Concerning Deathfangs and Warlords
A published letter from The Wanderings of Amadseer the CursedThe sages tell us that the pursuit of wisdom is the pinnacle of the human condition. Those sages were obviously were never cursed by Warlocks, nor found themselves searching for answers in the middle of the Darkfenne Swamp being pursued in turn.
I was being pursued by a pack of [mwcard=DNC02]Deathfangs [/mwcard] — once proud [mwcard=MW1C38]Timber Wolves[/mwcard], now ruined and animated by Dark magic, their bleached bones mottled with mud and slime. Much like their unnatural bodies, their otherworldly howls echoed down the recesses of my mind, both piercing and muted at the same time, like mental fingernails running across the fleshy pulp of an eyeball.
Even with [mwcard=MW1E05]Cheetah Speed[/mwcard], I could hear them gaining. This was their home turf, and they knew the lay of the land. I turned and quickcast, then pivoted and continued running, fleeing blindly through the vines and muck. As I crashed ahead, I heard the satisfying sounds of tubers and vines bursting through the mud and standing water of the bog, wrapping the bones of one of the creatures with a wet slap and pulling it down into the murk.
But a single [mwcard=DNJ11]Tanglevine [/mwcard]only goes so far. Not for the first time, I wished again for a spell that could wrap up a host of creatures. Or maybe something that could incinerate them to ash where they stood. Incinerate, yes. That would be nice.
They remaining beasts were close enough now that they were snapping at me; I felt the edges of my cloak rend as it tore from their bites. Their howls were loud now, filling my mind with their sense of near-victory over their chosen prey.
It was time to fight. What choice did I have?
I pivoted and planted my staff hard in the mud, quick casting as I did so. A Wave of Force battered outward around me forcing the creatures back a bit, buying me a few more precious heartbeats. I’d make my stand here, among the yellowing trees, fetid brush and slime pools. I readied my weapon. Took a breath. The creatures advanced, spreading out in a half circle around me, pack tactics still very much accessible in their undead minds.
And then the ground between us exploded.
Or so it seemed at first. What started as an eruption of mud and stone coalesced into something HUGE, with titanic arms and a brutal, stony face. An [mwcard=FWC02]Earth Elemental[/mwcard]? I shook off my momentary disbelief. This was the break I needed.
The Earth Elemental scooped up a Deathfang in one rocky fist and slammed it down into another, shattering both in a shower of undead shards and marrow. I lept forward and swung downward with my staff, scoring a satisfying crunch on the third creature’s skull, creating a large crack between the eye sockets and up and over the cranial cap.
A followup blow by the Elemental disconnected the ruined skull from the rest of the creature’s body. The one remaining Deathfang surveyed the situation, snarled, and ran back into the swamp, presumably back to Dor-Ghuslet, its necromancer master.
I breathed a quick sigh of relief, until I saw the Earth Elemental looking down at me. I brought up my Voltaric Shield with the dregs of my mana, and hoped I could somehow stave off the impossible.
“Stop!” A command from the trees and brush off to my right. Then the owner of the voice stepped forward.
An orc. Tall but brawny, with a trimmed deep blue beard cut to a point. One eye was covered with a patch of magical energy, and elaborate Bloodwave tattoos covered his arms climbing upward from wickedly [mwcard=MW1Q11]spiked gauntlets[/mwcard]. A long sword with a demonskin hilt was strapped to his back, the pommel ending in an elaborately carved chunk of red-orange jade.
A fearsome smile broke across his face. “Amadseer? It has been some time since last we faced each other. As I recall, you found yourself in much the same situation as I find you today.”
“Arhnoot? If you ask me which of two evils I prefer, I hands down choose you. Right now.” I smiled, even feeling a little warmth for my old adversary. It had been many years after all, and he was not ALL bad. Just mostly, and annoyingly so. “What brings you to the bowels of the Darkfenne. This is not a place I would expect to see a Warlord.”
