Tales From the Desert Rain

[Occhidiangela]

An Ominous Conversation in Atma's Tavern

The two veterans sat with their backs to the eastern wall of Atma's Tavern, their earthenware mugs half-filled with Kingsport Bitter, the only beer in stock. Before them sat the remains of a meal, evidently an unsatisfactory one judging by the amount of food left on their baked clay plates. The larger man, a broad shouldered giant wearing the blue face paint of the Northern Tribe of the Snake, picked up a piece of stewed eel still smothered in onions and capers, pondered it briefly, and then carelessly tossed it through the window to his left. The sound of street cats and stray dogs scrambling for this morsel was brief and chaotic, quickly fading as one animal apparently made off with the prize.

"If I have to eat another meal of eel and onions, Frug, I'll sign on as a caravan guard and personally take Warriv into the cattle country of Ensteig, pick out a herd, and drive it back to this Lightforsaken hole so that the Legion can eat properly." He lifted his mug and swallowed half of its remaining contents, giving the impression that he was trying to wash both the flavor and memory of his dinner from his waking mind.

His companion, a smaller, leaner and darker complexioned man nodded slowly in agreement but did not raise his mug. He was not the sort to complain about his meals, even if he too yearned for just one meal of roast beef haunch cooked on a spit with peppers and sage. He broke away from contemplating the inside of his mug and abruptly nudged the big man in the ribs. A tall, athletic, blonde woman clad in chain mail and leather had just entered the room, pausing in front of the bar as her eyes slowly adjusting to the relative dimness of the tavern's interior.

"Well, OcchiD'Merc, connesieur of fine food and drink," he offered, "it looks like your review of Atma's kitchen is at an end. Sergeant Sarisa's here, no doubt looking for us. I guess it's back to the guardrooom for these two legionaires." He reached to his right to grab his steel helm, then leaned down to pick up the long pike laying at his feet beneath the table. He started to rise as the tall woman, spotted the two men and strode purposefully across the room in their direction.

She motioned him back to his seat with her left hand, shaking her head, then stopped to stand with one foot on the bench across the table from him and the other foot on the ground. Turning her head to the left, she raised two fingers of her left hand to her lips and gave out a piercing whistle.

"Dernek," she barked in a voice used to authority and obedience, "two pitchers and another mug here, but leave your food in the pot. I'm here with thirsty news that won't wait." Across the tavern, the bartender could be seen hurridly complying with the wishes of this imposing warrior woman. She turned back to the two men, nodding as she noted the large man raising his mug to finish off his ale in a long quick swallow. She addressed the smaller man.

"You can remain seated, Frug, the news can wait until Dernek arrives with the pitcher. The Sergeant is buying this round." She sat down, straddling the bench, and then kicked her left leg over it and pivoted to face the two men. Peeling off her chainmail gloves, she flexed her fingers and rolled her shoulders, then leaned forward with both forearms on the table.

"So, Corporals, I see that you are tired of fish and onions. Well, this may be your last meal of such for fare for quite a while." She paused to see if her insinuation sparked any interest, but got nothing from the two men but their attention. And obviously, their curiosity.

"Sergeant, something tells me that I had better bid Adelia goodbye this evening," the big man growled, "you don't usually start bying drinks until right before an operation." His eyes moved to his right slightly. "Here's the beer."

She looked up as Derek scuttled over with a tray bearing two large ewers spilling ale over their edges, and a mug. She grabbed one ewer and the mug while Dernek set the other ewer on the table and hustled off without his usual exchange of banter. It was no secret that this woman made him nervous.

Frug watched as OcchiD'Merc filled his mug, and then the Barbarian's own. Lifting his drink to his lips, he leaned back against the wall again, his helm forgotten, and watched Sergeant Sarisa efficiently fill and then drain a mug. She closed her eyes and made a rumbling noise of obvious satisfaction, then returned her attention to the two soldiers sitting across from her, both of whom had taken a single draught before lowering their mugs and attending to her.

"Greiz has called a muster, men, and we'll be putting our boots on for a trek West. To Westmarch." She paused while she poured another mug full of ale. "There is a reason for the beef shortage here, even though the caravan routes are open." She set the ewer down and raised the mug to her lips. She paused again, then frowned as the question she was hoping to evoke did not come with sufficient speed. Closing her eyes, she took a healthy swallow of beer and returned to mug to the table before announcing:

"The cattle are revolting."

The two men looked at her in complete puzzlement, then at one another, and then back to the Sergeant.

Frug was the first to bite at the proffered bait.

"What was that again, Sergeant? The cattle are . . . revolting?"

Sergeant Sarisa smiled. "Yes indeed, you heard it rightly. After ages of meekly going to the slaughter for our hunger's sake, the cattle of the West have risen up against their herders and ranchers, and are slaughtering them with, of all things, halberds."

OcchiD'Merc's eyes popped open and a mouthful of ale erupted from his lips in a golden spray of brewed mist. He slammed his mug on the table.

"Sergeant, I may be dumb, and I may drink too much, but I cannot believe that you come here and expect me to believe that a bunch of cows are wielding pole arms against their masters. You need to get in out of the sun, Sarge, or at least knock it off with the late night discipline parties." He reached up and wiped the ale from his lips, ignoring the expended liquid on the table's top.

Sarisa's face hardened. The lilt went out of her voice as it lowered a register in a no-nonsense tone.

"Shattershaft and Charis Greizman just returned this morning with the news. They were out surveying an area north of Tristram for a local lord, where our Engineer is supposed to build a small watchtower, when they witnessed the slaughter of most of a town by a herd of cows." She drank down the rest of her second mug.

"They were able to lead a counterattack and drive off the main herd, but not before the village of Greenmeadow was reduced to an outdoor charnel house."

Her voice lowered further.

