Introduction: Doom of the Savage Kings playthrough

Erin Wywood adjusted the strap on the backpack and allowed herself one glance back at her family’s darkened home. Her brown hair was tied back in a simple ponytail, exposing her pale, freckled face. Erin bit her lip absently, wondering if the note she’d left her parents would be sufficient. With a prayer to her god and a touch to the silver crescent moon hanging at her neck, she decided it would have to be.

Turning, eyes set forward, she picked her way through the sleeping village. Erin made for a ghostly figure in the darkness, dressed in scaled armor painted meticulously, painstakingly in white. Nightbirds, insects, and the crunching of her boots were her journey’s only sounds.

The late-summer sky had turned the same light gray as her eyes by the time she’d reached the outskirts of Graymoor. Waiting for her, leaning against a tree, was a halfling in leathers and flouncy blouse, a tricorn cap atop her head, with a sheathed sword hanging at her hip, another hilt peeking over one shoulder.

“Ethys,” Erin nodded. “I apologize for being late.”

The halfling smiled. “You’re right on time. But please, Erin, I’m leaving that name behind today. Ethys died with Giliam. Just call me Haffoot.”

If the armored young woman had an opinion or retort, she held it back. Instead, she said simply. “Are you ready, then?”

“Yes, but I have a surprise for you,” she grinned, and with that, Haffoot pushed off from the tree and stepped aside.

Another figure moved out from the woods, clad in nearly identical scaled armor as Erin. His had been modified to fit the short, squat frame of a dwarf, and where Erin’s was a brilliant white, Umur Pearlhammer’s was a matte, ominous black. A horned helmet hung from one hip, a sheathed sword from the other.

 “Mornin’ lass,” the dwarf rumbled, scratching at his full beard. “I’ve, been trainin’ ah… Haffoot here and got wind of yer plans. Thought you could use another sword. Hope you don’t mind.”

Erin blinked. “You’d leave your life here, Master Pearlhammer? For places unknown?”

“I’ve been in Graymoor as long as anyone can remember,” Umur shrugged. “Think it’s about time I do somethin’ else. Besides, I’m tired of tellin’ the story of that Spring night over and over.”

A half-grin touched the woman in white’s mouth and a finger strayed the pendant at her neck. “On that we agree. In truth, I’d welcome your sword, and your company.”

Haffoot yelped and did a little dance. “Yes! The three heroes of Graymoor!”

“There were four of us, if I recall,” a voice said from the shadows, and the darkness coalesced into a robed, hooded shape. The others startled, hands moving to weapons.

“H-Hilda?” Haffoot gasped. “Is that you?”

The woman before them bore little resemblance to the baker from their memories. She had lost a good deal of weight, for one. Gone were the simple, flour-stained clothes, replaced by a dark blue cloak over a gray robe and belt laden with pouches. When they had entered the portal that night, Hilda had brought her rolling pin as a weapon. Now she held a sturdy walking staff topped by a wooden sphere carved with symbols.

“By the gods, lass!” Umur sputtered. “No one has seen you in months! They say you went mad in yer home.”

“They would,” Hilda scoffed. “I know you each came calling during that time, though I did not answer my door. For that I thank you.”

“What are you doin’ here?” Haffoot stammered.

“Coming with you, of course. There were four survivors that night, and all of us forever transformed by our time beneath the Empty Star. Where you go, so I follow. Graymoor holds nothing for me.”

“But– but how did you–?”

Hilda waved a hand dismissively. “I simply knew. So. Will you have a hermit of a baker? I brought pastries.” Her mouth, visible beneath the hood, grinned wryly.

“I say yes,” Erin stated decisively. “It is the completion of a full circle, us being together once more. A good omen from Shul for our travels.”

The halfling shrugged, grinning. “As long as I’m away from here and seeing the world. A week ago, I thought I’d be travelin’ alone. This is better. And pastries!”

The three turned to the dwarf.

“I’m happy for the company, Hilda, and ye were always a friend,” Umur said hesitantly. “But can ye defend yerself? We’re headed to the Trollteeth, and the way will be treacherous. This won’t be easy.”

Hilda laughed, though the sound held no joy. “I emerged from the portal untouched, which cannot be said for you, if I recall. But I hear your warning, Master Pearlhammer, and don’t worry. Despite the rumors, I haven’t been sitting idly, going mad in my home. I think you’ll find that I am more than capable of defending myself. You as well, if the need arises.”

