The Storm’s Fury sliced across the waves like it knew a shortcut, elegant, fast, and just cocky enough to be Jandar’s ship.
At the bow stood Jandar himself, in full pirate-hero mode: one foot on the rail, black carapace armor gleaming, red-lined cape billowing like it owed him money. His hat, wide-brimmed and impossibly stylish, somehow stayed on in the wind. A moon-touched rapier rested at his hip, and a strange longbow, etched with elemental runes, was slung across his back. He wore the look of a man who was either about to give a stirring speech or flirt with a storm.
Nearby, his bronze-scaled companion, Kerzog, lounged in human form, a lean, copper-skinned man with windswept hair and sharp, laughing eyes. There was an ageless weight behind them, though, and a subtle heat that shimmered in the morning light.
Jandar grinned. “You know, if I looked any cooler right now, the ocean might propose.”
Behind him, Deacon Bruce leaned against the mast, silent, sturdy, and as steady as the crossbow slung over one shoulder. His armor was worn but well-kept, leather reinforced with steel plates. A faint holy symbol hung at his neck, mostly hidden beneath his cloak. At his hip: a short sword, a second crossbow, and a pouch of tools no one but him fully understood. He looked less like a hero and more like the man heroes call when things go sideways.
His dragon, Kragorn, sat nearby on a barrel, disguised as a broad-shouldered man with golden eyes and a neatly trimmed beard that managed to look judgmental even while doing nothing.
“I still think we should’ve walked,” Deacon muttered.
“And I think you still need to admit the sea has style,” Jandar replied, never turning. “Besides, Kragorn needed to stretch his legs. Or, uh… legs. Whichever pair he’s using today.”
Kragorn snorted. “My legs were fine until you started monologuing.”
Kerzog chuckled under his breath, and Jandar waved dismissively. “You're both very dramatic for dragons.”
“Pot,” Deacon said. “Kettle.”
They were headed to the Ashrun Coast, where Deacon’s village once stood before the gnolls came, before fire and blood and ruin turned it to ash. He hadn’t been back in years, not since the war. But now the time had come.
Jandar hadn’t asked why. Just nodded, grinned, and said, “Revenge road trip? Bring snacks.”
The sea stretched before them, calm but expectant. The clouds ahead curled like claws. As they neared the coast, a cold wind picked up, one that smelled of old bones and unfinished business.
“Still time to turn back,” Jandar said lightly, though there was a quiet behind his voice.
Deacon stepped to the rail beside him. “Not this time.”
Kerzog leaned against the mast with a yawn. “If there’s killing to be done, I call the first crispy gnoll.”
“You always do,” Kragorn replied.
And with that, the Storm’s Fury turned toward memory, vengeance, and whatever waited in the ruins of Ashrun.
Part II: Ghosts of Ashrun
The wind shifted.
The Storm’s Fury slowed as she neared the broken coastline of Ashrun, what was once a thriving fishing village nestled in a cove, now nothing but skeletal docks and crooked chimneys swallowed by vines. Fog curled in from the sea, clinging to the cliffs like a warning whispered in salt.
Jandar stood at the helm, his usual grin dulled slightly.
“You know,” he said, “I’ve docked in some grim places, but this one feels like it remembers being alive.”
Deacon was already loading his crossbow.
“Because it was,” he said. “Until the gnolls.”
Behind them, Kragorn, still in human form, arms crossed, gold eyes scanning the shoreline, nodded solemnly. “I sense blood magic in the soil. It was more than a raid. Something old... lingered here.”
Jandar gave him a side glance. “You say the cheeriest things.”
On the quarterdeck, Kerzog kicked back a coil of rope, lazily polishing a dagger. “If it helps, I also sense a lot of rats.”
“Great,” Jandar muttered. “Revenge and vermin.”
The ship drifted to a stop against the remains of the dock. Planks cracked underfoot as Deacon stepped off without waiting.
