The Barbarian Beestwars short story: Eastern expedition. Written by Doug Redpath.
over 5 years ago
– Wed, Nov 11, 2020 at 04:03:44 PM
Hi People.
We shipped all pledges by the proposed shipping date of October, hopefully you all have your goodies (apart from a few late black dragons that will be sent separately). I'll do a full thanks and assessment in a future e-mail. Thanks to people who have supplied feedback. If you have any painted pics of the minis painted up and you are happy to share, it would be awesome to see them on https://www.facebook.com/groups/690873924717480 . In the meantime I hope you will have time to read this short story written a while ago by a good friend and supporter of my Barbarian Beestwars I.P.
Eastern Expedition. A Beestwars short story written by Doug Redpath.
Diary Day Sixty One.
How the time has passed since we departed from Karthuum. I remember it like yesterday, standing on the whitewashed docks, the air filled with the cries of Cearbirds and the tang of saltwater. I thought of you for an eternity during those last hours, your excitement at my adventure, and the sadness that accompanied our goodbye. The schooner I’d admired from my rooms would soon become home, bearing me across the sea to places of wonder, coastlines barely described on the finest maps. I departed with a strange mix of joy and melancholy, and maybe even disappointment, for truth be told the Eastern lands were never my true desire. When the lots were drawn on that fateful day in the guild chambers, I had hoped till the last to see the southern oceans of sand.
We traversed further into the Likgram Valley this morning, following an ancient drover trail, passing through golden meadows on our way towards the Narkjuu pass. I confess to not taking the inclines in my stride; as I write this, our party is taking yet another break in as many hours, undoubtedly arranged for my benefit. I suspect my panting and wheezing draws increasing concerned attention.
Let me then, while I sit here and recover, describe the whereabouts of our little sojourn. The valley we follow lies within the lowest range of the Simian Mountains. Behind me, to the West, the land runs downhill, taking the form of ravines and shallow hills. Where these slopes end vast plains and scattered woodlands begin, stretching away to the horizon and a glittering streak that marks the ocean’s edge. Ahead of me, blocking half the Eastern sky, lies a majestic range of mountains. Dazzlingly bright, their peaks are obscured by snow and often ringed with cloud. It is difficult for me to describe the contrast between the plains on one side and the vast elevations on the other. Lush forests cling to every surface between the valley floors and the lofty heights, and my guides inform me it is here our quarry calls home. In truth, my companions deserve as much attention as the terrain, for I should not be here at all without their efforts. They are tireless and infinitely patient, tending to me like I was a brother, fussing over my blisters, making tea when we halt, and meals when we setup camp for the night. Most of them hail from the villages and settlements scattered around the lower foothills, and if I look hard, I can still see the evidence of their habitations: the strange step like fields they cut into the valley sides, and the thin columns of smoke rising from their homes not a day’s walk behind us. In turn, they are very curious about where I come from, and I have spent much time describing the kingdom’s four corners, including your own fair village. With all this exotic adventure and adventure it’s easy to forget my true purpose, and there is a lingering sadness when I tell these noble people of our troubles on the northern frontiers. How strange it must sound to their ears, foreign tales of woe and strife. Indeed, when I hear my own voice it sounds less real up here at the top of the world, surrounded by good company and scenery beyond compare.
Day Sixty Two.
I don’t know what to make of these mountain jungles; ever since we entered their cool embrace my head has pounded and my throat burns with a dry cough. I push on despite the insistence of my guides, for while I would like nothing more than to stop and rest, the thought of completing my missions spurs me on. I fear failure above all else, and the notion of returning empty handed to the guild chambers in Lursperia sends shivers down my spine.
While I lie here, sipping tea, listening to a dozen unknown bird songs, I form the distinct impression they already know we’re here. Having spent much time in the archives before we departed, I know a thing or two about the enigmatic creatures who inhabit these mountains. They’re no fools these Geladan, despite their indulgence in mischief and petty theft. A portion of my luggage was given over to gifts and tokens, currency upon which to open more cordial relations between our respective cultures. It seemed like a good idea a life time ago, sitting with the head of the commerce guild. But out here in the wilds, I’m not so sure how well silk handkerchiefs and petty trinkets will be received.
Day Sixty Three.
