird though was the whole situation…

It smelled.

It smelled a lot.

It positively stunk!

A dragon in the form of a lady, mincing about pretending to be human while being served upon hand and foot.

A Lord feigning consideration for his people while living in luxury.

The flawed defence of the Lady Sybille being Theranthor’s daughter and therefore apparently keeping the Empress’ forces from attacking.

And finally, a secret that everyone seems to be aware of: The local nobility, the dragon empress, the guards and even the locals themselves.

Everyone knows!

So why wasn’t Lord Rician honest in the beginning?

Why the pretence?

Still, Vogir wasn’t fooled and he wasn’t to be put off. After weeks of waiting, of questioning visitors and travelers from and to the town, he was ready to act.

The mansion carefully cased, Vogir approaches stealthily and under the cover of darkness. Easily bypassing the locked doors, he drifts as mist through the corridors and under the cracks in doors.

Still, despite the hour, Vogir is too early. Lady Sybille is awake and still in conversation with her ‘Father’. Confident in his hidden state though, Vogir edges forward to listen…

The conversation is sweet. Loving even and worse, it seems sincere.

Lord Rician kisses her gently on her forehead before retiring for the night.

It would be easy now. Lady Sybille is completely alone but something stays Vogir’s hand.

Following her to her own bedchamber, she is met by an older women dressed in a robe of dark grey. She passably resembles a Black-cloak but her graying hair and lined face are unhidden by the hood.

The woman smiles when Sybille enters and the affection again seems genuine.

Despite not currently having a stomach, Vogir feels a sinking within it.

This woman is almost certainly the trusted Black-cloak who’d stolen the little wyrmling in the first place. That she was still here spoke of care beyond mere duty.

After combing and braiding Sybille’s long blond hair, the lady-in-waiting puts her to bed and retires to an adjoining room.

Vogir watches until Sybille’s breathing becomes deeper and he’s sure she’s asleep.

He could kill her now.

It’d be easy.

He could kill the nanny and Lord Rician too…

If he wanted to…

If it were the right thing to do.

…

An eerie sigh escapes Vogir’s insubstantial form and, like a shadow, he slips from the silent mansion.

Aurelius the never-was-chief

‘Another story!’ cried the grubby, little orc child.

Wurgoth smiled down on his grandson. He’d had lots of them but this one was his favorite.

Young but clever.

‘Calm yourself Ori. I’ll tell you one more… Long ago, before even I was born, there was a battle. The first battle ever fought by the reunited tribes.

Five tribes were there. The ‘Broken lancers’ the ‘Blood-bottlers’, the ‘Meat-drippers’, the ‘Flesh-lump-eaters’ and the ‘Bone-crunchers’. All led by their chiefs…

All except our tribe. Chief Orestes had gone to slay the dragon and left his most trusted general: Aurelius in command of his army.’

Ori sat up. ‘That’s not true! Chief Orestes did lead his army into battle!’

The bald headed Wurgoth smiled. ‘Yes, you're right but he wasn’t there yet.’

Repositioning his aching bones in the sturdy, wooden chair, the old orc continued.

‘The four chiefs of the other tribes met with Aurelius and each one bowed to him and took his instruction without dissent.

Each of the five mighty armies was divided into two parts and the ten divisions were lead by a chief or general.

Aurelius the wise lead one of the Broken lance armies and the mighty Bodan the other. Each commanded a hundred and fifty men. Boden though, like the other chiefs and generals obeyed Aurelius’ orders without question.

Each of the ten armies divided themselves around Khajag: City of the Blue prince Narcissus.

A magical barrier prevented living creatures from passing through an evil, magical barrier of lightning.

Each leader was allowed to decide upon their own plan of attack but they all knew that they answered to Aurelius.

On his signal the battle was started. Some of the groups attacked from distance with arrows. Some tried to topple the spindly towers that housed the magic. Some even charged the lightning field!

Aurelius was cleverer though. With shields raised, the majority of his division advanced upon the shimmering blue field of energy. A smaller group fired arrow upon arrow at the two figures atop the tower, preventing the evil Black-cloak from using his foul magics on the advancing orcs.

The Dragon-borns fired crossbow bolts but Aurelius’ men held their shields together so no bolts could penetrate.

When they got to the crackling energy screen, they halted and thrust their long spears through.’

