Death House
Posted: Mon Feb 29, 2016 11:14 pm
Death House, a D&D next Ravenloft adventure by WotC
It was an almost normal beginning...
The first day of the refugee's caravan travel out of the city of Crownfalls, called Crownhold before the glorious revolution, was mostly uneventful. The caravan, despite having over 15 carriages and with more than 120 refugees most of them old or infirm men, women and children, made good distance and reached a light forest on the banks of Yertegan river.
Towards the afternoon Captain Eshethor, the leader of the caravan and the about twelve guards it comprised of, gave the signal for the vanguard to secure the pre-approved area beyond the river that the caravan would stop. A light fog was spreading its protective blanket, limiting visibility to a few hundred yards.
The spot they would stop for the night laid less than 10 minutes away. At the time kids were playing or sitting atop caravans, mules were tethered close to provision wagons and the guards were alert as the caravan was slowly moving towards its destination.
But there was no illusion of peace. Already in the background the group could hear the thunder of the cannons. The opening stage of the siege of Crownfalls has started, the cannon-fire adding an urgency to the step of the refugees. There have been no complains about the fog, the weather or feet blisters since the cannons started.
The Sanchianados brothers held a special interest in those distant explosions; they've helped uncle Gerfindill design "precision" cannons for the Liberation Council of Crownfalls, based on screws and verniers. The council, not wanting to put untested gnomish gunpowder inventions on the walls, has commissioned three such cannons and hid them on a small hill to hit on approaching enemies as they move to encircle the town.
The brothers knew they would sooner or later listen a bigger explosion when the position of "the gnomers", as the cannons were called, was about to be over-run. The personel manning the cannons held no illusions about their fate, willingly sacrificing themselves for the cause and would not let the gnomers fall in royalist hands.
Van was on duty near the carriage of the captives. The sounds of cannonfire as the monarchists were approaching his home was understandably frustrating the man that has been born in a family fighting against the crown even before the rebellion started. But he would follow orders.
And inside that carriage Vorj and Kimber along with two other captives were waiting, their hands bound. They had nothing else to do. There was a guard, a grim-faced, unshaved rebel clad in hard leather and with a sword in his hands overlooking them. He wasn't answering any questions and didn't allow discussions. The rebels were certainly cocky; they have left the captives in their armor.
Their untidy guard's hostile gaze held no sympathy about them; it was clear what was his opinion about their fate. Yet, for all the unmasked hostility of the guards they haven't misstreated them.
In their first hours of captivity, before the decision to evacuate them was made, a rebel have approached Kimber with a leering smile and grabbed her by the arm. Before the half-elf realized what the human had in mind, before the captives could call for help, the man was yanked suddenly from behind by a big human, she has heard others call him Van, by his hair and armor. As the rebel yelped, Van carried him as easy as if he was carrying a doll and smashed his head, teeth first, on a pole. The man groaned and Van smashed his head on the pole again, and dropped the limp, twiching body on the floor. As other rebels rushed in weapons drawn, Van casually told them "Brethad slipped and hit his head".
A rebel replied "but there are two bloodstains on the pole Van!"
Van shrugged and just said "He fell twice".
Nobody tried to misstreat them since.
It was an almost normal beginning...
The first day of the refugee's caravan travel out of the city of Crownfalls, called Crownhold before the glorious revolution, was mostly uneventful. The caravan, despite having over 15 carriages and with more than 120 refugees most of them old or infirm men, women and children, made good distance and reached a light forest on the banks of Yertegan river.
Towards the afternoon Captain Eshethor, the leader of the caravan and the about twelve guards it comprised of, gave the signal for the vanguard to secure the pre-approved area beyond the river that the caravan would stop. A light fog was spreading its protective blanket, limiting visibility to a few hundred yards.
The spot they would stop for the night laid less than 10 minutes away. At the time kids were playing or sitting atop caravans, mules were tethered close to provision wagons and the guards were alert as the caravan was slowly moving towards its destination.
But there was no illusion of peace. Already in the background the group could hear the thunder of the cannons. The opening stage of the siege of Crownfalls has started, the cannon-fire adding an urgency to the step of the refugees. There have been no complains about the fog, the weather or feet blisters since the cannons started.
The Sanchianados brothers held a special interest in those distant explosions; they've helped uncle Gerfindill design "precision" cannons for the Liberation Council of Crownfalls, based on screws and verniers. The council, not wanting to put untested gnomish gunpowder inventions on the walls, has commissioned three such cannons and hid them on a small hill to hit on approaching enemies as they move to encircle the town.
The brothers knew they would sooner or later listen a bigger explosion when the position of "the gnomers", as the cannons were called, was about to be over-run. The personel manning the cannons held no illusions about their fate, willingly sacrificing themselves for the cause and would not let the gnomers fall in royalist hands.
Van was on duty near the carriage of the captives. The sounds of cannonfire as the monarchists were approaching his home was understandably frustrating the man that has been born in a family fighting against the crown even before the rebellion started. But he would follow orders.
And inside that carriage Vorj and Kimber along with two other captives were waiting, their hands bound. They had nothing else to do. There was a guard, a grim-faced, unshaved rebel clad in hard leather and with a sword in his hands overlooking them. He wasn't answering any questions and didn't allow discussions. The rebels were certainly cocky; they have left the captives in their armor.
Their untidy guard's hostile gaze held no sympathy about them; it was clear what was his opinion about their fate. Yet, for all the unmasked hostility of the guards they haven't misstreated them.
In their first hours of captivity, before the decision to evacuate them was made, a rebel have approached Kimber with a leering smile and grabbed her by the arm. Before the half-elf realized what the human had in mind, before the captives could call for help, the man was yanked suddenly from behind by a big human, she has heard others call him Van, by his hair and armor. As the rebel yelped, Van carried him as easy as if he was carrying a doll and smashed his head, teeth first, on a pole. The man groaned and Van smashed his head on the pole again, and dropped the limp, twiching body on the floor. As other rebels rushed in weapons drawn, Van casually told them "Brethad slipped and hit his head".
A rebel replied "but there are two bloodstains on the pole Van!"
Van shrugged and just said "He fell twice".
Nobody tried to misstreat them since.