Chapter 77
Morning arrives in the Mournland and light trickles through the ash colored fog that fills the air. As the companions wake, there’s an oddly surreal sense of newness to the day’s misty beginning. Mond is the first to rise, leaving their pseudo-sheltered camp to explore the small village. A warforged bows at the foot of the Founder’s Statue in the center of Ialos, observing a ritual of faith, mourning the loss, or perhaps merely expressing their gratitude and respect for the founding mortal’s contributions. Another pilgrim crosses the open area towards the mill, carrying an odd-shaped piece of metal with spots of rust among brightly colored patches.
The sorcerer notices Mercy walking towards their camp and returns to hear whatever news they might be bringing. They approach the decaying structure together. The others are gathering their belongings, preparing to continue their journey into the desolate lands searching for the massive colossus, Landro, and the third piece of the Rod of Seven Parts.
Mercy greets them, “Good morning, travelers. I have made a decision that might impact your journey. It is time to end my guilt and search for my companion of old, Filch. For reasons long hidden to me, I have avoided the area surrounding Landro, where the colossus is half-buried in the side of Mount Ironrot. It is time that I face my guilt for not searching and my fears of never finding Filch. If you would have me for a companion, I will join you, at least as far as it takes me to find my friend.”
Setting down his pack, Dolor walks the few paces to Mercy and looks at them directly, “We are honored to have your company and assistance, if even for a short time.” While the faces of the warforged do not alter to reflect feelings or emotions, Mercy expresses their gratitude with a slight bow of their head.
The tiefling looks back to the others, remembering their discussion the night before. “We’re curious if your people can provide any other assistance, such as a relic or artifact that might aid our search?”
“The artifacts are revered and prized above all else. It was quite a surprise that the others agreed to your previous request and I can say with confidence, any further requests shall be denied. You shall have my knowledge and experience to aid you, but no more.”
Dolor nods in acquiescence, “Which we greatly appreciate.”
With her pack ready and Tempest Edge sheathed at her side, Gven slides on her shimmering longcoat and asks, “Shall we try the halfling’s cloud walking again? It sounds like a long way to Landro and this mountain.”
The companions find themselves flying through the cloudy skies of Mournland, moving slower than their previous trip as they focus on staying together. It’s difficult to make each other out from the natural clouds covering the lands. After a few hours, they pass over a colossus that’s lying on the ground, as though it laid down to take a nap and never woke up. At their cruising height of a few hundred feet, they can see large areas of rust intermingled with the metal and rock the construct is created from. A handful of warforged mingle around one of its legs, presumably scavenging for artifacts or anything of value.
Two more hours into their journey, Bilwin finds himself surging forward faster than the others. The pull of the rod’s second piece towards its sibling unintentionally causes the dwarf (in cloud form) to speed up, leaving the others behind. Fortunately, the path is straight and he slows down allowing the others to eventually catch up.
At almost eight hours of flying, losing sight of and then reconnecting with the dwarf, Grindlefoot can tell that the spell is about to wear off. He tries to warn the others through odd cloud movements. Gven finds herself lost in thought as they move across the sky and is the last to discern the halfling’s communication. Her form begins to slowly shift back to its corporeal form and sink towards the ground, ever faster. A moment of clarity breaks through her reverie and she realizes her situation, immediately reigning in her cloud speed and dropping to her feet at the base of an imposing tree. Her outstretched hand rests against the tree’s smooth bark, just as she stops moving forward. A hundred yards beyond, through breaks in the foggy mist, the half-orc notices a gargantuan colossus, half of it sticking out of a mountainside.
Landro’s mammoth body jutting out of the mountain side makes the colossus they investigated two days ago seem quaint. The group approaches cautiously, wary of hazards from Landro itself and potential enemies, such as the zealous warriors loyal to the Lord of Blades. Grindlefoot notices the metallic smell first, wrinkling his nose at the wrongness. A gray liquid covers portions of the ground surrounding the colossus, apparently leaking from the giant construct’s inner workings.
Curiosity driving the dwarf, as always, he kneels next to the pooling fluid and holds out a hand, “There’s heat coming from it and the surface shimmers, shifting even though it’s not flowing. There’s a residue of some sort around the edges, looks like salt.” Peering into the pool, the dwarf’s face is reflected back, but in a perverted version of itself. It looks wider and longer, giving his eyes a sense of wrongness that makes the cleric shiver.
The others are engrossed in the sight before them and the dwarf’s observations, when Mercy hears a voice behind them, “Target acquired.”