Wurgoth clears his throat as he sees his little grandson’s eyes start to droop.

‘The Dragon-borns were no cowards. They wanted to fight and so they advanced. They passed though the energy shield to get to our warriors. They were seemingly unhurt but this didn’t surprise Aurelius. In fact Aurelius smiled, for now, in the open, his Broken-lancers outnumbered the spread thin troops of the Dragon.

The battle was furious and unrelenting. Orc and Dragon-born alike died by the sword and spear. Aurelius though had superior numbers and the Dragon-borns had no reinforcements because they were fighting battles on all sides.’

‘And then what happened?’ Asked the young orc in awe.

‘Then?’ Wurgoth smiled. ‘Then, when only a score of Dragon-borns were still standing on our side of the magical barrier, Orestes appeared as if from nowhere atop the tower nearest them and struck the head clean from the shoulders of the Black-cloak there.’

‘Where did he come from?!’ squealed the little orc.

‘Well, that’s a different story but his actions caused the magical barrier to fail. Aurelius took advantage of the momentary confusion and charged through. He and his men killed every Black-cloak and Dragon-born they encountered but more importantly, they broke into the nearby towers and killed each mystic powering the barrier. Soon the disciplined Dragon-borns had to break formation and as soon as they did that, they were lost.’

The old orc pulls himself to his feet and kisses his grandson on the forehead.

‘Many orcs died in that battle but it was a great victory. The tribes reunited. Thereanthor’s son killed and enough treasure found to provide all the weapons needed to fight the coming war. Your great, great grandfather fought that day. He was barely more than a boy himself but he always said it was the proudest day of his life.’

The little orc’s eyes were now nearly closed, ‘Was wise Aurelius ever a chief?’

‘No my grandson. Never a chief but instead he became so much more. He became the Chief of chiefs’… ‘But that’s also another story’.

Bodan and the Owlbear

It had been decades since the sundered tribes of the orcs had been reunited but the old stories were still told and retold with relish. This story especially was one favored by the children.

The wise women hushed them all before she began…

The mighty Bodan stood at the front of the ‘Broken lance’ army and surveyed the scene.

Never in living memory had so many orcs stood together.

Not just the ‘Broken lancers’ but also the ‘Blood-bottlers’, the ‘Meat-drippers’, the ‘Flesh-lump-eaters’ and the ‘Bone-crunchers’.

Aurelius the wise had divided up the armies into ten groups, each led by a different chief or general.

Bodan’s group was over a hundred orcs. All eager for battle.

The opposing dragon-borns were on the other side of the accursed blue screen of death…

An evil magical barrier that killed any that passed through.

Bodan looked at the massive, black metal box he had pulled with him.

Much taller than the biggest of orcs and just as wide.

Only Bodan’s bloodlust could match that of the creature held captive within.

An Owlbear!

The most ferocious creature ever to live.

A creature that would kill you, as soon as look on you.

Before ordering his men to release the crazed owlbear, he organised himself to be tethered to the creature by one of the ten-foot long metal poles used to control it.

Once free though, the huge creature lunged at Boden but Bodan didn’t flinch.

Because of the long metal rod between them, neither could reach the other.

He would have been pushed over but instead he took the impetus and charged instead at the blue barrier.

It was over a hundred feet away but on he ran. Pursued by the screeching owlbear.

The Black-cloaks atop the nearest stone towers did nothing.

The Dragon-borns behind the shimmering screen did nothing.

Bodan ran until he was within touching distance of the crackling field.

The Owlbear though, frustrated by not being able to reach Bodan, ignored the intangible light barrier and barreled straight through it.

The lightning field crackled but did not stop the mighty beast and it slaughtered two of the scaled Dragon-borns before they could even recover from their surprise.

Straining his powerful muscles, Bodan dug in his heels and directed the, now frenzied, beast towards the other stunned Dragon-borns.

Dozens went down before the howling Owlbear finally dragged Bodan through…

The lightning field crackled and primal energy coursed through Bodan’s thick skin.

Expecting to die, Bodan released his berserker spirit. He didn’t even notice that he was still standing.

Mighty Axe swinging, the savage Bodan was lost in his fevered dance of death.

Standing back to back, the mighty Bodan and the psychotic Owlbear cut a bloody mess through the Dragon-born ranks.