I saw one today; I actually witnessed a Geladan with my own two eyes. It was barely ten minutes ago and I’m still shaking from the thrill of it. We’d finished breakfast and were packing everything away when our scout rushed back to us in a state of excitement. Bidding us to drop what we were doing, he lead us a short distance to an opening in the trees. Ahead, a vista that was extraordinary in its own right opened before me. We stood on the edge of a canyon, the forest halting abruptly as the earth plunged away towards the valley floor far below. The scout directed our eyes, pointing further up the cliffs towards a spot not a hundred yards distant. There stood a creature at once exotic and eerily familiar. It balanced much as a man would, upright on two limbs, leaning slightly upon the long spear grasped in one hand. Caught in the morning light, its greyish pallor was apparent, the face and head contrasted by a mane of reddish hair. Given the distance, it was difficult to make out more intricate details, though the body seemed unusually tall and lithe, the arms perhaps longer in proportion to the body compared to our own. We silently observed the fellow for a good five minutes, and not once did it pay us any heed in return. Instead it stared back from whence we’d come, no doubt enjoying the sunrise rising over the valleys. Eventually, with a certain grace, it disappeared back into the tree line, moving with a distinctly non human gait.
While I’ve hurried to scribble this description down, my companions have been left in a state of unease. Humans and natives make for awkward neighbours in the these parts of the world, and distrust is seldom far away. Open conflict has never flared, though many a farmer has chased the mischievous Geladan around the lower foothills during harvest time. Such clashes normally end in the humans being driven back down the slopes beneath a hail of stones and pine cones, the damage confined to egos and pride. Never the less, I’m not too surprised when the lead guide informs me how his group are feeling. I remind him that our agreed destination is still several days walk away. He acquiesces, though we both know the problem has not been satisfactorily resolved.
Day Sixty Four
We’re higher now. The forest is changing, the lush canopies of the lower slopes giving way to dense thickets of pine. It’s quieter too, as if the mountains are holding their breath, waiting for some event to occur. I have to admit to a certain unease myself, a tingling of the nerves that only grows as we increase in altitude. My guides suggested we stop earlier than usual, noting my fatigue as well as that of our two pack animals. Compromising, we continued on for the best part of an hour before finding a natural clearing. I sit here now, enjoying the smell of soon to be served supper, admiring the glow of the mountain tops beneath an early evening sun. It’s easy at times like this to believe I’m on a carefree adventurer, touring an exotic local with out care or burden. Yet time is against me, for our supplies run low and we’ll have reached the edge of the forests in another day of walking. Beyond the trees lies only snow and rock, a land neither man nor beast could thrive in for long. Somehow I must make contact with the Geladan. I know not their language, their true names, nor indeed where they actually dwell within the vast swathes of green depicted upon my maps. Regardless, this is my mission, and its success is of vital import. There are a dozen others like me, travelling to the edges of the known world at this very moment, hoping to raise support and build alliances, defending the old world by striking pacts with the new. I hope I can make this work. Not just for you and I, but for all things still good and noble in these darkening days.
I must go now. Supper is served. I think… no, I know they’re watching me at this very moment, their wide eyes regarding us hairless creatures in much the same way we see them. Cousins of sorts, wary and fascinated in the same breath.
We were attacked during the night.
It struck in the early hours when our campfire had reduced to embers. A terrible scream woke me, my eyes snapping open as my heart near seized in sheer fright. The others stirred, emerging from beneath thick wooden quilts. Then they started screaming too.
Everything seemed to move at double speed, as if our existence quickened to keep pace with the unfolding horror. An unknown beast, far larger than a man yet obscured by darkness was butchering our party. One man was hauled out of his makeshift bed before he could utter a word. A second later a spray of his warm blood spattered the rest of us, the iron tang obvious against the icy mountain air. I can barely recall what happened next. One moment I was lying on the ground, wrapped in blankets, the next I was dashing through the trees, stumbling and tripping through a dark forest. I heard screams and shouts for what felt like a long time afterwards, the sounds echoing through the blackness like some distant battle. I fell eventually, knocking myself nearly out cold as a branch caught my head on the way down.