"The odd part is that the cows were walking on their back legs."

Frug made a quick sign of the Sun over his chest, an old Westmarch ward agaist evil. Sarisa glanced at him with a slight furrowing of her eyebrows, and then continued.

"Shatter tells me that they were led by a huge bull who shot lightning from his horns. They chopped and hacked at any and everything. People, dogs, mules, chickens: anything that moved. Greiz has, just this afternoon, received a lucrative contract from the King of Westmarch to mount a campaign against this self styled Cow King and his thrice bedamned cattle. We march at dawn."

The big man stared at her with disbelief. Setting down his mug, he spoke weary with bitterness in his voice.

"I thought we destroyed all of those demons when we defeated Baal, up north. I thought all of this crazy magic and evil was ended. I thought we would go back to fighting in the usual wars between barons and kings and dukes." He turned to his left and spit forcefully out of the window. A surprised yowl and scampering of padded feet pointed to his missile having hit a feline target somewhere out in the street. "I have done more than enough demon hunting: enough for seven lifetimes."

Sarisa's eyes turned the color of blued steel.

"So, Lance Corporal, do you intend to breach your contract? Do you intend to leave the Legion early?" She reached for a chain glove and began to pull it onto her right hand.

Occhi shook his head, eyeing her golved hand warily.

"No, I will march to the Legion's drums, as I always have, Sergeant." He downed the rest of his beer and quickly refilled his mug from the ewer.

"I had just hoped to have a few more weeks here with Adelia. I have convinced her, finally, to leave Jehryn's harem and move in with me. Somehow, I don't see her finding a flat without me most evenings as secure as the a silk bedecked room within the palace walls."
He gulped down his ale. "So much for the love life of a Legionaire." The cynicism in his voice could have frozen sand.

He slammed his mug back down to the table and stood abruptly, his eyes smoldering in barely supressed emotion. Leaning down, he reached beneath the table and picked up his lance. Gripping it half way down its length, he looked down at Sarisa and Frug.

"You tell Sergeant Pygmy, and Greiz for that matter, that I will make muster: For The Greater Glory Of The Legion." He made a noice in his throat. "And for what it's worth, you can tell them that I intend to roast a few steaks before this campaign is done. I have been eating nothing but fish for the last forty days." He smiled slightly. "That, if nothing else, is about to change." Turning from his companions, he walked briskly from the bar and out into the afternoon sun.

Frug picked up the ewer and slowly refilled his mug. Lifting it to his lips, he smiled sardonically at Sergeant Sarisa, and drank deeply of the Kigsport Bitter. Sarisa refilled her mug.

Frug lowered his mug slightly, and looked deeply into Sarisa's eyes -- then he winked. With a broad grin, he lifted his mug in a toast, which Sarisa copied.

Out of long habit, their voices raised up in the shout heard on battlefields all over Sanctuary as their two mugs slammed together to shatter in a spray of clay and golden ale:

"TO THE GREATER GLORY OF THE LEGION OF GREIZ!!!"

Breaking into the shared laughter at some running inside joke that only old campaigners seem to know, the arose, wiping the ale from their hands and faces, and picked up their equipment. Then, side by side, they walked out into the street, leaving the remaining customers at Atma's Tavern shaking their heads at the loss of sanity that marching through the desert tends to cause.

Accompanying Poetry, From the Desert Rain

Back in the Tavern, a drunken Amazon lifted her face from the puddle of beer on the bar in front of her. That shout for the Legion had roused her from her dazed stupor and close communion with the mahogany of the bar. She stared blearily at Dernek and waved away his move to refill her mug. Standing up shakily, she staggered over to Geglash's table in the center of the room and stepped up onto it, a display of leg strength and balance that earned a gasp of approval from the few patron who noticed her feat.

Geglash lifted his face from his wine glass in an attempt to look up underneath her leathern skirt, only to meet the heel of a hard leather boot that sent him crashing to his back on the floor, out cold. Rendered unconscious, he missed her recitation of The Lament of the Legion.

Facing the remaining drunks in the room, Xan the Legionaire put her arms on her hips, unfocused her eyes, and began a strained chant.

"Foot--slog--foot--slog--sloggin' over Anauroch!
Foot--foot--foot--foot--sloggin' over Arreat!
Boots--boots--boots--boots--movin' up an' down again!
There's no discharge from Greiz' War!

Seven--six--eleven--five--nine-an'-twenty mile to-day!
Four--eleven--seventeen--thirty-two the day before!
Boots--boots--boots--boots--movin' up an' down again!
There's no discharge from Greiz' War!

Don't--don't--don't--don't--look into the demon's eyes!
Jab--Jab--Jab--Jab--thrust the pike into his gut!
Boots--pikes--boots--pikes--movin' up an' down again
There's no discharge from Greiz' War!

Try--try--try--try--to think o' something different!
Oh--Sweet--Light--keep--me from goin' lunatic!
Pikes--pikes--pikes--pikes--thrusting' in and out again!
There's no discharge from Greiz' War

Count--the--imps--and--Lightning bugs and Blood Maggots!
If--your--eyes--drop--Ice Spawn get atop o' you!
Pikes--pikes--pikes--pikes--thrustin' in and out again!
There's no discharge from Greiz' War

We--can--stick--our--pikes into a Crushing Beast!
But--not--but--not--stand the chronic sight of those,
Boot--pikes--boots--pikes--movin' up an' down again,
There's no discharge from Greiz' War

'Taint--so--bad--by--day because o' company!
Night--brings--dark--dreams--forty thousand thrustings from
Pikes--pikes--pikes--pikes--harvesting the gore again
There's no discharge from Greiz' War!

I--'ave--marched--six--weeks in Hell an' certify
It--is--not--fire--devils, imps, or anything
Boots!--boots!--boots!--boots!--movin' up an' down again,
There's no discharge from Greiz' War!"