None could stand against them.

On seeing their leader survive the magical energy field, all his waiting orcs charged forward.

The Black-cloaks rained lightning and thunder upon them…

But on they ran.

The wretched Kobolds threw so many javelins at them, that the sky turned dark…

But on they ran.

But when they ran through the barrier…

These orcs were brave but most of them lacked even a measure of Bodan’s toughness. His resilience in the face of unwinnable odds.

More than half their number fell to the evil Dragon magic but on they came, throwing themselves at all enemies.

In the midst of them all, covered in blood, Bodan found himself panting with exhaustion. All his enemies lay dead around him and only the sound of the growling owlbear behind him broke the eerie silence.

Locking eyes with the amber-eyed monster, held out of reach by the metal pole connected to his waist and the creature’s neck, Bodan unfastened his belt.

…

As it fell to the floor, the wild, Owlbear understood that it had been freed.

…

With a screeching howl the huge Owlbear blinked twice, turned and tromped back, seemingly unfazed, through the blue energy field and headed back toward the forest.

Bodan still felt the link they shared though.

No longer a link of chain and steel.

A link of understanding, ferocity and mutual respect.

Horde of the ring

Aurelius: general of Orestes' army, stares blearily at his battle plans. It shows a small city approximately a mile in from the circle of slender towers that surround it.
A ring of death.

The vast majority of Narcissus’ defending forces will be positioned just within this circle of blue light.

If he can get past that first barrier, the city itself will be no obstacle.

But how?

His attention is pulled jarringly from his plans by a young orc guard.

‘Sir, we have some new arrivals.’

The boy looks a bit unnerved but rather than ask him to expand upon his statement, Aurelius, flanked by several of his trusted men, strides past the boy and out of his tent.

It is Aurelius though who is shocked now.

In front of him are hundreds of armed orcs.

Orcs baring the crimson and black tribal markings of the ‘Blood-bottlers’.

Looking around, Aurelius finally finds the broken-tusked, smiling face of Auzoux: Newly crowned chief of his tribe.

‘Auzoux, what are you doing here?’

Auzoux is larger and younger than Aurelius but his intelligence is quite apparent.

‘When we were packing up in preparation to move out, a few of my men noticed your group heading away from the main compound. Away but without your women, children and weak. I confronted the few warriors that you’d left behind and they told me of your plan.’

Aurelius looks up into Auziux’ battle-scarred face but lets the other orc continue talking.

‘I’ve brought about half my force. Three hundred fighting orcs. If you’re going to war, we want in!’

Aurelius can’t help but smile. What seemed like hopeless odds have just changed dramatically.

‘I’m glad that makes you happy, as all the other chiefs are just a few hours behind me. Knut leads over two hundred of his Meat-drippers. Ragnar, from the Flesh-lump-eaters has about the same and Unger was bringing up the rear with a hundred of his Bone-crunchers!’

Aurelius steps forward and grasps Auzoux by the forearm. ‘My friend, you are more than welcome. You are all most welcome. With over a thousand orcs, this battle will go down in history!’

A battle well thought

The Blue prince: Narcissus continues to flap his wings, even as he steadies his breathing. Should he hold his position, high above his aggressors or should he dive into his secure den?

It’s only been a few moments since the attack began but already his personal guard’s been devastated.

Even one of his devils has been dismissed.

Still, his other troops will already be on their way to help.
...

His troops that are all currently positioned half-a-mile away, spread between all the towers.

It’ll take them too long to get back!

And, if they leave their defensive positions, the advancing orc horde will have an easier time breaching the cities defences.

…

Now Narcissus understands the mercenaries timing.

They had depended upon his arrogance.

He had allowed them into the heart of his kingdom.
Into his very throne room, while the majority of his soldiers were too far away to defend him.

…

Clever little monkeys!

…

With the keen eyes of a flying predator, Narcissus looks down at the mercenaries again.

He sees at least one bow slung over one of their shoulders.

Injured as he is, he can’t risk one or two lucky shots.

Warfare is based on deception

Standing at the head of his army, Aurelius breaks though the last of the trees and organizes his troops along the dirt road.

Three hundred orcs.

Three hundred fighting orcs!

Ten times the number he’s been used to commanding.

It’s a shockingly large number and he knows that every one of them will give their all in the upcoming battle.