He didn’t hesitate. Not for the burnt bones. Not for the crumbling houses. Not for the black scorch marks on the stones that hadn’t faded in years. He walked with purpose.
Jandar followed, cloak drawn tight, eyes sharp, rapier at his side.
“Do we have a plan?” he asked.
“Kill every gnoll between here and the Blackfang Mountains,” Deacon said. “Burn their camps. Leave a warning.”
Jandar whistled. “Subtle.”
They passed a house half-eaten by fire. Deacon stopped, just for a second, and ran his hand along the charred frame of a child’s toy left in the dirt.
Jandar said nothing. But his swagger softened.
Kragorn and Kerzog stayed behind, for now. Watching. Letting the men walk alone.
“There’s something ahead,” Deacon said suddenly, cocking his head.
From the tree line, a low growl rolled across the clearing like a curse.
Then came the howls.
Gnolls.
Jandar rolled his shoulders. “Well,” he said, drawing his rapier, “I guess the welcoming committee’s still hiring.”
The first javelin hit the ground a foot from Deacon’s boot.
Part III: Ashrun Ambush
The first gnoll burst through the fog like a nightmare on two legs, matted fur, bloodstained spear, and eyes that burned with hate. Three more followed, then five, then ten, spreading out like a pack that had been waiting far too long to feast.
Deacon didn’t flinch. He fired once, crack!, and a gnoll collapsed mid-sprint, crossbow bolt buried between its eyes.
“Good,” he muttered. “They still bleed.”
Jandar stepped up beside him, calm as ever. He unshouldered his bow, the dark metal glinting in the gloom. With a whispered thought, the string hummed with lightning.
“Let’s light up the party,” he said, drawing and loosing in one smooth motion.
The arrow screamed through the air, blue lightning crackling behind it, and slammed into the gnoll captain. The impact exploded in a shockwave, sending two more tumbling in arcs of sparks and fur.
From behind trees and ruined walls, the rest of the warband charged, dozens now. Snarling, snapping, wielding rusted blades and jagged spears.
Deacon reloaded. “You brought the big bow,” he said, approving.
“Figured you might need help,” Jandar replied.
A gnoll leapt from a rooftop with a war cry.
Jandar didn’t look, he just twisted and fired an arrow of grasping air. The projectile split mid-flight into a whirlwind of force, grabbing the creature mid-leap and slamming it sideways into a crumbling chimney.
Deacon switched to rapid fire, double-loading and snapping shots into chests, legs, skulls. He moved with brutal efficiency, no wasted motion. The crossbows were an extension of his grief, his rage, his promise.
Gnolls howled and fell, but more came.
“They’re stalling,” Deacon said, narrowing his eyes. “Something bigger’s coming.”
As if summoned by his words, a deeper growl echoed from the woods, and a towering gnoll stepped forward, draped in bones and furs, wielding a cleaver as tall as a man. Its fur was white, its eyes alight with sick green flame.
“Great,” Jandar muttered. “Why do the big ones always wear skulls?”
The second didn’t make it that far.
Part IV: No Gods. Just Us.
The white-furred brute let out a guttural roar, its breath thick with rot and old blood. It raised its cleaver, crudely forged from some shattered greatsword and lashed to bone, and pointed it at Deacon.
“Man-flesh…” it hissed, in barely intelligible Common. “You… mine.”
Deacon didn’t blink. “You first.”
He fired, thunk, the bolt sank into the gnoll’s shoulder, and the beast barely flinched. It charged, howling.
Jandar stepped sideways and loosed another arrow, cold this time. The shaft struck the gnoll’s thigh, freezing muscle on impact. It stumbled, but kept coming.
Deacon dropped low, rolled under a wild swing of the cleaver, and came up behind the brute.
Jandar moved like smoke, loosing arrows between lunges, lightning, fire, air, each one blasting scale and flesh. The air shimmered with energy and ash.
