Gary^The^Procrastinator
Gathering Intel for the War - GC3, the Lenfels
“A spy!?! You want me to trust...to rest my reputation on the word of...a spy?” Sir Caelan Munro’s first reaction to his archer’s suggestion had been a mixture of frustration and disgust. But Tavish had wisely pointed out how little they really knew about the Magic Isles, how perilous an amphibious landing was in a strange land, with magic, and the reality of their situation soon set in.
Their assigned expedition leader, Lord Bajads, knew little of the enemy and also showed no interest in discovering anything about their invasion point, the northernmost beach on the Island of Lost Souls. “We can easily defeat anything these Outlaw scum can bring to the fight!” Bajads declared, even though they only had a total of 59 effective soldiers on the roll. As a minor noble clan, the Munro family owed support for the war, so Caelan led a very small force of 15 well-armed men for the King’s call to arms, but they were assigned to follow Lord Bajads and his retinue, like it or not.
Two days later here were Caelan and Tavish at the Bull’s Head Tavern in Durrough Harbor meeting a “reformed Outlaw” turned spy, who would only use the name, “Mort.”
Tavish had found Mort, how he wouldn’t say. The archer was shrewd and crafty, but he had friends in low places to be sure.
Mort had insisted on a public place. “People with somethin’ to hide meet in secret. We’re just havin’ some ale together.”
“Don’t kid yourself,” Caelan stated coldly, “I wouldn’t be seen with you if we didn’t need this information.”
“And I wouldn’t be seen with ye if I didn’t need the money,” Mort replied gulping his ale. “Speakin’ of which, 30 Draken if you please.”
“I don’t please. Try 10.”
Mort stopped, put down his ale and started to walk. Tavish stopped him. “We need this. How about 15 now, and 15 when we get back if the information is good.”
“Ye mean IF ye get back. I know what yer facin’, remember.”
Caelan reluctantly laid 10 Draken on the table and tapped the map. Mort was about to speak when suddenly three Loreesi burst out of the tavern staggering-drunk. One of them was so far gone he stumbled over the first stool he came to, his helmet clanking across the pier. Caelan frowned, glanced at Tavish, who rolled his eyes. They knew each other so well nothing needed to be said. Once the unruly Loreesi had drifted away, Mort spoke one word.
“Valtyr.”
“And what is Valtyr, some kind of dragon?”
“Not a dragon. A wizard,” Mort said in a sinister tone, “Jens Valtyr. The ice wizard.”
Caelan wasn’t impressed. He frowned, and glanced at a column of Lenfels marching to the dock to load up on small boats waiting to ferrying them out to the ships.
“I have heard of fools who pretend to be wizards who couldn’t conjure up a hairball, let alone something harmful.”
Mort leaned forward, very serious, and stated flatly, “Valtyr can turn a man into a block of ice with his own hands. He can give a dozen men bone-chillin’ shiverin’ with just one spell, so they can’t hold onto their weapons. And then his outlaws move in for the easy kill.”
“And how do you know all this?” Caelan asked accusingly. He then watched as Mort pulled back slowly, disconcerted, and unconsciously rubbed the side of his face.
“I would rather not say,” Mort said, and then Caelan noticed scarring on that side of his face, of a type he had seen before on Garheim soldiers. Frostbite.
Tavish leaned forward and placed 5 more Draken in front of the spy, asking, “How do we defeat him?”
Mort laughed, “That metal armor ye got’s no good to yer, for all the money ye spent on it. Wood. Leather, rubbed with fat. And stay light on yer feet, so’s ye can dance away from the spells.” He swallowed the last of his ale, scooping up the money. “15 more if ye get back. Oh, and if ye get lucky, they say he’s got a fortune in silver in his tower. Not that ye will live to see it.”
As he was about to walk away Tavish asked, “Anything else?”
Before disappearing around the corner Mort snorted, “Dress warm-like.”
Caelan thought a while and turned to his archer. “Believe him?”
Tavish looked grim, “Yes I do. I would not have arranged the meeting if I had any serious doubt.”
More thinking. Finally Sir Caelan told him, “Find me the largest hard-wood shields you can get for our men. Oh, and some leather armor too if it will fit.”
“And some fat,” Tavish added.
“Well I wasn’t going to mention that part…”
.......................