Khajag is still hours away but Aurelius knows that the Blue prince’s dragon-born troops will already be waiting for them. He made no attempt to hide from the ever-present raven familiars circling overhead.

Narcissus will know they’re coming.

That was their primary objective though. To trick Narcissus into posting his forces away from his palace. To deprive the young dragon of support when his chief Orestes strikes.

Noon tomorrow.

Camp is set, fires are made and food is cooked.

No reason for subtlety.

Aurelius can’t rest though. He has struggled for two days to come up with a plan that will enable some of his brave orcs survival.

The battle, though vital, is unwinable.

Three hundred orcs verses at least four times that number of spell-casting Black-cloaks and Dragon-born warriors. And that’s not even including the thousand odd kobold skirmishers.

He does have two advantages though:

The first is that the blue barrier, though impressive, isn’t actually a barrier at all. It may stop living creatures passing through but it does nothing to prevent arrows or bolts.

The second is that although Narcissus’ troops massively outnumber his own, they will have to spread themselves thinly around the whole city.

…

Advantages true but still not enough to win…

Premature attack? You must be a stupid!

Never in all his thirty years, has anyone had the audacity to strike at him. Other than squabbles with his brother and sister, he’s never been so much as pushed!

Flapping his mighty wings, Narcissus holds himself aloft in the upper area of his domed throne room.

It was difficult to tell at first but it appears to be just the five mercenaries that entered with the orc criminal: Morten’s head.

No support from the human vermin in the hall.

Despite his generous reward, the idiot half-orc attacked him!

Not just attacked him but hurt him. Really hurt him.

In front of his mother!

Down below, he can see his Dragon-born soldiers, his Black-cloaks and even his Devils being beaten.

Without support, they won’t last much longer.

His mother’s magic mirror is currently pointing directly upward and therefore mostly useless…

Still, whenever he blasts the treacherous orc, he seems to receive some sort of backlash.

The tiefling also seems somehow immune to his lightning.

Looking down, Narcissus assesses his current predicament…

The orc warrior is impressive but relies on swords.

The tiefling paladin… Another melee fighter.
The wannabe black cloak monk is irritating but mostly unarmed.

The tall, thin shaman seems lost and confused. Probably the first that will fall.

Finally the tiny Halfling…

What is he doing by his throne?

And could they be connected to the advancing orc horde?

…

Of course they are…

Powerful and skilled as they are, they must be the leaders!

But why attack before the horde arrived?

Battle insight

The Black cloak Scylus, stands at his post atop the twenty-third tower and surveys the land ahead of him.

Unwelcoming but not so barren as to be unfarmable. Lucky for the wretched humans really. Most of them were originally miners but they’re now forced to work the mean fields to provide food for Narcissus, the Dragon-born troops, his fellow Black cloaks and, of course, the annoying kobolds.
It's hard for him to believe that these creatures are his kin.

His shift will last twelve hours.

Long but hardly taxing. All he has to do is maintain the barrier spell that protects this section of Khajag.

For company, he has one of the Dragon-borns. Although stupid, they are useful.

Looking to his left and right, Scylus can see two of his fellows atop their towers.

He doesn’t smile.

Black cloaks mustn’t give in to their human urges. Their unemotional dragon-blood must rule.

Although he knows the distance between the centre of the towers is precisely one hundred feet, he’s never tested it.

Perhaps he’ll never need to…

Cheap ale and a bad (w)omen

Orestes and his generals talk late into the evening. Ale is flowing freely but the mood within the large, animal skin tent is upbeat and unified.

It’s Aurelius who again causes the conversation to alter course.

‘My leader, none of us has the experience to know what is to be done. Our people have been fractured for so long. Too long. Our traditions are all but lost.’

The middle-aged orc looks into the younger faces of all those around him before continuing.

‘Many orcs answered the gnomish call. Mostly male warriors but the very young and old also. Women looking to help also came. Some of them warriors and a few who’d kept safe the old ways...’

Momentarily locking eyes with Orestes and finding support there, Aurelius dares to continue.

‘There are only a few. Wise women all but the wisest one amongst them can foresee the future.’

Bodan grimaces ‘I distrust magic. Steel is all I put my faith in’.