The warforged pilgrim turns to see five figures emerge from the unnatural mist. They’re warforged and based on their markings, scouts for the Lord of Blades. Fanned out in an arrow formation, the leader looms larger than its companions. The muted colors create a pattern across its torso and limbs that matches the desolate landscape around them. The chest and shoulders are reinforced, resembling a knight’s breastplate and pouldrons. Its armor is chock-full of scratches and dents, evidence of its experience—and survival. The four warforged arcing out to either side and behind are smaller in stature, lighter weight, and shorter. Upon each of their chests, the Lord of Blades emblem is evident, even amongst the leader’s extensive abrasions and dings.
Mercy assesses the situation in a matter of seconds, “This is not Glaive, thankfully, but these follow the Lord of Blades. Prepare yourselves, they will show us no mercy.”
Having surprised the companions, the group of warforged advance quickly and efficiently, revealing their military training. The four scouts rush ahead while the leader moves slower, with the confidence of one who is used to successfully tracking and killing its prey. They attack with a speed and fury the companions are neither expecting nor prepared for.
Presuming the large half-orc is the biggest threat, two of the blades attack together with intricate precision, moving their hand-swords deftly without interfering with the other. Fortunately, the barbarian’s agility and instincts serve her well; she dodges four of their six strikes. The two successful hits leave a gash across one forearm and blood coming from a wound in her mid-section that she can’t see. A growl emerges from her mouth, drawing focus to the tusks protruding from her lower jaw.
Another of the blades attacks Mercy with a ferocity born of hatred or pure animosity, resulting in two deep slashes across a thigh. The final warforged besets Dolor with a flurry of thrusts and slashes, the tiefling is caught off guard. Dolor’s eyes reveal his pain, while the rapid swish of his tail reflects his anger at being unprepared.
Extending from each of the leader’s arms is a longsword, which they use to assault Mond. The first swing misses and the second connects, but the sorcerer reacts by casting Shield, instantly erecting a magical barrier between them. The leader’s final attack clashes against it and Mond grins at the warrior. His hands move slightly and two of the warforged scouts find themselves moving slower.
Mercy finds themselves unable to react in a timely manner and the blade scout launches another flurry of attacks, all connecting. The warforged pilgrim falls to their knees in pain, unable to ignore the wounds across their body.
The two scouts engaged with Gven embrace the advantage of their surprise and assail the half-orc with their hand-swords. She’s able to evade one of the slashes, but the others slice through her defenses, leaving trails of blood.
Dolor reacts to his attacker with Uncanny Dodge, evading its hand-sword and further wounds.
From behind his companions, Grindlefoot motions with his hands and one of the clouds above their attackers turns dark. Suddenly, lightning shoots down from the magical storm cloud, striking three of the scouts. Two of them seem to recover quickly, while the third turns away from Gven momentarily, agonizing in pain. The halfling druid further tucks himself behind Bilwin, “You seem better prepared for what comes next.”
Only moments into the encounter, Gven is fuming at the surprise attack and damage they’ve done in such a short time, especially to Mercy. The barbarian invokes her rage and in a split second, draws Tempest Edge from its sheath at her side in one hand while the other reaches for a healing potion hanging from inside her longcoat. As her greatsword emerges, the blade glowing purple, she tosses the potion at Mercy, hoping they see it and are quick enough to catch the bottle. The beleaguered warforged looks up to see it coming towards them, but doesn’t have the strength or agility remaining to catch the potion. It smashes against Mercy’s face, breaking open and leaving a few minor cuts. Fortunately, and quite surprisingly, most of the potion enters their mouth, allowing them to reap the benefits of the elixir. Meanwhile, Gven ignores the two warforged attacking her and flings herself at the one beating Mercy. The first strike slices along the scout’s arm as Tempest Edge arcs upward from the sheath and the second leaves a gash in its shoulder on the downswing.
Surprising everyone, the blade scouts and his companions, Dolor floats upward, hanging out fifteen feet above the fray. With a wolfish grin that reveals the tiefling’s aggressive intent, he directs both of his open palms at three of the warforged scouts and a bright streak of fire smashes into them. Two of them are shaken but seem to recover quickly, while the other appears to be hurt quite badly.
The leader continues to attack Mond with its two longswords, bashing through the magical shield on its second attempt, leaving the sorcerer with a small wound. Turning to its comrades, it yells with a magical force, “Fight on!” Once again, Mond gives the warforged a thin smile and waves his hand, dismissing the inspiration it had tried to imbue in its mates.