This poem gets into the grittier side of the Legion of Greiz, and why they spend so much of their "off time" in the seedy bars of Lut Ghloein.

(Note: The most effective meter I have found for reading this poem aloud, is to drag the first four words of each line forcefully from your gut, and then expel the last phrase of each line in one exasperated breath. Picture the speaker as a footsoldier, one of Greiz' mercs, muttering this under his breath as his column marches through the dusty wastes of the Anauroch Desert, or across the Arreat Plateau.)

This poem is a parody of Rudyard Kipling's poem, called of course

BOOTS
Infantry Columns

[Occhidiangela]

*Sound of Martel de Fer Beating on a large Beer Keg*

Sgt At Arms Aww Ten-Shun!!!! The Great and Indomitable Greiz has entered the Hall!!

*The Great One (here after referred to as TGO) strides to the bench at the head of the long hall, take his seat, and stares at the Baliiff, Xan the Legionaire*

TGO OK, where is that miscreant legionaire, OcchiD'Merc? And what kind of name is that anyway? Sounds French, and we are NOT the lame French Foreign Legion, we are MY LEGION! Get that pike fiddling grunt up here, ASAP!!!

Sgt Sarisa Chargee is present, sir!
(to the Corporal) Five steps forward, Harch!!!

*OcchiD'Merc marches smartly forward, only to trip on the butt of a Yari casually slid in front of his foot by Sgt Pygmy. The corporal falls flat on his face, in front of Greiz.

TGO Stand up, Maggot! Only craven Kurastians prostrate them selves in front of their leader! You are a Legionaire of Greiz, WHICH MEANS YOU STAND TALL, LIKE A PIKE ON PARADE!

*OcchiD'Merc scrambles to his feet, and could swear he hears 'Or like a Woody on Viagra' somewhere behind him*

OcchiD'Merc Corporal OcchiD'Merc reporting to Summary Court Martial as ordered, oh Great and Indomitable Greiz!

TGO Bailiff, read the Charges!!

Bailiff On the night of November 9th, while in combat with enemy forces in the Tamoe Highlands, Corporal OcchiD'Merc was witnessed to have commited the following offenses to GreizRegulations 4501.23, 4501.78 and 4501.69, to the detriment of the Legion. To whit:

1) He stood in an encampment, flirting with a Rogue archer, while his fellow Legionaires bled horribly in the Pit. His excuse that he was 'summoned' by his spouse does not explain the recently reported pregnancy of one of Kashya's rogues, for which the Legion is being charged hefty medical payments in damages.

2) He was witnessed by SGT Pygmy to have imitated our sworn enemies, the Dune Leapers, on the second level of the Pit, by jumping over an axe weilding and corrupted rogue in an attempt at a vertical envelopment. This is directly against regulation 4501.78, in the Greiz Regulations, which prohibits such treasonous acitivity by any Legionaire, even those rabbit-mating nomads from the north like the Corporal.

*Sgt Pygmy makes rude gesture to the Bailiff, and puts two fingers up behind Legionaire Shattershaft's head, imitating a bunny.*

3) He failed to refresh his own communications portal, blue, upon entering a deep flanking position against a horde of Bow weilding corrupted rogues, thereby closing off the envelopment that had cost the Legion so much blood to create. His subsequent "ice cream run" at the behest of his alleged spouse cost the platoon his spear, and made them bleed while he feasted on Nutty Buddies.

TOG *Slams forehead to the table in front of him*
FerCharissakes, it is so hard to Find Good Help these cays!!! Coporal, what do you have to say in your defense?

OcchiD'Merc Uh, well Shattershaft said we couldnt do it, assault the Pit, so we had to do it to prove how brave we are, and we did and I had to get the kids ice cream and I didn't mean to close the portal and I figured jumping over that ambush at the bottom of the stairs would be a good tactic and . . . uh, I didn't get to eat any ice cream . . . uh, and

The Kid Is Not Mine, sir!

I used proper protection, per Legion Regulation 6981.02: a Legionairre shall always put a protective covering on his Pike when penetrating humid or moist environments! It wasn't me, Oh Great and Honorable Greiz, it was that Paladin, ISOHoly who got that girl pregnant, with all of his smooth talk and courtly manners . . .

TGO SILENCE, Corporal!!!! Sgt Sarissa, has this man been drinking?

Sgt Sarisa Like a fish, sir, ever since the raid, in keeping with GreizRegulation 9800.45: "All Legionaires, when not actually at their posts, are to gather recruits, intelligence and opportunities for profit at likely locations in campaign areas, such as taverns, bazaars, market places, and nunneries."

He has been attempting to gather more intelligence via the well known powers of Catcus Extract, known to the locals of Lut Gholein as Tequila, which imbues the imbiber with threefold intelligence, at least from his perspective.

Sir, I suggest that the corporal's efforts to raise his intelligence are commendable in spirit, but at this point, unsuccessful in application.

TGO Intelligence? The corporal couldn't raise his intelligence with a crane! Right, does anyone have anything else to say, either for or against the chagree, before I pass sentence?

Shattershaft I told them they would bleed and die if they went into that hole, but did anyone listen to me? Nooo, and certainly not the corporal -- Hey, that's wet!!!!!

*Sgt Pygmy "accidentally" spills his flagon of meade down Shattershaft's back, inside his armor.*

TGO Right! Enough discussion, I now pass sentence:

For the impregnating of a rogue:

Who cares, there are slovenly trollops anyway, and no one really knows who the father is. Kashya can bite my arse.

For dogging it while the platoon was in combat?

