The Thunderers are a trio of daemonic brothers with seemingly elemental ties. Rarely summoned except to battle, the brothers manifest as broadly muscled behemoths with slick skin that turns unenchanted blades aside. Unlike the traditional image of the daemon, there is little to suggest brimstone, but still their presence reeks of wrongness, barely hidden by the aromatic smoke that typically issues from censers held by their servitors.
Their very presence in this world is marked by sudden stormy weather even from previously sunny and clear skies, while stored food and drink within thirteen miles of their presence is instantly spoiled.
Their great power as shock troops of the otherworld comes from their ground-shaking footsteps, which are prone to knock all enemies within thirty foot of them from their feet. The impact of their sharp-horned fists on armour is accompanied by the crash of thunder and often severely damages it. Within a half-dozen blows, it is not unknown for a fully protected knight to suddenly find his breastplate riven from top to bottom; with another blow heading rapidly for his now vulnerable torso.
Their time in our world on each summoning is fortunately limited to the length of time that the summoner spends in a ritual circle concentrating on the spell. It is typically therefore a primary goal of any commander who has found themselves facing these beasts to locate and disrupt the summoner's concentration.
Showing posts with label lorien. Show all posts
Showing posts with label lorien. Show all posts
Thursday, 27 March 2008
The Windward Incident
This tale is told among the quieter and more sober sailors to the Isles of a recent incident that has chilled the blood of many in the area.
It is said that a marine in service to House Ferris was on shore leave following a successful campaign against the pirates then active to the West of the settlements on the Windward Coast. Deep in his cups he had boasted of the many miscreants sent to the bottom of the seas by the blades of him and his company.
He also told of their defeat of the daemon-driven pirate-lord - Horny Tom Windlass - in his own fastness, and of the loot they had recovered.
To all that paid attention, he showed them a mirrored mask - plucked, he said - from Horny Tom's face himself. Made of chased silver, with iron fittings, it was bitterly cold to the touch; and the marine - one Cormack Berryson - kept his prize in a wrapping of tattered sailcloth.
Drinks placed upon it rapidly cooled to the point of ice crystals forming; and yet Cormack claimed that the unpadded mask had been worn by the pirate-lord without apparent penalty or concern.
When doubt was expressed by those around the table, he foolishly picked up the mask and concealed his own features upon it, whereupon he froze solid on the spot. Rimed with frost, and a pale blue tinge to his flesh he was sat there at the table like some macabre statue brought in from the night.
When the outcry died down and the attempt was made to move his corpse however, a far more disturbing event took place - the now-black fleshed marine's eyes lit with a pale green flame, and with a haunting cry, the possessed young marine knocked aside all between him and the door, disappearing into the cold night air.
Some say he still resides in the snow-capped passes, leading desperate bands of the damned onto the caravans braving the wilds between settlements. Others say that the tales of the return of Horny Tom Windlass hint at a darker origin of the mask, and that the poor foolish marine has more than paid with his life and soul for his part in the slaying of the previous bearer.
We only know that the winter nights blow colder, and the howls on the wind may not always be that of the wind through the trees...
It is said that a marine in service to House Ferris was on shore leave following a successful campaign against the pirates then active to the West of the settlements on the Windward Coast. Deep in his cups he had boasted of the many miscreants sent to the bottom of the seas by the blades of him and his company.
He also told of their defeat of the daemon-driven pirate-lord - Horny Tom Windlass - in his own fastness, and of the loot they had recovered.
To all that paid attention, he showed them a mirrored mask - plucked, he said - from Horny Tom's face himself. Made of chased silver, with iron fittings, it was bitterly cold to the touch; and the marine - one Cormack Berryson - kept his prize in a wrapping of tattered sailcloth.
Drinks placed upon it rapidly cooled to the point of ice crystals forming; and yet Cormack claimed that the unpadded mask had been worn by the pirate-lord without apparent penalty or concern.
When doubt was expressed by those around the table, he foolishly picked up the mask and concealed his own features upon it, whereupon he froze solid on the spot. Rimed with frost, and a pale blue tinge to his flesh he was sat there at the table like some macabre statue brought in from the night.
When the outcry died down and the attempt was made to move his corpse however, a far more disturbing event took place - the now-black fleshed marine's eyes lit with a pale green flame, and with a haunting cry, the possessed young marine knocked aside all between him and the door, disappearing into the cold night air.
Some say he still resides in the snow-capped passes, leading desperate bands of the damned onto the caravans braving the wilds between settlements. Others say that the tales of the return of Horny Tom Windlass hint at a darker origin of the mask, and that the poor foolish marine has more than paid with his life and soul for his part in the slaying of the previous bearer.
We only know that the winter nights blow colder, and the howls on the wind may not always be that of the wind through the trees...
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