Journal #3 - Journey to Gloedan

We settled on heading north, to the village of Gloedan, Orlando’s home town. It is nestled deep in the Woods of Woe, which I am told is a peaceful forest home to the Centaurs, a variety of fey creatures, and primarily half-folk like Orlando. The name is quite old, pertaining to a war fought with creatures out of the Mistlands in ages long past.
 
We prepared for our trip north, and settled on hiring a river boat to take us as far up the river as Castle Talon, on the edge of the Mistlands. We passed Greyhaven along the way. It was quite a fee for the trip, hundreds of miles traveled with all expenses included. Lug fronted my share, but I managed to convince the captain that his crew’s morale would be worth hiring me for entertainment on the long voyage, so I managed to make my entire fee back. Along the way I happened to start a rumor - from my frightening tale of the Troll Massacre at Campfire Plateau.
 
On our trip, we spoke of the half-folk in the Woods. There are three villages there - Thimb Comble, a tree city found only in daylight, built by the elves for the half-folk, who both live there; Silaslan, a mushroom city found underground, and Gloeden, the solstice city found only at night, lit like a festival of light in the darkness.
 
We were put ashore on the east bank of the river, opposite the Carthmounts, and we began our traversal of the Plains of the Ruby Gate. On our road, we were stopped by a knight in shining armor, Sir Tathric. He was a funny lad, before our lookouts could so much as speak he was demanding a duel with our strongest warrior. Lug froze him in invisible bindings in quite a hostile manner, and the two proceed to duke it out. Lug did win, though I can’t exactly say fair and square. The man was quite impressed, and gave Lug some sort of medallion to show his worth, he can use it to challenge competitors in the keep at Dhernor, apparently the home of this traveling knight, who is seeking to restore his honor.
 
There on the plains, I had a restless night awake with Orlando. Something didn’t feel quite right in the air. We spoke of our homes, how he used to be a mailman, and his aspirations for something more - to be Boradine.
 
The next day we reached the Woods of Woe. On the northern horizon rose the Dunwarr mountains, and it would be a three day journey through the woods to Gloedan. Shortly thereafter, we passed an ancient waymarker, desecrated in blood, with the text “Turn Back Now.” That set Orlando into a rage almost like when my own blood stirs, and we proceeded on at our fastest pace.
 
Next we came across a terrible sight indeed, ten of the half-folk, bound and hanging from trees with their faces covered in bloody linen. They were killed by orcish blades, and it appeared to be a territorial method of execution, to instill fear. They’d been hanging for two days, and wolves were howling in the distance. The Woods of Woe seems to be earning its name once more.
 
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Editor’s note: this portion of the journal may never come to be written onto the page by Umak, as it is not yet clear if he survived to tell the rest of this tale; he certainly took no breaks to write down his thoughts along the way.
 
We pressed on in all haste, and came to the final campsite on the approach to Gloeden. We prepared to hide the carriage with a magical overgrowth of plants, only to find Arloh hidden away in the trunk – Mirah’s young brother. He had stolen Mallistar’s powerful staff, and claimed it was his father’s (does that mean Mirah and Arloh are the children of Mallistar? Or was the staff not originally the possession of Mallistar? Curious). He wanted to help, the poor lad. We locked him up after a lecturing from Mirah, along with Tsuna (~Sunay, the Satyr), and Red our dwarven ranger to keep watch. The rest of us proceeded on.
 
As we made our way through the forest, we were ambushed. Wolves of numerous sorts, and strange hunters in cloaks wearing the skills of gnolls as helms. An orc-ish warrior, and lowborn elves which appeared to be eating the limbs of slain half-folk. They fought ferociously, but were no match. Their leader fled the scene, blowing their horn. In hindsight, we should have been calm and calculated, but tempers were running hot and we pursued in a dangerous fashion. Not before Tybeerian stripped the orc of his worn plate armor and set of javelins though, which he gave to me. I never had time to don it.
 
We charged onwards towards Gloedan, and when we came to the gates it was clearly occupied. Brutish foreign fortifications, more hanging corpses. We walked in, and I had the strange feeling of being watched. It was then that I wished I had thought to calm us down, perhaps due some scouting. But I’m an Orc and my blood runs hot, I can’t beat myself up too much. All’s well that ends well, right?
 
