“All right you rabble, line up!” the voice of the sergeant cut through the early morning air.  Even at a distance of a dozen feet, it was still clear and cutting.  All of the prospective mercenaries on the dock looked up and began to shuffle towards the main street where the sergeant stood impatiently.  He eyed them as they passed and shook his head,  “And a more motley band of cutthroats I have never seen.  May Corellon and the King preserve us from times where the likes of you are the only salvation.”  The Paladin shuffled with the rest of them and lined up.
The sun bathed their faces gently as it rose above the distant eastern horizon.  It slid past them and painted the still waters of the harbor with its pastel palette.  Somehow it made the elven city seem even more magical than the Paladin had heard it was.  The effect on his mood was fortifying.  He turned his face to the rising sun and smiled. The forest, that seemed to stretch on forever in the distance, gently brushed its green fingers through the sunlight and softened the faces of those around him.  He looked at them; really looked at them.  They needed softening.
The Paladin had been ready for the elves.  His tutors had been creatures that predated the elves by thousands of years.  They’d seen them arise from the sea, heard about the kin slaying and watched them take up residence in the western forest, at the feet of the Masters.  They’d advised and counseled them.  They’d fought beside them.  They’d died beside them.  Through it all, they’d learned nearly all there is to know about them and had, in turn, passed that on to him.  None of that prepared him for what he was seeing.
This group of elves looked more like a pirate crew than the elves of legend and song.  Oh, they had the pointed ears, the upswept, violet or grey eyes and the petite frame.  The had the air of superiority toward those standing there who did not have pure elven blood (meaning himself, a half-orc of some stature and a half-elf dressed in the signature natural clothing of a druid).  They had all of the trappings of typical elves but they had something else.  They had a wild and desperate look that marked each of them as dangerous, even deadly and very unpredictable.  He wondered if even the “wild elves” he’d heard so much about would look as motley as this bunch.
One of them looked as though he had been through a dozen knife fights without a knife.  One of them had a fierce look as though he would, at any minute, turn and kill everyone around him.  He did not smile when the Paladin smiled at him.  He glared into the human’s eyes and then looked away, disgusted when he saw no hint of fear there.  The Paladin made a mental note to stay as far away from him as was physically possible.
The sergeant himself was a rough looking character who scrutinized them all as they passed by him.  He had scars across scars on his face and hands that hinted at the patchwork of them that lay beneath his uniform.  He wore a longsword with an easy, practiced grace but carried a war mace like a dwarf.  He patted it with his hand as they all passed by.  The effect on some of the recruits was to make them head back to the dock or back into town.  By the time they’d all gotten past him, nearly half the company had deserted.
He and the fierce elf eyeballed each other at the end of the line.  The Paladin half hoped that they’d finish each other off so that he could sleep without worrying for his life or health but no such luck.  They were soon embracing like old friends.  “Good to see you again, mate!”  the sergeant said heartily to the other.  The cutthroat just smiled back, an effect that did not settle the Paladin’s nerves; it actually made him more nervous than before.
It was then he noticed the elf girl.  She was a slip of a girl, really.  Just about his age, she seemed half his size.  She was slightly built with a sinewy grace that reminded him of a cat.  She had the same delicate features of the rest of the elves he’d seen (outside of this company of murderers) and the same wise, older-than-she-looked cast to her eyes. He would have pegged her for any other woodland elf maiden who’d put on battle leathers and showed up to the Muster just to see if anyone would notice except that she was different than the other elves; her skin was dark.
All of the stories that he head heard of elves made them out to be fair of face and complexion; the humanoid equivalent to unicorns – fair and delicate.  They rode in on white horses wearing mithril chain so light it was like wearing a shirt and wielded golden blades impossibly thin and impossibly deadly.  He was prepared for that and he saw that in the faces (what was left of them) of the pirates he now stood with.  Not so in the elf maiden.  He was taken somewhat aback by her dusky skin and her strong, leathery body.  She had the look of a warrior of no little skill.
“Stop staring with your moth open like that, tin man.  Didn’t your mother ever tell you your face would rust like that?”  she asked him, archly.
He had been unaware that he was gaping like a town fool and immediately looked the other way.  “Sorry,” he mumbled as the sergeant had them line up.  They ended up next to each other.
The sergeant ran up to them and spat, “Ah, gettin’ all cozy with each other now, are we?”  He broke off his tirade as he studied the Paladin more.  “Who in the Nine Hells are you supposed to be then?”
“I am a Paladin of Bahamut, at your service, sergeant.” he told the scarred veteran.  The Paladin held out his hand.  The sergeant did not take it and followed the awkward moment up with a guffaw that would have made a drunken dwarf proud.
“Paladin…” he laughed, “…of BAHAMUT, is it?  Are ye silver dragon underneath all that armor and  man-flesh?”  Some of the others joined in his mirth.
“And even if he isn’t, can the elves afford to turn away anyone skilled with a sword at a time like this?  What happened to the custom of the Muster?”  It was the elf maiden.  She’d stepped up and gotten right in his face.  She looked every bit as fierce as he did.
And then his, and then every other elves’, mirth broke through and he laughed down at her small form.  “Easy now, little Banderlatha.  We’ll not be scrappin’ with the likes of a trained monk.  I was only askin’ the lad for his qualifications.  As per custom at a Muster.”  He walked past her and his voice iced over, “Mayhap I should be askin’ YOU that question.  What did you answer your nation’s call with; a stick and a circle.”
“Its called a chakrum, you simpleton!”
“Aye, okay.  Then you and the Dragon Man will no doubt be wanting to demonstrate your qualifications.  All right you rabble, line up in pairs behind these two to demonstrate your skills at arms.”  He turned to them and said, “Disable that practice dummy yonder.  Ye must do it from twenty paces,” he said as he marked a line in the dirt with his boot, “and ye must disable the target only.  As per custom of the Muster,” he added with a grin at her back.
“Fine!”  she shot back and stepped up to the line.  She turned to the Paladin, “you shoot first.”
He unhooked his crossbow and loaded it.  The elves looked askance at the weapon (elves do not, as a rule, approve of bolt weapons) as he aimed it at the target.  He turned towards the sergeant and fired in the opposite direction without looking.  The bolt headed straight for the heart of the dummy.
And then, out of nowhere, a screaming circlet of adamantine and gold sailed through the air.  The others laughed, thinking that her throw was going to miss the target.  It didn’t.  But before it hit the target, it hit his crossbow bolt and sent the shaft on a new course, slightly downward, while it sailed slightly upward.  The Paladin of Bahamut wheeled to chastise the monk on her lack of fair play when he heard the groan from the assembled crowd.  He turned back towards the target in time to see his bolt quivering from its place in the dummies crotch just as the chakrum severed the left ear.  The laughter of the crowd died on their lips.  As did Draken’s protest.
“You did say ‘disable’, didn’t you sergeant?” the elf girl asked sweetly.
“Aye,” the other gasped weakly, holding his crotch.
“I think we passed,” Draken added, dryly.  He stuck out his hand to the elven maiden, “Draken Sturm.  I owe you one.”
She smiled and shook his hand with a slim yet vice-like grip.  “Shadow Darkpetal,” she returned, smiling, “and yes, you do.”  He smiled back.
The sergeant came out of his daze and shouted at the others, “Right!  Any of you that can best that shot get ten gold pieces.  Otherwise, I’ll hear no laughter durin’ training!  Do you understand?”  Their stunned silence, followed by their slowly moving to take their turns indicated that they understood, all too well.

