As I look down on the bodies of my fallen comrades and allies, I think back with sorrow to how it all began.
There are no words to express my feelings, even were I to share them. There are also no words to describe the heroes whom
I will never see again. We all know that a man who does not wish to be a hero, but is a hero, is an anti-hero. A man who
does not wish to be a hero, and isn't, is a coward. A man who wishes to be a hero, and is, is also brave. But what do you
call a man who wishes to be a hero, and no one will ever know that he was. I call him Boric.
But one cannot start a story at the end, fore all that has gone on before would be missed. Nor can one really
start at the beginning, since stories of true heroes begin long before the hero itself is born. And the testimonies
are unreliable. So instead I will begin this story in the middle. At the point where I myself can attest to the fact
presented, and their authenticity. Though I was not present for all of what you are about to hear, I can attest that
it is reliable.
Chapter 1:
It is the year 537 by the human calendar, 3582 by the Dwarves and 46927 by the Elves. The sun shines brightly in the
sky, and all is as it should be. For now. It has been two hundred years since Morath reunited the kingdoms of Bromely,
from a bickering band of feudal kingdom, to one under a single cohesive monarchy. It has been two hundred years since
chivalry was once more reinstalled as a way of life. Where respect was earn and defended to the death. It has been one
hundred and sixty seven years since it was discovered by the humans that by the positioning of the sun, a year was not
actually three hundred and sixty days, but in fact three hundred and sixty one. As one of his last acts as King of
Bromely Morath declared the middle of the year, The height of the summer, to be a non-day. Mid-year day. A day without
a season, a day without a month. A day without worries. It was declared that Mid-year day would be a celebration of
life and all things noble within it.
No man, woman or even child could be forced to work on Mid-year day. Many chose to, because mid-year was also a
day of celebration. On this mid-year day, Sir Boric Sternwalter had started his day early, this was his day of reckoning.
His day to become what no other seventeen year old man had ever become. Fore Boric this day was destined to become the
youngest battalion leader in the history of Bromely. He had it all planned out. Being Mid-year, the midyear games were
renown throughout the world as the stepping stone for any young noble or peasant, to receive favor for his majesties
forces. This Boric had already done. Sir Boric Sternwalter was Squadron leader of the Sareath 5th Cavalry. A position
he had held for the last nine months. Late last night, a rumor had been intercepted, saying that Boric would be called
to Commander Walsingham’s office this very day, BEFORE the starting of the games. Only once, in recent history had the
Bromely field commanders office ever called a conference with a subordinate before the games on Mid-year day, and on
that day, Commander Walsingham had been given his field commission.
In fact, last night, Boric had not slept at all. As a cavalier in his majesties army, Boric was well in fact
quite accustomed to not sleeping for days at a time. it was Mid-year, and he was looking forward, with great
anticipation to his new command, and proving himself on the field of battle this day. Unlike most of his fellow officers,
Boric was the son of a lesser noble, and as such was already at a disadvantage with respect to proving his worth as
a soldier. At the age of seventeen he had already fought in three major offensives against the advancing goblin hordes
to the east. He had proven him self in battle, had always received his due commissions, but since he could remember,
all of his great achievements had always been overshadowed by someone else. In the battle of Golens Keep, Boric had
single handedly slain twenty-seven goblins, the most of any other soldier there, excepting Sir Arthur Vandesworth,
who had slain thirty-two. At the horseman's pass offensive, Boric had taken control of the twelfth battalion, and
lead the charge into King Garak's Squadron of Elite bodyguards. Unfortunately for Boric, his battalion was not quite
as brave, or perhaps suicidal as he was. By the time Boric met the goblin line, he was alone, except for six other
cavaliers, who were quickly slain. Thus it was The seventh battalion under the command of Lord Robin Farnesborrow,
who had broken the line, and beheaded King Garak and rescued Boric from what was apparently certain death. Considering
all the battles Boric had fought, it was surprising that the blue eyed, baby faced beauty of the six foot tall, blond
haired adonis he was, was still unmarred by scars or visible wounds. His shoulder length curl blond hair was perfect,
he well toned muscular frame was perfect, his friendly yet still arrogant attitude was also perfect. His full plate
armour, well maintained, reflected light without distortion. In fact Boric had spent the last two days doing nothing
but shine his armour. Being the morning however, Boric had chosen to wear only the bare essentials. Wrapped about his
shoulders, Boric wore a blue cloak, embroidered in real gold. The cloak, the last present ever presented to him by his
father, was rumoured to have once belonged to Boric’s mother, and as such was of great sentimental value. Propped up
against a near by tree, Boric Blue and gold shield sparked with as much, if not more intensity, than his armour. Only
Boric’s life lacked perfection. Until today. This was going to be Boric's day.
