Carnifex's Story Hour (Updated January 20th, "The Union")

In the next installment, look out for a Piratecat-inspired tactic! Not that you'll be able to miss it... *evil grin*

I remember this episode! It's fun to read it again. Lots of intense action and great fight scenes. I really enjoy how the players use their characters' abilities effectively and take risks...truly heroic.

Ack! I have of course managed to get completely distracted and have yet to post up the finale of the battle - but I'll do it soon!

Promise!

And here it is, the finale of the long, bitter struggle against the werewolf coven...

Stalking out of the darkness were more werewolves, but they weren't coming in some disorderly rush, but in calm, calculating approach. Although in wolfman form, many clutched weapons of all types. The one thing they all had in common was that, strapped to their chests, were diminuitive figures that whimpered and wriggled and screamed.

Human babies. Some of the commoners within began to identify them as the children of now-dead peasants, their voices hushed in horror.

In the midst of the new wave, a man walked, the man who had struck down Latorath with lightning. Clad in black, standing out as the sole figure not in wolf-form, arcane energy crackled around the figure as he strode confidently along in the midst of his underlings.

For Cord, the sickening feeling that had pervaded the place had been incredibly string during the first assault of the werewolves, but now it was nearly overwhelming; the earth itself could feel not just arcane energy, but corrupt divine energy, exuding from the man.

The militia held back from opening fire, unwilling to shoot for fear of hitting the babies, uncertain as to what they should do as the band of werewolves strode closer. The mercenaries reacted in a confused manner too. Kale leveled his bow, aiming for the throat of one of the monstrosities, confident his skill with the bow would see him stike true. Burl on the other hand exhorted the militia to fight on using all means at hand. “Those babies are as good as dead either way. If we don’t turn the creatures back, they will kill all of us that are still alive and then how will we save them? Fire now to save those in the back of the temple who are still alive and have a future! Kale, Wyshira, if ever there was a time for the vials of fire, we need to use them!" The necromancer grabbed two of the jars of alchemist's fire, but found his hand stayed by the elderly dwarf by his side. "Do not say such things," Cord said, still facing the direction of the approaching figure but clenching Burl's arm tightly with concealed strength. "And do not take a single step that you are not prepared to withdraw. Children have a knack for surviving, young wizard. Tread lightly when you claim to have no other option but to kill a young child."

Meanwhile Wyshira had run to the crumpled form of Latorath the moment his body had hit the ground, still crackling with electrical energy. She couldn't imagine what had happened; what was the source of such a terrible stroke? But she didn't look to see what was coming; she only hurried over to kneel beside the Inquisitor's crumpled form, hoping - no praying - she would see the rise and fall of his chest, proof that he still lived.

Wyshira found herself at Latorath's side with the few quick strides it took to bring her to the crumpled heap. Kneeling down on the blood-slicked floor of the temple-cum-charnel house, she saw the armoured man still concious, barely, holding on to the real world with barely a thread. Clearly he was in agony, but when she moved to cast magic upon him, he warded off her hand with a gauntlet, then grasping it tightly.

When he spoke it was weak, but determined. "Save your magic, Ishrakite, to fight the Master. It is out there, now; it is the heart of all this carnage. I can look after myself."

The band of werewolves continued to approach, these bigger, less scabrous specimens stalking with grace and an evil yet intelligent glint to their eyes. The dark man kept an impassive face as they closed on the temple.

The men were afraid, uncertain, even despite Kale's words of exhortation. All were thankful when Cord restrained Burl from firebombing the oncoming coven, but many felt the same as the necromancer; they simply could not bring themselves to take the actions that the wizard proposed. Uneasiness reigned supreme, as commoners began to wail and whimper in fear, grown men shuddered at the nightmare before them, and the darkness seemed to grow thicker.

