"Nothing is worse than nothing." Raymond E. Feist, author of The Riftwar Saga.
The Wayward Wagon crosses through the beautiful blue of the bright late-morning sky. Four mighty hippogriffs pull the wagon along, the sun glinting off of their shades of jade stone, the great custom-made harness tight and creaking against their massive bodies as they seem to easily haul all that comes behind them - wagon, furniture, goods, adventurers, and each of their youthful dreams! Most of Shandra's Evergreen appears as a series of dreamlike green/brown blurs as it passes under you. That is, unless you look far off into the distance and then the ancient trees, hills, and rivers which all form into one grand and majestic view worthy of a painting in the hall of King Wildegard of Highwind himself.
Most folk long for the comfortable life, good and safe, soft and without too much worry. It is the soul of the adventurer that longs something greater, something more. Memories worth looking back on with terror and surprise, delights and fabulous victories over dangers Sharseyan common folk hear only in legend and never ever see face to face, if they are indeed so lucky. Better still is the life of the successful adventurer, their riches won from battles past keeping them warm and fed and reasonably safe most of the time (for is it not the rare armed traveler who wishes to travel safely all of the time?).
And so it is with the Wayward Wanderers. Well-rested by a good night's sleeping in fine beds, your fasts comfortably broken by good morning meals, each of you prepared for your day in your own ways. You woke to the sounds of Powerpaw and Mamapaw together in the Grand Pool with Powerpaw teaching his ever-careful mother the ways of the maul, specifically the legendary Maul of the Titans! That huge tool and weapon capable of demolishing stone to dust and blasting one-foot-thick wooden doors clean off their hinges was in the hands of your Mielikkian Felane Druidess as her son, a master of this weapon, guided her with his own lesser maul as something of a special time spent between mother and son.
You also heard and perhaps enjoyed the sweeter sounds of Bria of the Ko singing as she helped with the morning chores, her spirit, mind, and body seemed as close as cloud is to wind as she performed her Ko morning moving meditations, a practice no Averlundian ever created, you could say for certain. Stewart the Steward, his lady Beatrice, and the ever-alert turtle-creature Auri created your meals and sent you outside to the driver's seat and roof of the Wayward Wagon where you are now, the crisp wind tugging at your clothes, the delicious air in your every breath, and the stunning majesty of Shandra's Evergreen all about you. Even Nitwit and your kobold allies could not help but gather about to try and enjoy the wonder that is flight! These were good times, simple times.
But not all who lived in the forest could call life simple...
...or even good.
"Dere! Down dere!" Nitwit the Kobold Ranger points toward a wide gray patch of barren ground that lay at the base of a small valley near a thin brook and glittering lake. On one side was a great wall of hills and three caves that could easily be seen from your high, bird-like vantage point. "We're finally here! Dat's our tribe's place! Da Tribe of da Silver Sun! Dat's our..."
As Mamapaw guides the hippogriffs down, you begin to see... perhaps what was once good, but not any longer. Small rows of tents are there, but every one of them are flattened. Little wooden buildings and barricades once stood here, but each is clearly smashed down as destroyed as if by a meteorite sent from the skies. Not a single piece of good wood stood here now. All was demolished.
"...home." The word dies in Nitwit's mouth.
What was once perhaps a thriving village, new to the forest like a green seed greeting dawn, is no more. The colors are gray here. Gray and black as if stained with dried blood on the ground. Huge prints of boots the size of humans can be seen everywhere, especially on what were once homes... and perhaps what were once kobolds too. All is one great mess - defeated, dusty, and terribly sad. There is no village here anymore. Just a huddled group of thin - pathetically rail-thin - reptilian beings squatting obediently in the center of a huge circle drawn into the earth around them. One might think that the delightful sight of a magical wagon being hauled by flying golems with well-armed adventurers and happy kobolds upon it would cause cries of alarm and whoops of joy to come from the lungs of those below. But no.
They don't even look up at you.
Not a single one.
Mamapaw sets the Wayward Wagon down just outside of the village-become-battleground. Your kobold allies are chomping at the bit to run to their fellows, a few of them have to be grabbed back lest they hop off early and fall to harm themselves on the earth below. Once you land, Nitwit and his fellows skitter and scatter every which way. Their red scales and clean brown tunics seem bright and lively beside the muddy colors and disgusting globs of dirt that covers every one of their dear people.
"Guys! Guys! It's us!" Nitwit cries as he runs up waving his spear in excitement. As if ensorcelled, his kin which number about fifty, hardly stir. Those sparse few who turn in his direction seem to look through him instead of at him.
"What happened? Somebuddy tell us what happened!"
Not one opens their mouth to answer him.