As Boric took his faithful steed Thunder down to the pond, readying him for the quickly approaching jousting
tournament, Boric finally found himself at peace for a moment. He had always found that he was never happier, than
when he was preparing for battle, whether for his majesty, or for honour, it did not matter. Thunder was his best
friend and constant companion. The only thing in Boric's life that had never let him down. As Boric brushed Thunder’s
fine brown coat, and smoothed and clipped Thunders pristine main, Boric could not help but admire his steed’s fine
lines, and well sculptured muscles. Thunder had not been a foal when Boric purchased him over five years ago, but
Boric had treated him well, and always respected his steed. A respect which was returned.
When taking care of Thunder, Boric had a tendency to experience tunnel vision. As Boric, continued to groom
Thunder, many of the other Knights, Cavaliers and Paladins had brought they mounts down to the pond as well. Due to
the general tension before a joust, the friendly verbal sparing and jousting starting getting louder and louder,
forcing Boric to drown out the noise. So focused he was, that Boric missed the approach of Vance Almeida, one of
Commander Walsingham’s courtiers. It wasn’t until Vance put his hand on Boric’s shoulder, that the cat like reflexes
of Sir Boric Sternwalter took control. In one swift movement, Boric swung about, bracing himself for the ensuing attack.
Unfortunately for Boric, he was standing at the edge of the pond.
Unfortunately for Boric plate armour is very heavy, and one does not pick up ones feet very high when swiveling.
Unfortunately for Boric there were many trees in the area, and one’s roots just happened to be protruding where Boric
was standing.
Unfortunately for Boric his foot caught.
Unfortunately for Boric he tripped over him self and lost his balance and fell into the pond.
Unfortunately for Boric plate mail armour, even half plate, is very heavy, and he sank like a rock.
And most unfortunately for Boric, everybody saw.
As Boric sank, the euphoria of the situation surrounded him. It wasn’t all bad finally meeting the Gods. He
had lived a good life, it was just unfortunate that he was drowning in the pond of Vlen Batool, as opposed to dying
valiantly on the battlefield. Not that Boric wanted necessarily to die, he just realized that on Mid-year day, death
by drowning was by far more honourable, than being saved from his own stupidity, in front of all his peers.
Having resigned himself to his fate, Boric was somewhat displeased as he felt the leather rein wrap around his
leg, and drag him unceremoniously out of the pond, through the muck and mire.
Staring up at the bored and displeased eyes of Vance, did nothing to reduce the embarrassment he felt at being
dragged out of the pond by his heels.
“Commander Walsingham will see you now”, was all Vance said before turning around and walking back to the compound.
Boric’s embarrassment quickly turned into all out panic. What was he to do. It was blatantly obvious to even
the greatest dullard that he could not show up to his bosses office in armour covered in mud and algae. It was a real
shame. Boric had spent the last two days polishing, and repolishing his armour, until it had produced a perfect
unaltered reflection. Now was not only the polish gone, but it was caked in dirt and slime. Hurriedly Boric removed a
section of Thunder’s barding and wiped as much of the dirt from his person. It would not do to show up at Commander
Walsingham’s office covered in mud, but it would be worse to be late. The Vlen Batool army was not know for promoting
tardy officers.
So, flying after Vance, still trying to clean his armour, Boric ran directly into a small band of peasants, who
obviously had recently had been arrested for some form of crime. Probably treason or spying by the looks of them.
It was a very odd group, composed of a Dwarf, a kobold, and two women.