Evant stood by Burl. "The dwarf is right; we cannot just burn the children." Yet in the paladin's usually steadfast and confident voice was the wavering note of doubt, uncertainty, not knowing what to do or how to react to this grotesque situation they were faced with. Nearby, Wolf growled in a manner more akin to his namesake than those abominations out there could ever hope to be, wrenching his shortspear from the ribcage of a fallen wolfman and staring out at the oncoming foe.

And Kale fired, with time for a few shots. The militia dared not; they lacked his skill with the bow, his ability to place a precise shot into even confused melee without fear of striking a friend; if they barraged the beasts with bolts, then surely the babies would die. But Kale was skilled enough he could place his shots accurately. The first shot lanced out, catching a werewolf in the shoulder, silvered head biting deep. It howled in pain but the strike was not enough to drop the fell beast; the greater effect of the shot was to make the entire pack suddenly realise they weren't as safe as they thought they were, and they began to lope forwards at speed, ahead of the man in black. Kale's second shot hit the same werewolf, yet still the thing kept on coming, reaching up with a grimace on its feral features to snap each of the arrow shafts off.

The man in black, striding slowly along at the back, shook his head as if in mocking sadness. "Fools." His voice was smooth, languid, reverberating with darkness. Pausing for a moment to scan the temple more closely, he saw Kale, the sniper haranguing his troops.

He raised his hand, a wand glinting there of crystalline blue, and with a muttered word sent another arc of lighting stabbing out at the man.

The blast slammed towards Kale, angled slightly upwards; but Kale was not encumbered by full plate, and was agile and dextrous enough to hurl himself out of the way. The militiaman behind him was not so lucky and died screaming as his clothes ignited.

"Attack," the master said in an almost bored tone, and the werewolves charged towards the temple, these one bigger and stronger than the last wave, reaching for the straps that tied the children to them; the babies had protected them from missile fire, and would get them into melee, but once there a squealing infant would merely weigh them down in close quarters fighting.

DM Note: One thing I made sure to do at this point in the game, seeing the argument breaking out about how to fight the werewolves - whether it was worth sacrificing the lives of the children in order to defeat the foe - was to say that the words I put in the mouthes of NPC's are not my personal opinions in what they should do or plan in any situation, they are just what the NPC thinks. I am impartial. I also reminded them that inter-character conflict is just between the characters and not the players. I felt it necessary to do this because of such a tender subject as this situation had brought up - the barbaricism of the werewolves - , and I'm pleased to say that my players proved to be mature and excellent roleplayers indeed.

Cord readied himself for the onslaught, releasing Burl's hand gently. The single word of Attack dripped with tangible malice and he instinctively knew that this second wave would test their reserves. Dropping smoothly into his defensive stance, Cord prepared himself for the first of the werewolves.

He filtered out the distracting cries of babies as he felt the floor rumble with the creatures' approach. The so-called Master was their true foe, Cord knew, yet he had no chance to fight the man alone. "Aim for the leader," Cord said to Burl, "and I will guard you. Use your vials of fire or your magic, but do not toss either blindly. He must be our target. Together, and with help, we may be able to end this."

Burl was still angry that Cord had stopped him from throwing the firebombs; they were probably the best weapons available to them, but they could only be used when the wolfmen were outside the temple. Now that chance was rapidly disappearing, and the necromancer instead agreed to focus his attacks on the master.

What does he mean? The Master is the werewolf leader most likely, but what sort of power does the creature wield? Thoughts were racing through Wyshira's mind as the Inquisitor pushed her healing hands away, and a new wave of assault prepared to break upon the beleagered Temple.

"What can I do?" she whispered softly, unaware almost that she spoke aloud. She still felt woefully unprepared to meet such evil. She stood slowly and walked nearer to the door, peering out over the shoulders of the militia men into the darkness outside as she did so. She could not yet glimpse the Master, although she was beginning to feel the unholy dread of his approach.

The wailing of babies drew her attention to the lead werewolves, and tears started in her eyes as she finally realized what it was that held back the archers from firing; none dared shoot for fear of taking an innocent life, except for Kale whose aim and skill were greater. The first attack had seemed mindless, but this new assault was cold and calculating. Again she wondered about the power of the Master.