The gnoll was fast, unnaturally so, and with every wound it took, its skin cracked, and dark veins pulsed beneath. Something was inside it. Feeding.
“Not just muscle,” Jandar said, circling. “That thing’s juiced on something.”
“Not for long.”
Deacon holstered one crossbow and pulled a flask from his belt. “Keep it distracted,” he muttered. He poured foul liquid into his mouth.
Jandar snorted. “Oh good, the plan where I almost die. My favorite.”
The gnoll swung again, wild, brutal. Jandar ducked low, slid under the cleaver, and stabbed upward with his moon-touched rapier. It sank deep into the beast’s ribs, and the weapon flared with silver light.
The gnoll screamed.
Then Deacon was there, leaping off a half-burned cart, crossbow in each hand. He fired once, twice, bolts slamming into the gnoll’s throat and chest, and as it staggered back, he landed in a roll expelling the contents of the potion on to its face as he shouted:
“NOW!”
Jandar raised his bow, drew a final arrow, fire and lightning combined, and let it fly.
The arrow struck the gnoll between the eyes and detonated.
The explosion lit the woods in orange and blue, and when the smoke cleared, the brute was a crater of blackened fur and melted bone.
Jandar exhaled. “That was... unpleasant.”
Deacon bent to retrieve a bolt. “You’re welcome.”
Just then, Kerzog’s voice echoed from the ship:
“You boys done yet?”
Kragorn joined him, grinning. “That took so much longer than it would’ve with us.”
Jandar flipped them off without looking.
“I meant to let it hit me once or twice,” he muttered. “You know. For drama.”
Deacon kicked a severed gnoll arm. “Let’s see if there are any survivors.”
Part V: Ash and Echoes
The storm rolled in quietly as they moved through the village. Not the kind with thunder and rain, but the slow, creeping kind. A gray mist curled around the broken homes and hollow alleys like a memory refusing to die.
Deacon walked ahead, eyes hard, hands steady. His crossbows hung at his sides, but they might as well have been part of him.
Jandar trailed a few steps behind, quieter than usual. His boots crunched over old bones, bits of burnt wood, and the rusted edges of the past.
They passed a stone well, choked with ivy.
Deacon paused beside the charred stump of a once-proud tree.
“This was the square,” he said, his voice low. “We’d gather here for harvest festivals. Light fires. Tell stories.”
Jandar looked around. “Lot less lanterns. Lot more gnoll skulls.”
He wasn’t wrong. Dozens of skulls were mounted on pikes around the square, old and sun-bleached, but arranged with purpose. Ritual. It wasn’t just carnage. It was claiming.
“This wasn’t just destruction,” Deacon muttered. “They marked it.”
“Like they were feeding something,” Jandar said, kneeling beside one of the totems.
He plucked a shard of obsidian from its center, etched with runes that pulsed faintly.
“Gnolls don’t make things like this,” he said. “This is spellwork.”
“Divine,” said a deep voice behind them.
Kragorn and Kerzog had joined them, still in human form, but now more serious. Kragorn studied the totem with a frown.
“This symbol belongs to Yeenoghu, the gnoll god. But the markings are... tainted. Blended.”
Kerzog knelt and sniffed the obsidian. “Tiamat’s essence. A pact, maybe. A shared hunger.”
Deacon’s grip tightened. “Why would Tiamat work with gnolls?”
“Chaos begets chaos,” Kragorn said. “She needed destruction. He offered it willingly.”
Jandar stood. “So the gnolls weren’t just razing villages. They were offering them.”
They moved to the church at the edge of town, half-collapsed, roof shattered. Inside, old pews lay broken, and bloodstains long turned black marked the altar.
Deacon stood still for a long moment.
Then he moved to the back wall, behind the altar, fingers running over scorched stone. There, hidden beneath a layer of soot and broken boards, he found the trapdoor.
His hand froze on the latch.
And for a breath… he was back.