Tripping over the kobold, Boric had barely enough time to catch his balance before he slammed directly into
the Dwarf. In comparison, if the Kobold was a rut in the road, the dwarf was a fortified wall. Needless to say, even
though Boric out weighed the dwarf by a hundred pounds, if not more, within seconds Boric was once more lying on his
back on the ground, kicking his feet helplessly like a turtle flipped over on its shell. The whole situation would not
have been so intolerable considering his recent swim in the pond, had the two women beside him not broken out in
hysterical laughter. To make matters worse, they were both quite attractive, even though on of them was apparently an
elfin maiden.
“Get me up you worthless peasants”, Boric screamed. “I have important business to attend to, and I do not have time
to waste with you lot. Had to not gotten in my way, I would not be in this predicament.”
Taking a closer inspection of the dwarf, Boric quickly recognized the insignia of a dwarven sergeant emblazoned
on his tabard. “You sergeant, help up an officer. Stop your lollygagging about!!”
With a look of disgust, the dwarf quickly raised Boric to his feet, allowing him to continue on his way.
Boric had once again lost precious time dealing with the miscreants. What was important now was making as good
of an impression on Commander Walsingham as possible. This unfortunately required Boric to come up with a good reason
to explain exactly why he was still covered in mud and muck.
Unfortunately nothing came to him as he entered the barracks, and nothing had come to mind as he bound up the twenty
six flight of stairs to Commander Walsingham’s office. Boric was still desperately trying to come with an excuse, when
an important thought did enter Boric head. And that thought was a simple one.
That was that plate mail boots covered in mud proved very little traction on smooth stone surfaces, and tends
to make stopping very difficult.
So, Boric slid.
Boric slid across the hall. Luckily for Boric, there was a large wooden door at the entrance to Commander
Walsingham’s office. Unfortunately for Boric, it wasn’t strong enough to deplete the inertia of four hundred pounds
of man and metal.
Crashing through the office, Boric vaguely noticed Cedric Hastings, Commander Walsingham’s secretary, open
his mouth to say something. Still off balance, Boric pre-empted him by shouting, “I have an appointment”, as he continued
to crash though the waiting room and towards the office. Luckily for Boric, the Commander’s door was closed. Unfortunately
just before Boric could reach it to help steady himself before entering the office, the door opened. In retrospect Boric
would state that up until now, his ride through Commander Walsingham’s office had happened in fast motion, the last couple
of seconds however, dropped down to a snails pace.
As the door opened, Boric was met by first the frustrated, and than suddenly the surprised face of Myron
Dametroshin. Little more of Myron could be mentioned, since Boric subsequently toppled over on top of him, smothering
him under his massive shell. Commander Walsingham, on the other hand, had gone from looking angry, to down right livid.
With a crash to rival the meeting of two armies, Boric bowled over Myron, and then as a single unit, subsequently
collided with Commander Walsingham’s desk, snapping one of it legs clean off.
Lying stunned on the floor, Boric was unceremoniously hoised, and dropped, with a much softer crash, as Myron
dislodged himself from the sprawling cavalier. As Myron rose, a look of both pleasure and distain crossed his pretty
boy face. To which Boric let out a heavy sigh.
Myron was well known to Boric, for Myron has always been, and as far as Boric could tell,would always be, his
main rival. Myron, who stood about one half of an inch above Boric, was also one month younger than Boric. Both had
attended the Vlen Batool academy of Martial arts together, and though Boric had always considered him self Myron’s
superior, Myron had tended to receive more praise. No matter what Boric had accomplished, Myron always seemed to one up
him somehow. Boric had been the youngest squadron commander in Bromely’s history, until Lord Varden’s surprise retirement,
and Myron took his place, making him the youngest. As Boric dragged himself up, using Commander Walsingham’s desk as
leverage, Boric got the distinct sensation that today was going to be no different.
“Sir Boric Sternwalter reporting as ordered, Sir !!”, Boric barked.
Steam rose from Commander Walsingham’s ears, and his face dropped about three shades of red.
There was a moment of silence as Commander Walsingham took a moment to control his temper. “Actually Boric”,
Commander Walsingham replied, “ No where in that order do I remember asking you to destroy my desk and office.
NOW DID I !!!!!”
“Sir, no SIR!”, was Boric’s only reply. From his right, Boric could hear the muffled yet distinct sound of
Myron snickering to himself. Boric knew word of this little escapade would precede him to the jousting field this day.