Orestes though, understands what Aurelius is alluding to. ‘Send for her. If we’re to rebuild this clan, then we need to rebuild the old ways’.

A messenger is sent and after a short while, the tent flap is pushed back. An ancient looking orcess edges in. Her grey hair is matted, her back bent and through a toothless mouth she introduces herself.

‘I am Klok Gumma. Keeper of the ancient secrets.’

She shuffles forward and peers at Orestes, ‘Let me see this would-be-chief.’

Her eyes are wide but surprisingly clear.

Snorting derisively, she squats down in the middle of everyone and noisily retrieves objects from her sack…

A large wooden bowl, a silver knife, some dried leaves, a live chicken and some finger bones inscribed with orcish runes.

The wizened old orcess, sets fire to the dried leaves and wafts the smoke around the tent. The smell is acrid and makes everyone’s eyes burn.

Then she cuts the head off the chicken and pours some of its blood into the bowl. Muttering half-formed words, Klok Gumma takes the inscribed bones and tosses them into the bloody bowl.
Agitiating the small bones with her fingers, the wise women begains to relate what she can see...

'Your reign will begin with fire. Many of our people will die in a terrible battle but they will die willingly. They will die by the sword and so be delivered direct to Gruumsh. More fights will follow but eventually the dawning of a new sun will signal the end of our struggles… Adversity is what we must suffer under your stewardship but we will survive. We will remain a unified tribe.’

Orestes looks disturbed but surprisingly the others don’t.

‘Don’t look so concerned’ says Aurelius reassuringly. ‘Did you imagine everything would be plain sailing?’

Bodan laughs out loud at this.

‘Did you actually WANT it to be easy? What kind of orc are you?’

(T)orc of war

Dokan finds himself in a strange situation. Surrounded by friendly orcs and a trusted ally of their new chief.

Orestes: Chief of the Broken lance tribe.

Aurelius and Orestes are starting to discuss their immediate future when the entrance to the tent opens up and the hulking Bodan strides in.

‘I am here to pay homage to my new chief!’

Bodan was named after his father: Konan, a great, savage warrior and Bodush: The evil human sorcerer that infamously killed hundreds of orcs in the battle that destroyed the Broken lance clan. Scores of children were killed that day. Children that would never be avenged.

As the mighty Bodan bows, a diminutive gnome is revealed behind him.

Gauss smiles nervously as they’re both ushered to sit with the others.

Ale flows and soon the conversation turns to war.

War against Thereanthor and war against the Blue prince.

Orestes speaks of the possibility of leading his new army against the Blue prince…

‘Outrageous!’ squeaks the gnome.

‘This was never part of our plan. You would alert Thereanthor of our machinations and bring ruin to us all!’

The gnome looks to the others for support but finds none.

Bodan is already smiling at the prospect of battle. 
‘For so long, I have battled alone. Killing Dragon-borns and Black-cloaks wherever I could. But always small scale for I lacked any support. Now though, perhaps I can cause the accursed Thereanthor more trouble…’

Votton and Elige nod in agreement and Gauss looks horrified.

‘No! I forbid it!’

At this, Aurelius looks annoyed.

‘You ‘forbid’ it do you? Although I appreciate what you’ve done for us, never forget who and what we are. We are the Broken lance clan. We are warriors born. We are reunited at last and we have a strong leader. We are your friends but we are not your servants.’

Gauss cowers under Aurelius’ gaze before the grizzled orc continues.

‘The Blue prince now knows for certain that there is a gathering of the orcs. A large gathering. If we all flee, he or his bitch mother will hunt us down… If a large number of us fight though…’

Aurelius stops as he considers the situation but Gauss interrupts.

‘What you’re offering is a distraction while we evacuate the camp? This actually isn’t a bad proposition. Let me broker it with my superiors.’

And with that, Gauss leaves the tent.

Bodan laughs. ‘I like the little fellow but surely the Gnomes opinion has no baring on what we’re going to do.’

‘No’ agrees Aurelius, ‘But it doesn’t hurt to keep our friends contented’.

Orestes looks at his two generals, his human and tiefling friends and the orcs in his tent.

His orcs.

All told, he’s got over four hundred orcs willing to fight for him.

Willing to die for him!

Should he risk them in a battle against the Blue prince or should he lead them to the safety of Mount Sneafang?