FLASHBACK – YEARS AGO
The ringing of hammer on steel echoed through the village, rhythmic and sure, sharp, clean notes rising from the forge like a heartbeat made of iron.
Deacon Bruce, younger and with more color in his beard, stood over the anvil with sleeves rolled and arms dusted in soot. Sparks danced from the glowing blade beneath his hammer, casting fleeting halos of light on the walls of the blacksmith’s shop.
Outside, children laughed. Somewhere nearby, someone was singing badly. The wind carried the scent of salt and pine from the cliffs.
He paused his work and looked out the open doorway, just for a moment.
There was Ella, the innkeeper’s daughter, pinning laundry while arguing with a goat.
There was Brenn, the village guard, drunk again at noon, leaning on a spear he barely knew how to use.
And across the square, someone had hung lanterns early. A harvest festival was coming.
Deacon smiled.
He didn’t have much. But he had this. His forge. His people. His purpose.
That day, he made horseshoes and hunting knives. Repaired a broken sword for the guard. Took a pie in payment. That night, he shared it by the fire with his neighbors.
He slept with the smell of metal in his beard and the soft creak of a warm bed.
He never saw that world again.
When the gnolls came, they didn’t roar. They laughed, high, cruel, manic. The sky burned before anyone screamed. They weren’t raiders. They were reapers.
Deacon fought with a hammer because it was what he had in hand.
He woke up half-buried in rubble with blood in his mouth and his village in ash.
NOW.
His fingers curled around the trapdoor handle.
Jandar said nothing. Neither did the dragons.
Deacon opened it.
The cellar beneath the church had been transformed into a shrine. Carvings of snarling jaws and clawed moons covered the walls. In the center, a stone altar, covered in fresh blood.
On it, a map. Marked in gnollish script.
“Another village,” Deacon said, scanning it. “They’re not done.”
Then the walls shuddered.
A deep voice, not quite a voice, more a growl made of wind and hate, echoed through the room.
“Ashrun fed me well… but my hunger is eternal…”
The shadows shifted. A spectral form loomed, massive, furred, twisted by divine rot. Not Yeenoghu himself, but something left behind. A shard of the god’s will.
“Back away slowly,” Jandar muttered.
“No,” Deacon said, stepping forward.
Part VI: Fire Beneath Ashrun
The spectral beast lunged, howling in a voice not made for mortal ears.
It hit the ground in a ripple of black mist and gnashing teeth, seven feet tall at the shoulder, twisted and furred, its form flickering between ghost and nightmare. Its claws scraped stone and sparked nothingness.
Deacon’s bolt sank into its shoulder.
It barely flinched.
“Of course,” he growled. “Ghost muscles.”
Jandar was already moving, his legendary bow glowing with a cold sheen. He loosed an arrow mid-roll; it passed through the creature, freezing the mist it left behind.
“Deacon,” he shouted, “this thing’s not all the way here.”
Deacon reloaded. “Then let’s make it regret visiting.”
The beast leapt, Jandar flipped back, loosing a grasping air arrow that exploded into a cyclone mid-chamber, slowing the lunge just enough for Deacon to fire again, crack!, right into its chest.
This one hurt it.
The gnoll-shard roared, and the air around it darkened. The blood on the altar hissed, and ghostly runes ignited on the walls.
“I think it’s summoning something,” Jandar said.
“I know it’s summoning something,” Deacon barked.
The shadows in the corners began to stir, twitching shapes crawling out of nothing.
“Fantastic,” Jandar said, drawing three arrows at once. “Shadow gnolls. This day keeps giving.”
The side creatures rushed, half-formed, skeletal beasts made of dripping void and stolen breath.
Jandar let fly, lightning, fire, and cold, the first lit the shrine like a thunderstorm, the second ignited the crawling horrors, the third froze the steps ahead.
Deacon stepped onto the altar like it was his forge.
“This is still my town,” he growled.
He reloaded and spun, every shot clean, every bolt finding ribs and skulls. Each kill was like cutting away a memory. Each shot, a refusal to let this place belong to monsters.
