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Firstly, I'm happy to say that stats and orders for the second major update are finished. If I happened to miss your please catch me on IRC or send me a reminder via your order thread. You're all free to submit your short and long orders for the next turn for Tapp and I to begin determining your results. Hard to determine an exact deadline as of yet, as I need to catch up on ICs and write a couple of my own but the sooner you all give your orders, the sooner we can begin doling out your results and special events.
Secondly, it occurs to me that I have never really laid out the approximate size of Agorath. I've always envisioned Agorath as being a large land mass but failed to really convey that in the last game. As I have retconned several things that have bugged me I may as well give you all the size of the continent so you may incorporate it in your ICs accordingly. Agorath is comparable to the size of Europe. It is about 4,000 km from the western shore of Dreagar to the Krestarii Coast and about 1,800 km from the Skagarene Coast to the southern shores of the Azeratii Peninsula. It would take an army roughly nine months to march across the continent and about a month and a half to sail from coast to coast.
Secondly, it occurs to me that I have never really laid out the approximate size of Agorath. I've always envisioned Agorath as being a large land mass but failed to really convey that in the last game. As I have retconned several things that have bugged me I may as well give you all the size of the continent so you may incorporate it in your ICs accordingly. Agorath is comparable to the size of Europe. It is about 4,000 km from the western shore of Dreagar to the Krestarii Coast and about 1,800 km from the Skagarene Coast to the southern shores of the Azeratii Peninsula. It would take an army roughly nine months to march across the continent and about a month and a half to sail from coast to coast.
Tîn lˈɛnd
“Halt!” demanded a rash voice “Who goes there?”
The guards placed atop the small wooden palisade quickly grabbed their spears, more to increase their own sense of security than to meet the new arrival with force.
The two members of the town militia were about to close the gates, the sun was setting on the horizon and little or no commerce was arriving for hours. The only living being using the murky trail left by old carts and livestock the locals called ‘road’ remained still and showed the palm of both hands in a gesture of peace.
“Only a traveler” announced the figure “Weary of the hardships so common on these roads”
One of the guards spat on the ground while the other laughed.
“You take us for fools?” said one of them “Look at all the bandages. We are not letting you in. You are probably sick or something, either that or your face must be really ugly” the other guard laughed again at the comment of his companion “Bug off”
The mysterious traveler stood there in silence for what it seemed a long moment, covered by several bandages and a hooded cloak, his facial expression was well hidden from the men guarding the palisade.
“The night is cold and there is little warm outside your walls” he finally spoke with a soft and calm voice “May I remain at least near your wall so I can safely light a fire? Bandits and evil creatures roam the lands when darkness falls”
“Are you deaf or what?” grumbled the first guard “I am starting to lose my patience here and you don’t want me to send my friend to fetch the bow and a pair of arrows… you will not like it”
“I assure you I bring no illness nor any desire to…”
“Get out of here you damn leper! I swear to the almighty Light that if you have not disappeared into the horizon before the sun finally sets, I am going to call some of my boys here and we will throw you into the first pit we can find!”
The traveler simply shrugged as if he was expecting such an answer and turned around, heading for the river.
Whenever he went, he could find small pockets of civilization. Men had come to this part of the world and the lands were slowly claimed by their ugly and primitive architecture. Despite a few setbacks like the one he just had, most humans usually left him alone. Believing some kind of sickness or curse at work, he travelled across Kholgrov unmolested for the most part.
Having only settled in recent times, the land still held many of its riches, far more than his own, so he was able to find a bit amount of food most days. But soon all of this will change, for winter was approaching fast and he will have to leave this land for another one even more harsh and unforgiving than the steppes themselves.
Ioron raised his head to gaze upon the mighty mountains covering the magnificent landscape as if they were titanic walls demarcating the entire world, crowned by the setting sun.
Soon he will also need to buy some hides and pelts, but this should not be a problem since the humans of these lands were not so distrustful whenever he could offer enough gold. Fortunately his pockets were still filled with coins. This thought made him to briefly reflect on the people living on Kholgrov: prideful and confident on themselves. Almost like young children, believing themselves immune to any danger and immortal, viewing themselves as conquerors of life itself. A bright future full of possibilities lay before them.