25 lashes

For Jumping like a Rabbit of the Northlands

YOU LOSE A STRIPE! Lance Corporal OcchiD'Merc, haven't we been through this before? Sgt Pygmy, give this idiot a silver piece, so he can go out an buy a clue.

For Closing your flanking route:

No Beer for a Week!!

*Lance Corporal OcchiD'Merc's eyes bulge out, and he collapses in a heap*

OcchiD'Merc No Beer for a Week? I shall die! Arrrggghhhhhhh!

TGO Sergeant Sarisa, take this Legionaire away, and give him the Lashes. Sgt Pygmy, get that stripe off of his sleeve as soon as this court is adjourned.

I, Greiz, have had enough of this incompetence, it is hurting the bottom line.

*Greiz stroms out of Hall.*

Bailiff Dismissed!!!

*A general melee erupts as McFRugal grabs Xan, and Sasquatt slaps his hand away, while Sarisa grins laciviously at OcchiD'Merc, who is still staring numbly in shock over the "zero beer" sentence.

In the Legion of Greiz, life's hard, and then you die: no mercy.

[TaMeOlta]

"The cattle are revolting."

Ahhh :o ! Nothing worse than beef gone bad !! ;) Tis 'bout time the tale of the evil cow horde has been told !

[Occhidiangela]

The Final Act Of Vengeance: A Great Victory


Thirteen tall lances stood like a steel tipped forest in the chamber deep underground, held erect by a grim faced platoon of Legionaires. Fell were their gazes as Shaft Sergeant Pygmy inspected their equipment, noted their wounds, and sized up their fighting spirit.

"Legionaires, we have come at last to the final act of vengeance upon the Bane of the Legion. For too many months were our comrades hired out, one by one, and sent to fight the demons deep beneath the desert floor. For too many months did careless adventurers return to Lut Gholein to bask in the glory of living through an encounter with hell spawn, leaving our comrades-in-arms behind as an hors d' houvre for the Lord of Pain. Countless are the spears that shattered beneath the charge of the Great Maggot."

The Sergeant paused, letting the legacy of slaughter sink in to the hungover craniums of his platoon, whose celebration of their great victory over the swarms of ghosts, goats, and gorebellies had lasted into the wee hours of the morning. He raised his voice and continued, oblivious to their wincing as his voice caromed around inside their aching heads.

"It ends here, it ends now, it ends for once and for all. We shall form a Phallus -- uh, pardon me Xan -- we shall form a Phalanx and give Duriel, Lord of Pain, a taste of what it feels like to be overwhelmed by a charge. We shall spit him, skewer him, and gore him until there is naught left on the floor of his lair but a pool of slime. Our Comrades Shall Not Have Died in Vain!"

"Death To The Demon Slug!" came the cry of thirteen voices in response, while thirteen lance butts were raised and slammed back into the ground. The din shook the mildewed walls and brought a blizzard of dust down upon their two, arrow straight ranks.

"Bother," came a muttered voice from the second rank, "I just polished my helmet this morning, and now look at it."

"We aren't going on parade, Shattershaft, we march to cover ourselves in gore, ichor, and glory," came the aside, soto vocce, from CharisGreizman the combat engineer.

"Knock of the yapping!" snapped Sergeant Sarisa, Mistress of Discipline. "Seems that my new whip needs to hit a few more jaws, and a few less fannies, if we are to have any order around here."

"Geeze," came an almost unheard voice from the second rank, McFrugal's perhaps, "Give her another stripe and she's the bloody Queen of Westmarch."

"She's not from Westmarch," mumbled the bewildered and not-quite-soft-enough voice of Lance Corporal OcchiD'Merc, still hungover from his unaccustomed wine drunk, his beer ban still in effect, "She's from Philios--"

"Enough!"

Sergeant Pygmy's voice cracked like a whip that made Sarisa's whip seem a silk cord in comparison. He unrolled a battered scroll, squinting in the torchlight to read the words scrawled thereon.

"Attention to Orders:

From: The Great and Omnipotent Greiz

To: Pygmy's Pike Platoon

Mission: Attack the Demons in the Tomb of Tal Rasha. Defeat in detail, leave no remnants. Recover all loot, medallions, and such identifiable remains of deceased legionaires as are present. Return with all material and liquidate for at least fair market value. Deposit the usual 25% of the gross proceeds into the Bank of Kingsport, Lut Gholein Branch.

Follow on mission: Reconaissance in force authorized upon seizure of the objective and destruction of enemy forces.

Special Instructions: Pursue any and all demons found.

Signed: Greiz."

"Any questions, Platoon?" asked Pygmy, looking up from the scroll.

"No, Sergeant!!" came the reply in unison.

"Right! Pla-toon, Traaaiiil . . . Arms!"

Thirteen lances dropped to a thirty degree angle from the floor, twenty six hands gripping them frimly.

"I've got a bad feeling about this," muttered Chalan, a trainee known for his fanatic attacks against monsters.

"Uuuup . . . Pikes!"

Thirteen lance butts were raised from the floor, and twenty six hands gripped the lances, now held parallel, tips thrust agressively forward.

Sergeant Pygmy motioned to the dark hole in front of him.

"Chaaaaaaaarge!"

"Huuuaaaaaaaaahh!!!!!" Bellowed the Platoon.

------
Half a rod
Half a rod
Half a rod downward
Forward into the Chamber of Death
Charged the Baker's Dozen

"Charge for the Bug!" They said.
Was there a lance dismayed?
Their's not to reason why
Their's not to make reply
Their's but to do or die
The Noble Baker's Dozen!
------

The Lord of Pain looked up at the sound of the great shout coming from the chamber above, and licked his lips. "Ahhhh, dinnertime," he thought, "I was getting a little peckish."

"Looking for Baal?" He laughed out loud as he erupted forth from his corner of the room, charging into . . . fourteen steel tipped pikes hurtling toward him in deadly ernest. His momentum carried him into the two ranks of steel tipped ash and gored him twice seven fold.