For Lands of Classic-Castle Global Challenge 3 Phase 1 entry
Gathering Intel for the War - GC3, the Lenfels
“A spy!?! You want me to trust...to rest my reputation on the word of...a spy?” Sir Caelan Munro’s first reaction to his archer’s suggestion had been a mixture of frustration and disgust. But Tavish had wisely pointed out how little they really knew about the Magic Isles, how perilous an amphibious landing was in a strange land, with magic, and the reality of their situation soon set in.
Their assigned expedition leader, Lord Bajads, knew little of the enemy and also showed no interest in discovering anything about their invasion point, the northernmost beach on the Island of Lost Souls. “We can easily defeat anything these Outlaw scum can bring to the fight!” Bajads declared, even though they only had a total of 59 effective soldiers on the roll. As a minor noble clan, the Munro family owed support for the war, so Caelan led a very small force of 15 well-armed men for the King’s call to arms, but they were assigned to follow Lord Bajads and his retinue, like it or not.
Two days later here were Caelan and Tavish at the Bull’s Head Tavern in Durrough Harbor meeting a “reformed Outlaw” turned spy, who would only use the name, “Mort.”
Tavish had found Mort, how he wouldn’t say. The archer was shrewd and crafty, but he had friends in low places to be sure.
Mort had insisted on a public place. “People with somethin’ to hide meet in secret. We’re just havin’ some ale together.”
“Don’t kid yourself,” Caelan stated coldly, “I wouldn’t be seen with you if we didn’t need this information.”
“And I wouldn’t be seen with ye if I didn’t need the money,” Mort replied gulping his ale. “Speakin’ of which, 30 Draken if you please.”
“I don’t please. Try 10.”
Mort stopped, put down his ale and started to walk. Tavish stopped him. “We need this. How about 15 now, and 15 when we get back if the information is good.”
“Ye mean IF ye get back. I know what yer facin’, remember.”
Caelan reluctantly laid 10 Draken on the table and tapped the map. Mort was about to speak when suddenly three Loreesi burst out of the tavern staggering-drunk. One of them was so far gone he stumbled over the first stool he came to, his helmet clanking across the pier. Caelan frowned, glanced at Tavish, who rolled his eyes. They knew each other so well nothing needed to be said. Once the unruly Loreesi had drifted away, Mort spoke one word.
“Valtyr.”
“And what is Valtyr, some kind of dragon?”
“Not a dragon. A wizard,” Mort said in a sinister tone, “Jens Valtyr. The ice wizard.”
Caelan wasn’t impressed. He frowned, and glanced at a column of Lenfels marching to the dock to load up on small boats waiting to ferrying them out to the ships.
“I have heard of fools who pretend to be wizards who couldn’t conjure up a hairball, let alone something harmful.”
Mort leaned forward, very serious, and stated flatly, “Valtyr can turn a man into a block of ice with his own hands. He can give a dozen men bone-chillin’ shiverin’ with just one spell, so they can’t hold onto their weapons. And then his outlaws move in for the easy kill.”
“And how do you know all this?” Caelan asked accusingly. He then watched as Mort pulled back slowly, disconcerted, and unconsciously rubbed the side of his face.
“I would rather not say,” Mort said, and then Caelan noticed scarring on that side of his face, of a type he had seen before on Garheim soldiers. Frostbite.
Tavish leaned forward and placed 5 more Draken in front of the spy, asking, “How do we defeat him?”
Mort laughed, “That metal armor ye got’s no good to yer, for all the money ye spent on it. Wood. Leather, rubbed with fat. And stay light on yer feet, so’s ye can dance away from the spells.” He swallowed the last of his ale, scooping up the money. “15 more if ye get back. Oh, and if ye get lucky, they say he’s got a fortune in silver in his tower. Not that ye will live to see it.”
As he was about to walk away Tavish asked, “Anything else?”
Before disappearing around the corner Mort snorted, “Dress warm-like.”
Caelan thought a while and turned to his archer. “Believe him?”
Tavish looked grim, “Yes I do. I would not have arranged the meeting if I had any serious doubt.”
More thinking. Finally Sir Caelan told him, “Find me the largest hard-wood shields you can get for our men. Oh, and some leather armor too if it will fit.”
“And some fat,” Tavish added.
“Well I wasn’t going to mention that part…”
.......................
For Lands of Classic-Castle Global Challenge 3 Phase 1 entry