The Flight of the Arrow

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This will chronicle Dalon's adventurers and happenings in Sundren. Please reserve feedback for PM's or separate threads.

[Dismus]

Shade lay in his bunk in his room in the Hall of Heroes in Waterdeep. Dreaming of days gone by with his long gone friends. *Knock* *KnocK*. Shade turns his head to the door and sits up on his bed. "Come in." As he watches the door a a young man no older than 14 years old steps in to his room in the outfit of an acolyte. Shade asks "How can I help you?" The young man replies "You have an urgent letter from a Sir Dalon."Shade's eyes open wide. With a voice that seems a bit shaken "Leave it on my desk there."

A few minutes pass by and Shade still has not opened the letter fearing for the worst. I have not heard from him so long I hope all is well. Shade walks to his desk and slowly opens the parchment. His eyes going back and forth and a smile slowly spreading across his face. Shade puts the letter down and goes to his closet and pulls out a chest.

He looks down into the chest filled with a suit of finely polished armor and an axe. I will be there shortly my friend and the axe and the arrow will ride together once again. *pauses for a moment* First I must stop and get Fyevarra and find that little bastard Frarry.

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The guardsmen approached the quarrel at the campfire, an elf’s still form held aloft between them. They unceremoniously dropped her body among the gathering and marched off, their duty done. Dalon snapped his gaze from Jessica’s and Kathryn’s whispered conversation as the dull thud of the elf dropping to the earth reached his ears, and he looked on curiously as Cirion knelt by her side, tending her wounds.

The elf womans eyes snapped open. “Ogres! Gods, get them away!” She flailed about, then breaking into a scream wrought of anguish. “My arm! Ungh…it’s broken…”

“No worries!” A cheerful gnome, called Pom, quickstepped up to the injured elf, quickly channeling his energies into the wounded elf’s arm; the arm reset painlessly, and the woman sighed with great relief.

“Now,” Cirion’s brow furrowed with concern, “what’s this about ogres?”

The elf woman trembled at the recollection. “Scores of them, maybe hundreds…a huge warband in the Viridale!”

Half of a dozen men and women spoke at once.
“We’ll end this threat!”
“We know what must be done!”
“How many of our team is awake and able?”
“We’ve but one choice!”

Dalon desperately fought back a half-grin, despite the situation, thoroughly amused with all of the sudden bravado.

Kathryn’s voice rose over all the others, her clear tone accepting no compromise. “So who will fight for Sundren?!” The cacophony resumed.

“I will!”
“Of course!”
“Like you need to ask…”

The din settled, and a very brief silence was broken with, “Jessica? Dalon?”

The majority of the assembly turned toward Jessica at that moment, and she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Dalon caught her gaze, quizzically quirking his right brow. She stepped through the gathering and stood before him, and they spoke to each other in hushed tones.

“Ah’m tired, baby. Give ‘em a hand, will ya’, and I’ll see ya’at th’ inn?”
Dalon nodded at her familiar cant, “Alright,” he looked past Jessica, regarding Kathryn briefly, “and don’t worry about her.”

“No…we talked. Everythin’s fine…keep her safe, hm?” She lifted a tender kiss to his lips and turned toward the road.

“I’ll see you at the inn in a few hours, Jess!” He called and waved after her, a wry, cocky grin dominating his features. Dalon turned back to the gathering, shrugging passively. “I’m in.”
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“One’s through!” Dalon vainly tried to raise his voice over the deafening clamor of the battle. An ogre burst through the front line, shoving through two of the swordsmen and bearing down on the backline. The archers and spell casters began to scatter, each an easy target for the brutish creature. Dalon shouldered his bow and sprinted toward the ogre, his feet pounding the ground in a rapid cadence as he lowered his shoulder. One final, desperate lunge vaulted his much smaller form into the side of the encroaching ogre, sending them both sprawling off the side of the plateau, an impossibly long fall greeting them with an uncompromising finish beckoning them from the hard but verdant floor of the Viridale.