While many of those inside were uncertain of what to do, it seemed that Burl was not; he suddenly rushed past the priestess and sent two vials of alchemist's fire hurtling into the midst of the werewolves. Wyshira wished that she could be as certain as he was of what course of action to take. A thought began to take shape in her mind however.

"Latorath was right." She said the words out loud, but it was not clear to whom she spoke; Burl had returned to stand next to her again, and the blind dwarf Cord was also near. "We have to focus on the Master. Can we reach him? Distract him?" Without waiting for a response from either of her companions, Wyshira began to look for a way to get outside without drawing too much attention.

Cord nodded. "Yes, I believe we might. I can approach from one side, and possibly you from the other, with Burl relying on his magic. Shall we try?"

Stepping into the night air, Cord inhaled the faintest scent of dew, almost indiscernible among the overwhelming smell of carnage and death. The man wielding evil like a weapon drew Cord nearer like a lodestone to iron. His senses reeled from the emanating corruption, but he forced himself to continue, dodging the attacking army of werewolves when he could. He approached cautiously, grasping the silver dagger in one hand.

Grumand, he prayed, May my perceived weakness grant me the advantage. Cord was nearly upon him.

Burl couldn’t believe what he was seeing and hearing. First he had wanted to go out after the werewolves and look for Kale, but was told that it would get them all killed, yet here was Cord planning on charging out into the midst of the creatures to try to attack the master. He just couldn’t understand the difference between what he had suggested and what the others were saying or doing. Shaking it off, Burl, if he was to die here, would do so trying to protect his friends and the assembled villagers, he only hoped that Wyshira wouldn’t follow the dwarf out of the temple.

The werewolves continued their advance, as behind them the Master slipped the wand into his robes and began to mutter a divine hex, arms gesticulating as dark, deific power gathered around him, tangible in the night air which was saturated with the smell of blood. Wyshria could easily identify the paths of energy which the magic was taking as a spell of doom, though powered from some divine source which she had never come across.

With a final word the Master lowered the hex over Kale, the archer firing so accurately into his troops, and the mercenary felt sick to the pit of his stomach as the doom took effect on him.

The coven werewolves closed the final space towards the militia and the temple, claws slitting straps that held the babies to them and dropping the infants carelessly to the ground with a series of bumps. They tore over the last few feet, leaping nimbly through windows and doors to engage their foes, and carnage erupted as they attacked with claw and fang. Unlike the rabble of lesser werewolves that had made up the first wave, these beasts were agile, graceful, at one with the insane speed their vile nature had given them and skilled in unarmed combat as they began to scythe through the humans before them.

Behind the front line of the militia, Latorath propped himself up against the altar, agonisingly slowly as pain lanced through his body. A quick prayer to the sun granted him some respite, healing energy suffusing his body with light and sealing some of the damage done by the lightning bolt, and he stiffly picked himself up off the floor.

The battle hit a crucial turning point as the militia suffered disastrously at the hands of the lycanthropes. Many still with crossbow in hand, they fired on the werewolves as they closed the last few steps, but as the bolts tore in, the true implications of these coven werewolves sunk in. About half of the bolts were plucked out the air, caught in claw or between palms and diverted harmlessly to one side. The few that found their targets bit into flesh and bone but it was not enough to fell even a single of the beasts; the warriors quickly began to reach for melee weapons. Spears were thrust at the monsters by those that already had them in hand, but again the insane dexterity of the foe came into play as they avoided most of the strikes. Finally, one fell, transfixed by a hunting spear. The blacksmith, hefting the huge silvered axe, threw himself into the melee, but the ponderous man found the werewolves too fast for him to place a strike upon them.

Kale had dispatched two men to circle out behind the werewolves, their purpose to bring the discarded babies to safety. They hurried round behind the melee to where the werewolves had deposited the infants, quickly gathering up as many as they could.