He hasn’t even been officially crowned yet but responsibility already feels heavy on his brow.

Born to rule

After a few minutes, the still battered Aurelius enters Orestes’ tent. He is supported by two of his most trusted commanders but shrugs them off as they pass the threshold and kneels at Orestes’ feet.

Without looking up, he speaks clearly in the hushed silence.

‘You summoned me, my leader?’

Orestes bids him rise and then directs him to the rug and cushions spread on the floor.

‘Sit Aurelius. We have much to discuss’.

Four orcs and one tiefling settle down on the soft flooring: Orestes, Aurelius, Votton, Elige and Dokan.

Drinks and food are ordered and as they get comfortable, Orestes considers these four.

Dokan he has known for over a year. An odd mix of corruption and nobility…

Still, he has proved his loyalty and bravery time and time again.

Votton and Elige are unknown to him but they are Aurelius’ most trusted aids. This makes them trustworthy.

Trustworthy because Aurelius trusts them.

Trustworthy because Aurelius radiates wisdom and nobility.

Aurelius an intelligent and experienced orc who willingly gave up his advantage in their initial bout so he could help defend their people.

It’s my party and I’ll scry if I want to

The young, blue dragon Narcissus raises his majestic head at the approach of the serious looking Black cloak.

As he drags his attention away from the servants, his irritation is obvious. They were in the middle of  presenting the seating arrangements for the first of the feasts.

‘Sire, I’m sorry to interrupt your festival planning but we’ve had word back from one of the mercenary groups you sent out.’

The dragon’s sinuous neck stretches out.

‘And?’ he hisses.

The Black cloak licks his thin lips.

‘And they appear to have found the orc camp you’ve been searching for.’

The blue dragon grinds his pointed teeth, sending sparks arcing around them.

Looking around at his four guardian demons, he signals them to bring forth his mirror.

Originally this mirror was meant as a way to converse with his mother but it has other uses.

The four, barely dressed, demons, carry the large mirror by its wrought-iron frame before their master.

‘Show me Fasssel wood.’

An image appears in the silvered glass. It’s the wood from above and everything looks, as it should do.

Narcissus peers closer. ‘Sshow me…’

He stops and turns back to the Black cloak. ‘What iss the name of this mercenary?’

The Black cloak looks down at a piece of parchment he has in his hand.

‘The message if from a Ranger, named ‘Clayton’ your mightifulness.’

The polished scaled head of Narcissus returns to the massive mirror.

‘Sshow me where the Ranger Clayton is hidden in Fasssel wood!’

The image in the magical mirror shifts until it refocuses on a small band of unaware adventurers.

‘Rissse up and show me the forest from above…’ commands the dragon and sure enough the scene changes again to that of the woodland canopy.

The Black cloak can’t help himself and leans forward for a better look. His magic is better than most of his contemporaries but even he gasps as he realises what he’s seeing.

The canopy of the trees is slightly translucent…

‘Sscroll down’ commands the, suddenly interested, dragon prince.

As the unseen eye floats down through the illusionary leaves though, the image distorts and then fades to black.

There is definitely something there but whatever it is, there are enchantments in place to prevent scrying.

‘Send reinforcements to Clayton’s position. Do it now!’

The Black cloak scurries away confused. How is it that a group of orcs, regardless of how large, can organise magics powerful enough to obstruct Thereanthor’s will? 

Decorations and party flavours

It was only a few days until the celebrations would begin and Narcissus prowled his palace with barely concealed eagerness.

A weeks worth of enforced adoration.

He could hardly wait.

The streets and buildings had been cleaned and painted.

Blue and yellow bunting had been strung from every parapet.

Banners of his own image had been hung between rooftops.

The Dragon-born’s armour had been polished to reflective perfection.

The Black-cloaks were all freshly died to the nadir of darkness.

The lowly Kobolds were as clean as could be hoped for.

Even the Human vermin had been forcibly washed and given new burlap clothes to wear.

The Dwarves had delivered enough ale to supply the town for months.

The Elven musicians had arrived and the Halfling acrobats were already practicing in the market.

Of all these things though, it was the expectation of the tribute food he was anticipating the most.

What delicacies would his chefs’ prepare for him?

Narcissus’ diet had been reduced to brainless cows, sheep and chickens since he’d arrived in Khajag.