The way she said it made the others pause for one quizzical, uncomfortable moment. It was Haffoot who broke the silence.

“It’s settled then. I’m happy to have you all here on my wanderin’. Let’s head to the mountains and away from here before anyone wakes and sees us, yeah? Imagine the stir all four of us being gone will cause! The tales they’ll tell!” She laughed, and then clapped two hands over her giggling smile.

They headed east, through the wooded moors beyond the old stone mound and away from the Teawood River. It was slow going, through marshy ground and tangles of low-hanging, dense forest, though the weather was mild and pleasant for late summer. The four spoke little beyond helping one another navigate the way through the wild country, but it was a companionable silence, each focused on the effort of moving ahead.

It wasn’t until late in the afternoon–sitting in a small glade upon a fallen log and munching gratefully on Hilda’s pastries and fruit from Haffoot–that the question of their destination arose for the first time.

“Why the Trolltooth Mountains, then?” Hilda asked, her face still mysteriously hooded.

Haffoot shrugged and answered around a mouthful of apple. “There’s a stretch on the Teawood when, on a clear day, you can see ‘em in the distance. For years I went back and forth on the skiff, passin’ that place. The mountains became a, I don’t know, dream, I guess? Giliam and I used to talk of it as a place we’d go someday. When I decided to leave Graymoor and give up tea-haulin’, well… it seemed like where I’d start.”

“I was born in the Trollteeth, deep beneath the mountains,” Umur said, swallowing his food. The rest of them gaped, and he chuckled at their reaction. “Ya, I haven’t spoken of it, and I’ve not been back in a long, long while. But if we make it that far, I’ll introduce you to Arenor. It’s a grand city, at least in my memory.”

“That sounds amazing,” Haffoot smiled widely. “What’s between here and there, then?”

Umur grunted. “Mostly this. Forest, rivers, moors, then foothills. But there are human villages and towns, too.”

Erin hummed, thinking. “My grampa has talked about a village named Hirot, a few days from Graymoor towards the mountains and along another river. Perhaps we can find it.”

“For a bed and warm meal, t’would be worth a search,” Umur agreed. “You’ll see tonight that sleeping in a marsh leaves little to recommend it.”

The ensuing days of travel passed as a mosaic of shallow bogs, tangled brush, clouds of insects, and moss-covered trees. It was clear why Graymoor had no contact with the villages to its east, Hirot or otherwise. The group encountered no footpaths or roads, and it was only glimpses of the Trolltooth peaks through the canopy that kept them moving in hopeless circles. As Umur warned, they all slept poorly, thanks to the wet, soft ground, biting pests, and especially the eerie, unfamiliar night sounds.

Despite the hardships, the four of them discovered that they were compatible travel companions. Haffoot remained positive and upbeat, seemingly happy to be anywhere as long as it was unusual and unfamiliar. Umur, despite so many decades in Graymoor, proved to be a competent survivalist and guide. Erin grated on everyone with her constant prayers and earnest lack of joy, yet her singing voice was a balm to weary minds, and she seemed determined to work harder than the other three combined no matter what obstacle confronted them.

Finally, Hilda remained an enigma, but not an unpleasant one. She complained not at all, and indeed her stamina rivaled them all. Like Haffoot, she seemed to be content wherever they found themselves, and sporadically surprised them with her gentle kindness and generosity. If the others had a complaint, it was that Hilda revealed little of her thoughts even in evening downtime, and always she kept her hood drawn and face shrouded. When asked about the hood directly, she deflected with a mysterious grin.  

 After three days, they reached a river, which they surmised was where the village Hirot lay, either upriver or down. Umur directed them downriver for nearly half a day before declaring it the wrong direction, and so they backtracked. Even this waste of a day seemed to only amuse Haffoot, and both Erin and Hilda bore the distance stoically.

Such it was that, late in the afternoon on their fourth day, they began to discover worn footpaths and signs of civilization. A simple dock like the one in Graymoor sat unoccupied except for a single raft, around it a collection of oars and wooden buckets. The forest had been cleared on their side of the riverbank, and as the group rounded a bend they saw, in the distance, a tall wall made of sturdy tree trunks, sharpened at their tops. Smoke from several chimneys rose from beyond the wall, as did a low hill with a large manor atop it. Ravens circled overhead in lazy circles.