Wyshria found that from her position behind the front line, the Master had moved close enough now for her magics to work, and with a chant to Ishrak she managed to conjure up a striking eagle in the air near her target, its feathers all burnished gold and metallic blue as it swooped down towards the man. It swept down towards him, its attack suffused with divine energy as it smote the evil being, claws raking across his flesh as he irritably tried to bat it away. Nearby, Evant pitched into the battle taking place between man and beast, channeling the last of his divine energy into a short beam of fire than caught one of the foe. With a flash of light it ignited and immolated, leaving nothing but a charred heap.

Burl heaved his firebomb at the master, but it went wide and splashed in furious flame on a patch of ground nearby. Wolf charged a nearby lycanthrope that was in a position to perhaps threaten the spellcasters, but it dodged the stabs he was making with the silvered shortspear with ease.

Cord slipped past the raging melee with ease, approaching the Master outside the building. The man looked at him with emotionless cold, before modifying his tactics to take account of this other foe coming for him as well as the eagle that the Ishrakite had summoned up. The dwarf thrust out with his dagger but his opponent easily dodged the attack. Meanwhile, Kale found himself just behind the main melee, the chaos threatening to erupt onto him at any moment if the spear-line faltered. It was horrific and confusing, watching men fall like chaff before the furious beasts, and with the weight of the hex lying heavy upon him he found it hard to concentrate and auim. The shot he fired off at one of the lycanthropes missed widely, and all he could feel was the hopelessness pressing down upon him.

In Kale's mind, it was already over. The wolves had engaged at close range, leaving the manacing dark man to reign over the cold temple. Latorath down, his men struggling to slow their deaths...

Kale's shoulders slumped, his shot passing far wide of his invincible target. Resting his cheek on the cool plaster of the window arch, he hoped it would all be over soon.

The desperate men, his meager abilities- it was only a matter of time until destruction. Kale sighed and took in the carnage, an idle look as position was set to be overrun.

At the corner of his eye, he saw a wolf near the area where two men collected the castoff babies. On instinct, the despondant mercenary drew and shot, not so much to seek to eliminate his enemy, but just to react in a way that was so familiar. Maybe we'll all die quickly... There was no chance for survival, but at least he could fight a bit to pass the time.

Burl, after heaving his firebomb, moved so that he could help where needed. Through the wide temple doors he could see Cord attacking the Master but he wasn’t having much success, but the large eagle that Wyshira conjured seemed to have some effect. These werewolves seemed much bigger, stronger and more agile than the first wave. The Master must have saved his best for this next attack, the first only serving to test the defenses.

The strange man, enveloped in a darkness deeper than ordinary shadow, towered over Cord. He had dodged the first attack with ease and most likely thought the old dwarf at his side to be inconsequential.

Let him think so for one moment longer, Cord thought as he readied another strike.
A bird had appeared near the man's head, but Cord did not sense an emanating evil. Instead, it was a brilliant pinpoint of pure beauty, nearly overwhelmed by the surrounding malevolence but refusing to surrender. He could not see what others saw, but he heard the beating of wings, the shriek as it dove for the enemy, and above all he sensed the feeling of rightness, a welcome respite from the gnawing evil of the past months. Clenching his fist, Cord timed his attack with the next dive of the raptor.

The master of the dark coven still seemed unworried by the presence of two assailants, calmly watching their approaches and attacks with cold and dispassionate gaze. His attention flicked back to the main melee and then he looked back once again.

"You are no obstacle. No obstacle at all."

His flesh twisted and wrenched as he changed shape, taking the form of a hulking, black-furred hybrid. Heavily muscled, sporting long talons on each hand and glossy-coated, the glowing white eyes of the monstrosity focused on the shining form of Evant cleaving his way into the batle, and those claws, surely too cumbersome for spellcasting, came up. Muttered words coagulated in the air around the fiendish talons which clicked and clacked together as arcane energy gathered round them, and then a bolt of washed out color, muted gray, lanced out to touch the templar. With a groan, Evant found his own armour too heavy for him to stand up in, the weight of the world pressing down on him, and he tottered another step before collapsing to the ground.