"Uuuuuaaaaarrrrraaaaiiiiiggghhhh!!!" Came his scream of pain, his malformed limbs flailing in mortal agony.

"Die, Die, Time to Die!" chanted fourteen voices, their lances thrusting, ever thrusting, in the grim rhythm made famous by the Spartans at Thermopylae.

In the short, chaotic melee that followed, Chalan proved a seer. Duriel's manic flailing caught the legionaire a mortal blow, a blow that was the last the Lord of Pain ever struck in this plane of existence.

The din of combat stilled suddenly, but only for a moment, as the demon collapsed in a heap. SUddenly, then very rock of the chamber began to cave in from the cumulative sonic trauma of the full throated battlecries, shouts, and bellowing of the legionaires and the incessant demonic howling. Greenish white ichor spewed all over, blinding some of the legionaires, as Duriel's corpse erupted, his soul fleeing to the deepest hells.

"To me! To me!" Came Sergeant Pygmy's rallying cry.

"A path, a path!!" Cried OcchiD'Merc.

"What, and no shrubbery? Ni!" Came McFrugal's confused response.

"Rally on Pygmy, or the roof shall crush us!" Shouted Sergeant Sarisa, her voice cracking like her whip.

The platoon surged forward, charging up a ramp into another long hall. Behind them they heard the thunder of the dark chamber's cave in.

"Report!" barked Sergeant Pygmy.

CharisGreizman quicly scanned the ranks, and noted Chalan missing.

"Twelve present and accounted for, Sergeant, Legionaire Chalan appears to have fallen."

"Yes, he did," confirmed Shattershaft in a subdued voice, gesturing to the corpse of his gallant trainee who lay partly concealed by the casual rank they had formed, "but the Legion never leaves its comrades behind!!"

The Platoon knealt in silent acknowledgement of Chalan's sacrifice.

"I'm not dead yet . . " came a faint groan from Chalan, "I'm feeling better . . ." he coughed, over a lungful of blood.

"Medic!" cried Shattershaft, who then realized he was a Paladin, and so knealt to pray for healing from the Light.

"Forward we go, there is no going back! Frug, Jemali, Occhi, Mizam: Litter Bearers. CharisGreizman: Point. Sarisa and Hazeem: Flanks. The rest, with me!"

Sergeant Pygmy's orders focused his little band. The medics quickly fashioned a combat litter and carried Chalan forward.

After a rapid march deeper into the hall, Sergeant Pygmy noticed that it was getting warmer.

"Would you Look at That!" CharisGreizman shouted from the point position. "Holy Blinding Lighthouse, Sarge, come look at this!"

The platoon arrived where CharisGreizman was rooted to the floor, and then stopped as one, staring open mouthed.

They stood in a huge hall, in the rear of which rose an enormous stone altar surrounded by a pit of flame at least twenty strides across. But it was not the flaming pit that so amazed the legionaires.

What held their stares was the nine foot tall being aglow with blinding white light, his shimmering wings spreading easily ten paces to either side of him. They beheld an Angel of the Light.

"Thank you for freeing me," the figure began in a rich, modulated baritone voice.

"No time to talk, whoever you are," barked Xan, the cold of Mount Pylos' glaciers in her voice. "We've got a wounded soldier here, so either you heal him, or help us get to where we can."

The figure paused for a moment, considering the Amazon seriously, and then with the wave of his hand opened a large glimmering blue portal and bowed.

"Go, then, and heal your comrade in Lut Gholein. This portal will take you there. It does my soul good to see such selflessness among mercenaries."

"Whatever!" shouted Xan, sounding quite annoyed.

OcchiD'Merc looked at Xan, wondering how she could be so unimpressed by an Archangel. He was stunned, to say the least, to see a Messenger of the Light standing before him. But he had no time to muse, as Sergeant Pygmy, eyes glazed with wonder, took Xan's urging and tugging at his sleeve as sufficient guidance to hurry his troops through the portal and into the harsh daylight of high noon in Lut Gholein . . . where the entire platoon, after dropping Chalan off for healing at Fara's Dispensary and Iron Foundary, proceeded to Atma's Tavern to get noisily, and completely, drunk on Cactus extract, pomegranite wine and, except for Lance Corporal Occhi, every drop of beer left in Lut Gholein.

===

By the time they sobered up three days later, they could not have said for certain if they had seen an angel at all, or if it was just another memory brought on by the delerium of the celebration of their great victory.

"Aaahh, angel my eye," Xan had been heard to mutter more than once during the three day soiree, "If he was such hot stuff, why did he let a bug keep him prisoner when he could have magicked mimself away? I aint buyin' it."

At muster on the third morning after their victory, a messenger from Greiz arrived at the barracks. Sergeant Pygmy listened to the whispered instructions, nodded, and called for the platoon to fall in.

"Get your kit in order, Legionaires, time, tide and profit await no man. We sail with the tide, on Mesheif's transport, in an hours time. Fall Out!!"

It's always the same story for a Legionaire, mused OcchiD'Merc, success just brings you more work. With such profundity meandering around in his brain, he headed back to the barracks to joint the rest of the platoon in preparing for the journey East . . . always East . . .

[Hawkmoon]

Too funny, Occhi!

Too bad you can't detail OcchiD'Merc's lashing by Sgt. Sarisa - but I guess that would rapidly stray into NC-17 territory... :blink:

We really ought to think about re-doing the whole LoG thing when (if ever) 1.10 goes live on the Realms. Would be lots of fun!

Cheers,
Hawkmoon

[Occhidiangela]

Rolling Stones tune, album Some Girls. Yeah, that was the sound track of the Discipline Drills in the Barracks there in Lut Gholein! :D

The stories are reposts from RBD, but lots of folks have not seen them before.