Village sounds drifted to them in the heavy summer air: the clink of hammers, a sharp whinny of a horse, and human voices calling out indecipherably.

“There we go,” Umur smiled, stroking his beard. “I do believe we’ve found Hirot.”

Before they were halfway to the large gate, the heavy, wooden doors swung open before them. The companions stopped and watched as a line of human villagers emerged, dour-faced and bearing a variety of wood axes, knives, staves, and pitchforks. Immediately following the line were five armored men and women astride horses, the last of which was a giant of a man in a fur cloak despite the season. Neither the villagers nor horses were in a hurry; it seemed they almost walked against their will, an invisible rope compelling them forward despite half-hearted resistance.

As they approached, one of the armored men, a patch over one eye, called to his party and pointed at the group from Graymoor. The villagers gripped their shoddy weapons fearfully and stepped back in a disorganized cluster, while those on horseback trotted forward.

The bear of a man from the back rode to the front. He was in his later years, bald atop his head with gray strings dangling over his ears and neck. Scars crisscrossed the slab of his face above a bushy gray beard. Hands as big as hams, calloused and scarred, pulled on his reigns to stop. This close, the furred cloak over his worn armor was clearly a wolf pelt, its head adorning one shoulder. The man’s horse whickered and danced as he towered over them, looking down imperiously. His four armored companions flared out to either side, creating a semi-circle around Umur and the others.

“Who are you?” the man said a deep, gravely voice. “What business have you here?”

“Is this Hirot?” Erin said, straightening.

“It is,” the man growled. “And I am its Jarl. Now answer my questions.”

“We’re travelers,” Umur said, holding both hands up in a sign of peace. “Simply lookin’ for a warm bed to stay the night and chance to restock food supplies. Then we’d be on our way.”

“Travelers?” the Jarl scoffed. “Here? Begone, dwarf. We have no need for whatever trouble you bring.”

“You’d deny travelers hospitality?” Erin gasped.

“I’d deny armed troublemakers in my town,” he snarled back. “Now out of the way. We have grave business before us.” He jerked his head, and he and the other horse riders wheeled around, returning to the line of nervous villagers.

Erin, Umur, and the others stepped aside to give a wide berth to the procession. The villagers trudged past them, glancing anxiously at the Graymoor group but mostly keeping their eyes down. They appeared bedraggled and worn, some underfed and all despairing. Only as they passed was it clear that the group carried a red-haired young woman, gagged and bound with thick rope. When the woman saw the outsiders, she squirmed and thrashed, yelling incoherently through her gag. Two peasants moved to help those holding her, while an older man shushed and pat her, openly weeping.

“What is the meaning of this?” Erin demanded of the closest figure on horseback, a hardened woman of middle years with a strong jaw and corded muscle.

“Don’t you mind,” she shook her head, warning. “Just leave it be.”

“You see,” the Jarl bellowed as he passed. “We have enough trouble in Hirot. We do not need yours.”

The procession did not proceed to the river, but instead followed a cleared path through the woods parallel and away from the walled village. The Jarl and his lieutenants peered suspiciously at the Graymoor companions with every clop of their horse’s hooves, radiating an aura of promised violence. Umur, for his part, scowled and stared with crossed arms over his broad chest. Erin said a fervent prayer, clutching at her pale crescent pendant. Hilda simply held her staff unmoving, face hidden behind her hood.

“What do we do?” Haffoot said, wringing her hands. “We can’t let them do… Whatever it is they’re doin’ to that girl. Can we?”

“Of course not,” Erin said. “Chaos is afoot. It is good that Shul led us here to deal with it under his watchful gaze.”

“We’ll follow,” Umur agreed. “But not be seen, ya? We don’ know yet what’s happenin’.”

“Yes. Let them go. I will seek Shul’s guidance.”

Haffoot danced anxiously, watching the group of Hirot slowly, arduously disappear beyond a bend. The Jarl’s lieutenant with the eye patch lingered in the back of the procession and turned in his saddle to spy the Graymoor group until his group was fully out of sight. Then he too was gone.

“It is good we are in a clearing, with an unencumbered view,” Erin announced in the uncomfortable silence that followed. Without preamble, she sat cross-legged in the soft earth. “It would be better were it night, but here we are. Now, please, quiet.”

