Battle of Kreighardts Peak .pdf

Dungeons and Dragons
The Battle of Kreighardt Peak
Towards the end of the Old Age, the Order of the Blue Cross had begun to make its way through
Yostaria, towards the last footholds of the undead army. The mountain now named Kreighardt Peak
was the home of the Sorrow Wraiths, a band of ghostly apparitions which had been summoned from
the depths by Mendale, the God of Sorrow, to be his servants in the physical world. The Wraiths
bought a dark cloud over the land, and their mastery of the magic of resurrection had given them a
vast army of Ghouls which they used to terrorise Yostaria. Gran Yostar, the capital, had been under
siege from the undead for months. The undead did not require sustenance to survive, and could
assault the walls for as long as necessary.
Several miles to the South West was the peak where the Wraiths had made their nest, and had
erected a shrine to Mendale, which was the source of their power. The Order had managed to
liberate the township of Westling on the coast, and were recuperating there once word arrived that
the outer wall of Gran Yostar had fallen. With the city under siege and the civilians vulnerable, the
Order gathered what men they had and ventured north to assault the Wraiths at the Peak.
They rode for a day and a half before they came across the base of the peak. The ground was black
with decay, and the rotting bodies of the Ghouls that had already perished littered the ground. The
putrid stench of necrosis hung in the air, and the Knights felt weary over the coming battle. They
arrived at dusk, and felt that an assault in the morning would go better in their favour, rather than
assaulting at night, where the undead thrived. The Knights set up camp, and waited until morn.
Unfortunately, fate was not on their side. The Wraiths, being beings of a supernatural quantity, had
no need for rest nor sleep, and their attention was drawn from the city under siege to the camp that
had been built near the foot of the mountain. Some of the Ghouls and Trolls that made up the siege
forces were called back to the peak, and their sites were set on the Order’s camp.
That night, as the clouds hid the stars in the sky, the undead began to descend on the Order’s camp.
The Night Patrol, who were growing weary as the night dragged on, were caught unaware by the
horde of Ghouls that had begun to encroach on the encampment, and one of them was killed by the
undead immediately. His screams awoke the rest of the camp, and the horn was sounded that they
were under attack. The troops scrambled for their arms and armour, while the remainder of the
Night Patrol attempted to hold off the Ghouls. The strength of the Ghouls lied not within their
physical strength, but their numbers. The more that died perished at their hands in this horrid war,
the more their numbers grew.
The Night Patrol succeeding on holding off the Ghouls until the other forces could be rallied, and
within the hour the undead forces were repelled from the camp and were forced back to the foot of
the mountain. However, the forces that had been recalled from the city had arrived, including
several Trolls that the Wraiths had gained control over. These Trolls were large, stocky creatures,
who’s skin was cracked and scabbed, and their eyes were sunken in and grey, as if the life had been
sucked out of them. They stood several feet taller than the largest man, and carried tree trunks
stripped of their branches and large pillars of stone as weapons. They were slow, and sluggish, and
their colossal footsteps could be heard from miles off.
As the Knights of the Order pushed the undead forces closer and closer to the foot of the
mountain, the Trolls began to assault the front lines of the Orders forces. They were unrelenting,
the Wraiths control made them completely obedient warriors, not stopping until they were
completely defeated. The trolls tore through the eastern flank, and forced the Order to pull back
and consolidate their forces. Siege weaponry that had been used to reclaim Westling and the other
townships and cities across the land, had been repurposed in order to fight off large foes, such as the

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trolls. High Grace Kreighardt, who was leading the reclamation forces, ordered the siege ballista to
focus on the trolls.
The siege ballista were some of the finest ever constructed, and were used to cut through even the
thickest stone walls. The ones co-opted by the order were of the three talent design, meaning that
the projectiles they fired could weigh up to 75kg, and took several men to load. The iron heads of
the bolts were over a metre long, and were said to be able to penetrate anything. The Order
promptly loaded the siege weapons, and let loose against the trolls who were advancing towards the
centre of the Order’s forces. The first bolt fired missed the trolls, but cut through a horde of ghouls,
before penetrating the Earth. The second, however, struck a troll right in the chest, tearing the
creature in two and hitting a second in the leg, pinning it to the ground. The Orders archers began
to fire on the pinned troll, their flaming arrows cutting through the creature. It fell to the ground,
motionless.
More bolts were fired, and eventually the trolls fell. Their large, lifeless husks provided cover for the
warriors they’d wounded, as medics and healing mages scattered the battlefield tending to whoever
they could. They’d dealt a great deal to the Orders forces, but as the sun began to rise, the soldiers
pressed on. With the blessing of the sun upon them, Kreighardt ordered his forces to press on up to
the peak, claiming that they’d claim it by midday. He used his great Warhammer to smack down one
of the trolls that had been scraped by a ballista, it’s skulled cracked like a pumpkin, spilling its insides
out like a great gooey river.
By the time the front lines had begun to make it up towards the peak, the Order’s forces were split
into two; those who could still fight, and who posed the greatest threat to the Wraiths charged up
the mountain, while those who were too weak from the fighting, or who were injured or treating
the injured, remained at the foot of the mountain, fighting off the stranglers who still remained. Many
had been fighting since before dawn, on only a few hours’ rest after marching for several days. It was
clear that fatigue was draining the morale of the soldiers.
The mountain itself was not large, and from the base of the mountain you could see the Wraiths at
its peak, and despite the light of the morning sun, a black cloud hung above the mountain peak, and
made it dark, and in this darkness the Wraiths thrived. They were spectral creatures, nought more
than angered spirits that drifted in the realm of the living. Mendale and the other Dead Gods twisted
them, as they twisted the bodies of the dead, and turned them into weapons, into warriors, into
leaders, and used them to command their forces in the physical world. There were three Wraiths in
total, that was all the Gods needed. One of which began to descend the mountain.
It was a horrid creature. It had no flesh nor bone, and the only physical presence it had was
unnatural, like a thick gas, a horrid miasma, like the decay from the ghouls it commanded had been
gifted a physical form. It was a tortured soul, forced into this world in order to fight a war it had no
interest in. The creature carried a cursed blade, and it floated through the undead troops where it
found a warrior of the Order. It took its blade and pushed it through a gap in the young soldier’s
armour, right between his ribs, and as it cut through his flesh, the Wraith sucked the remaining life
out of him. Despite Wraiths having a somewhat physical form, they were immune to most
conventional weaponry. Though these were not the first Wraiths the Order had fought. The
weapons used by the Order carried a blessing from the New Gods, and could be used to defeat the
Wraiths as if they were flesh and bone once more.
As the Wraith sucked the life from the soldier, it was caught by an arrow shot by an Order archer.
It was caught where the creatures shoulder might have been, had it been alive, and the creature was
momentarily stunned, and more arrows flew in its direction. Another, caught it in the side, and the
creature recoiled back into its forces. Ghouls flooded the mountain pass, but were cut down by the
veteran soldiers leading the charge.