While the Legion 1.10 could be fun, I'd rather try the Seven Samurai Variant in 1.10. We almost got if off the Ground with Roland's Realm, and I'd love to try it if and when 1.10 ever happens, since we will not be guessing at what to do with extra skill points.

[Occhidiangela]

Mad Cows and Greizmen


The broad shouldered man looked back at the five wagons strung out behind his, barely visible through the roiling dust raised by hooves and wheels. He nodded to himself, satisfied that they were in place, and then returned his gaze to the late morning haze settling onto the horizon. He reached up to his nose, absently rearranging the bandanna strung across the lower half of his face to filter out dust and the ever present sand flies. The wagon kept trundling slowly forward, its cargo of smoked and salted beef acting like a magnet for every insect within throwing distance.

“Looks like the last ridge is just ahead. We’ll be drinking Atma’s swill by sundown, Corporal,” remarked Sergeant Sarisa from her perch on the right side of the wagon’s bench seat. He glanced over at the tall, steel-eyed, blonde-haired woman and grunted his acknowledgement. Somehow, after the cool climate of Westmarch and the barrels of Kingsport Red that Pygmy's Platoon had consumed for a fortnight, Atma’s wine cellar did not inspire any compelling interest for his palate, nor for his thirst.

“Ya know, Sarge,” he growled, “This could become a habit, trucking beef over the desert sands to Lut Gholein." He spat a few grains of sand from his lips. "With the East settling down,” he continued, “I get the feeling that trade will be picking up and the meat market reopening its doors on the west side of town. I’m thinking that we ought to load more barrels of ale and fewer sides of beef on our next beef run, what with the thirsts that sailors develop in the passage from Kurast or Kingsport to Lut Gholein. More profit for less work, to my view.” He paused, to let a blossoming idea coalesce in his mind. “With the war winding down, I figure Jerhyn will follow through on his old threat to cancel the contract with Greiz, and we'll be looking for work again.” He snorted. “I’ve done dumber things than haul beef and beer to them as wants it.”

Sergeant Sarisa turned her head to regard him with a thoughtful stare. “What's this, you're getting out of the mercenary business, Corporal? After Sergeant Pygmy lobbied so hard to have you promoted again? Methinks you’ve been out in the sun too long, or you got a few too many whacks on the head with a halberd during our little scrap with those steers.” She focused once again, with genuine concern, on the raw red scar that ran from the top of the Corporal’s head to his left eyebrow, still marveling at the strength of skull and helm that had kept the halberd stroke from penetrating into his brain. She reached up and subtly adjusted the brim of her large, floppy straw hat and chuckled dryly. “The day you stop sticking your lance into things will be the day I go swimming in the River of Flame.” Then she started, aware of her own bawdy pun. “Well, your weapon anyway.” She cackled again at her second unintentional pun in a row.

Uncharacteristically, the large man did not rise to the bait and his typical off color retort. He merely grunted again and clamped his jaw shut. The Sergeant blinked, and then looked away, a slight blush coloring her sun and wind burned cheeks as her widening eyes betrayed enlightenment slowly dawning. She slapped her left thigh with a gloved hand and barked out a short laugh.

“It’s Adelia, isn’t it Occhi!" Throwing her head back, she let out a loud hoot. "You still hope to set up house with that harem girl in Lut Gholein. By the Light, no wonder you’ve been such a mule’s blanket this whole campaign. You lost your heart to that little slip of a dancer!” She returned her attention to him and watched his eyes narrow and his neck muscles tense. “And, just like a love struck recruit, you think she’s been waiting for you all by her lonesome these past two months . . .” Shaking her head and returning her gaze to the horizon, she muttered something under her breath about a whip, falling silent as once again the Corporal clamped his jaw further shut and stared morosely ahead to the approaching ridge, the last one they would crest before they would be able to glimpse the spires of Lut Gholein.

Adelia’s dubious lyoalty aside, Corporal Occhi D’Merc of the Legion of Greiz thought back and grimly wondered who of sane mind would ever march for pay again after the madness of the battle at the Cow King’s Corral . . .



Pygmy’s platoon had arrived at the old stockade in a subdued mood, having just paid their respects at the grave of their old combat engineer. Charis Greizman’s heart had apparently stopped one night. He had been found in his tent at the construction site of the block house he was building for the Earl of Redfallow in the northern hills of Ensteig. The simple etching on the head stone, behind which stood, forever inanimate, yet another of the eccentric engineer’s mechanical men, had told them all they needed to know. The wiry, white haired genius had died before his time, in his sleep, doing what he loved to do most: build things. Arrival at the Rogue's camp had done little to raise their spirits; the stockade they entered bore scant resemblance to their one time bivouac during the Demon Wars.

Gone was Gheed, all of his wagons and most of the tents, and gone too were Charsi and Kashya, to the Rogue Citadel with the most of the surviving rogue scouts. All that remained within the still standing wooden walls were a few rotted crates and Akara’s tent. Akara herself had returned to the Rogue’s war camp, the loser of a vicious internal political struggle within the Sisterhood that had arisen after reclaiming their Monastery. Every defeat creates a scapegoat, and Akara had filled that role to her great disappointment. Her only company seemed to be the chickens she still raised, and, judging by the few mules and other visible equipment, a rogue or two who still remained loyal to the one time High Priestess of the Sisters of the Sightless Eye. She had greeted their return with a weary smile and as warm a welcome as an empty camp could offer.

It was Akara who had given Sergeant Pygmy the key to their finding their enemy's base. She had briefed him the morning following their arrival.