Taloned arms dropping back down to its side, the werewolf began to move towards the melee itself, brushing the two who would attack it aside with insulting ease.

The air around the front of the temple was thick with bloody scent, gore dashed over walls and floor as the lycanthropes continued to tear their way through the militia, decimating them further with every moment. Here, claws disembowelled a man; there, a warrior had his throat torn out by vicious jaws. Tossing aside the carcasses of slain men like ragdolls, the beasts continued to advance, shattering the spear-line easily; Kale found himself in danger as one bore down on him, feral eyes glinting intelligently as it raised its claws to attack.

Latorath, now standing once again, held out his holy symbol before him and chanted loudly and with greater vigor, golden energy suffusing the emblem. With a gasp one of the lycanthropes was suddenly locked still, its muscles paralyzed by divine power. Around it the few remaining militiamen savagely struck it down with spears, reducing it to a bloody carcass, as others tried to fend off the ravening monsters around them; finally, another of the beasts fell, already pierced by a half-dozen bolts and now impaled on a spear.

Wyshira moved to assault the master, advancing from the confusion around the temple to block its path to the melee. The beast loomed over her, but she struck true, the mace smashing in with astounding speed and the silvered head causing the master to roar in pain. The crack that had accompanied the strike made her think that perhaps she had hit bone and shattered it; whatever she had done, though, she had certainly succeeded in getting its attention. Glowing white eyes locked onto the figure before it. Her eagle circled its head, trying to gouge at the werewolf's eyes but with no discernible effect; the master just ignored it. Then from behind, Burl let loose with his own magic, a dark beam of energy pulsing out, but the beast smoothly and gracefully dodged the attack and the magic dissipated away without effect.

DM Note: A crit for max damage That *really* hurt.

Within the melee of the temple, Wolf continued to stab at a lycanthrope trying to force its way towards Burl and take the spellcaster out; this time he struck true, the spear burying itself in the beasts side and forcing it to deal with the veteran ranger first. Nearby, Kale found himself forced to resort to his spear to fend off the beast lunging for him, but it avoided his half-hearted stabs and closed in.

Outside, Cord chased after the master, knowing he would need to resort to the dagger he had been given in order to deal with this threat. Yet it easily slapped away his attempts to stab it, looking at the dwarf as merely a nuisance so far.

What was she doing out there? Burl had seen the Master’s transformation and had been awestruck, never having seen such a creature. But then Wyshira had charged, giving no thought to her safety. She had done what no one had done so far, drawing blood and seemingly damaging him. He had missed with his incantation, probably the sight of Wyshira had distracted him.

Looking around him, death was overtaking many of the militiamen. Evant was on the ground, Burl having no idea what had struck him down. Wolf was doing his best to keep the werewolves from his position, but he was sure that they would begin to get past him. Latorath, back on his feet was able to hold his own, destroying one of the beasts.

Hoping to give Wyshira some help, he called upon his most powerful remaining magic, directing it at the Master, hoping that it would hit.

As far as Kale was concerned, there was very little point to resistance. Even though he knew he was under the influence of magic, he couldn't get over his certainty that all was in vain. A huge wolf closed to range, despite the mercenary's effort to keep him at bay. So if I can't win a fight for survival, I might as well enjoy myself and make it a game, Kale thought cynicaly, his reflexes slowed by a marked lack of interest at the outcome.

As an aside, Kale regarded the scuffle around the Master, Wyshira closing for a devastating blow to the man's side. Fire rose in his heart, though the priestess' brave bid could not quite overcome the power of the hex besetting the young mercenary.

Dropping his spear, the Kale made for a blade lying next to a fallen militiaman. As he lifted the weapon he saw that the hilt was bloodied and the blade was clean: the man had died with nothing to show for his pain. Shrugging, Kale simply lifted the blade, balanced with his Brine Blade in his left hand, and confronted the slavering with a hollow disinterest. With a quick strike, he probed the speedy wolf's defences.

