| T O P I C R E V I E W |
| Giant Snake |
Posted - 14 Nov 2025 : 16:46:24
The snow crunched in rhythm under five pairs of boots, fur lined against the cold. Hobgoblins were hardier than other races. That is to say their willpower was greater, for they felt pain as easily as any man. No dumb brutes were they, like filthy orcs who would never even feel the pain of a rotten tooth until the thing broke loose or mortified itself. Gormixel had seen such a thing before, amazed that the gray and green things could chance to become even uglier.
Gormixel was not ugly by the standard of most races, although he cut an unimpressive figure for what he was. His own nose was large enough and with a fine divet down the middle, his nostrils lined over with refined marks like a sneer. His hair came in thick waves, when he allowed it to grow. Yet his nose was still as deep red as the rest of him, not the noble blue of one of his dark god’s favored. His eyes were orange enough and bright against his black sclera, but considered unremarkable. For piercings, he had less than many - brows lined with hooks of steel and even one of mythril, a prize from a slain dwarf lord’s chain.
Nothing marked the hobgoblin as favored in any way except by the fortunes of war and survival, for he bore many scars over a body that threatened to be short for his kind. He was closer in height to a man at a mere six foot. It was what he kept within that height that told a greater story. Gormixel was the epitome of physical perfection. No hulking brute or lithe climber. He had servants who excelled him at either. As a leader, he possessed the strength to cleave a steel helm and the endurance to hold a shieldwall until the day of battle ended.
Gormixel thought himself the ideal soldier. He was right.
The four escorting the leader of fifty came to an abrupt halt, the staccato command from the biggest one followed by a command to face inwards. As one, the hobgoblin spearmen snapped their heads towards the tent of their chieftain, spears held to the side as if to point the way.
The tent of a chieftain… thought Gormixel as he beheld it. A tent it was, but large and with many connected rooms to the sides. The main enclosure was large enough and jaggedy in a way these cruel beings found pleasing. The others were rather squat and round. All were ugly, made from baser hides of what could be found here in the Sword Mountains. A tent worthy of some idiotic beast. We insult ourselves.
Gormixel strode past the outer guards and through the flap of the tent, ducking like a supplicant in order to make his way in. A few trusted retainers and the mate were in attendance, and none paid the new arrival any mind at all. It was the customary dismissive attitude the Crow’s Foot Tribe had come to expect from their chieftain.
The chieftain sat on a low tuffet, a round table with apertures for bowls within it. Gormixel noted that a flame beneath the chieftain’s own bowl. A fine luxury, given that hobgoblins relished food as it was being cooked rather than after.
He came to stand before this low table at a respectful distance, punched a fist to chest, and raised three nails forward - the salute of his tribe. The chieftain, whose name was Misselkik, did not look up from his meal. Misselkik did have the noble blue nose of Magublyet’s favored, the markings even extending to his forehead and along the tops of his long ears. Many fine piercings adorned both his brow and beard, heavy and black…and oily with the feast.
The cooking table was a fine thing, black and burnished. The sound of the meat sizzling within the angled bowl filled the room as well as the scent of a hearty meal. Misselkik ate with a two-pronger, spearing what appeared as bear meat and winter beans…and writhing black scorpions.
Gormixel did his best to avert his eyes from the meal. Scorpions were a delicacy, especially this late in winter and so far from lands where they were common. They looked and smelled most scrumptious, causing a most unsettling break in the proud warrior’s iron discipline. But Gormixel did his best to conceal his hunger, eyes fixed on the chieftain’s in direct - respectful - regard.
“What tell of the foothills. Give report!” Commanded Misselkik without ever raising his eyes from the delicious meal before him. Gormixel noticed that the chieftain also had eagle eggs cooked within that savory fry.
Gormixel spoke direct. “My losses: sixteen. Three neophytes among them. The enemy: seven. Dead to the last and staked high as warning.”
“A poor ratio. I am of mind to trust another for our next foray.”