“Sergeant, since you left and since Andariel fell, demons have been fleeing to the northeast. I, and the few scouts who remained loyal, traced their movements along some ley lines into Ensteig. There appear to be travel points other than those the Horadrim constructed. Their pattern is similar to the portal you used to relieve the Siege of Tristram.” She had walked toward the still warm fire pit, raised her staff, and slammed it down to the ground ten feet south of the stone circle. “Here is where the ley lines meet. And here is where we can open the portal to strike at the source of the Demon Cows.” Sergeant Pygmy had sworn an oath, and Sarisa spat in disgust.

It was Xan who had broken the silence.

“Akara,” queried the Amazon of Philios, “Do you mean to tell us that Deckard Cain stood here for weeks while we fought demon hordes and never once mentioned, or ever detected, the existence of this path to the infernal corral? For all his noise about being the last of the Horadrim, he sure seems to have been blind to magic.” Picking up her pike, she sauntered over to Akara and set the butt of her weapon next to the Priestess' staff. “It’s about time someone did something about this. And of course, since we have been paid in advance,” she continued with a wide grin, “I suppose sooner is better than later. How do we get there?”

Akara had reached under the folds of her robe and produced a wooden leg, a blue covered book, and a small golden cube. Opening the cube, she had shoved the leg and the book into it and slammed the lid shut while the mercenaries looked at one another in confusion. Their expressions all told the same tale: the priestess had lost it during her eviction from the Monastery. Her voice had turned melancholy as she addressed them.

“This leg of an innocent victim of Andariel is the link to the ley line.” She had used her index and middle fingers to press two small studs on the golden cube. “I can open this pathway only rarely. The last time we tried to scout the Bovine King’s stronghold, none of the five rogues came back. Only Basanti remains with me, and her cousin Gwinni. Neither will dare the portal. I called for help from the Citadel, but the Sisters have inflicted The Silence upon me. Khanduras is a broken kingdom, and the King of Westmarch cares not to answer my messages. You are my last hope.”

Legionnaire Sasqaat had reached out to pat Akara on the shoulder in a consoling manner. “The King got your messages, Priestess. ‘Twas he who hired Greiz to sort this out. Hence, our arrival. Your efforts have paid off.” He smiled warmly, then backed away suddenly, as did Xan, when the air started to shimmer as a glowing red portal appeared out of the air behind Akara’s staff. Sergeant Pygmy stepped forward, in front of the now stabilizing red portal, and motioned to Sarisa and Xan, both of whom stepped back into ranks. He faced his platoon, giving them a short nod before barking out the expected commands.

“Platoon, fall in!’’

Twelve Legionnaires quickly arranged themselves into two ranks.

“Platoon, ready . . . Pikes!”

Twelve Pikes raised up, then lowered their tips just above parallel to the ground.

“Platoon, forward, march! To the demon’s lair . . . again!”

“DEATH TO THE DEMON COWS!!” shouted twelve throats in unison.
"And revenge for Charis Greizman!” screamed Shattershaft, overcome with the enthusiasm of the moment.

Down into the red portal marched the platoon. They emerged into . . . madness.

They had erupted, still in formation, from the red portal into a field bordered and sectioned off with stone walls. Typical to a large cow pasture, hundreds of cows occupied the area. Unlike the denizens of a typical cow pasture, these cows stood on their hind legs and held halberds in their front hooves. The hooves had grown demon claws with opposable thumbs, it seemed. The visual shock of seeing cows wielding weapons was not, however, what unsettled the Legionnaires.

Most disconcerting was the piercing red glare in the cow’ eyes. The intelligent, malevolent stares were reinforced as the cows, in random groupings, staggered forward bellowing their inane warcry, a peaen that embodied the hatred of all things human:

“Moo moo moo, moo moo, moo!” It was enough to drive a warrior mad.

But the Legion were not as other warriors, and had been to madness and back in their pursuit of the Lord of Destruction. With a great cry of their own, led by Shattershaft’s sharp scream of defiance, the platoon bellowed “DIE, DIE, TIME TO DIE!” and charged forward into the first pack of cows.

OcchiD’Merc shook his head again to clear the memory of the bloody melee. Their pikes had churned forward into exposed cow bellies again and again. Of tactics there were few, on either side, just brute force and the advantage of reach afforded by the pikes. Down slammed the halberds, and forward drove the pikes: inexorable, sharp, and merciless. Jemali fell, only to be dragged to his feet by Ilzan and healed by Sasqaat. Chalan fell, as did Shattershaft, but they too were picked up, their wounds bandaged on the run as the tight formation of legionnaires drove yet again into walking sides of beef. The smell of blood and manure mixed with the sharp aroma of sweat and fear to create a nauseatingly sweet stench.

The unarmored bovine bodies piled up, and still more cows surged forward, their inane cries and red stares combining to create the surreal nightmare of a walking slaughterhouse. Sasqaat had remarked aloud, during a withdrawal from an attack on their right flank: “Hell can’t be any worse than this!”

At last they arrived, drenched in bovine gore and bone weary, to face a massive wooden stockade. Nothing moved, save their chests as they paused to breathe, and a few hundred clouds of flies attracted to the piles of freshly killed corpses. Then a demonic scream had rent the air.

“You will never again make a bull into a steer for your dinner! Die, Beefeaters, die! MOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!”

Out from the corral stampeded two dozen cows led by an enormous bull wielding a poleaxe. Bolts of lightning shot from his horns and fire erupted from his nostrils as he led twenty tons of beef in a thundering charge.

“Set for charge!” barked Sergeant Pygmy. Twelve pike butts were slammed into the damp earth. Twelve pike heads lowered to accept the charge.

It almost worked as planned.

They were overrun and their line broken in a sickening crash of splintering wood and the accompanying chorus of demonic screams as every pike head found a home in an exposed gullet. The final hand-to-hoof melee began in earnest with their line shattered, their bodies further broken and bloodied, and their last reserves of energy long spent.