For a moment, Boric even wished that there was some way to avoid competing in the Mid-year tournaments. But only for a
moment, for Boric reminded himself that he had never avoided a fight before, and certainly was not planning to start now.
It was at this point that he realized that neither Commander Walsingham nor Myron were speaking, and were both
staring at Boric intently.
“I believe not sir”, Boric responded, hoping that it would answer the question he had obviously missed.
“So you have no idea ?”, Commander Walsingham replied, followed quickly by more snickering from the
direction of Myron.
“No sir ??” Boric replied. “Unfortunate”, the only response as Commander Walsingham bore a silencing look
at Myron. “apparently too many shots to the head son, well I have every intention of saving you from any more today.”
A look of sudden realization crossed Boric face. This was bad, really bad. “I had hopes for you Sternwalter,
I had even considered you for promotion to Lt. Commander, . . . HOWEVER, . . if you cannot even be trusted to
remember how you managed to get covered in mud, I am sure you cannot be trusted to command MY ARMY !!!”, Commander
Walsingham cried, slamming his steel fist onto his desk.
Now normally, Commander Walsingham slamming his fist onto his desk is normal practice. In fact it happens at
least ten times per day. Unfortunately today was not a normal day. His desk, now standing lopsided due to a broken leg,
managed to tip just that little bit farther. With moments, all three occupants of the room stood mesmerized as they
watched half the contents of Commander Walsingham’s desk slide off the top, and fall crashing to the floor. At which
point, the Commander turned a colour of red five shades deeper than before, and the vein on his temple started to throb.
The moment was broken as Boric hurridly tried to retrieve those objects which had fallen, and stop the rest of
the contents from joining them.
“ENOUGH!!”, the Commander barked, startling Boric and making him drop the contents of his hands.
The silence was only broken by the sound of the contents of the desk once more hitting the ground.
“Boric, . . . I called you in here so I could give you a command”, Commander Walsingham started. Boric sneered
in Myron’s direction slightly, but only for a moment, since Myron was staring back, with a huge grin on his face.” and
this little display has fortified my original stance. I am promoting Myron to the office of Lieutenant Commander, and
given him the field commission in charge of the 14th regiment in the western company.”
Distraught, it took Boric a moment to register that even though he was not being promoted to Lieutenant
commander, he was still getting a command. Perhaps a smaller regiment in another company. Patiently Boric stood at
attention, waiting the Commander to finish. It was a long wait. Finally after a minute of Myron’s gloating,
he finally saluted Commander Walsingham, turned and left, leaving Boric standing alone. Eventually Commander
Walsingham continued.
“You on the other hand Sir Boric, I have a special mission, that I need accomplished. Are you familiar
with Lord Cranston?”
Lord Cranston? Boric thought, What does some socialite have to do with a Regimental promotion ? “Sir, no Sir.
He is not in the regimental file. Is he a field commander?”
“Well Sir Boric”, the Commander continued, apparently oblivious of the interruption, “Lord Cranston is one
of Bromely’s more eccentric mages. The mage’s guild and University of Magics all take his advice, and honour his magics.”
“ That’s very interesting sir, but I fail to see what a lazy mage has anything to do with the defense of the
borders of … “, interrupted Boric.
“. . AND IF YOU GIVE ME A MOMENT I WILL TELL YOU WHY BORIC !!!”, shouted Commander Walsingham. “There is a rumor
that Alastra or Cramon have returned. Lord Cranston was one assigned to investigate. He was supposed to report in over
two days ago, and you know how I hate late reports.”
Doing a quick mental calculation, Boric went over the disposition of all of his reports and their due dates.
Realizing that all his of reports were presently up to date, he responded with a simple, “Yes Sir.”
“So what I am going to need you to do, if you could possibly stop interrupting for just a moment, I have picked
you to lead a small group . . .”, started Commander Walsingham.
“ . . . an excellent idea Sir, I believe Lt. Raymond Bailey would make an excellent scout. The Lian twins,
Maxamil and Mongo are excellent front men. They should be able to handle any major problems that we encounter. I can go
to the temple of Jorador to get a healer in case Lord Cranston needs help, and we can grab some guild master off the rack
to handle . . .”