Running his sinuous tongue around the spaces between his razor-sharp teeth, the young Dragon imagines all the delicious treats that are in store for him…

Diamond another day

As Dokan wanders unmolested, around the delineated orc sub-camps, he feels the demonic part of him whisper...

‘So many orcs! So much easy wealth to be had!’

This is no surprise to him. It’s the price he has to pay for his bisected soul.

A Tiefling Paladin.

Oddly, he is not that unusual amongst his people.

A rarity to be sure but not unheard of.

He wonders what the amassed army of orcs and their gnomish ‘helpers’ would think if they knew about his meeting with the young dragon?

Narcissus had behaved exactly as he’d expected him to act…

Arrogance was a trait that all dragons shared.

As a dragon prince in line to the throne of all of Fissa; how could he be anything else?

Dokan’s mind wanders back to the list of names on the Black cloaks scroll:

The dead Morten had been on it.

5,000 gold pieces worth of diamonds for a head they already had!

It’d be so easy to claim.

Aurelius and Bodan, the two other orcs that had fought for the right to rule the 'Broken-lance' clan were also on the list.

Another 5,000 gold pieces for Aurelius and double that for the hulking Bodan.

In conversation he’d also heard mention of some of the other ‘wanted’ names in the other camps.

‘Auzoux’ had already been crowned Chief of the ‘Blood-bottlers’ and ‘Knut’ and ‘Ragnar’ were due to be coronated chiefs of the ‘Meat-drippers’ and the ‘Flesh-lump-eaters’.

Looking around the thousands of orcs, Dokan was pretty sure the other named orcs would also be near somewhere. Possibly within the ranks of the remaining reformed clan, the ‘Bone-crunchers’.

‘Unger’, ‘Harang’, ‘Stig’ and ‘Viggo’.

20,000 gold pieces just for those four!

Then, despite his wishes, Dokan's thoughts stray to the hundred and sixty eight decapitated orc heads, sitting ready in a wagon by ‘Mallyx’ the, now dead, black dragon-born’s camp.

That’s 1,680 gold pieces worth of diamonds, just sitting there!

Closing his eyes and shaking his horns, Dokan forces the thought from his head.

Giving in to temptation is not the way of paladins.

Skynet

The normally cynical Charlie Stilton, wanders around the massive encampment with thinly disguised awe on his face.

The more he’s seen of the orcs and gnomes, the more impressed he’d become.

Impressed that such contrasting peoples could find a way (even temporarily) to co-exist.

The Orcs were big, brutish and easy to anger.

The Gnomes were almost as small as he was but jovial and amicable.

Yet, they not only tolerated each other but were actively interacting. They really did seem to be working together in a common cause.

Still the dichotomy between them was jarring. Brightly patterned and designed silk tents, fascinating air-ships and alchemic powered devices set between dull hide teepees and crudely constructed, wooden animal carts.

The athletic little Halfling sauntered towards the periphery of the camp. After encountering the Snowlbears, the confounding mist machines, the oblivion moss and the orc guards, he felt confident that no mercenaries would be able to blunder through to this clearing in any troubling number.

Charlie then looked up at the open sky above him…

How though, were the Gnomes keeping themselves hidden from above?

There are illusions in place to disguise the fires. He can even see the half-visible illusionary tree canopy above him. But surely they can't be enough?

The Black cloaks have raven familiars that would eventually see through the spells...

Squinting at the real trees surrounding the clearing, the Halfling glimpses something glinting through the branches…

Another Gnomish contraption?

Just then, a large wood pigeon flies through the illusionary tree line.

Charlie sees a momentary flash from one of the other treetops…

What was that?

Lightning?

The smoldering bird, wings folded, plummets to the ground, just to be guzzled up by an opportunist guard dog.

‘Aaaah’ smiles Charlie Stilton. Confidence fills him as he realises why no aerial spies have been able to spot the camp and report back to the dragon prince.

I mist you

Lost in the darkening forest, Indigo tries to retrace his steps. He’d been foolish to pursue the orc. He’d assumed he’d just be able to turn around and find the mossy clearing again.

He’d not considered the confounding mist.

Now he’d not only lost the orc but his teammates as well.

Still, he was pretty self-sufficient and he would eventually find his way out.

He was concerned about the others though and wondered if they’d found the magically shrouded orc camp.