“Training” did not last long.  After only a couple of days, the company of mercenaries had proven that they could shoot, run, fight in melee and work as a team to take down an enemy.  They’d also run, jumped over obstacles, climbed an abandoned keep and fought in the streets of the small dock town.  And through it all, they’d performed quite well; which came as no surprise.
Besides Draken and Shadow, the entire troop consisted of grizzled veterans and army castoffs:  Draken mentally ticked off a full list of battle-hardened warriors:  there was Durax, the half-orc, a hearty soul with the fire of a much younger man; Wood, the Druid who trained with them all but was never afraid to call on his druidic powers to give him the edge; the mirthless elven veteran that had so frightened Draken when they’d been standing on the dock (still did, really) whose real name was lost on Draken – he’d just taken to calling him “Happy” and there were a slew of others who made less of an impression on the Paladin but still could have been taken for cutthroats in a dark alley in any city in the world.  They looked like a ragtag collection of humanoids but acted a lot like Draken thought that soldiers would act in the same circumstances.  They were well trained and they were ready.

One day, shortly after the training sessions had been called to a halt, they were called together in the fishing village’s square to hear from a well-dressed officer of the Elven Elite Guard.  The man, a lieutenant by his insignia, addressed them just as the sun was coming up.

“Line up, ye pirates,” Sarge told them.  They did so without question and fell into something like a formation.