“ENOUGH !!!”, Commander Walsingham screamed, beating his fist once more on the desk, knocking those content
not already on the floor, to the floor. ”I have assigned you a team, if you would shut up long enough to listen you might
very well learn something. Now I have assembled you team in the square . . .”
“Excellent Sir I will meet them in Morath’s Square . . .”, proclaimed Boric. As he turned to leave, he was
faced with an acute level of deja vous, for once more the lower portion of his body met an irresistible force. After
falling face down for the third time in an hour, Boric rolled over and looked up. For the second time in an hour Boric
was looking up into the disapproving eyes of the dwarf. The eyes staring back at Boric were those of a veteran soldier.
Boric was a poor judge of ages, but he knew Dwarves usually lived to the ripe old age of one hundred and fifty. If that
was true, they eyes staring back at him had probably seen their one hundredth summer a few years ago. Even a quick look
at Kilgram reveals the evidence of a seasoned soldier. Battle scars, well concealed by the thick red beard, cover his
face and clothes. Much of his exceptionally maintained armour and equipment showed minor signs of combat, and many showed
hasty field repairs. Most of the damage to Kilgrams armour however seemed to be to his back. His brown cloak and black
boots, though of common stock, show signs of age and much use. None the less, they are well kept and most likely in as
good of shape as when they were first purchased. Slung across his back a crossbow of master dwarven weaponsmith quality,
and in his left hand, an enormous battle axe, which was literally taller than the dwarf himself.
“ . . . and this, Boric, is your second in command, Sergeant Kilgram from the Grimridge Mountain’s exterior
defense regiment.”, continued Commander Walsingham as he walked around the sloping desk. “Kilgram, I hear you are an
excellent combatant and tactician. I expect you to make sure everyone returns unscathed.”
“Do I have to take him with me?”, Kilgram replied, eyeing Boric.
“Yes”, was his only reply.
“Well that will certainly make it more difficult”, grumbled Kilgram as he turned and left. It took Boric a
minute to slowly hoist his armoured body up off the floor. Looking into Commander Walsingham’s eyes for a moment, and
seeing the distain and annoyance, Boric felt it was a prudent moment to leave and follow Kilgram to his new command.
In order to drive home the point, Commander Walsingham shot, “Perhaps you would like to meet your men ?”
“Aye Sir, an excellent idea Sir.”
Marching down the stairs, the shock of the last hour finally started to wear off, and the shock of reality
began to sink in. They had demoted him. In the span of an hour, Boric had gone from possibly being the next Lieutenant
Commander of the western regiment, to loosing his position as battalion leader, to finally rest at the level of errand boy.
And Boric was off, bounding down the stairs. Once he closed in on the slow moving Kilgram, Boric also slowed
down and walked at a respectful three paces behind the trudging dwarf. It was not long before they were both back outside
and moving towards Morath’s square. As Boric walked the sounds of preparation filled the air. Over the last half hour in
Commander Walsingham’s office, Boric had completely forgotten that it was Mid-year day. It suddenly occurred to Boric
that for the first time in six years, he would be missing the Mid-year games.
Boric had had it all planned out. Thou jousting was not his specialty, it was also not his worst sport.
Considering the competition this year, Boric had been an excellent candidate for at least a fifth place finish.
Good enough to win the admiration of many a young maiden. As Boric and Kilgram passed Mid-year park, he could see
the contestants of the free for all preparing for battle.
The “need-for-speed”, was a group of Rangers were a favorite to win, assuming they could make it to Mid-year
mountain and dig in. But I am forgetting myself. The free for all was the most popular game at the Mid-year festivities.
The rules were quite simple. The free for all was an open combat competition. Teams having no more than six participants
were magically teleported to random locations (together) inside the four hundred acre park grounds. The teams would then
wander around the park, and fight which ever team they met. The last team standing was the winner. Sounds easy right.
Right. Each member of the team was allowed to bring one weapon, and one special item with them into the competition.
Need not worry tough, all damage done to a person within the park grounds is an illusion. Once a person is hit enough
times to kill them, they are teleported outside the combat grounds, and are not allowed to re-enter. Crystal balls are
set up along the borders of the area to allow spectators to watch the fighting.
The three favorites this year were, the need for speed of course, since they are the best archers in the country.