As you get closer, you do not see the promised village of intrepid kobolds looking for their chance to leave these woods and to a better life inside the safety of Highwind's hope-filled walls. In their stead, you see dust-blasted little scaly people that may as well be the living dead. Even grave-haunting zombies show more life than this. These kobolds stare wide-eyed about them like a people imprisoned. But you see no chains, no bars. Just a huge collection utterly devoid of spirit, of energy, of hope. Young, old, male, female, they all look the same - deathly afraid. They won't hardly look at you. Some begin to tremble uncontrollably under the weight of your stares. But they do not go from the ugly circle drawn into the dirt around them. What few who move at all look away from you as if to simply acknowledge your existence is some mortal sin payable in scale-rending tortures unknown. The tribe are all thin; sickly thin as if they have never eaten - a terrible gathering of shadows. The state of the Kobolds of the Silver Sun, those savvy people Nitwit and Skiviks described as being so ready to worship and serve Charmsring, the goodliest of dragons, are a huge surprise to the kobolds that have brought you here. They stare and openly gawk at their friends, their families, their people, this gathering of victims who are sorry-looking, filthy dirty, skeleton-thin, and worst of all...
... absolutely quiet.
The air here is thick with silence as if to shout out would be something most terrible. Powerpaw the Fearless and Mamapaw the Motherly exchange very worried glances with you and each other. They look as if they don't know what to think of this. But Bria of the Ko trembles too as she looks on. She is the first to speak to you. "Heavens alight!" Her whispering voice shakes in real trepidation as her Healer senses see things beyond the reach of most living beings.
"Their spirits! Guys.... something... has snatched the very hope from their lives!"
Nitwit and his kobolds look at you with a mixture of pained embarrassment and fang-gnashing frustration. They are helpless to deliver any sort of explanation. Regardless of your backgrounds, unless you lack a heart, you see it too. Quite clearly as it becomes plain to all. What perhaps was once savvy, intrepid, hopeful... has been replaced by the deepest shadow of all.
Despair.
What do the Wayward Wanderers do?
Location: On the Wayward Wagon, heading toward the troubled village of the Kobolds of the Silver Sun in the eastern parts of Shandra's Evergreen.
Time/Date: Late morning, Monday, the 18th of November in the year 1118.
Weather: The morning air is fine and sweet, the warm glowing sun seems to peek out from behind distant clouds to greet you as you come out to see it!
Time/Date: Late morning, Monday, the 18th of November in the year 1118.
Weather: The morning air is fine and sweet, the warm glowing sun seems to peek out from behind distant clouds to greet you as you come out to see it!
"Elmer Bernstein - Complete Heavy Metal Score - 09 - Getting Bombed.wmv"
The Wayward Wagon crosses through the beautiful blue of the bright late-morning sky. Four mighty hippogriffs pull the wagon along, the sun glinting off of their shades of jade stone, the great custom-made harness tight and creaking against their massive bodies as they seem to easily haul all that comes behind them - wagon, furniture, goods, adventurers, and each of their youthful dreams! Most of Shandra's Evergreen appears as a series of dreamlike green/brown blurs as it passes under you. That is, unless you look far off into the distance and then the ancient trees, hills, and rivers which all form into one grand and majestic view worthy of a painting in the hall of King Wildegard of Highwind himself.
Most folk long for the comfortable life, good and safe, soft and without too much worry. It is the soul of the adventurer that longs something greater, something more. Memories worth looking back on with terror and surprise, delights and fabulous victories over dangers Sharseyan common folk hear only in legend and never ever see face to face, if they are indeed so lucky. Better still is the life of the successful adventurer, their riches won from battles past keeping them warm and fed and reasonably safe most of the time (for is it not the rare armed traveler who wishes to travel safely all of the time?).
And so it is with the Wayward Wanderers. Well-rested by a good night's sleeping in fine beds, your fasts comfortably broken by good morning meals, each of you prepared for your day in your own ways. You woke to the sounds of Powerpaw and Mamapaw together in the Grand Pool with Powerpaw teaching his ever-careful mother the ways of the maul, specifically the legendary Maul of the Titans! That huge tool and weapon capable of demolishing stone to dust and blasting one-foot-thick wooden doors clean off their hinges was in the hands of your Mielikkian Felane Druidess as her son, a master of this weapon, guided her with his own lesser maul as something of a special time spent between mother and son.
You also heard and perhaps enjoyed the sweeter sounds of Bria of the Ko singing as she helped with the morning chores, her spirit, mind, and body seemed as close as cloud is to wind as she performed her Ko morning moving meditations, a practice no Averlundian ever created, you could say for certain. Stewart the Steward, his lady Beatrice, and the ever-alert turtle-creature Auri created your meals and sent you outside to the driver's seat and roof of the Wayward Wagon where you are now, the crisp wind tugging at your clothes, the delicious air in your every breath, and the stunning majesty of Shandra's Evergreen all about you. Even Nitwit and your kobold allies could not help but gather about to try and enjoy the wonder that is flight! These were good times, simple times.