Dalon reached out, taking hold of the ogre’s loin cloth and pulling hard, bringing his free-falling form in line with the ogre’s. A few feet separated them, and the beast’s terrified screams drowned out the still raging battle above them. The ground had seemed so far away only moments ago, but Dalon’s shrinking peripherals and the wind sweeping his hair back told him that a hard landing was inevitable and soon-coming. Dalon closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, turning his head aside for what he knew would likely be the most painful moment of his life, if he survived it. He didn’t hear the sickening thud of the ogre’s body striking the forest floor. He didn’t even feel the impact of his own descent; he simply went numb, his senses struck dumb as his form slammed into the ogre’s prone body.

“Jess…” Dalon’s eyes rolled back into his head, and he lay still.
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He hurt all over. He was certain that he’d discovered new bones, new nerves; gods, did he hurt. But he wasn’t dead. The cocky grin returned to the battered archer, and he coughed out a brief, quiet laugh.

“Hehehe…ungh…” he groaned and hissed through his teeth; of course it would hurt to breathe. He opened his eyes, finding himself staring into the dull, anguished eyes of his flight partner.

“Was it good for you?” Dalon cracked, though quietly, as he pushed himself up using the ogre’s torso as leverage. The broken beast uttered a low, pained growl, but it could manage no shout. Dalon surveyed the ogre’s broken body; its limbs were twisted at grotesque angles, and it bled from its mouth and nose. Occasionally a finger would twitch, sending a spasm into the thing’s arm that would make it whine anew. Dalon pulled his short blade out of the scabbard at his left hip. Without protest, he shoved the business end of his sword through the ogre’s throat. Blood spurted from the wound, dousing the archer’s face as the ogre wretched and died. Dalon wiped his free hand over his face, cursing before he stood. He sheathed his sword and saw his bow lying not ten yards away. Dalon, seated on the ogre’s stomach, patted it on the chest, his wry half-grin again prevalent.

“Hang in there, sweetheart. I’ll get help.” Dalon gingerly placed his feet on the ground and stood, limping over to his bow.
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He stood atop the same hill he’d fallen from hours before, shielding his eyes from sun that poured through the canopy. North of him, his companions seemed to be finding cover, a few of them gesturing as though in conversation. West of him, a large force of ogres stood in anxious wait. East of him, the bulk of the Stonegarb assembled, their numbers in excess of one hundred. They milled about, banging their clubs on the ground and shouting, waiting in anger and anticipation for the plucky adventurers to show themselves. Dalon turned to the north again; they made no progress, though they were slightly better hidden.

“Huh…” a slow grin took the archer’s lips, and he nocked an arrow. He pulled his bow to its maximum tension, his chest straining with the effort, and he loosed the arrow. It darted through the muggy Viridale air, creating a soft sound of wind as it split the atmosphere. It slammed into one of the ogre’s clubs with a dull thud, and the beast lifted its weapon, regarding the offending missile curiously.

“Hurgh?” The ogre lifted its eyes to the southwest, and standing there was a blonde human, waving exagerratedly. The beast and perhaps a dozen of his kin bounded across the forest floor, murderously intent on the arrogant archer.

“Only ten-ish…shit…” Dalon fired a few more arrows into their midst, letting them close a bit; he baited them into a chase, and he turned, sprinting down the hill with the ogres not far behind. His heart pounded in rhythm with his feet as he sped through the forest. Angry shouts came from behind him and at his side as the other denizens of the Mossclaw joined in the hunt. Poorly wrought goblin arrows skittered about the ground around him as he ran, and the shouting roused the western war band; they took notice of the blonde, gaudily armored figure, and a detachment of them moved to head him off. Dalon slid to a stop as the monsters encroached, pulling a small vial holding a light purple liquid from his belt. He pulled the cork with his teeth and downed the contents. He held his hands out before him, staring with wide, anxious eyes.

“Come on…come on…” he watched his hands fade from sight, and as they did, his pursuers slowed their run to a jog, and then to a cautious walk. The Mossclaw Alliance halted, vainly looking all around them for the invisible man and for what was surely going to be an elaborate ambush. They waited.
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“Aye, all,” Dalon materialized in the midst of the company. They seemed not to notice.
“So if we find whatever’s motivating them from the caves, we can break their morale and send them packing.”
“Yeah, that seems the right of it.”
“Then let’s go.”
The company moved northward, toward the Stonegarb Caves, and Dalon fell into step. He looked skyward, an annoyed frown creasing his features. “Waste of a bloody potion…”