They sit atop Mid-year mountain and just shoot anyone who comes near. The second group, and a royal favorite, is
“The King’s Champions”, made up of Karn the Troll, Mysticus the mage, and Markus the Ranger. They have personally won
three of the last ten Mid-year games. The final fan favorite, weighing in at four hundred and six pounds is Fred.
Fred is a team all his own. For his two special items he takes a keg of beer, and a keg of beer. The special part is
that they are unbreakable. Fred has been know to through a full keg of beer over one hundred yards accurately. Fred has
won the last three mid-year games in a row, and five of the last ten games. Boric had planned to enter this year with a
team of Cavaliers and Knights, but now that dream was over.
As Boric entered Morath’s square, he was once more noticed the dwarf walking towards the kobold and two women,
who were presently standing beside a white tree at the edge of Mid-year park. As Kilgram and Boric approached the squad,
Boric stopped Kilgram with a hand and said, “I understand that you have to say good-bye to your entourage and woman, but
we need to find our men, and get this mission under way. The Lord Cranston may well be in trouble, so the sooner we can
make it to his mansion, the better.”
“Of course Boric”, was the response from Kilgram, ”which is of course why I have brought you here to meet the
squad we are assigned.
“THEM !!!!”
“Yes you blue baffoon, them!”
“He is not very blue right now” piped up the kobold, “his clothes are all dirty, and his armour not so shiny. I
could wash those for you and spiff up that armour in a jiffy for you Boric, just take off your clothes and . . . “
“Shut up Guido”, came an annoyed tone from the human female, “The quicker we can get this done, the sooner I can
be rid of you all and go back to doing something constructive.”
“If you would all quiet down we can get the introductions done, because the sooner we are on our way, the sooner
we can all go home”, interrupted Kilgram. “Now Boric these are your, . . . men . .”
“Man”, corrected Boric
“Men”, repeated Kilgram
“All I see here are a dwarf, a kobold and two hangers on, who are slowing us down. You can’t really expect me
to take two women into certain danger, they will do nothing but slow us down and probably get we men killed as we protect
their precious skins. Women are good for little more than being jewelry on a mans arm, and a cheap way to warm his bed.”
“And me” replied the white tree. White tree. This time it registered on Boric. So Boric looked up. Way up.
Somewhere around the clouds stood a head on two very broad shoulders.
“And of course . . . you”, corrected Boric. “Kilgram ??”
“Thank you Sir. As I was saying these are your ‘men’.” Pointing to the loud woman in leather armour. “This is
Natasha, she is a longbowman . . .”
“Person!”
“Person ??” asked Kilgram
“I am a longbowperson, NOT a longbowman.”, replied Natasha. Natasha stood just above six feet in height,
far above the average for a woman. At the age of sixteen she had been a member of the county militia for two years,
and had managed to alienate herself from every squad in the area. Her silky blond hair hung freely over the forest
green colored shirt and tabard that she wore over the coarse brown studded leather armour. From the nicks and mends
in the armour it was quite evident that she was the veteran of many battles, and as such more than capable of handling
herself. Across her back was slung a superior quality longbow and a duel set of quivers, both packed beyond capacity
with arrows.
“My DEEPEST apologies”, continued Kilgram, “This is Natasha, she is a longbow-person. As I hear it she is
one of the best archers in Bromely, with a little work she could even give ‘The need for Speed’ a run for their money,
so to speak. At range in this party she is unparalleled, but in melee combat . . . uh . . not as good as others.”
“I am better than any man here, and more than willing to prove it”, barked Natasha.
“Unnecessary”, replied Kilgram with a sigh. “This little guy here . . .”
“ . . . Hello shiny man !! . . .”, piped the kobold. Dressed in little more than a red tabard, Guido’s height
barely brought him to the level of Kilgram’s belt buckle. Hanging from a poor ratty belt, a small knife, which looked
like a dagger in comparison, and across his chest hung loosely a bandolier of darts. Standing beside Natasha, his green
skin blended well into her tabard. The most striking feature to this little guy however, was the fact that he was
missing an ear.
“ . . . is Guido. Guido is a former student of the Laxdall School of Magic. . . .”
“So he’s a mage. A spell lobber . . .”, Boric cued, hoping to hurry this non-sense along.
“Well yes and no”, responded Kilgram, starting to show some frustration at the constant interruptions.
