Kal-Arath Solo Campaign Pt. 3
Blood again sprays the steppes from the axe of Kholar of Boreas!!
Read Part One Here
Read Part Two Here
“Pay attention! Or I shall tell your flea-bitten mother that you show no aptitude for learning and must be sold to break yourself in the fields or the brothels!
Are you thick enough to imagine many are offered learning here at the Gem of Yagra? Highest Heaven Temple City is not for the ingrate nor the slow witted, you wretch!
Now.
The twin suns rise and bathe the massive grassland which stretches from Plains of Yeru all the way to the Rimrock Mountains many days ride from here, young and foolish one.
The steppe that we Arathi people call home is known to the barbarians of the west and north as The Kyrg, who call our people The Kyrgan in their vile and ugly tongues.
But! They are pigs, who live in giant stone houses and live lives of shocking luxury, weakness and decadence. They would die here in a moment’s time, from any number of deadly beasts, toxic plants, fearsome warriors, or, avoiding this, starve or die of thirst.
Those barbarians of the northern forests call themselves Hessians.
They live along the Belenos strait, beyond which lie the lands of the warlike and cruel Walaks, seldom seen in Kal-Arath, but known to the viziers and courts of the Jeweled Cities of Turog, far to our southwest.
They, too, are a foul and scheming lot of desert jackals not fit to lick the dust from the soles of our feet.
Somewhere near to Hessia, but further east and north lies a useless land called Boreas by its animalistic denizens. Red haired giants with fire for blood and a lust only to kill, to rut, and to feast on meat and their bitter alcohol.
A filthy people, but they would present a danger simply by nature of their violent ignorance. Fortunately, they are not numerous. They live among grey stones and rocky hills far from the steppe, in a land of rain and thunderstorms, thieving cows from each other for their livelihood.
What’s that?
Quite simple!
Their people will die out, or be eventually taken as slaves by the sons of Lord Akkai, or exterminated one day by the cold grasp of his Black Legion.
No one will remember them, or their people, or their ignorant tongue.”
Kholar awakens as the suns rise into the sky, its orange hue cut by white clouds that remind him of the massive sheep of his homeland.
He stands and flexes massive thews and stretches the muscles of his tall, powerful frame, skin covered in scar and burn, and showing the signs of his latest battle. Bruises, claw marks. Torn mail.
His body is a roadmap of pain, battle and hardship, each scar marking a border between life and death. But he is alive. Still, he thinks - but who knows for how long?
He laughs at the thought, more suited to a saffron robed philosopher than a reaver of Boreas.
The pack he shoulders is a grisly weight of blood, exposed bone and claw. The mystics in the bazaars of Shirenza will pay a fine price for them, powdering them into potions to harden the manhood or give courage to some noble’s cowardly son.
And from Shirenza…
He allows himself a brief thought of home. A mixture of feelings rise in his broad chest, and he pushes them away, loading the rest of his gear in its place. Sword. Knife. The great axe that doubles as killing implement and walking staff. Dried meat and waterskins. Assorted valuables that can keep a man alive out here in this cursed grassland.
He does not belong here, he thinks. This place with its strange customs, blood-drunk monks and demon worshipers, their prayer flags and holy scriptures flapping in the wind everywhere. Unwholesome warlocks and sorceresses, nomad cutthroats, murderous thieves, assassin cults…damn the lot of them.
None would last a day in his land against the weather, the cold, the sudden storms or the brutal fury of a clan blood feud. A place free from craven scholars and withered ascetics intoxicated on their self-importance arguing endlessly over the origins of the universe.
He sets out northeast, home forgotten for now and replaced by images and memories from The Gilded Cage, The Silk Vow, the Shining Palace of Moaning Pleasure. A few of his favorite places to spend the coin not even in his pocket yet, among various other winesinks, drug dens, marketside cookeries, and gambling establishments. Maybe he does belong, he laughs, and takes great strides toward the city.
Days pass under the suns.
He meets destitute herders, their bison wretched creatures. They tell him their clan was killed by raiders from the next tribe, and their wives sold as chattel. They will drive their herd across the grasslands until they all die of grief or hunger.
He bids them farewell.
Another day, lost and unable to regain his bearings, he follows firelight flickering on stones at a distance and comes across a nomad bazaar. He does some small trade, a few of their younger warriors eyeing his goods hungrily, like wolves smelling a fresh kill. But their eyes go to his weapons. His scars. The twin blue flames of his eyes.
They are no longer wolves, but small wild dogs, not wanting to nip at the haunches of a great and terrible lion, red-maned and wild.
On the next day, he is warned by the nomads of the rocky spires he can faintly see rising in the distance, that the teradun have taken up residence in the high rocks. The blue flames burn more brightly.
The beast shrieks wildly, blood spilling from its ragged tongue, wings buffeting the air as massive beak and terrible claws snap and slash at Kholar’s damaged mail.
His face is set grimly, eyes a cold dead rage, seeing into the otherworld and daring it to take him.
The axe swings again. And again.
Man and primordial beast circle, engage, break apart, blood spattering the high rocks of its lair.
Three leathery eggs rest behind the human, and their mother’s fury is born of countless millenia of evolution.
She cannot understand why this small, fearsome creature will not fall - his hard skin shatters her claws, and the hateful swinging blade has hewn her in several places. Still, her drive is simple, and she fights on with reptilian simplicity: strike. Strike. Strike!
Kholar moves quickly to avoid the snapping jaws, swings once, narrowly missing. The beast cranes its neck forward, elongates, screaming as it attempts to close its fanged maw on his body. The axe glitters on its backswing.
In this instant, man triumphs over nature in a wash of stinking blood.
The eggs will make him a fortune in Shirenza.
This was an absolute bloodbath. So far, we’ve rolled some terrible encounters, but the dice are hot as hell during the combats, and Kholar’s two handed axe gives him two opportunities to roll a 6 for exploding damage.
I was worried for Kholar, but it appears his luck will hold and he survives for another session!
Next: We return to discover what becomes of Lyressa as she races toward the Road of Bones to reclaim a scrap of the Nagha Scrolls for General Kama - races against time and the evil spirit clinging to her thigh in the form of the Black Cilice!!
Nice writeup! Kholar neatly describes his surroundings - I assume there is a map somewhere where we can locate Kholar and Lyressa?
Loving the flavour in these write ups CG!