“The men of Uthgardt are no trifling foes. They were aided by a weaver of mysteries, some mage of considerable power.”
Misselkik speared one more scorpion and now did regard his raid leader. The chieftain’s eyes were gold within the black - a yellow gold to match his golden beard-rings rather than a moon-like glow. “You give excuses? After I entrusted you with five guul’dar?” His fangs closing down on the struggling scorpion, half cooked and stinging madly.
Gormixel knew his parameters as a leader. “I left the guul’dar in their cages. Stupid, unfit for the mission. Seventeen died, and now thirty are far stronger. Their taste for Man’s red blood awakened. I retain the beasts for a time as they are needed.” Already the plan had been worked out in his mind, the things commonly called ‘bugbears’ by humans were stealthy enough, yet easily confounded. Gormixel had known beforehand the enemy had a mage among them.
The chieftain chewed slowly as he weighed Gormixel in his eyes, leaning back among the hides that completed his meagre throne. At length, he gave a “tch” and made a flicking motion with his nails.
From along the back wall, Sikril, the mate, gave a scoff and a cruel grin. She was adorned like some harlot of men, piercings heavy yet made more for their shine than for pain. Her hair had been tied back high, revealing her slender neck and bared upper chest over a tight bodice of doeskin. Many thought her a beauty, and physically she was. She had used her wiles often, always scorning Gormixel and others deemed of lesser destiny.
One of the chieftain’s enforcers now spoke up from behind, as if on cue. “Fail your way to victory then, Gormixel the simple. We will require some to stop the arrows of the wretched fairies, come our war at springtide.”
Gormixel recognized the speaker as Korvash, a master at fighting unarmed as well as with his hooked sword. A formidable warrior, and utterly devoted to his chieftain. The other enforcer simply rasped an ugly laugh. That one had always despised Gormixel and had slandered him often. The patient leader of fifty had long waited for the day he would take revenge. That time was now very close at hand.
“Then you are resolved to hunt the wisps of the woods once again, chieftain?” Gormixel crossed his arms. It was a disrespectful gesture, but it also kept his hands far from the edged club at his side. I stand utterly defenseless before you, old fool.
Misselkik’s head rotated back forward now, reclined on the furs. The two enforcers drew close to Gormixel now, their hot breath on the raid leader’s neck. Sikril came forward, allowing a view of her low bodice to the seemingly beleaguered hobgoblin. Soft and supple, her only battles being under the coarse furs of the chieftain she had so easily seduced.
The mate placed a slender hand along her chieftain’s shoulders, faintly caressing a chest that was still quite powerful despite his years. “Do you mean to challenge your chieftain’s decree, Gormixel?”
She had no right to speak his name directly, as he saw it. “I question the wisdom in spending a season or more skulking through the forest, seeking out a foe already beset by many other foes. The elves…” he called them by their true name then, “…are unworthy foes. We remain a weak tribe because we choose weak opposition.”
Big Korvash sauntered in front now…and delivered a powerful blow to the daring raid leader. The loud crack of flesh resounded over the sound of the low fire - a strike that would have felled most. Gormixel gave no report of the sound, although his face had already begun to swell, the cheek split wide open. He did not wipe away the dark blood.
As Korvash resumed his place behind, Misselkik spoke most nonchalant. “They are the ancient foe.” He leaned forward then and wiped his hands and beard clean with a cloth, meticulous as any of his race. “Then I take it you still harbor some delusion of war with men, even unto the coasts. Why? I will hear your reasons.”
Gormixel straightened, palms now upwards in seeming submission. “Because they humiliate us at every turn. Because they rule the breadth of the coast and field massive hosts. They barter with all and gird themselves better than any. No tribe dares to march on them in force, not for centuries, and only at the behest of some wizard of the same or as wretched thralls to invaders from below…or dragons.” His hands dropped to his side. “You fear to fight them.”