The Lieutenant addressed them:  “Gentleman and,” he gestured at Shadow, “Lady:  you have been chosen for a very special mission.  Two weeks ago, the kingdom lost contact with a small forest village named ‘Xarun’.  It is an important mining and logging shipment stop and so the Crown has taken a particular interest in seeing why nothing at all has arrived from the town in three days.  So, you will all head there, secure the town and find out why it has seen fit to send none of the precious resources that the Kingdom needs.”
“Arrr,” said Happy blandly, “and why don’t ye be sendin’ the reg’lers?” and he added after Sarge slapped him on the back of the head, “Sir!”
“Good question, uh…” he looked at the Sergeant, struggling for a name.  Sarge merely shrugged so he went on, “Right!  Good question, soldier!  The answer is that the regular army is off fighting orc incursions throughout the Kingdom and has no time for such small concerns.”
“Arrr,” Happy shot back.  The word seemed to have multiple meanings.
The whole thing didn’t seem right to Draken.  How was it that the elven standing army, a force of tens of thousands, couldn’t spare a patrol to investigate a simple loss of communication?  It didn’t sound right at all.  He stood forward and addressed the lieutenant.  “You’re leaving something out, sir.  There is no way that the High King or the Lady of the Forest are both unable to send a simple patrol to re-establish communication with one village.”
The lieutenant seemed to bristle at the comment but elven control returned to his face readily enough.  “Very good, young man,” he allowed and then muttered, “for a human.”  Louder, he addressed the entire company, “There is another problem.  Regular patrols have been sent.  Six of them.  Well-trained regulars.  They’ve all gone missing.  We need that town back up and running right away but cannot move a force of any size for fear of alerting the orcs massed in the mountains. They would see such a troop movement as a sign that the time to attack the place they’d just left had come.  So, our only choice was to send a troop of hardened warriors who have a knack for survival.”
“Arrr,” agreed Happy, smiling and slapping another soldier on the back.  Truly the elf could make one word mean just about anything.
“The rest of you,” the Lieutenant continued, “were just sent to fill in the number required by custom for a Muster.”
“You still haven’t told us what you think we’re dealing with, Lieutenant Greenbriar.” Shadow inserted.  Funny; Draken couldn’t recall the man giving them his name.
Lieutenant Greenbriar paused only a second and stared at Shadow while he spoke.   “No, I haven’t.  Because we don’t know what we’re facing.  Sometime between the second and third patrol, a band of brigands made its way into Xarun.  They disappeared, too, but their leader –well, some of him really– was left as a warning to other brigands to stay away.”  He produced a charcoal drawing made by a skilled hand.  It depicted, accurately, a head, shoulders and one hand of an elf tied to a post.  The head was decimated, the top of the skull having been visibly opened up, presumably to allow it to be fixed onto the pole.  One side was unmarred and the features were easily seen.  The other side had been marred with a symbol.  It was unlike any Draken had ever seen, and he’d studied all of the religions past and present.  It looked like nothing else more than a gaping maw with a town in its teeth.  The shoulder was punctured over and over again with pairs of marks and part of it had been torn off as if by some small yet ferocious animal.  Still something more about the drawing disturbed him.
“Our experts on the scene,” the Lieutenant continued, “concluded that the bites were vampire bites.  Not the precise cuts of a real vampire, mind.  But the tearing wounds of a spawn.  The symbol we do not know but it has been attached to a ‘person of interest’ that we have been tracking for two years since she and her thieves broke into the Magical Academy.  A gnome monk named Britta.  She carries a razor-sharp steel circlet like that one,” he indicated Shadow’s chakrum.  Draken looked over at her and noticed that she stared at him with an intenseness that could cut diamonds.
“Arrr, swag!” Happy said.  He actually seemed to be cheering up.  “What’d she steal, then?  Wands, jools?  Magic rings?”
“Soul jars, hundreds of them,” Greenbriar finished, flatly.
“So who in the Nine Hells needs on o’ them?”  Happy’s brief elation was gone.
“Don’t know but the only thing left in the chamber where the jars had been was a body sliced to pieces by that circlet and the symbol. scrawled on the walls in the guards blood.”
“Arrr,” Happy said disgustedly.
“Anything else?” the half-orc, Durax, asked.
“Yes.  One more thing.  That head was tied on the pole using spider silk.  Probably a large one, judging by the size of the strands.”
Great Platinum Lord! Draken thought, panic racing through his mind.
“Right; undead, super thieves, brigands and giant vermin.  Sounds just like any other day to the likes o’ us, right lads?”  Sarge sang out.  The return was far less than half-hearted.  “I said, RIGHT?!?”
“Aye,” came the loud reply.
“Right then!  Line up, we march straight away.”
As they began to line up in marching order, Draken noticed Shadow was not among them.  He found her standing with the Lieutenant and, seeing that the conversation seemed private, he decided to wait where he was until she was quite done.  There was something in the look that she shot Greenbriar that seemed dangerous and he’d learned a hearty respect for the elven monk in the last few days.  He knew when to stay out of her way.

The troop began to assemble but Shadow did not go with them; she found the Lieutenant instead.  He came to attention as she approached.
“Majesty,” he saluted, rather louder than she was comfortable with.
“No,” she replied, “not here.  And the accident of my birth and my mother’s machinations aside, I am no royal heir.  I am a simple monk on a mission from her monastery.  At least, I thought I was until I heard…”
“About Britta Blatherstock?  I know that she had trained at your mission.  Obviously.  I don’t know of anyone else that uses one of those things!” he said indicating her chakrum.
She shook her head, “Its more than that and you know it.  Don’t you dare play dumb with me, Davram Greenbriar!  Its as plain as daylight.  My monastery sent me here, told me that I was needed for a mercenary company being sent off on a special mission.  I was to join the Muster.  I thought it strange at the time but now,” she approached him and punctuated her words with jabs into his chest with her finger, “it is all too clear to me!”  She took a breath and stared up into his face, “No, its obvious.  Now.  They asked me to join this company because of Britta.  The only member of our order to betray us in all its long history!  They’d been giving me advanced training with the chakrum for weeks now, focusing on blocking techniques.  They’d given me advanced hand-to-hand training, focusing on smaller opponents.  They’d given me tactics training.  Sent me out on raids into the undead infestations in the area.  And then, without warning, I’m sent here.  It makes perfect sense.”
Davram smiled, “You always were a clever one…” he paused, having difficulty leaving off the honorific, “Shadow.  Yes, we requested someone from your order when we found the grizzly signpost a week ago.  They said they had just the person in mind and so we expected you.  Well, not you but someone of your order.  But we expected you two days after you’d actually arrived.”
“Hmph!” she smirked. “I’m fast.”

“Indeed.  And we were expecting a cleric of Pelor to join us at the port but we found him dead on the road from Xarun.  Brigands, probably fleeing Xarun after that ‘warning’.  Bad luck, that.  And then, as if in answer to our prayers, the human in all that armor shows up on the dock.  Steps off out of thin air and onto the Forbidden Dock, no less!  Don’t know where he came from but he’s good with that sword and you can’t discount the inspiring presence of a Paladin.”

Shadow was silent.  All her life she’d strove to be her own person.  Not wishing to conform to what was expected of her, she’d sought any means of escape she could.  Which meant, more often than not, adventuring in the hills and woods around Bandera.  Nothing had ever come of it, of course, except worrying her parents.  It earned her the “You Are Too Much Like Your Father” lecture each time (which still mystified her;  how could her running away be anything like her cautious father?) but had otherwise been boring.  Still she did it, over and over again, just to say that she had fought their wishes.