“That’s the reason you seem to always end up on the losing side,” Arhnoot said as he surveyed our surroundings. “Perhaps you should try to expect more, and then you might find yourself better prepared.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Or not. The White Spires seem to think that the best way to live life is to try to “manage situations” after they have already occurred.”
“Honestly, I agree. There is little true leadership on the Council these days.” I said the last, watching for a reaction. I got none from the orc’s stony face.
“Smart. Always smart to agree with the man who controls the [mwcard=FWC02]Earth Elemental[/mwcard].”
“Yes, well.” Orcs.
“Anyway, we find ourselves here in the Darkfenne. What should we do now?” I gripped my staff just a little tighter.
“Relax Amadseer. I have no quarrel with you. Today at any rate. I would have information from you however. Perhaps you could grace me with that, considering I just saved your life. I’m looking for a necromancer. Perhaps several. From the company you keep, something tells me you may know one.”
“That I do. Even without the theat of elemental carnage, I’m more than happy to share that knowledge with you. The Necromancer Dor-Ghulset makes his home not more than a day from here. He’s set up shop in the ruins of what was once a Frelhal temple, long before the War. Plenty of bones to draw from I suppose to augment his skeleton army.”
“Were there any orcs?”
“Orcs? Not this far south. From what I understood, the Bloodwave is busy enough to the north. No, there were no orcs that I saw. Just ancient bones, [mwcard=DNC04]Grey Wraiths[/mwcard], FAR too many [mwcard=DNC02]Deathfangs [/mwcard], and some very uncooperative [mwcard=DNC01]Acolytes of the Bog Queen [/mwcard] that Dor-Ghulset had forced into bondage. I had hoped he would be more willing to discuss his knowledge of this area with someone who was of his original order, but the years have rendered him cold and suspicious. I escaped with my life, and very little information to speak of.”
“Not surprising. You don’t withdraw to a life in the swamp because you’re happy to entertain guests and discuss the ins and outs of local gossip. As to no orcs, well, that is good for his sake. Not that it inclines me to like him one ounce less, or spare him one second longer. What kind of information about this area were you looking for?”
For a second, I hesitated. But given the nature of the situation… what could it hurt?
“I’m cursed Arhnoot. I’m looking for information on how to remove it.”
“Can’t you just drop a [mwcard=DNI07]Dispel [/mwcard]or some other spell of breaking?” Seems to me that you Wizards always have more than enough of those at your fingertips.” He spat to show just how much he loved that spell — well really that whole school of magic.
“Not that simple. This is some kind of permanent curse. Dispels won’t touch it.”
“Nice. What’s the curse?”
“I’m compelled to write of my journeys, of the people I meet, my thoughts, my deeds.”
Ahrnoot raised an eyebrow. “That hardly sounds like a curse. Sounds more like an honest job.”
“… and I have to end every missive that I send out with a warning not to underestimate the power of warlocks. Everything I write has it. Everything.”
Arhnoot burst into a fit of laughs. His deep orcish bellows ringing across the standing water and echoing off the trees. “And there are those who say Warlocks have no sense of humor! Who is this Warlock who cursed you so? If our paths cross, I may buy him an ale, rather than running him through.”
“Telas Vane,” I said. The words burned on my tongue as I said them.
Which is to say, that there are many diverse and interesting things in the world, none of which are comparable to the might and power of the Arraxian Crown. Those who would trifle with the power of Warlocks must forever learn this fundamental truth.--Amadseer the Cursed, Wizard of Sortilege
Amadseer is a Wizard of Sortilege, driven by Dark-compulsion to wander the land, following a string of highly humiliating Seeking Dispels (and accompanying jeers) that he successfully cast in a public duel with the Warlock Telas Vane. Now, unable to help himself, he writes of his travels wherever he goes, the creatures he encounters, and the lore with which he comes into contact. Such is the nature of his compulsion that he must publish all of his missives, and end each work with a short paragraph singing praises to the Arraxian Crown, and warning all about the follies of underestimating a Warlock.