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Kreighardt pushed up through the soldiers, his once bright, silver hammer covered in dirt and blood
and decay. He’d killed a myriad of powerful creatures in the past, from werewolves to witches to
worgs and today even a cursed Troll. He’d watched many Wraiths perish in the field of battle, and
he was ready to claim another. He charged, pushing through the Ghouls, till he met the Wraith in a
clearing. It was slow, two arrows had found their mark. He swung his Warhammer, and clipped the
creature, knocking its cursed blade off the side of the mountain. He through his arms into the air,
and bought the hammer crashing down onto the creature, and as it did, the creature, for a moment,
screamed, before being silenced, and perishing, into nothing more than a cloud of ethereal smoke,
leaving behind a piled of cursed cloth and decay.
With this, the two remaining Wraths began encircling the shrine at the mountains peak, gathering
more and more forces to their protection. The Orders forces were closing in; the Ghouls were
being knocked clear from the mountains pass, and those that remained were being battered from
the forces below. The sky darkened, and cracked with thunder, and the heavens opened and rain
began to pour down. Eventually, they were there at the peak.
Kreighardt stood in the cold autumn rain, his Warhammer gripped tight, his troops rallied behind
him. He’d never show it, but he was tired. They all were. Hours of battle against an unrelenting
enemy would take a toll on anyone, but something, someone, was pushing them on. Rallying them
behind a single cause. It didn’t matter if it were the Gods, or something else, something greater,
Kreighardt and his warriors knew that something had to be done.
The shrine itself was a twisted statue built from stone, strange carvings covered it from top to
bottom. It was never clear if it was built by the Wraiths, or if they merely stumbled upon it, and
were using it to channel their power. The Wraiths were flanked by corrupted worgs, with blood red
eyes and scruffy fur, and giant gnashing yellow teeth. The worgs charged without command, and the
soldiers cut them down, their fury powering their strikes. One of the creatures managed to take a
chunk out of a soldier’s arm, before being put down by a lance to the neck, skewering the beast.
Kreighardt swung his mighty hammer, and knocked one straight off of the mountain. Lighting flashed
and thunder cracked, and the soldiers charged towards the wraiths. But they were different from the
other. They were stronger.
They cut down soldier after soldier, draining their life as they went. They’d spent their time on their
peak channelling their energy, and watching the soldiers fight. They knew they were tired; they’d
prepared for their mistakes. They cut down another, the lancer who killed the worg. They cut her
into three different pieces. Some of the soldiers fell back, leaving only Kreighardt and a handful left
to face the fury of the Wraiths. Kreighardt knew it had seemed worthless. The Wraiths were too
strong. They’d finally been bested. But then, in that moment of doubt, Kreighardt had an idea. He
stood still, the rain battering his aged face. His eyes were fixed on the shrine. He dropped his war
hammer, and like a bull, began to kick his foot. With a great roar, he charged towards the shrine,
out stretching his arms as if he were trying to catch a great wind. As the charged the statue, the
Wraiths swung their swords wildly at him, one of them managing to clip his arm, but it was too late.
Kreighardt hit the statue with all his strength, and gripped it tight, pushing it towards the cliffs edge.
He let go, and grinded to a halt, and the shrine toppled. It bounced and rolled and shattered down
the mountain’s edge, and as it did, the Wraiths let out a great wail, before dissipating into
nothingness.
At this, the skies cleared, and the Knights of the Order let out a great cheer. The Ghouls and the
other undead who were under the Wraiths control, from the mountain to Gran Yostar, collapsed
and faded from existence. Back at the mountain top, Kreighardt rested, sat on the base of the shrine.
As the sun rose to midday, the rest of his forces joined him on the mountain. He told them to

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establish a permanent outpost at the head of the mountain, and for them to rest, for that they next
day they would march onward to Gran Yostar, and then beyond.
Months later, once the undead were finally defeated, Kreighardt and more Knights of the Order
would return, and would erect a keep on the mountain, to watch over the city of Gran Yostar, and
the people of Yostaria, and the forces of the Order of the Blue Cross would remain at the keep for
many centuries.