The images were etched into Occhi’s memory like letters in stone blocks, and no amount of Kingsport Red could wash it away. Light knows, he had tried that, and generous doses of the fire whiskey of Scosglen.

He saw it all again:

Sergeant Sarisa drawing a sword and leaping astride a bovine champion’s back, her two handed stroke plunging deep before he had bucked her off and sent her flying into the stockade wall, where she fell stunned. Sasqaat and Ilzan fighting with broken pikes against three cows, frantically blocking the halberd blows as they were driven toward a stone wall. Shattershaft charging into that skirmish, wielding a fence rail like a lance, and bowling two bovines over as he skewered a third. Xan and Pygmy, back to back, their warforks still intact, blocking halberd blows and jabbing and striking at a small pack of cows.

He saw himself pulling Jemali's wounded body from the ground and lowering his shoulder as he charged into the Cow King’s side with no weapon but a broken halberd shaft, knocking that regent off his feet. The blast of lightning, the falling head of a helberd, and the smell of his own burning flesh were the last things that registered before darkness fell.

He never saw the final encounter where Sasqaat charged over Pygmy’s bleeding body at the Cow King and impaled the demon with a half-length of pike shaft. OcchiD’Merc had lain unconscious for three days, the Cow King’s final halberd blow having driven his helm into his skull with a sickening crack.

He had awakened in the dark, lying stiff and sore next to the fire at Akara’s camp, to the sound of a woman’s cries. Staggering to his feet and reeling with dizziness, he had limped painfully toward the lone standing tent where the sounds of distress gained in pitch. He had torn through the tent flap and tripped over a bent composite bow, falling with a crash onto a cot where two bodies were tied together in knots beneath a coarse woolen blanket. The urgent cries had stopped abruptly, to be replaced by two cursing voices, one male and one female.

“Get out of here you big lummox, this isn’t your tent!” screamed Bisanti as she struggled to keep the blanket between herself and the air.

“The slit trench is the other way, dirt for brains!” bellowed FrugalMerc as he threw the crushed cot aside and tried to scramble back under the blanket.

OcchiD’Merc had rolled back out of the tent and stumbled back to the fire, dazed and confused.

Madness still reigned, or so it had seemed. It was not until the next day, while he was working to skin and quarter the carcasses of the slain cows, that Akara had told him of Basanti’s betrothal to FrugalMerc and the Legionnaire’s retirement to his recently founded cattle ranch.

=================

The Corporal returned from his memories to the dusty trail in front of him. It had taken two long weeks to smoke, salt, and pack the beef which they were now driving toward the Sparkling City. The bloody butcher's work and nightly drunken binges had been necessary for them all to recover both their health and their sanity. What awaited them, he was sure, was a new future. His premonition was that Greiz’ Legion had done its work and would be disbanded. The ill will between Jehryn and Greiz almost guaranteed that. He tried once again to imagine living with Adelia in the flat just down the street from Elzix’ tavern, running a beef and beer caravan once per month. The pictures of that future remained fuzzy and dim, though if this lack of focus came from his own sense of foreboding, or from the halberd blow to his head, he did not know. Perhaps he did not want to.

The wagon crested the ridge and he saw, dimly through the haze, the tall spires and the great palace dome of Lut Gholein as he had so many months before when he had answered Greiz’ recruiting bill. He noticed the Sergeant gazing wistfully at the ships’ masts that were once more filling the great harbor. He looked back to make sure the wagon train was keeping up, and once again was satisfied with the result. Sarisa surprised him by turning to him, a tear forming in her right eye.

Her voice trembled and cracked as she spoke.

“The ships have returned, Corporal. The ships from my home Islands. Can’t you see their banners?” She turned and pointed, but her eyes had always been keener than his, so he could only guess at what she saw so far away at the tops of those tall masts. “I can go see my nephews again, and my aunt." She choked back a sob. "And my father’s grave.”

She breathed deeply and slowly got control of herself, the short lapse suppressed under a sergeant’s gruff reserve. After a moment of silence, the veteran campaigner returned, offering a comradely grin to her fellow veteran.

“But before I sail, I think, maybe we should all gather once more at Atma’s, and drain a keg together. The whole platoon. What say you to that, Corporal Occhi D’Merc?”

She was surprised to see a grin steal across the big man's features. Staring straight ahead, he snapped the reins to coax the animals forward, then dug the fingers of his left hand into his belt pouch to produce a small earthen flask. Lifting it to his lips, he pulled out the cork with his teeth and spat it over his left shoulder. Still staring straight ahead, he tilted his head back and poured a generous slug of amber liquid down his throat, then reached across his body to hand her the flask. He glanced slightly to his right, to make eye contact with her, and winked. “Scosglen smokey malt whiskey, the last of the vintage barrel we found in Harragoth. ‘Twas thinking you’d honor me by finishing it, Sarge.” She took the flask eagerly.

“Anyways, Sarge,” he continued in a casual tone, “Whatever happens, happens. If we get turned out of the barracks, I have a flat where you can park your gear until your ship sails, Adelia or no Adelia.” His grin turned into a smile as she tilted her head back and raised the flask to her lips. His smile broadened as she drained it with two vigorous gulps. Breathing out and then quickly in to savor the flavor, she lifted the flask over her head and flung it to the ground where it shattered on a rock. She turned to him and returned his smile with her own broad grin, then she winked. Together they tilted their heads back and raised their right arms, then shouted at the top of their lungs:

“FOR THE GREATER GLORY OF THE LEGION!!””

Behind them, over the creaking of the wheels, they heard the cry go up in each succeeding wagon, its energy lifting their spirits as they headed down the trail and into their uncertain future . . .

[mageofthesands]

Good and funny. Keep it up!