And she’d run away to the monastery the first time for the same reason but had been in for a surprise.  There, the monks had taught her the value of discipline and obeying the rules set down for the good of all.  She’d adhered to that code since, always trusting in her superior’s good intentions  Now she had her doubts.

She felt used, like a tanners tool.  No, she corrected herself, more like a weapon that is only used when its needed.
“Majesty…” Davram inquired, “are you well?”
“Fine Davram but please, for the love of Corellon, I’m just Shadow Darkpetal, Monk of the Monastery of the Four Winds.  What I was, I was.  But that’s not what I am.”
“As you wish, Shadow,” he said the last with emphasis, “then as your commanding officer I am giving you an order:  stay alive.  This is a suicide mission and we’re betting that a company this small and… desperate… will do what six patrols and a company of brigands could not.  But, whatever it takes, stay alive.  Your father and indeed your mother, would have my skull if not.”
She patted his arm and said, “You’ve always been a good friend to my family, Davram Greenleaf.  I will follow your order, gladly, if such is my fate.  For now I see that I was not tricked, I was sent.  It may be my place to keep this rabble alive.”  And with that, she walked away to rejoin the troop.
And who will keep you alive, little Darkpetal? Davram thought sadly.

Shadow normally resented moving so slow.  As a trained monk, she was used to traveling like the wind; swift and silent.  She usually hated to move at the slow, measured pace of armored soldiers.  It was tedious at best and, at worst, time consuming.  Time that they did not have.  Usually this would have put her in a foul mood.  But not today.
Today she needed time to think.  So the Elven Army High Command was so afraid of sparking an orc attack that they’d risk sending in what her father used to call a Deadman’s Company rather than send a larger force.  That meant that they were either surrounded or stretched really thin and so had to take this chance, slim though it was.  Her new tactics training had told her that.  But she’d overheard the messenger telling the head monk, Brother Argent, that the isolated monastery was now safe from orc incursion as were most of the border regions.  He’d been very boisterous in telling them all that it looked like they’d soon have the orcs on the run.  On the run…
And then it came to her in a flash:  an offensive!  They must be plotting to go on the offensive and were fearful that a troop movement would make their intentions obvious.  That would either send the orcs scurrying into the mountains to make fighting nigh impossible or send them underground into the old elven capitals where they’d bide their time and fight another day.  Neither solution was acceptable.   So they’d assembled this ragtag band of desperate men in the hope of making inroads into the undead infested  town.  That way they could stage a battle south of Bandera where the only tunnels available were controlled by the Banderlath and push them right out the Picket Line.  What few made it out of that meat grinder would turn tail and run straight into the loving arms of the Unseelie court in the Empty Lands.  That meant there was value in doing it in a hurry.  And tipping off the orcs would cause troop movements that could destroy that plan.  It made sense.  But why so small a force?  They should have sent a whole mercenary company (gods knew there were enough desperate ex-soldiers out there) not some small band of desperate men on… what had Davram called it… a suicide mission.  Why so small a company?
When it came to her, it sent such a chill down her spine that she swore it lowered the air temperature by a few degrees:  they weren’t a desperate bet, they were a meal!  They were going in to die, slowly if possible, to keep the undead busy enough to allow the army to achieve its main goal.  Then they’d send a cleanup force to take care of whatever was left of the undead in Xarun.  They were fodder!  Suicide mission, indeed!
“By all the gods, we’ve go to stop this column!” she cried.  To her surprise, nobody so much as slowed.  It was as if they were ensorcelled.  She had to stop them and began pushing her way up the column.
“Shadow?” Draken asked.  The blonde giant stood beside her suddenly, concern evident in his pale blue eyes.  She ignored him and moved further up the column, meaning to stop the sergeant and the rest of the troop.  She was well on her way until she encountered an immovable object:  Durax the half-orc.  Uhrek, she corrected herself.  His people had a long standing tradition of service to the Elven Crown going back to the dark times of the Black Menace.  They had well earned the title Uhrek, elvish for “orc of honor”.  “Out of my way, please.  I must see the sergeant!” she said as she tried to push past him.  By now Draken had caught up to her and was marching behind, trying to keep pace, following her like a body guard.  It was amusing and touching, but she did not have time for either right now.
The Uhrek smiled his toothy grin at her, more frightening than a mountain cat’s snarl, and said, “Why the hurry?  We’ll be in Xarun before you know it.  Patience, little warrior elf.  You’ll have your chance at glory soon enough.”
“You don’t understand,” she shot back and was about to push on ahead when another face appeared beside Durax; Wood the Druid.