Misselkik’s yellow eyes went wide, momentarily too stunned to even stand at the clear challenge. Gormixel had no such hesitation. He spun and reached to the dagger that Korvash kept strapped near a shoulder. With one hand he grasped the hilt, and shoved the bigger hobgoblin back with the other, ripping past the leather fastener.
With a spin, Gormixel plunged the jagged blade into the face of the other enforcer, whose hands both went to the fatal entry. A guttural growl escaped that one for a moment, but he fell dead in seconds, his name already forgotten with the sated revenge.
Big Korvash rose to his feet, fingers going to the sword at his side. The tent flap behind him flung open and a loyal hobgoblin of Gormixel’s band burst in, trapping Korvash’s neck under a spear drawn tight against him. Khazruk was shorter than the big enforcer, but he had been a smith for years. There was no escaping that iron hold…yet Khazruk did not come to kill. “Behold the rise of a true chieftain,” whispered Khazruk into the brute’s ear, holding him fast with a snarling grin.
Gormixel now did draw his edged club as he turned round to face the chieftain no longer. It was a weapon suited for open battle as well as the duel - curved forward like some kopesh or elven ax, sharpened steel along the killing edge with spikes long enough to pierce chain and flesh beneath.
Misselkik had now gained his feet. He kicked aside the ornate eating table and drew ax and sword from his side, his mate fleeing down a hide hallway to the rear. The old chieftain lurched forward with a backswing. The following weapon never made its arc, as Gormixel’s club caught the old hobgoblin at the elbow, shattering the arm with one blow and sending him down to his furs.
The old chieftain’s left shot forward with his sword - an easy dodge. Gormixel’s club caught at the wrist and left the hobgoblin sprawled and prostrate. Gormixel now leaned in with a panther’s speed and gripped the failed leader by his long, black beard, hauling him to his feet.
Gormixel searched for fear in those yellow eyes and found it. The old chieftain knew it - his death would come without honor. With a contemptuous jerk, Misselkik was sent back to his furs of comfort. A fitting bier for such an unworthy. Gormixel planted his boot on the old hobgoblin’s chest and reared back to deliver a deathblow, but he did not strike. His orange eyes went to the back of the tent, directing attention that way.
Sikril, the mate, now came forward, her arm gripped by a true warrior. Vexa, as powerful in battle as she was erudite, heeled the weaker she-hobgoblin near to her pathetic mate and kicked the back of her knees. Sikril’s eyes already ran with coward’s tears, the ochre of her eye-shadow now forming dark rivulets across her soft features. She had not seen the true horror yet.
Out from the same tunnel now came one known as Zogrek, a powerfully built hobgoblin who carried a long maul. Before him marched the progeny of Sikril and Misselkik. The last of a bloodline. The youngs put on a brave face but their breaths came rapid. Zogrek himself had trained them how to die a warrior, as did Korvax, the other mute witness to the coup.
With a single swing, the maul crashed through the heads of the three, splitting craniums open and spilling the dark brains onto the rugs. The three died worthier than their sire. They fell forward without sound, facing their enemy.
Sikril gave a piercing wail and began to rend her neck and chest, the black nails long and iron-hard. Gormixel gave her no regard nor would he ever do so again. His club descended and split open the erstwhile chieftain’s sternum, the black blood spurting across his arms and banded armor.
Gormixel turned round and held the edged club under a palm, posed as the conqueror. His eyes darted now to the stout smith, who relinquished his hold on big Korvash and stepped back with a bow.
Korvash fell forward, rasping for air. He was already kneeling before his new chieftain, and all present knew it. He raised his chin to behold Gormixel then. The hobgoblin there did not have the golden rings nor the thick beard of the leader of decades, nor was he as broad of shoulder. He looked more the common soldier, yet the eyes that had looked so common before now had the steady certainty of one that would lead the Crow’s Foot Tribe to glory or doom. Anywhere but mediocrity.
Korvash lowered his gaze. “Master.”