But not all who lived in the forest could call life simple...
...or even good.
"Dere! Down dere!" Nitwit the Kobold Ranger points toward a wide gray patch of barren ground that lay at the base of a small valley near a thin brook and glittering lake. On one side was a great wall of hills and three caves that could easily be seen from your high, bird-like vantage point. "We're finally here! Dat's our tribe's place! Da Tribe of da Silver Sun! Dat's our..."
As Mamapaw guides the hippogriffs down, you begin to see... perhaps what was once good, but not any longer. Small rows of tents are there, but every one of them are flattened. Little wooden buildings and barricades once stood here, but each is clearly smashed down as destroyed as if by a meteorite sent from the skies. Not a single piece of good wood stood here now. All was demolished.
"...home." The word dies in Nitwit's mouth.
What was once perhaps a thriving village, new to the forest like a green seed greeting dawn, is no more. The colors are gray here. Gray and black as if stained with dried blood on the ground. Huge prints of boots the size of humans can be seen everywhere, especially on what were once homes... and perhaps what were once kobolds too. All is one great mess - defeated, dusty, and terribly sad. There is no village here anymore. Just a huddled group of thin - pathetically rail-thin - reptilian beings squatting obediently in the center of a huge circle drawn into the earth around them. One might think that the delightful sight of a magical wagon being hauled by flying golems with well-armed adventurers and happy kobolds upon it would cause cries of alarm and whoops of joy to come from the lungs of those below. But no.
They don't even look up at you.
Not a single one.
"Elmer Bernstein - Complete Heavy Metal Score - 11 - Dem Bones.wmv"
Mamapaw sets the Wayward Wagon down just outside of the village-become-battleground. Your kobold allies are chomping at the bit to run to their fellows, a few of them have to be grabbed back lest they hop off early and fall to harm themselves on the earth below. Once you land, Nitwit and his fellows skitter and scatter every which way. Their red scales and clean brown tunics seem bright and lively beside the muddy colors and disgusting globs of dirt that covers every one of their dear people.
"Guys! Guys! It's us!" Nitwit cries as he runs up waving his spear in excitement. As if ensorcelled, his kin which number about fifty, hardly stir. Those sparse few who turn in his direction seem to look through him instead of at him.
"What happened? Somebuddy tell us what happened!"
Not one opens their mouth to answer him.
As you get closer, you do not see the promised village of intrepid kobolds looking for their chance to leave these woods and to a better life inside the safety of Highwind's hope-filled walls. In their stead, you see dust-blasted little scaly people that may as well be the living dead. Even grave-haunting zombies show more life than this. These kobolds stare wide-eyed about them like a people imprisoned. But you see no chains, no bars. Just a huge collection utterly devoid of spirit, of energy, of hope. Young, old, male, female, they all look the same - deathly afraid. They won't hardly look at you. Some begin to tremble uncontrollably under the weight of your stares. But they do not go from the ugly circle drawn into the dirt around them. What few who move at all look away from you as if to simply acknowledge your existence is some mortal sin payable in scale-rending tortures unknown. The tribe are all thin; sickly thin as if they have never eaten - a terrible gathering of shadows. The state of the Kobolds of the Silver Sun, those savvy people Nitwit and Skiviks described as being so ready to worship and serve Charmsring, the goodliest of dragons, are a huge surprise to the kobolds that have brought you here. They stare and openly gawk at their friends, their families, their people, this gathering of victims who are sorry-looking, filthy dirty, skeleton-thin, and worst of all...
... absolutely quiet.
The air here is thick with silence as if to shout out would be something most terrible. Powerpaw the Fearless and Mamapaw the Motherly exchange very worried glances with you and each other. They look as if they don't know what to think of this. But Bria of the Ko trembles too as she looks on. She is the first to speak to you. "Heavens alight!" Her whispering voice shakes in real trepidation as her Healer senses see things beyond the reach of most living beings.
"Their spirits! Guys.... something... has snatched the very hope from their lives!"
Nitwit and his kobolds look at you with a mixture of pained embarrassment and fang-gnashing frustration. They are helpless to deliver any sort of explanation. Regardless of your backgrounds, unless you lack a heart, you see it too. Quite clearly as it becomes plain to all. What perhaps was once savvy, intrepid, hopeful... has been replaced by the deepest shadow of all.
Despair.
What do the Wayward Wanderers do?