The lanky elf leaned in and effectively blocked her way again.  It was beginning to make her think they didn’t want her to go up there!  That was making her irritated and that was a poor choice for them, at best.  But the Druid soothed her immediately by saying, “So, why don’t you tell US.  We’ve got plenty of time…”
“No, you don’t,” she sighed.  For whatever reason, they’d nominated themselves as Sarge’s personal valets and she would not get to see him unless she trusted them with the information.  They’re all going to have to find out sometime, she mused.  So she laid it out, all of it.  “That’s why you’ve got to let me up there to see the Sergeant.  If I can convince him to stop, we might just be able to come up with a plan and save a few lives!”
Durax and Wood shared a look.  Shadow was sure she’d seen it.  It was not just some trick of the light.  They knew each other!  Well enough to communicate a lot with just a look.  What’s going on here? Wood broke through her pondering, “I suppose we will have to trust you.  Both.”  He gestured behind her to Draken who has managed to sneak up behind her, saying a lot for how distracted she was.  “We did not just join this company to fill out a Muster.  A number of us were sent.  By someone… who wishes to remain anonymous right now.  He told us of the upcoming offensive and of this band of ‘lawful brigands’ and asked us to join them.  He figured we’d tip the balance.”
“Uh, not to be disrespectful, but there’s only two of you.”  Draken stated flatly.
Durax smiled again, a wicked thing that did nothing to illicit feelings of mirth.  “Two is enough if it’s the right two,” he said lightly and then lowered his voice, “and besides, we’re not alone.”
“You’ve brought help?”  Shadow brightened.  Perhaps there was hope after all.
“They’ll be there when we need them,” Wood said, gesturing for quiet, “But mum’s the word.  You know the rules of the Muster!”  He turned to Draken, “But you don’t so I’ll explain it.  In brief, a Muster can only have twenty soldiers in it and one commander.  The Sergeant will do in a pinch for a commander.  He’s a bit stiffed-necked but he’s dependable.  But he is one for following rules and the rules say:  the only way a troop under Muster can have any more than that is if they are in dire need.  So to keep us from wasting precious time arguing with Sarge, we’ll wait until the help is needed.  And to keep him from saying ‘no’ now, we’ll just keep this to ourselves, okay?”  The last was addressed to both Shadow and Draken.  They nodded in response.
What else can we do, thought Shadow, it looks like all my worries were for nothing.
“Now, if you’re looking for something to worry about,” Wood said cheerfully, “I’d worry about the vampire and the other monk with the chakrum.  Those are real problems that I, at least, have no idea how to solve.  I am open to suggestions…”  Shadow was silent as gloom settled about her again like a cloak in a heavy rain.

For the most part, Draken Sturm considered himself to be a positive person.  He’d been raised by dragons, after all, and they tended to take the long view on life.  Worry is for beings with the time to waste on it, they used to say, not for humans with such a short span of years on this plane.  It was good advice and he’d tried to live by it.  He tried to see the bright side of things and hope for the best.  But he had to admit that, despite his training and his outlook, he was… concerned.
The gnome monk with the circlet worried him not at all.  That was clearly Shadow’s problem.  If that one was half as good as the elf that walked beside him, he had less than no chance of besting the creature in a fair fight.  Shadow had knocked him on his rump time after time in melee practice.  He’d tried using gauntlets, a sword, an axe and even his unstrung bow (to trip her) and she’d still bested him every time.  And when it came to fighting at a distance, that ‘chakrum’ was worlds better than his dagger.  No, the gnome would not be his fight.
That left the vampire.  That had occupied a good portion of his thinking since they’d talked to the Druid and the Uhrek.   What he knew about vampires seemed inadequate to coming up with some sort of a plan:  he knew that the creatures withered to dust in the sun; that a stake through the heart immobilized them but cutting off their head killed them; he knew that they slept the day away in an underground, unsanctified burial location like a crypt or grave but that they could make do with anything that contained some grave soil in a pinch; he knew that they could not abide running water, holy water or holy symbols from Pelor (really, the last was more from vampire superstition than from any power that the symbols had outside the hand of a cleric of Pelor).  Still, none of these things told him why the vampire was terrorizing a simple elven way-station on a supply road.
His information really raised more questions than it answered.  Why was the vampire terrorizing the town?  Why had it not simply fed and moved on? If the thing was as plotting as he’d heard some of them were, why was it scaring the daylights out of its food?  If it was some rapacious monster, as he’d been told the rest of them were, why put up the signs warning people away?  Wouldn’t it rather attract visitors and feed off them? If it was worried about spawn eating it out of house and home, why not just chop off heads and leave those as warnings?  And why Xarun?  There were plenty of other places nearby with larger populations, why not hide in one of them and take the occasional unwary victim to stave off the eternal hunger?  None of it made sense:  hungry beast or terrible, plotting evil, the thing should not be acting this way.  Unless someone was pulling the strings.  Someone with the power to control powerful undead like a vampire.
“Shadow,” Draken asked suddenly of his walking companion, “does this Britta Whateverhernameis  have any training in the forbidden arts?”
“Forbidden arts?” the elf girl asked him, lost for a moment in her own reverie.
“Necromancy and the like,”
“No.  Not unless she’s renounced her skills as a monk and taken up magic.  And she never showed any affinity for it or ability with it before now. I can’t see that suddenly happening.  Why?”

Ashes, Draken thought, disappointed.  He sighed and said, “Nothing.  I’d just hoped to have a simple answer to some vexing questions.”