“He, . . . KNOWS, . . . how to cast spells. He just, well, doesn’t”
“Right . . “, moaned Boric.
“But I have a knife !!!”, chirped the exuberant Guido. “So I can kill stuff too !!!”
“Right . . .”, croaked Boric, “Next”
“You wouldn’t happen to know Den would you?”, asked Guido to Boric. “I am looking for a shiny man in armour just
like you who’s name is Den. Would you know him?”
“Ah, . . . no. I don’t know Den”
“Alright,” chirped Guido, and then he bound off.
“Next, is this lovely Elven lady”, continued Kilgram unphased, the Elven maiden curtsied delicately, as Natasha
choked on something. “This is Bluebell. She is a priestess of Helora.”
“Excellent well, a goddess of healing. I am sure your abilities are potent. If Lord Cranston is hurt we may well
need your services.”, chimed Boric, obviously impressed with this selection.
“Oh yes Boric, I am very potent, and I am always willing to serve”, slinked Bluebell, in one of the most sultry
displays Boric had ever been witness to. Bluebell was barely dressed in a sheer light blue silk gown, which seductively
hugged her ample yet very feminine curves. Her big beautiful blue eyes, which probably entrapped any male like a bear
trap, batted a proposal lost on no one except possibly Guido. As she stepped forward, Bluebell wistfully flicked her
long golden waist length hair out from in front of her perfect face. Were she not an elf, her resemblance to Boric would
have been uncanny. Her blue gown was complimented beautifully by blood red leather sandles and two blood red leather
vambraces.
“OH PA-LEASE”, shouted Natasha, obviously revolted by the entire situation.
“She is not a combatant, but I feel her skills will be of use where we are going. Her . . . healing . . .
skills . . . . BORIC !!! are you still with us ???”
As Boric closed his mouth and wiped the saliva from his chin, he finally managed to break eye contact with
Bluebell. “Of . . . course, please do continue.”
“Fine. Finally this rather tall gentleman is Thoram. He is a Norenian giant and . . .”
“ . . . mentalist”, concluded Thoram.
“Mentalist ?”, questioned Boric
“Yes, Mentalist”, continued Thoram. Dressed in a plain white robe, the color could be described as little less
than pure. Standing well over twenty feet tall, Thoram was a truly impressive sight. His long flaming red hair, probably
hung down over six feet long, but surprisingly stayed out of his face. His bare feet, over twice the size of Guido,
massaged the ground gingerly. Slung across his back, was what could only be classified as a crossbow in his hands. To
those of normal human stature, it would be a siege arbalest. In his right hand, a tree, which Thoram would refer to as
a walking stick. “My mind is so attuned to the universe, so much so that it has developed extra-ordinary senses of its
own. I am able to see things no one else can see, and I am also able to talk directly to peoples minds.”
“Telepathy”, grunted Kilgram.
“So,” thinking Boric, “You can communicate with everyone’s minds here. Enabling use to coordinate or attacks
to our best advantage. Enabling us to more effectively kill our enemies. You could probably even predict our enemies
actions, and mentally . . .”
“Well, no”, interrupted Thoram with some hesitation. “That would be wrong.”
“WRONG ??!?” cried Boric
“Yes, killing others is wrong. I will not aid you in killing another sentient or even living being,” stated
Thoram succinctly.
“OK, let me get this straight”, concluded Boric, “ I have been sent on a mission with a mage who wont cast
spells, a pacifist giant who could probably crush me with his bare hands, and two women ?”
“ . . . and me” growled Kilgram.
“Yes,” continued Boric, “But you are potentially useful.”
“I’ll take that as a complement” growled Kilgram, “but each of us has something to add to this mission. I am
sure each of us will surprise you by the time this mission is over.”
“I’ll be surprised if we live”, sighed Boric in frustration.
“For Gaea’s sake, why am I here !!”, cried Natasha.
“Because you were ordered to”, responded Kilgram
“Because no one else wants you”, taunted Boric
Looking around it occurred to Boric that things were actually worse than first appearances. A mage who does not
cast spells; a man hater with a bow; a worthless woman who was likely to get them all killed, with a healing ability; and
a giant who would not kill. Boric hadn’t been demoted to messenger, he had become a babysitter.