The overturned cooking-table had already threatened to ignite the rugs. With a point of finger, Gormixel ordered an assembly without. This large tent that had sat here for so long would be of no use on a winter’s march, so unwieldy was it with all its trappings of faded glory.
“Shall I bleed the hoor, Master?” Rasped Vexa.
Gormixel affixed his club to his side almost nonchalantly. He kicked over a large candle-stand to a row of firewood. “She is no warrior to bleed. See to her wishes as bedwarmer to indolents.”
Vexa laughed. “That I shall. The gray orcs have an unholy desire for those fairer and mismatched to them. I’ll find her a chieftain from the hills. An ugly one.”
Sikril’s eyes went shut with pain, her wailing now replaced by quiet whimpers.
Gormixel and his chief enforcers now departed the tent - a massive bonfire that gathered the whole of the Crow’s Foot Tribe within minutes. No words passed for none were needed. The chieftain stood silhouetted by the flames, Korvash, Vexa, and the others now standing behind and on line. The nucleus of a new legion. |
| 1 L A T E S T R E P L I E S (Newest First) |
| Giant Snake |
Posted - 14 Nov 2025 : 22:30:49
Twelve had set out for Luskan before the snows gave sign of receding, and twelve they found. Lugossen had found the spoor easily enough along what passed for the coastal road here, and the doomed expedition he found hardly beyond that. For rangings such as this, the man wore the scale cuirass he most commonly did, cold iron over gambeson and under his heavy furs of dark brown. An old morion helm over warm padding shielded his eyes from the sun above, although it did little against the bright snow all around. The device was more tool than armor to Lugossen, and it bore blackening along the rim and crown, serving often as a bowl for soup and snowmelt in the cold seasons.
“They hardly got past the first switch in the road,” exclaimed Bartle Jonsen, the youth who rode alongside. “What got them you think? Orcs? Maybe just hungry wolves or bears what woke up too soon?”
Lugossen came near to an overhang and dismounted, hitching there his steed and setting the helm on the same hard treelet that clung to the jut of rock. “Great folly did them in.”
“What’s a folly?” asked Bartle, catching himself as he said it. He went quiet then and hitched steed nearby, following the warrior to take lesson.
Without helm, Lugossen did not look the wise old warrior. Old he was not, yet he was wise indeed. A scar on the chin spoke to perhaps a past folly of his own, or possibly a fight fairly won. His hair was shoulder length and dark. He let it hang free and tousled, unashamed of the salt-stains of many voyages by sea. A native of this land which he despised, Lugossen had traded his life upon the swells for the thankless life of a mercenary. He cared not for the disdain it brought him, counting only the days until he could purchase a ship of his own. Freedom from Luskan and all the benighted realms of man, all near as disagreeable to him as that same port of thieves.
The expedition lay in various states of repose, some half hidden by a last snowdrift. One sat apart from the others. This one did not. Whereas the other Luskanites were clearly men and gone blue and stiff, the one sitting cross legged appeared only part man. He had what appeared osseous growths from the foreskull - some might call them horns. The jaw was wide and slack, hideously contorted sideways. It was the state of decay that was most repulsive - not dry and desiccated but unnaturally wasted away and cored out, the stench of the corpse overpowering and unholy even in the cold air.
Neither living man could approach without retching, but Lugossen’s blood was thicker than most men. He noted first the writhing black maggots within the thing’s maw, guessing not at the taxonomy of them but knowing they did not originate on this plane. There was a slight depression and a hole trepanned into the skull and an ugly crystal of dark purple fallen to between the thing’s ankles.
Lugossen motioned for the obvious need, and faithful Bartle produced a torch from his haversack. Setting the flint quickly, the older warrior struck a blaze on the pitched cloth and set the foul corpse alight. The two quickly stepped upwind of the fire. The corpse burned quickly, as did the colony of filth growing within it. The crystal burst in the flames and a sound from some hell followed, whether from whatever has looked through that third eye or something else, it was hard to tell. Like a demon’s harpsichord, the jarring notes came and then went quickly.