“Such as?” she prompted but he never got the chance to answer.
They’d been walking for the better part of the day and now they were before a covered bridge that was situated across a rushing river.  The river seemed to wander off into the tree line to the north and into the plains to the south.  The canyon that it cut into the soil was just deep enough to be a pain to send men over (let alone equipment) so the bridge had been fabricated.  Now it was the sole way across the river for miles.
“Right,” Sarge’s baritone rang out in the still spring air, “we need to cross that there bridge to get to Xarun just over the hill.  I need a volunteer to head across the bridge and secure it for us. Volunteers?”  You could have heard the metal in a pin settle as it dropped in the silence that followed.
So Draken stepped up, with a slight smile on his face.  It was his duty as a Paladin of Bahamut to protect others and this looked like the ideal situation to test himself.  He relished the challenge.  He was pleased and not really surprised when he saw Shadow standing beside him.  The others looked at the pair abashedly but did not budge.  They would go alone.
“Oh a brave lot o’ lads we’ve got here!” Sarge barked.  “Thank ye very much o’ courageous warriors of the elven nation!  Don’t worry, I’m sure these two will leave plenty o’ glory for ye once they get to the other side!”  He spoke more softly to the pair, “What a bunch o’ rabbits!  Ye take care to do as yer instructed, aye?”  They nodded their heads and he continued, “Get to the other side and secure that bridge.  Just that and no more.  Don’t ye go runnin’ off t’ Xarun on yer own, or any daft thing like that.  Just the bridge and no more.  Ye understand?”  They nodded again and he smiled, “and one more thing:  don’t ye go gettin’ kilt!  Or I’ll actually have to do all of the brave stuff such as this on me own for the lack of a genuine hero with a real set o’ stones in that lot back there!”  He had the decency to blush as he looked over at Shadow.  “Present company excepted to that requirement, o’ course.”  Shadow nodded and seemed to be straining not to smile.  “Right!” he said loud enough to be heard all the way to the sea, “Off ye’ go and be smart about it!”
As they walked towards the bridge, the ingrained need for a plan of some kind began to take over in Draken’s mind and he turned to Shadow, “So, how are we going to do this?”
“Just walk across the bridge and use that overlarge butcher knife on anything that has the bad timing to step in your way.  I’ll meet you in the middle.”
“What…” but he never got the chance to ask his question.  In a single second, she was gone, off into the tall grass at the river’s edge, and he was facing the covered bridge alone.
It was not that there was anything remotely frightening about the thing in and of itself.  It was a covered bridge, fifty feet long, fifteen feet wide and twelve feet high.  Its construction was wood and it showed signs of aging (loose side boards and the like) but it was still sturdy.  It would hold him.  No, the bridge itself gave him no pause.  But then there was the webs.
His breath began to come in short bursts and he could feel his heart pound.  The front of the bridge was covered in spider webs.  Large ones, made by large spiders.  He could feel the sweat beading on his brow.  Suddenly, he was a frightened ten-year-old boy and the sound of carapaced feet on the flagstones in the ruined underground city rang in his ears.  He would be caught any minute and he knew it, food for the thing… like those poor soldiers he’d seen in the grand gallery:  dried husks with lifeless staring eyes and permanent looks of shock on their faces!

Suddenly he was back in the here and now.      He knew that Shadow was counting on him to get across that bridge to the middle.  He was also sure that something nasty waited for them there in the gloom.  He wouldn’t leave her to face that alone.  He knew his duty.  So he did the first of many brave deeds; he tore those webs and stabbed the monster that had made them (about the size of his FIST!) as it skittered towards him.  Setting his jaw, he walked into the gloom of the bridge until he got to the center.  Shadow was waiting for him.
“What took you so long?” she asked, exasperated.
“I stopped to admire the construction of this fine bridge!” he returned cheerily.
“Pardon me;  I didn’t know that I’d interrupted someone in their appreciation of rural constructs.  Did you see anything on your way in?”
“Not much, you?”
“Nothing.  Literally.”  She scowled.  “If they were trying to keep people out, you’d think that they would have laid some sort of trap…”
As she said the last, she stepped forward and then paused.  She looked around purposefully, scanning the walls as if looking for something specific.  He said nothing, not wishing to break her concentration.  She walked over to a wall and fiddled with a small, and heretofore unseen, box.  In a few seconds she looked up, smiling triumphantly.
“Got it!” she announced.
“Got what?” he asked.  Though he had his suspicions.
“Disabled that trap.  A really clever one, too.  It collapses the bridge, from what I could see.”
“It what!?!”
“Yes.  It collapses the bridge,” she replied more to herself than to him, “ It brings down the timbers here and here,” she pointed to the support members around them, “and then collapses the floor joists, I suspect.  It’d tear the bridge in half right there,” she pointed to a spot in the floor.
He let out a low whistle.  Then his eyes narrowed.  “Where did you learn something like that?  That’s the kind of thing I’d expect a thief to say!”
“My father was an adventurer,” she said defensively, “and you pick up a few things or you die young.”
Mollified, Draken nodded.  “I’ll tell the others that its secure.”  He turned to go and then shot over his shoulder, “Uh, it is secure, isn’t it?”  He saw her nod as he headed back out the tunnel.

The last of the troop exited the bridge as Sarge clapped Draken on the back.  “Good work, lad!” he lauded and then quickly added, “Both of you!”
He and Shadow had briefed him when he’d arrived on the other side of the river.  They’d all carefully avoided the trip squares on the bridge and made it safely over.  Including Wood and Durax who’d been strangely missing when they’d asked for volunteers.  Finally the entire troop was on this side of the river.  Draken looked off west and saw the sun was setting.  An inauspicious time to head into a town infested with vampires and… other things, he thought direly.
“So, do we camp here or…” He began but Sarge merely shook his head.
“Nay, lad, we press on.  There’s a keep in that town.  Its blessed by Pelor himself, we was told, and locked tight as a drum.  And I,” he produced a small piece of iron from his pocket, “have the key.”
Shadow seemed about to say something when the sentry atop the hill shouted down, “Armed men, coming this way!”
“Damned fool!” Sarge shouted, “Keep yer voice down!  Sentry means silent!”  and to the troop he said, “Arms up, ye lot.  We’ve guests!”
And then the first man crested the hill.  Draken stood there watching him come.  He was slow and deliberate, more like a tired man then anything else; he moved with the slow shuffle of a man that is at the end of his strength.  Soon he was joined by other shuffling forms.
“Sergeant,” Shadow said after a time, “those men are wearing the armor and carrying the shields painted with the standard of the Queen’s army.”
“Aye?” he asked.  “Well then, stand down.  One of the patrols must have had some survivors…”
“Uh,” Draken began as his sight adjusted to the crepuscular light of the grasslands, “If they’re elves, they’re not in very good shape.”
“What do ye mean, lad.  If?”
Draken took out his crossbow and in a flash, a bolt headed towards on of the leaders of the growing column of men.  One with a helmet.  It struck him in the side of the head and the helmet came off.  So did the head.  The body, on the other hand, did not even slow down.  The helmet bounced down the hill and came to a rest at Sarge’s feet, the head still in it.  The mouth made as if to bite his boot and the eyes rolled wildly.
“Ah, ye gods!” Sarge swore as he kicked the head away, “‘Tis zombies.   To arms!  Fight for yer very lives, men!”
“Arrr,” said Happy simply.  Draken couldn’t have agreed more.  He drew his sword and prepared to fight the zombie horde.

