The Vagabonds

Jerl shuddered as a drop of cold water ran off his helmet and coldly dripped into the gap between his coat of mail and his rough shirt. He grasped the sodden haft of his spear in a tight grip as he looked towards the tent of his employer’s, the self-named Vagabonds.

Jerl snorted, the Vagabonds conjured up a vision of a rough and ready crew– they were neither. There was Griffin, the idle second son of some minor noble from the City League, Harriman, a flagellant and worshipper of some deity of justice or punishment – he didn’t seem to be able to work out which, Elvionne, a high elven enchantress, more interested in ‘enchanting’ than in studying and Derys, the fop, a dangerous fool, a powerful one, but no less a fool.

A light showed from the camp as a tent flap was pulled back and Jerl peered into the murk. Ah there he was now, Elvionne’s latest conquest, a furtive looking lad who must have been barely out of his teens. What made it all the more distasteful, at least to Jerl’s mind it was, that Elvionne talked about events in the City League that must have occurred a century ago as if she was there to witness them, and as an elf she probably was, and there she was behaving like a …. . mind she was beautiful, but she couldn’t resist using her talent to reduce her conquests to gibbering lap dogs before casting them aside -  this one appeared to have more backbone to the others, he hadn’t fled it would appear, indeed he seemed to straighten up as he reached the edge of the camp.

Something caught Jerl’s eye then – a small movement … yes there it was again. The youth wasn’t walking straighter he was getting taller – as Jerl watched he grew in stature and bulk – something was wrong!

Jerl shouted “Awake! Awake!”, as he strode towards the youth, gripping his spear with both hands as he did so. The spear felt slick in his grip, he hoped he could keep tight hold of it if he needed to use it. “Stop, stop boy” he called out as he ran towards the receding figure. At that the boy turned and looked right at Jerl …. And he stopped stunned. A pair of gleaming eyes with a baleful orange glow looked at him and he felt the hatred boring into him. Catching his breath he called out in a raspy voice “Elvionne! Elvionne! Someone check Elvionne, Gods it might not be too late. At that the creature, a Sibbaris, unless Jerl was mistaken, leapt impossibly far into the darkness and was gone.

Glancing to his left Jerl saw the priest Harriman arise from his canvas tent, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, his scarred torso glistening in the colds rain. Forgetting himself for a moment Jerl shouted at him “Gods man get yourself into Elvionne, she may be in need of your arts” as Jerl watched he saw Harriman begin calling the power of his god and again he shouted “it’s not your might she needs it’s your healing you fool”. Harriman favoured him with a flat stare but stopped and headed towards Elvionne's tent anyway.

Striding towards the tent, fearful of what he would find, he pushed aside the flap with his spear point .. and froze. It was worse than he'd expected. He knew that a Sibbaris never merely killed its prey, but knowledge was no substitute for reality.