The Hunter Hunted
Micro Conto e Cenário — NQ 14
Esta matéria faz parte do evento Recent Battles. Composta pelo ato Know tht Enemy e The Hunter Hunted
Grim Angus found it something of a relief to surround himself with trees and vegetation again, even thsoe as stunted and sparse as lived in this arid region. His former travels as a bounty hunter had taken him across much of western Immoren, but he had rarely spent time east of the Black River along the fringes of the Bloodstone Marches. He found Scarleforth Lake a relatively fertile and lively contrast to the rest of the arid wastes, but he did not feel at home amid its stark landscapes and struggling foliage. It bore no resemblance whatsoever to the swampy Wythmoor of his youth or the dark and overgrown Thornwood. It certainly lay at the opposite end of the spectrum from the coldly beautiful winter forests of northern Khador. Even those plants which thrived in this forested region south of the lake seemed thirsty and desperate. Their knotted roots plunged deep into largely barren soil in search of the most meager trickles of moisture.
Summer had not yet come, but the air felt hot and stifling. The massive lake to the north, glimmers of which he could occasionally see through the trees, barely tempered the heat. Grim knew they moved close to a sheer drop-off to the north that descended past jagged rocks to the shore below. He had felt compelled to patrol this region since these trees and their vantage would provide excellent cover for any adversaries trying to approach the large number of trollkin and full-blood trolls laboring down the slope and nearer the edge of the lake not far to the east. Grim had a keen eye for ambush points and instinctively sought places where a man or ‘kin with a rifle could get a bead on him unnoticed. A certain strain of paranoia, perhaps, but one that had saved his hide on several occasions.
“Something isn’t right.” He spoke his thoughts aloud for the first time that day. His accompanying pygs looked to him nervously, raised their rifles, and peered into the surrounding underbrush. Through the lenses of his goggles, Grim glanced to his right at their leader, a rather clever pyg named Nargol. “Do you feel it?”
It was a test, but Nargol seemed used to them by now. Grim refused to tolerate the company of foolish or stupid pygs, and had hand-selected these of bushwhackers after observing them closely. “Used t’be bugs here, quiet now.” Nargol mumbled. They had their own dialect, but those pygs who spent time with the trollkin eventually learned to speak well enough to be understood. Nargol waved his rifle at a small flight of birds that winged past them with shrieking calls. “Birds’n’varmits stir’d up, coming to us, fleein’.” Grim nodded, pleased, and held a hand to quiet him. The wildlife in the region was acting very strangely, fleeing past them rather than running away from their advance. Something ahead had them spooked. The air held unnaturally still, without the usual sounds of insects.
Grim waved the pygs on. Watching Nargol pass he could not restrain a grimace and shook his head as he watched the pyg move in an extremely apt parody of Grim’s own stance and posture. He had not entirely gotten used to the fact that Nargol had decided to imitate him, although ‘kin more accustomed to life among the pygs insisted it was a compliment. Nargol had gone so far as to adopt attire very similar to Grim’s. The pyg had skinned a deer, sewn together a lengthy overhanging coat, and stolen Skorne goggles from a dead catapult crewman. They rested atop his forehead, as they did not fit his eyes properly. Pygs liked to imitate ‘kin, just a fact of this new life.
A few years ago, anyone suggesting Grim might ever have anything in common with a pyg, let alone teaching a band of them how to better stalk and hunt, would have gotten a mouth full of Grim’s fist. The ‘kin of his youth deemed pygs primitive and almost embarrassing creatures that lived deeper in the swamp. His kriel had refused to acknowledge any even tenuous relation and considered pygs as stupid as full-blood trolls but less useful in battle. Left to their own devices in the wild, pygs seemed content to huddle amid poorly constructed hovels, naked as beasts, and only roused themselves when hungry. The first time Grim had seen pygs wearing clothes and holding rifles he could not believe his eyes. He had demanded Grissel let him in on the joke, thinking it must be a ruse to divert the humans, but she had insisted they earned their keep.
Not until they ambushed a Skorne patrol shortly after crossing the Black River did Grim gain a full appreciation for these trained pygs and their skills. He witnessed them signaling with hand gestures and animal calls and coordinating attacks with smooth precision. They had laid down an impressive hail of supporting fire to cover an advance by kriel warriors, all while calmly falling back and reloading. Not long after that, Grim had adopted the band as his own and begun to warm to the idea of leading them. By now he had developed something of a gruff fondness for this group, even the mimic Nargol.