The beast howled again and surged forward, claws slashing.
Jandar ducked a swipe, then fired straight into the monster’s snarling jaw, air arrow, point blank. The creature choked on wind and staggered.
“Deacon, !”
Already in motion.
Deacon dove across the altar, rolled beneath the beast’s legs, came up on one knee, and fired straight into its heart, a bolt blessed with runes he didn’t fully remember carving.
The altar pulsed beneath them. The blood boiled.
The beast froze.
Then Deacon stood, loaded one last bolt, and looked it in the eyes.
“For Bren. For Ella. For the forge.”
Click. Crack. Fwoosh.
The bolt sang through the air like a prayer, and exploded in light.
The specter screamed as its form unraveled, bone and shadow tearing in a spiral, sucked into the altar as if swallowed by the village itself.
When the light faded, the shrine was still. The blood gone. The runes dead.
Deacon stood breathing hard, crossbow lowered.
Jandar limped over, singed and smirking.
“Well,” he said, “that was super healthy.”
Deacon didn’t speak. Just sat on the edge of the altar, staring at nothing.
“You good?” Jandar asked, gentler now.
Deacon nodded slowly. “No. But I will be.”
From behind, Kragorn and Kerzog stepped into the chamber, faces unreadable.
“That wasn’t just a fragment,” Kragorn said. “That was a message.”
“From Yeenoghu?” Jandar asked.
Kerzog’s voice was low. “From whatever woke up when the Scourge Lords fell. The game’s changed.”
Deacon stood. “Then so do we.”
He walked up the stairs, back into the gray light of morning.
Ashrun didn’t smell like blood anymore.
It smelled like steel.
He raised his crossbow and looked the thing in the eyes.
“You didn’t kill a village,” he said quietly. “You killed a home.”
The creature snarled.
“And if you’re still hungry,” Deacon said, loading a bolt, “come take a bite.”
The spirit lunged.
Deacon fired.
Epilogue: Ash to Iron
Ashrun was silent again.
The wind moved through the ruined village, brushing over broken walls and burned fields like a mother trying to soothe a long-dead child. But something had changed. The scent of rot had lifted. The stone no longer bled.
At the edge of the village, Jandar stood on the broken dock by the Storm’s Fury, sharpening his rapier with slow, practiced strokes. Kerzog leaned on a barrel nearby in human form, polishing his boots with zero sincerity.
Deacon sat alone on the old forge’s stone steps. It hadn’t stood, but the foundation had. Blackened stone. Chipped anvil. The ghost of a hammer left behind.
He placed a new bolt down on the anvil. One he’d carved last night. The tip glowed faintly, not from enchantment, but from memory.
Jandar approached, holding out a flask. “It’s not whiskey, but it’ll make your throat reconsider its life choices.”
Deacon took it without a word. Drank. Coughed. Nodded.
Jandar sat beside him.
“You’re not staying, are you?” the pirate asked.
“No,” Deacon said. “This place is done. But the gnolls aren’t.”
He unrolled the blood-stained map they’d taken from the shrine.
“Three more villages,” he said. “Marked. Not attacked yet. They’re building something.”
Jandar glanced at the symbols. “A ritual?”
“Or an army.”
Kerzog wandered over. “If Yeenoghu’s getting bold again, it’s not just your revenge anymore, old man. It’s a war.”
Jandar stood, dusted off his coat.
“Well, we’ve fought gods before,” he said with a smirk. “One mangy dog god sounds manageable.”
Deacon looked out toward the horizon.
“I don’t care what it is,” he said. “As long as it bleeds.”
From behind them, Kragorn's shadow fell long across the anvil. “Then we ride soon.”
The Storm’s Fury was ready. The wind was shifting.
And somewhere in the dark corners of Istram, the hyena god of gnolls was watching.
Waiting.
But so was the Hand of the Storm.