I should have died there, sprawled in the dirt and pine needles, groggy and incapable of resistance. I remember hearing the thud thud of heavy foot steps approaching, the sound of branches bending and snapping against the bulk of my pursuer. Then the trees seemed to reach down and pluck me from the ground. Long fingers clutched my arms, and twigs brushed across my face as I was pulled up through the canopy, leaving the ground behind together with the creature that stalked me through the night. My saviours were silent, their only giveaways being the strength of their grip and the dexterity by which they moved me up and away from the danger below.
Dawn emerges across a reddened and bruised sky. I am on a platform of bundled branches, floating like a raft adrift, surrounded by a stretch of branches and tree trunks. I am not alone.
They perch around me, a mob of grey skinned creatures, both exotic and eerily familiar, peering down towards the forest floor below, yellow eyes fixated on things I can’t yet see. I sit up and the platform shifts slightly, reacting to my weight. A couple of the creatures grumble, turning to look at me, their faces a shudder inducing mixture of man and beast. One opens its mouth, revealing dagger like incisors, and I half expect it to lunge at me. Instead it raises a single finger to its lips and issues a shhhhhhhhh. I open my own mouth to speak, but decide to take the advice on offer, swallowing my questions before they take form. The creature gets to his feet and lopes towards me, balancing carefully, avoiding my clumsy mistake. Taking hold of my arm, it bids me to shift, directing me towards the nearest edge of the platform. I’m afraid, thinking it intends to launch me off the side. A couple of the others shuffle aside, clearing a space. I go as directed, too petrified to resist, aware of the strength in those hands and arms. We halt then the creature crouches, bringing me down with it. I can see the ground from here, a clearing in the trees below, the scene littered with woolen blankets, the strewn ashes of a fire, a body… It’s our camp from the night before, viewed as a bird would see it . I whimper, not wanting to remember. My companion/captor nudges me gently, reaching out with a long arm and pointing to another spot.
I recognize our pack animals, or what’s left of them. They’re laid out on the ground, skinned and carved, the meat removed from the exposed flanks. Their corpses don’t hold my attention for long. Horrors I hoped to never witness are attending the slain animals, moving with terrible ease, slicing off strips of meat before consuming them raw. I’ve never seen their like, but I know exactly what they are. Commotion. The creatures around me are moving now, fetching spears, bows, even a few blades that catch the early morning light. I turn to look at the one beside me. He regards me with yellow eyes. A tear runs across my cheek. The creature reaches out and nudges me again, a wicked grin flashing across his face before he joins his fellows, taking up a spear as he leaves the platform, climbing silently down towards the remains of my camp.
I feel terrified and shocked, perched up here among bird nests and treetops, watching the grey men of the mountain forests join the fray against my enemy. I must admit though to a small glimmer of hope. Forget the coins and trinkets I brought with me. They lie scattered across the ground, trampled into the dirt beneath hoof, foot, and fully opposable toes. Geladan and Clovis are literally fighting their first skirmish across the remains of my expedition. The mission, despite its terrible human cost, has become a success beyond my wildest hopes. I see now that I could never have convinced these creatures to aid our plight. My plea would have been abstract at best, conveyed through nothing more solid than gestures and charcoal sketches, and that’s assuming they would have even given me the time of day. I suspect we are far less interesting to them than we would like to believe.
The Clovis are in retreat. They flee much as I did a few hours prior, Satyr warriors dashing down slopes, the sharp cracks and thuds of their passage sounding long after they’ve left my view. Despite their rout, the Clovis presence raises awkward questions. Did they know of my mission? Was this an assassination attempt? A chance to prevent humans from striking an accord with the Geladan. Alternatively, have the Clovis raiding parties already reached this far south, their war bands ranging far further than any of us had imagined. Either outcome is troubling in the extreme. We’ll need every ally we can find in the months and years to come. If I can ever find my way back to you and the kingdom, I might just have made a difference in the end, but first things first, I somehow need to get down from this tree…
Doug has drafted another "Beestwars" story that I will share with you in the next KS campaign.
You can read more of Doug's short fantasy and sci-fi stories here: https://medium.com/@dougredpath
See more of Dane Madgwick's work here: https://www.artstation.com/whero
Download the Beestwars rules here: https://www.garyhuntminiatures.com/_fantasy_geladan.html