Like everyone touched by Madrak Ironhide, some more lasting purpose motivated them now. Some innately wary part of Grim did not entirely trust the profound impact the chieftain had on those around him, even as he felt the pull himself. Why else, he wondered, would I be here? He thought of his brief conversation with Madrak as the ‘kin traveled north, and Grim’s promise to assist Grissel. While he would not speak of it aloud, he had found this task more satisfying than he would have expected. It answered some deeper need he had not known existed.
His shoulder blades twitched and he gripped the stock of Headhunter, glad he had already tucked a silk cartridge into its breach. Something unnatural stirred the air, and he could almost taste the imminent violence. His mood had infected the two full-blood trolls with him, both impalers recently brought under his control from the Thornwood. Their awareness of the surroundings heightened his own, but Grim pushed that aside to focus on what he could see through the lenses of his enhanced goggles. The leaves parted before his vision and became translucent as he penetrated the foliage. Something, almost on the edge of his ability to perceive, stirred in the air in the far distance. Through the unnatural stillness of the woods and the palpable heat of the air, menace rose like a tide.
At last he saw them: graceful forms advancing with amazing alacrity through the trees, utterly silent and self-assured. As the pygs hunkered down ahead of him in the brush he froze and focused, trying to make sense of what his eyes told him. He saw antlered animals, familiar and yet utterly out of place, with slender, muscled riders atop their backs dressed in dark leathers and carrying bows. They had not yet begun the hunt — had not seen the trollkin position
– but they came on towards him.
Grim reached out with his mind and drew on the strength of the nearest of his full-blood trolls, feeling its power flow into his limbs as he raised Headhunter. He lifted his heavy rifle and sighted an impossible shot through the trees. He found the antlered steed and lifted just a little higher. He squeezed the trigger and an echoing report rolled out across the wood, but the birds that would have risen in panic had already fled. The rider toppled from his steed in a gout of blood, which roused in Grim a sense of pleased satisfaction.
As his fingers swiftly worked to reload he poured his power forth to instill the pygs, readying them and his trolls. The surviving riders came on, eating up the ground between them impossibly fast, bows raised, searching for the threat ahead. The pygs’ rifles banged in a quick staccato, and another antlered steed fell. Grim could feel the impalers readying their own throws. At that moment, a flicker of movement well beyond the riders caught Grim’s attention. Something vast moved beyond them, as if the entire horizon crawled with life.
Arrows descended through the trees. Most fell astray, but one caught a pyg named Gunit in the throat. Grim barely noticed as his mind finally accepted what he saw. Beyond these forward riders lay a vast and swiftly moving force — dragonspawn and Nyss as far as the eye could see. Too many. Far too many. They should not be here, yet here they were.
Even as his rifle sounded again and he felt the heavy weight of impaler spears thrown as if by his own arms, even as the other riders toppled in death, Grim started moving. “Run!” he shouted to the pygs. Through the trees a horn sounded, and the hunt was on.
BACKGROUND OF THIS EVENT
Late in spring 607 AR, a mixed force of trollkin, pygs, and full-blooded trolls risked returning to the regions they had once occupied east of the Black River. Led by Grissel Bloodsong and accompanied by the former bounty hunter Grim Angus, this force went to locate and recover important assets left behind during early skirmishes with the Skorne invaders. A number of large and invaluable krielstones remained in the vicinity, and Grissel and her gathered
allies were determined to bring these back to the dislocated kriels.
Unknown to the Trollbloods, a vast army of the Legion of Everblight advanced at that moment on their position. Everblight had no particular interest in the ruined villages along the periphery of the lake, focused instead on reaching the Castle of the Keys to find and slay the injured dragon that had lurked below the ruins for centuries. Composed of the bulk of Everblight’s warlocks and dragonspawn, this army had repeatedly crushed every intervening distraction or obstacle.
Forward scouts of this horde encountered Grim Angus and a small patrol of pyg bushwhackers near the lakeshore, giving rise to a deadly chase. Had Grim not evaded these scouts to warn Grissel Bloodsong, the Legion likely would have surprised and overwhelmed all of the trollkin gathered at the lakeshore. The Legion would certainly have destroyed both trollkin warlocks and cost the embattled kriels dearly in the crucial battles yet to come.
DESCRIPTION
Grim Angus and his scouting party have spotted a vast army of dragonspawn and blighted Nyss approaching and must warn a nearby Trollblood horde of the imminent danger. The Legion’s scouts must delay or destroy Grim Angus to prevent him from forewarning his allies. Grim’s escape route has forced him to veer uncomfortably close to a sheer cliff that drops to jagged rocks at the southern edge of Scarleforth Lake.