“The Harper’s brought me two reports that really bother me,” Tryg stated as he stood before the Lord and Lady of Brightstone Keep. The raised diases in the throne room offered no barrier to his pointed stare. It sobered the look of the bored Draken and the interested but all-too-familiar Shadow. “One is this tidbit from Star. It appears that the High King is looking for adventurers to go to Garden. They have not heard anything from the High Prelate of the Holy City of the Pantheon in days and all the soldiers they’ve sent have gone missing. The king suspects there is some sort of monster abducting them…”

“Really?” Shadow asked sarcastically. “Amazing powers of deduction, there. For a human.”

“The really interesting part of this report,” Tryg continued, more forcefully, “is that the king is calling for any help AT ALL. He has been out to prove that he and the Army of Star can handle it all.” Tryg snorted, “Might have something to do with having their fat pulled out of the friar by the Arash-Hai. Still out to prove his army is still good enough. So I’d like to send a couple of agents in to take up the king’s call. We could send them with one of the sending mirrors so we could get an update instantly…”

“So send them,” Draken yawned.

“Right, I’ll get right on it. Listen, my lord, if I’m keeping you up with all of this hero-stuff, we could arrange for you to get a nap while we try to keep the world together…” Tryg stared again.

“Sorry,” Draken shot back lamely.

“The other report,” Tryg continued as if nothing had happened, “is from Luminos. That place that your friend, Hawk, built has been a real thorn in the sides of the elves for the last year.”

“We know,” Shadow said uncomfortably. Her Grandfather, the King of the Banderlath, had been pressuring her to do something about the “City of Justice” that insisted that the elves were an abomination before the gods for dabbling so deeply in Arcane power. She had been unable or unwilling to do so and Tryg’s new report was bound to cause a new round of guilt in her.

“Anyway,” Tryg continued, sounding a bit annoyed. Really, the man was getting a bit TOO familiar! “Now they have started to persecute magic users in the area. According to this report, they’ve begun to round up magicians, sorcerers and, especially, warlocks, in the area. Word that our people get is that they are putting them to death in the name of ‘removing the stain of the arcane evil from the holy world’.”

“How reliable is that report?” Draken said, sitting up.

“Very,” Tryg shot back.

“Send someone. A harper and someone else. I want to know what in the Nine Hells is wrong with Juris!”

“Okay,” Shadow said with exasperation, “but keep it quiet. This can NOT be connected with us.”

“My people will be discrete, as always.” Tryg finished with a bow and a roguish smile.

It made Shadow remember why she’d let him worm his way into her life. The man was too much! Still, she couldn’t help but smile back. “One of these days, you’ll be wrong and I want to be there just to see the look on your face!”

“Never happen,” he laughed.

“If that’s it…” Draken yawned again, “I think I will take that nap.”

“That’s all I have. But I think that the Battle Wizard is waiting in the hall to see you.” He paused as he saw the look of dull incredulity on each face. “I mean, I passed him on my way in here and when I asked if he wanted to go first he said ‘No, just tell them I’m out here when you’re done!’.”

A dark look passed between the two heroes. Seeing the old wizard always meant trouble was on its way…

After the fall of the Picket Line, the Defender and her companions managed to reactivate Nimras and the jewel that kept evil at bay. That was all well and good for the evil OUTSIDE the lands but as for the evil inside, that is another matter. The Jewelgate only served as a dam with Banderlath and Moriath awash in a lake of undead, orcs, hellspawn and dragons. The elves were now faced with the notion of being trapped inside their own closed realm with evil all around them.

So the Jewelgate was turned off and the invaders chased back out the way they came. This was none to the liking of the elves new neighbors to the east, the Empire of Light. Relations between Luminos and Orolan have been strained of late. Relations between Luminos and Bandera have often reached near the point of swordplay.

Still, with trade coming in through the underground Dwarven trade road and with the threat of the Destroyer over, the Elves are returning to their peaceful ways of life. But that is not to say that they don’t have problems.

The royal line of Bandera died during the war. Another heir of Bander had to be chosen. The only surviving member of that mighty bloodline was (the presumed dead and recently returned) Hawk Darkpetal. Hawk has led the elves to many victories of late over their overwhelming enemies. He it was that led the army that struck the final blow on the Destroyer’s forces. He it was that ordered the expedition to Nimras. And he has been the only cool head in the dealings with Luminos. All and all he’s been a wise king; he is just cursed with unbearable wanderlust. The royal guard has often been sent to bring him back from his extensive jaunts, once at the point of a sword. The king is restless and eagerly awaits news from his granddaughter, the current Defender and mistress of Brightstone keep.

