Love and Steel 1 is an encounter in Blood of Heroes.
Enemies[]
- Royal Archer (325 Gold, 40 XP, 25 Energy, 7 HP)
- Royal Crossbowman (975 Gold, 120 XP, 75 Energy, 7 HP)
Transcript[]
Introduction[]
Marcellus stood at the battlements and watched the soldiers approach in perfect lockstep. He drank in each weapon, every gleaming blade and point. They were decent tools of war. But his were finer. The demagogue stood beside him, pitchfork in hand. Marcellus had learned to respect that curious armament. Though not forged for battle, it radiated strength and courage in Roderick's grasp.
A royal archer loosed an impetuous arrow. The weapon master followed its flight as it arced through the air, faltered, and began to fall. Fortune and a powerful bow brought it closer than such an ill-timed shot had any right to come. It passed only a few feet in front of the demagogue, beyond the battlements. Marcellus caught it with the flat of Sunderer's blade and sped its impotent descent. An irate commander ran over to the archer. He gestured and shouted something, though the distance and stomping boots drowned it out.
"A large force. If we leave it in ruins, our lives will have fetched a good price," Roderick said. The demagogue sighed. "Our deaths will inspire thousands. But I wish I'd seen Gerna and the children one last time."
He turned to Marcellus.
"Are you married?"
The weapon master shook his head. Long-ago words echoed in his mind.
"You will meet a woman," the shaman said.
Her eyes shone amidst the floating incense smoke, bright and piercing even as everything else within the tent's flickering firelight shifted in and out of focus.
"I've met many women," Marcellus said.
The shaman submerged her hands in a clay bowl. When they returned, they were covered in thick blue paint. The warrior grunted. He'd wanted red. But such things were for the shaman to decide. She was silent for a long time, while the light and shadows danced around them -- casting strange images on the canvas walls and their bodies. Her vivid brown eyes followed the wisps of fragrant smoke, holding each of them in turn and penetrating mysteries that were inscrutable to the young warrior.
At last she touched her hands to his strong, broad chest. The paint was cool but her flesh was warm. Fire and ice tingled along his muscles.
"You will love her," she said. "And you'll never be parted till the day you die."
The words hovered as though captured within the wafting trails of incense. They remained in place, eternal and immutable, as she finished her work.
"These are your first markings," the shaman said.
She stepped back and traced an archway with her blue hands. The air between her and Marcellus shimmered. A mirror coalesced from nothingness, a glass with no discernible edges -- that might have flowed into the very fabric of creation. His reflection gazed back at him. He drank in every detail of the paint it wore, each curve and angle, twist and flourish.
"Learn them well." The mirror vanished, and the shaman was revealed once more. The tent flap was in her hand, pulled open to reveal the night beyond. "Go, warrior. Go and find your love."
"We climb up onto that hill," the archer says. "From there we'll have a good vantage point. We'll seem 'em coming a mile off."
One of the crossbowmen looks up at the steep cliffs and purses his lips.
"Looks like a hard climb. Can't we just set our ambush down here?"
The archer rolls her eyes.
"No, because then this hill would be in our way. We need lines of sight. Unless you think they're just going to walk over to us all nice and obliging, and say-"
"I surrender."
They turn to you. Their eyes widen. It takes a moment for it to sink in, and for a number of notched arrows and cocked quarrels to aim at your vitals. You raise your hands in submission.
"You... You surrender?" the archer says.
"Yes."
You glance up at the hilltop overhead, where an elf with fiery hair has just come into view on the summit -- behind the archers and crossbowmen.
"But she doesn't," you add.
Conclusion[]
Charred corpses lie on the ground, decorated by tiny licks of tenacious flame. Pinches of ash and little drops of melted metal litter the ground in front of you. Some of your enemies fired before they in turn were, well, fired. But your companion took care of it as she promised to.
Elyssa trots around the hill and saunters up to you. She steps over some of the burned bodies, and favors them with an idle glance.
"Impressive," you say. "I didn't even feel the heat."
"I was throwing fireballs before you were born. And if you don't get us killed, I'll be throwing them long after you're dead."
You stare at her, unused to the seeing the pyromancer without her customary smirk and good humor. But you can't blame her.
"The mages who stayed with Roderick..." you say.
Elyssa looks over her shoulder, to the horizon.
"I hope they make the gold dragons burn..." she says.