We came to a closed off street where a lead orc spoke in a doll-like, patronizing tone. He said they served the Butcher’s Brood, and were sent here to torture the population to get Orlando’s attention, calling him by his popular title of Hydra Slayer, without an ounce of respect. They gave an ultimatum, go speak to this Butcher, or they’ll execute a building full of more half-folk; speak to him and they’ll let them go. I didn’t believe him for a second, and favored a fight to the death right then and there – surrendering our weapons seemed like suicide. But this was Orlando’s home, Orlando’s people, it was Orlando’s choice, and he chose to surrender to the more-than-twelve enemies surrounding us, which perhaps was the right call to make.
 
We dropped our weapons, and they put us in a chain line. Everything we didn’t drop or tried to cunningly hide, they stripped off us anyway. They lead us to the town center, where a cage with at least a hundred half-folk and elves were being taunted by a horde of orcs, without honor. There were at least fifty orcs in this area, and the town was decimated – not obliterated. Perhaps ten percent destroyed, the rest altered and repurposed. No wanton destruction at least, there was hope.
 
We were taken before the Butcher, who sat a ginormous table overflowing with weapons, and severed hands. A large cauldron was present, which he was stirring. It’s a quite large orc, who was also quite ugly.
 
The orc who was leading us put on a groveling face as he introduced us, and said something like “He’s arrived just as she predicted.” He meant Orlando, I wonder who she meant? Surely not the Red Witch, this far north? The Butcher asked Orlando, if he’d helm him serve King Golmar? I wonder if Golmar was the goblin recipient of the Dark Lord’s crown.
 
They spoke some more, without saying much. We were then thrown in a cage for the night, taunted, asked if we’d survive The Pit? We were led to a plank over a deep pit, 40 feet for the wide put, which funneled down to a full drop 60 feet further down to the bottom. Another chain gang of half-folk was in front of us, who got pushed down.
 
Orlando was at the front of the chain, and as he was being forced in, he managed to grapple the lead orc, Shagrat, in with him, who fell straight to the bottom. All of us were chained together, so Orlando didn’t fall, he was held up by us. Shagrat’s second in command was none too displeased at the battlefield promotion by his reaction, and I tried to leverage that. He wanted to see a fight, and I managed to put on a strong display of strength - I was third from the rear of the chain, and managed to stop the fall of the five in front of me. I tried to get Shagrat to think how we could help him rise even higher - he could be the new Butcher, but I guess all I convinced him of was that I’d put up a good sport for him to view from above. He tossed me a key, and pulled a lever which dropped the plank we were on, I barely had time to catch it before we free fell.
 
Turns out that was perhaps worse than if we’d jumped. On our quick fall to the bottom we passed the half-folk, who’d gripped onto tons of little ledges on the way down, which we couldn’t reach. The sheer fall knocked four of us out, but killed ‘ol Shagrat outright which was a silver lining. I used the key to free myself, but it was brittle - it snapped in the process. With my hands free though, I could stabilize three of our party, and I began breaking their chains as well. Lug turned himself into a rat and got out that way, and proceeded to tend the wounds of our last member, Mirah. Others used teleportation magic, and I freed the rest, and the half-folk.
 
They closed the doors atop the put, and the new orc said he hoped to see us make it to sunrise. We searched Shagrat’s corpse, and found a whip, a shortsword, and hide armor. I picked up a boulder to use as a weapon, and we took stock of our surroundings. There was a throng of elves and half-folk, some with weapons and armor. Some looked more civilized than others. It seemed it was a fight for survival down here, and it also seemed like this was a way to break people to the will of the orcs, perhaps this is how elves came to be fighting against us on our way in.
 
We had only a minute, before gates opened on every side of the circle, and wargs came out hungry to feed.
 
I took stock of my situation in that moment. So much more I could do, if I but had a few more minutes. We had spare chain, two lengths of 40 feet each. I could tie a portion to this rock and make a gigantic flail. I could file two ends of the chain off each other to make some iron dust, and use it to enlarge myself, or I could turn one of the wargs against its pack. Which to do? What should my goal be? Could we possibly defeat eight wargs, in our present condition naked and near death? Did we need to? What if we simply ensured the wargs ate some of this other readily available food? And yet how could I bring myself to do that.
 
We can’t stay in this pit, we have to leverage this opportunity now. Lug was talking about his plant growth spell, perhaps he could cause vines to hold these doors open. I wonder how far the warg pens go? We could try to dig a tunnel as well, enlist the captives to work together, fight as one. Surely, that would be better than playing the orcs game, and devouring our own? We shall see what can be done.