What am I doing here? Wyshira asked herself, as she looked into the glowing eyes of the dark Man-wolf that were now focused upon her. She had felt such hatred of this abomination - which only intensified when, in one heart-stopping moment, it changed its shape to hybrid form - that she had rushed out of the Temple nearly mad to try to do it harm. Even as she ran, she was aware of the carnage behind her, and part of her wept for the lives lost; the injury and death that were beyond her healing. Now that her rage had been vented in a devastating blow, and she had earned the attention of the Master, she felt out of her element, and alone. Now he'll kill me for certain... was her only thought.
But she wasn't alone. There was Burl with his magic. And the newcomer, Cord, who seemed even more out of place than she did, with his milky, sightless eyes and unarmored body. Bolstered by their presence, Wyshira glared defiantly back into the Master's soulless eyes and struck again.

The master lunged at her, savagely tearing at her with insane ferocity as its teeth found her flesh and rent her badly. A torrent of blood gushed out from the injury, the young priestes staggering after the attack, and the looming werebeast prepared to finish her off. Nearby, the coven werewolves continued to tear through the few remaining militia, scattering more corpses round the front and within the temple. Kale, even in his apathetic state, managed to fend off the beast attacking him, while Wolf easily evaded his opponents lunges. Latorath let the last wisps of the holy magic drift away from him, then strode back towards the melee determinedly, pitching in to aid the militiamen. The hefty bladed gauntlets flickered and flashed silver in the fitful torchlight, and one of the wolfmen fell, disembowelled and then decapitated. The few men still surviving the onslaught took some heart at this, and another of the fell beasts went down under the silvered spears.

Wyshira, so terribly injured by the master looming over her, tried to strike out again; but the weakness caused by her injury meant the mace was easily batted aside. Freezing magic coalesced around Burl's hands and then he hurled his ice knife at the hulking monstrosity, making it hiss in pain as the misile buried itself into the torso of the werewolf, freezing flesh and bloodaround it; yet still it was not down.

Within the main battle, Wolf roared an angry battle-cry and thrust his spear straight into the neck of the werewolf attempting to approach Burl, spraying both men in a great gout of dark blood and killing the monster instantly. The ranger wrenched the weapon out again and moved closer to Burl, watching to make sure he could intercept any other lycanthropes attempting to attack the spellcaster. Kale quickly reached out, grabbing the weapon on the ground, but the werewolf he faced took advantage and savagely tore at him as he tried to fend it off; his strike with the silvered blade was wild, but a wild swing with the brine blade found its thoat more by chance than anything else, cutting a red line across it and drenching Kale as its lifeblood fountained out over him. The monster sagged and slumped, acid eating into its neck.

Cord stabbed out, dagger finding the flesh of the master werewolf and biting in. It staggered, severely wounded now and bleeding from many injuries, yet still did not fall, hissing and gurgling darkly.

The battle certainly seemed to be turning. Only a few werewolves were still standing, but faced not even a dozen militiamen. Blood slicked the floor and walls of the temple, a gruesome mural. The master werewolf was injured badly, seemingly confused now and trying to retreat, while the defenders leader had pitched back into the battle with renewed vigour. The coven could sense it; they were still losing this conflict. Slight fear and panic began to run through their ranks, the coven warriors attempting to disengage with their foes. With a gleam of bright light, the summoned eagle hovering over the master disappeared; at the same time, Kale felt the dark influence of the masters divine prayers lift from over him, the dooming hex dissipating.

The master werewolf snarled and lunged at Cord, who stood behind it and blocked its retreat from the increasingly grave situation. The dwarven monk sensed the mass of the creature strike in and smelt its fetid breath on the air, and managed to dodge at the last moment to avoid the savage jaws that bit at where he had been a moment before. The coven werewolves continued to fight as they attempted to disengage, easily slaughtering most of the handful of militia who still remained. Within the battle however, Latorath easily hewed down another of the injured beasts with his bladed gauntlets. The men themselves, fatigued, injured and demoralised, let the beasts break off, retreating themselves.