The sellsword uttered a brief word to Bahamut in the way he knew best, even invoking the name “Thrak” once. He reasoned that the name, used by dwarves long ago, might find purchase here in these lands where such had ruled a mighty kingdom.
Bartle watched as the body collapsed on itself. “So did that thing bring misfortune to them all?”
“No. He died last, expecting his fell pact to save him.” Lugossen turned to face the student - a hopeful ranger of the north, in service to Luskan’s landward magistrates. “Such as that fool think that waving their hands about and making a glow grants them some place in a hierarchy of sorts.” He grunted in mirthless laughter. “He chose a weak master. Doubtless they both suffer now.”
Lugossen abruptly walked towards the collapsed wain, the oxen still dead under the yoke. “These traders had no business on roads at the best of times. They would have died even in King Muroken’s time. There was the first to die.” He pointed to a man laying on a smooth stretch of stone, and Bartle marked it immediately without the need for words - his own warmth given to the cold stone. An utter fool was the apparent leader. Even the most coddled man of Luskan should have known better. The rest of the party lay in various other states, but it was clear that all had frozen of a night.
After a brief survey under the wain’s blankets. Lugossen tried to wrench free the man’s signet ring, eventually opting to hack away the frozen fingers with a camp hatchet. He pocketed the thing and took a pair of picks from the collapsed wain. The two men dug a trench for the eleven in the frozen earth and covered it once more.
Lugossen drew out the ring now for a closer look. A carrack on one side and a bundle of grapes on the other - the mark of some esquire or another from Luskan. He presented it to Bartle and began a quick stride to their mounts. “We go.” They went.
As the two came round the mountains, Bartle marked a shade atop a lofty peak. Reflexively, he nodded at the sighting. Lugossen gave no indication, but he had obviously seen it before the younger man. “Mountain folk.”
“You mean the dwarves?” The answer was obvious enough upon a closer look. The dwarf, for that is indeed what marked them, stood atop a modest summit, mattocks or maul resting under a hand. His features were shadowed under a horned helm, and his tattered cloak rippled with the mountain air.
Lugossen regarded the dwarf briefly and looked back with a wry grin. “He means us to take lesson. A proud people, they remind us they reign here.”
“Then why not give aid? Surely not for one devildoer would the dwarves let honest traders perish. They grow wealthy by us men of Luskan.” Bartle’s look went sour.
Lugossen said nothing, although he cast a sly glance as if to say, ‘And would you, in their place?’
Only a day and a half on the trail and the port of Luskan could be seen. Both riders now wore their helms, marking them as men about a purpose. It did not delay the brigands, if they could be called such.
“Oi! Yer both marked.” A gangly youth with ugly black eyes and a jaw like a potato leaned against a barren tree. This one had no furs, not even for the cap he wore, only mottled garments in great layers. “Give us a look at what’s in them saddlebags. Be quick now.”
Bartle looked anxiously to the man in his armor, but Lugossen only gave a sigh of irritation. Quick as the wind, he flipped back his mantle, revealing the haft of a longsword, well worn and sweat-stained.
The brigand, doubtless an underling to some extortionist within the town, stiffened and tried not to show it. Nor could he keep the fear from his voice. “You’ve ten bows drawn on you, fool!”
If true, it was a fool threat. Lugossen was well within striking distance. If false, as was far more likely, the threat was even worse. Many hardened travelers (and sellswords) would have opened the lad’s skinny gullet for the bluff alone. The two rode on, the youth left on the road behind them, trembling in rage as much as fear.
Now it was Bartle who acted the fool. He looked back over his shoulder. “Go try your hand at purse snatching, twig! Mayhaps some witless hag wanders the streets.” He laughed and then went to a trot to catch up with the sellsword.
When the two were around a bend and out of sight, Lugossen cuffed the younger man on his ear without warning. “Idiot. That one would of forgotten you. You etched your smile into his memory.”
Bartle’s hand went to his ear, a look of pain on him. “And what of it? Even the corsairs wouldn’t waste good men to come after the mighty Lugossen.”
