The Chronicle of Aelfric and Crow

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The Flight from Waybury 

I, Aelfric, did pen these lines, a chronicler, historian, and archivist once in the loyal service of Duke Edward Ravenguard of Waybury in the fair Duchy of Ulek. Alas, the Duke was most foully murdered by his brother, the jealous and power-mad Alexander, and kinsmen, and I was forced to flee my homeland. But that tale is of a sorrowful past. Here beginneth the story of my new life as Aelfric, the Bard. 

I. The Encounter at Willip Graveyard 

The pale moonlight sliced through the twisted boughs above Willip, a meager town of little renown, and the bats, those leathern-winged birds of the night, clicked and chirped as I took my solitary evening stroll through the ancient graveyard. 

My leisure was broken by a low, insistent murmur issuing from an enchanting, sunken crypt. Intrigue, that constant companion of the historian, compelled me to descend the broken marble stairs. Upon reaching the subterranean floor, I turned a corner and beheld a circle of black-clad figures engaged in some vile chant, their faces hidden by cowls. Before them, upon the cold stone floor, a glowing map pulsed with fell light. 

Transfixed, I sought to gain a clearer view, creeping silently behind a great stone sarcophagus. Alas, my stealth betrayed me! I promptly collided with a dark shape already sharing my concealment. With a gasp and a heavy grunt, we toppled onto the cold slab, our cries shattering the sinister silence. 

The gaggle of necromancers—for that is what they surely were—turned as one, their ritual instantly broken. The glowing map vanished in a puff of acrid smoke, and they gave chase. My fellow voyeur and I ran for our very lives! 

He was a creature of the wild, leaping among the moss-covered gravestones with an effortless agility that bespoke his elven blood. I, Aelfric, a halfling, scampered clumsily behind him and was grateful when he seized a fragment of broken headstone, hurling it with speed and surprising force into the pursuing pack. 

II. The Carriage of Prisoners 

Vaulting the cemetery gates, we plunged headlong into more mayhem. Two fortified carriages, heavy and ominous, ground down the roadway toward us. Heavily armed guards dismounted, forming a resolute barrier before the transports. 

“Necromancers!” we both cried, pointing back toward the dark shadows of the graveyard. 

As our screams still hung in the cool air, a bolt of arcane energy whizzed past our heads and exploded in a chaotic burst of blinding purple lightning that danced among the branches. The lead carriage door burst open, and a huge guard clambered down, bellowing orders to advance upon the source of the spell. 

My gaze met that of the Elf—my unknown partner in peril—and in silent accord, we hauled ourselves up into the carriage and slammed the door shut. 

Within, four unique individuals sat, shackled by faint, humming magical chains. On the left side, a mountain of a man sat beside a diminutive gnome, who twitched and muttered numbers like a trapped bird. Ahead of them, a Tiefling woman with skin the colour of rust regarded the mayhem with an expression of profound boredom, and next to her, a man whose features were utterly lost in the deep shadow of a hood offered no clue as to his thoughts. 

I turned to my fellow escapee, and we regarded each other with suspicion, yet also with the heavy recognition of a predicament shared. We had been strangers but moments before, and now we were allies against the world. 

III. Cryptic Messages and Escape 

As the noise of the conflict outside lessened and the carriage slowly moved onward, we became acutely aware of the immense otherworldly power radiating from the four prisoners. 

The gnome suddenly fixed his shifting eyes upon us and, resolving his inner calculations, clearly pronounced: “Go to the Classy Camel in Critwall. Find the Relay. Deliver the Message. 2 of 27 Enact plan 4c. 2 Marks.” 

The man in shadows shifted, and his voice, scarce above a whisper, instructed: “Go to the Waystone, thirty miles South of Molag. Go to the stones and shout my full name.” He leaned in, his words almost inaudible: “Jack of Shadows. Do this upon the twentieth, twenty-first, and twenty-second day after this night.” 

The carriage squealed to a halt. We were ushered out, the prisoners led toward a dark, cave-like opening in a rock face. The huge captive, introducing himself as Chun, gravely warned us of the prison: “This is Orcatraz. Do not allow yourself to go past that guard,” he nodded toward an old, scarred Orc. “Follow Brittany!” 

We watched as the red-skinned Tiefling, Brittany, sidled up to the Orc guard, engaging him with a distraction only she seemed capable of. While she occupied him, the Elf and I slipped back out of the entrance. Unchained and a seeming afterthought in the guard’s mind, we aroused no suspicion and were free to leave.