The other three looked to each other quizzically as the white-armored woman began to hum, her gaze skyward.

Haffoot gasped as Erin’s open, unblinking eyes began to glow white, visible even in the afternoon sunlight. It was, they would all agree later, like a full moon shone from behind her gaze. At the same time, the white-armored woman’s hum increased to a haunting, enigmatic melody that none would be able to describe or repeat.

After less than a minute, Erin blinked repeatedly. When she’d gained her bearings, the glow from her eyes was gone. Hilda helped her stand, and Erin thanked her with a grateful nod.

“We should not interfere with the Jarl,” she proclaimed. “Until after he’s gone. Then it will be safe.”

“I coulda told you not to interfere,” Umur grumbled. “I don’ relish fightin’ armored men on horseback, and make no doubt they would draw swords if we tried anythin’.”

“But that was plumb amazin’, Erin!” Haffoot clapped. “You truly do have a connection with Shul, yeah?”

“Of course,” the woman said, somewhat defensively. “I am an acolyte to my god, his vessel and weapon.”

“Well, it’s somethin’ to watch, that’s for sure,” Haffoot smiled. “C’mon. Let’s go.”

They moved into the forest, walking always with the path in sight. It was slow going as they aimed to move quietly, and every crash of bramble made them collectively wince.

Thankfully, the procession from Hirot had not traveled far. To the east from the walled village, atop a clearing on a low headland, were large stones set in a squat block. It reminded the four of them of the old stone mound near Graymoor, yet whereas those boulders were eerily untouched by the nature around them, these standing stones were draped in moss. There were fewer stones as well, only four rounded, verdant boulders leaning against one another.

In the clearing, around the stones, Hirot villagers and warriors atop horseback watched as several men wrestled with the bound woman and attempted to secure her with thick rope to the stones.

“Are they goin’ to kill her, then?” Haffoot whispered, crouching low with the others. “Like a sacrifice or somethin’?”

“If they attempt it, we will stop them,” Erin whispered back with conviction, and one hand gripped the dagger’s hilt at her side.

“Hush now,” Umur cautioned.

The Jarl, grim-faced, watched as the men managed to attach the rope at the young woman’s wrists overhead to the central standing stone. He said something in his low, gruff voice, but it was difficult to hear from distance. As they loosened her gag, however, the woman’s response carried clearly to them through the early evening air.

“Please! Don’t leave me! Father, father!”

The weeping man who had been shushing her before fell to his knees, face buried in hands and sobbing uncontrollably. Several villagers pulled him to stand, muttering words fervently to him. The Jarl allowed the scene to continue for several heartbeats, but eventually barked a command. The horses and their riders turned to retrace their way back to Hirot. Reluctantly, many crying and pulling the girl’s father with them, the villagers followed.

The Graymoor companions waited a long while to make sure the Jarl and his procession had left. It was dusk when they padded out of the brush and towards the mossy boulders. As they did so, they saw that the central stone had holes bored into it, through which the woman’s rope had been threaded. The woman herself had collapsed against her crude shackles, sniffling and eyes closed. When she heard the snap of a twig underfoot, her eyes flew wide and terrified, heading swiveling everywhere. Then she saw the companions and whispered urgently.

“Please! Please help me!”

“Ay, lass, be still. We’ll get ye down,” Umur said reassuringly. He drew the longsword from his hip in one fluid motion and, with a single chop, severed the rope above the woman’s wrists. She collapsed to the ground, immediately pulling at the ropes around her ankles.

“Hold,” Erin said imperiously. She had drawn the crescent-shaped blade from its scabbard and leveled it at the girl. “What madness is this? What crime have you committed that your own father brings you here? Explain.”

“C-crime? What?” the woman stammered, her tear-streaked face wide-eyed and swiveling amongst the four of them. “I’m not being punished! My family drew the lot. I’m to be sacrificed!”

“To what?” Haffoot cocked her head.

“Please,” she gasped. “I’ll explain everything, but we must get away. It’s already dusk, so it will be here soon. Please hurry!”

“Let’s return to the forest,” Hilda offered calmly. “And see what arrives.”

Haffoot and Hilda led the way back to the brush. Erin followed, pulling the girl, stumbling, with her. Umur secured the shield to his arm, then backed away with sword raised.

Moments after they had returned to the woods, the creature arrived.

Doom of the Savage Kings, Chapter 2