“And what of you? You live here still. Even did I care nothing for you, your sister abides with you, does she not?”
The rebuke gave the younger man pause, and he looked down with a face now as red as his ear. He said nothing.
Lugossen drew rein and so did his ward for the day. “Like as not, nothing will come of it. But you have grown wiser this day, I expect.” The valiant man had led men on rangings inland as well as on the decks of his younger years, and when possible he ended on a constructive note.
“Yer right as always, good Lugossen.” Bartle did indeed come back from a ranging wiser when he rode with this man, even on a quest as short as this.
That drew an eye roll from Lugossen, who never felt comfortable with praise, but he clapped Bartle’s shoulder all the same.
In through the poorly guarded gate and one fat guard rode the pair, up a slight incline and into the city’s heart. The ugly tower of mages cast its shadow even this far, but it was not the Arcanum that Lugossen reported to this day. A man of means kept a counting house here, his own position quite high within the governing council. The two hitched outside and waited the better part of an hour to be let in to the councilman’s chamber.
The room reeked of cheap smell-good and the voluminous accounting tomes that lined the walls. A fire was going in the hearth, nearly nauseating to Lugossen. At the table was the councilman, of a name with less importance than he attributed to himself. The councilman assailed the two men with the customary pedantry, scratching at vellum while both warriors stood with hands on hilts as if for a prince. Lugossen kept impeccable manners, knowing full well it rankled such as this balding fat behind the writing table.
After the longest minutes imaginable, the councilman at last sat down his quill and looked at the two with disdain and performative half-lids. “Why have you returned so soon, sellsword? I’d expect you take longer to try and cheat me.”
Lugossen ignored the barb and strode forward. With a curt bow, he placed the signet ring upon the table and stepped back. “Twelve dead, councilman. Dead by winter’s grip. Their sundry goods have not been despoiled. The rites were seen to, should their kin seek the remains…”
The councilman slammed a fist on the oaken table. “Their kin will cover the loss! If they want to hire a priest, or maybe your valiant steel…” he sneered that part, “…all’s to the well. They’ll settle with me first.”
The sellsword was not proud, but he scoffed all the same. “I had heard that a coin-ward pays for the losses. At least, that’s the impression we sailors have.”
“Unmitigated risk,” said the councilman and insurer by rote, obviously never having intentions of paying the claim. “It is lawful. They were to include me in the proceeds of their dig. That shall not happen.” The councilman gave no further outburst, instead reaching for a fresh page to mark the debit.
A sellsword Lugossen was, and a sailor true before that. He understood coin very well, as well as the law. “If you expect recompense from a gold rush…which is highly unlikely…then do business with some who think beyond trying to get an early start. We have another month of heavy snows at least.”
The councilman gave a look as though he were suffering an imbecile to speak. The imbecile continued, undaunted. “The dwarves lay claim to the north once more. I do not know the clan or kingdom, nor does it matter. They will leave nothing for your hobbyists.” Lugossen hated the depths, yet even he would not deign to name such an expedition as miners.
A tap of fingers spoke to a limit of the fat’s patience. Lugossen didn’t care. “Three gold was the price agreed upon. I’ll have that at your earliest convenience.”
“You’ll have a prison cell if I demand it,” countered the councilman. “Or I could name you pirate. Our carnival has had few for spectacle as of late.” The implication of the infamous blood games caused young Bartle to take a step back.
The bluff gave Lugossen no pause. He remained statue-still and looked at the fat in boredom. There was no affectation in that.
The councilman gave a look of petulance and drew yet another sheet of vellum. Noisily he scratched the promised price onto it, addressed to the bank of Luskan. He got what might be called his revenge as he waddled his way round the table and pressed it into Lugossen’s chest with undue force. “Get out of here and don’t come back for work. I’m through with you, trawler.”
Lugossen took the page and bowed. He gave a glance to Bartle with a wink. Off they went. |
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