And then there is the matter of the cult. Throughout the elven lands, they are experiencing something of a schism in the church. Some of the elven clerics have gotten it into their heads that one need not worship a god in order to receive the powers of divine magic. And so, they have stopped praying to Corellon Larethian, instead praying to the ideals he stands for. They have taken to preaching it in towns where the invaders are most felt, demonstrating their point by using healing magic (for free), saying. “We pray to no god: the power of goodness and healing itself is in our hands. Why do you pray to a god who cannot, or will not, answer you. Ask the Church of Corellon if they have been able to perform even a simple Guidance spell. They will tell you, if the speak truly, no. Corellon is dead! As are our hopes if we pray to a dead god. Join us and discover the true power of your soul!” For this, the Heretics, as they are called, are being locked up and interrogated. But they are right; no spell that involves contact between the clerics and the god of the Elves has succeeded since the war. Its as if he cannot answer. Or will not…

And then the Destroyer began his campaign.  He first supplanted the king of the northern kingdom (Morton) with a vampire who sought to subjugate or destroy all of the lands under the Morton banner (including Darkwood Vale).  Then he sent an army of Black Orcs, Uruk-Mor and Demons against the pass at Star.  Finally he sent  a sea force led by the infamous Mizar against the southern kingdom (by establishing a beach head east of Saltmarsh).  But for the timely intervention of the Arash-hai and their chief (Wogg), the kingdom would have fallen.  But the High Ogres did, in fact, prevent the sea invasion and broke the siege of Star.  The High King now hoped to turn to rebuilding, figuring they could draw Morton back into the fold and rebuild the full kingdom.

He was wrong.

Morton forces, after their defeat by the Vassal of Bahamut and the Defender,  were trapped south of the Darkwood pass.  They were forced to turn inward.  The vampire, Viktor Lugash, began a reign of terror that focused on his own people.  He has since begun wholesale murder of the citizens of the kingdom’s chief city (Morton) and of many of the smaller towns and hamlets, often killing innocents in bizarre and frightening rituals.  The reason behind all this remains unknown; all the rangers have ever found are shrines whose symbol is a single dragon head – like a red or a gold but disjointed.

Star has, for the most part, recovered from the War and rebuilt.  The city itself suffered the most damage of all the human enclaves and it has received the bulk of the surplus treasury money to affect repairs.  This has not pleased the Kingdoms to the south who suffered their own ills during the war.  Unrest between Star and the Sourcelands has become the standard, threatening the age-long peace between the two.  The kingdom threatens to break up into tiny duchies.

Worse, the priests in the temple city of Garden have suffered high tragedy:  all of the priests of Moradin, Pelor, Heironious, Kord, Corellon, Yondalla and the other gods of light were murdered in a single night – knife through the heart.  Further investigation has shown that priests of darker gods in other locations were likewise murdered.  The problem is that ALL of them were murdered in a single night; sometimes as many as two hundred.  The knife wound, according to a priest of St. Cuthbert, appears to come from a direction directly in front of the victim – almost as if the wound were self-inflicted.  Yet no blood was found on the hand…

Saltmarsh, the southernmost outpost of human civilization, has also seen rough times.  Internal problems plagued it for too long but, one vampire and one dead priest of Vecna later and city seems to be getting back to normal, thanks to the treaty with the Arash-hai.  But word has come from the Arash-hai camp that the chief has “left for the Abyss”.  This cryptic warning has left many of the ruling elite in Saltmarsh to wonder if their protector is gone for good…

It gets worse. The Destroyer’s plan included dropping the Tarrasque into the largest underground city (Elodan). Before Milo and the others could mislead the thing into the Umber Hulk tunnels, it decimated most of the city; fine stone, carved when the gods still walked the world was broken and destroyed. Thank Moradin that they’d managed to evacuate all of the people before that but still many of them are homeless.

Not all of the Dwarves are in such dire straits. The Dwarves of the Darkwood Vale are seeing a boom under the Federation that none have seen in two ages! The Stone Tooth is acting as a trading hub in the absence of the larger eastern dwarven cities. They have opened up trade expeditions to nearly everywhere: with Star, who were in dire need of help; with Saltmarsh; with the Empire of the South; with the new homes of the Uruk-Hai and the Olog-hai and the Arash-hai and the Halflings; even a trade envoy with the elves has seen success. Through the Long Stair and work with the Forsaken (the Drow that have turned their backs on Lolth) the have made strides. The western Dwarves are doing well.

Only one thing casts a shadow on all of the Dwarves: all the direct prayers to Moradin are going unanswered. Oh, the clerics can still cast their spells but contact with the god through shrines and other holy sites has been cut off. Reason unknown…

Oh, the daily running of villages and towns had not changed. Children were born, the old died and life went on. But the way that things worked had changed.

The world (from the grinding ice of the snowy wastes to the frozen seas that are south of south) had been at war and had come back from the brink. But that was nothing new; there had always been wars and the little thorpes and hamlets knew nothing of the larger world so knew not that THIS war was special because it was so widespread, nor did they care. They celebrated the end of war as they’d always done, with festivals and marriages and births.

But there was something missing in all of it. The festivals often ended in rain or feuds. The marriages were over in less than a year more often than not and many of the births were stillborn. No, nothing seemed right; it was as if the whole world was cursed.

Indeed it was.