Watching his friends be pummeled by the blades, Bilwin’s anger grabs hold and the cleric screams at the leader, “Leave us now!”. The large opponent’s struggle to remain is evident, and Dolor notices what the dwarf is attempting to do. He shouts, “Hey!”, and spits a loogie at the large warforged scout standing below. As the spittle lands on its face, the scout leader disappears with a poof.
Regaining some strength from Gven’s admirable—and completely unanticipated—healing potion, Mercy rises to their feet as one hand goes into action. The delicate fingers retract into their forearm, followed by protruding metal that shifts and twists into the form of a shortsword, which they promptly slide into the mid-section of their foe. It grunts in pain as Mercy drives the blade in further, letting the anger inside drive them.
The predatory smirk is still visible on Mond’s face as his hands move outward, extending towards the group of scouts Dolor rained fire upon. A single bolt of lightning bursts forth, striking one of the injured scouts and then a chain of lightning bolts fly from them, into the two others close by. Their metal parts shimmer with electricity, while the wooden parts emit smoke from the visible flames that lick into the air. Two of their warforged opponents fall to the ground, no longer functioning.
Enraged at their wounds and the death of its comrades, a warforged jumps at Mond while still smoldering from the lightning bolt. The first swing of their hand-sword cuts through the sorcerer’s plain travel clothing, leaving a trail of blood. The scout’s second misses and before they can attempt their third, Mond puts up another Shield.
Only two scouts remain, one of which sets upon Bilwin. Even slowed by Mond’s earlier spell, the loyal blade finds an opening in the dwarf’s armor and wounds the cleric, who shrugs it off with a quick sip from his magical stein.
Standing behind Bilwin, Grindlefoot steps to the side and hurls a Bolt of Lightning at the two scout warforged. Each of them is hurt, but one more obviously than the other.
Seeing an opportunity, Gven attacks the weaker scout with her magical greatsword. The first swing almost removes the constructs left arm. With a guttural grunt, the half-orc puts her shoulders into the backswing, slicing Tempest Edge’s glowing blade halfway through her opponents torso. As it falls to the ground lifeless, she slides the blade free and turns to the last scout remaining.
From his vantage point above the battle, Dolor hurls three crackling beams of energy at the warforged. The first and second sear into its shoulders and torso, jolting its body, while the last one misses.
“Time for the good ol’ standby.” Bilwin points his hand at the scout and a bolt of light spews forth. Between the dwarf’s announcement and their battle-readiness, they saw the attack coming and were able to dodge it, just barely.
Mercy is hurting from her wounds and slow to respond, but slashes out in that moment, catching the scout off guard and leaves a gash across its shoulder.
Before the remaining scout can respond, a bolt of lightning shrieks out from Mond’s extended hand, slamming into its chest and knocking it backwards. It takes a haphazzard swing at the sorcerer, missing completely, when another arc of lightning slams into it from the side, knocking it to the ground where it remains. Bilwin lowers his hand, “That big one will be back in less than a minute. Get ready!”
Gven looks around to see several boulders of different sizes, grabs the largest one she can carry and plops it onto the exact spot the warforged will reappear. “Maybe that will trip it up.”
Seeing Mercy’s wounds, Grindlefoot closes his eyes in concentration and several of the slashes and gouges heal. The warforged pilgrim stands a little taller, obviously in less pain than before. Without hesitating, the halfling turns towards Landro’s body and throws a bolt of lightning at it, but a shield deflects it.
“Oh well, I thought it might give us a place to hide, I mean fight from.”
Still floating twenty feet in the air, Dolor shifts slightly to be directly above the rock that Gven placed. Mercy and Mond take a few steps backward, putting some safe distance between themselves and the blade, the sorcerer drinking a healing potion as he does so.
With a ‘pop’, the imposing warforged blade reappears and settles gently on top of the rock. Gven shrugs, “So much for screwing up their reentrance.”
It glares at Mercy for a few seconds—that felt like an eternity to the companions—then leaps away from them, disappearing into the unnatural fog from which they came.
Atypical for Mond, he boastfully yells at their fleeing opponent, “I didn’t realize warforged are chicken!”
Mercy turns to the sorcerer with a glare, silently chastising him for judging their kind. His discomfort is immediately apparent and the pilgrim remembers their name, deciding that forgiveness is more aligned with judgment.
Guest player: Kimber Hilton as Mercy, the warforged