Wyshira's weak strike with her light mace was ignored by her looming opponent, whereas Burl had more success with his daze spell, which staggered a lycanthrope long enough for nearby militiamen to pin it down with spears and stab it brutally to death. Wolf managed to catch one of the last werewolves with his spear, impaling it and killing it quickly. Kale loped out towards the master, lunging with the brine blade, but the beast slapped the strike aside and turned to bare its fangs at the mercenary. With merely two coven warriors still standing the lycanthropes had clearly lost this fight, but surrounded as it was, the master had no avenue of escape.

The master lashed out wildly around it, and Cord sensed an opening in its defences - the silvered dagger plunged in, and sealed its doom.

Yet the abomination still didn't give in, breaking into a death frenzy of carnage and destruction as bones within shattered and fragmented, flesh twisting and reforming in a foul manner as the mutating monstrosity perished. Jagged teeth caught Cord, tearing a great gouge into him, before the beast finally collapsed, a deformed wolf-man coverde in bubbling lesions and rents where its flesh had split open in the death frenzy.

The last two coven warriors were easily chased down.

Darkness still hung heavy over the temple and environs. The front of the building, the steps and entrance, were slick with the blood of emn and beasts. The fitful torchlight illuminating the scene gave it a hellish quality.

Three militiamen had survived. The babies had been recovered, none dead but all with small, fresh scars on their arms. Latorath identified these as evidence that the master had infected the children with lycanthropy.

With no families left, they had nothing to tie them here still. The Inquisitor decided to take them with him to the Dawn Fortress, to have them cured of their affliction and put into the church orphanage.

The villagers were safe - not a single wolfman had made it to them, though over two dozen militiamen had died around them to save these peoples lives. The elderly priest moved amidst the dead, muttering prayers.

* * *

Latorath strode over to the band. Wolf had already joined them by the twisted corpse of the master werewolf, silent and grim; the Inquisitor had taken a moment to check on Evant, the Templar still pinned down by the weight of his own armour. The werewolf's spell had drained him of even the strength required to stand up, but it seemed to be weakening - the knight would live, even though he had been mauled badly while prone.

As the armoured cleric approached, the half-scream half-howl of a woman rose from within the back quarters of the temple, the werewolf whom they had captured, and who had caused all this, caught up in her madness once again.

Latorath paused, looking solemnly down at the mangled body that had been the master.
"I thank Solanthar for his deliverance; and thank you for your bravery this night." He arced his head up to look into the night sky. "That was truly a nightmare."

"We will burn the corpses of the corrupted beasts upon the morning." He paused.
"I'm afraid I can offer you nothing in way of payment for your courage. Nothing other than my sincere thanks, that is."

***

The mercenaries did have a few more questions. Wyshria was worried they might be infected with lycanthropy, but the learned Inquisitor reassured her; lycanthropy was only passed on by a dark ritual, the legends that a mere bite transmitted it were not true. They set to patching themselves up with healing magic and bandages; they intended to travel on with the morning light. As it was the least he could do, Latorath gave them papers allowing them to requisition riding horses from the next Adbarian settlement they passed through.

The sun rose over the village, rising up with the wreathes of rancid smoke from piles of burning bodies. From the death-saturated place Wolf's company of brave mercenaries strode forth, their sights set on the distant land of Naseria; they would have to pass over the wildlands to the west of Adbar, then over the Sarokean mountains, before they would reach that civilised nation and the work that they had been offered there. The journey would be a long one, upon which each of the band would have much time to reflect on what they had experienced, and to learn from what had befallen them. Yet eventually they would reach their destination, and once there they would become caught up in events that would change them forever.

As always, comments and criticisms from anyone are welcomed! Please, say what you think of my story hour whether that be slagging it off or telling me what I've done right and what I could do with improving on (probably most facets of it )...