He shook his head in denial at the thought. Fools and corpses. These men who see themselves as chosen by the Light itself will soon be prey of the horrors of the West.
Greed and madness festered in Malrax, rumors of senseless war came from the North, the self-proclaimed paladins of the Light were embroiled in an internal strife, the Emirates ruled by bickering children arguing who should wear a crown… who will come to aid these people when the vahamil will be no more? Who will stop the darkness of the West from flooding once more the lands of the East?
No one.
Unless… unless he succeed. This pilgrimage, this quest must be completed, no matter the cost.
He clenched his hands around his staff with determination. Time was running short.
Ioron changed his mind. He will attempt to cross the river by night and dinner will have to wait a couple of hours more.
A barge, wide and flat bottomed, slid through the glassy waters of the cavernous harbour. Drafted from its usual work of ferrying goods between the various small settlements and Akkum, it now carried a small party through the fissure that led out to the open ocean to greet their seafaring visitors.
“It is an unnatural way of life they have. Bad enough to work on the sea from day to day, but to live the better part of one’s life upon it? Truly strange.” Tolui, like many of the drow of Akkum, maintained an inherent suspicion of the truculent oceans.
Malamir, who had been brooding on his choice of words for greeting their guests, pirate subjects of Dreagar, fresh from the west, took a moment to respond. “Some would find our choice to settle down and tie ourselves to the fortunes of a single place the more unnatural choice. They are still nomads in a way, merely roaming the seas instead of the ashlands.”
“Maybe it would’ve been best to greet them on shore. A bit rude perhaps…”
The barge master chuckled hearing this. “You don’t want to let a foreign vessel navigate in alone. Plenty of rocks lurkin’ underwater to tear the bottom out o’ an unwary boat.”
Tolui shuddered as he was presented with more evidence of the sea’s inhospitality.
As their guests came within hailing distance, Malamir stood, somewhat uncertain on his feet as the barge rocked on a gentle swell. “Greetings, Captain!”
“Well met sir?” He asked doubtfully “I am Captain Kurak, here to make formal greetings and present gifts as a token of good relations.” He said atop of the ship as he looked down at the drows.
“On behalf of my mother, and Akkum I make you welcome. We would welcome our kin to our home.” Mal looked uneasily at the cliff formed by the side of the warship and the prospect of climbing it. Spending half a minute trying to judge the distance and the disturbance caused by the swell, Mal eventually grabbed ahold of the ship and began his ascent up the side.
~*~
Looking mildly flustered he greeted the Captain. “Well met, I am sorry Akkum is unable to welcome your ship properly. We lack the necessary piers. Alas, ocean going trade has been sparse, and the need for them has not arisen. Their construction would be problematic too, I suspect, we could make them out of stone…” He trailed off.
“Yes, a true shame. Perhaps we will simply need to hold the feast here on ship instead of in land.” The old captain said with a chuckle, but some sincerity. The ship itself wasn’t overly large, but not small either with a deck and crew quarters below, the captain’s own cabin behind where they stood. “I am happy to receive of the honour of meeting your mother’s son already, and I hope that the gifts which we have brought will make your mother as well as family happy.”
“Oh we would be content to receive you in Akkum, but we are happy to accommodate your convenience.” Malamir smiled somewhat absentmindedly at the captain, his mind still on the construction of piers. “If we are to establish trade with your lord and Dreagar as a whole, such considerations must be pondered. This talk of feasts, I had not presumed we would be treated to such? But nevertheless it is an intriguing prospect; I cannot imagine what sort of fare ones who live upon the waves might consume.”
The Captain laughed, “It will be a lousy feast, but we must exchange gifts, and my belly roars.” He said with a smile as he lead them into the captain's cabin. Inside there was a large map covering the wall, a table with chairs as well as a couch and further behind a bed. All that one needed to survive at sea somewhat comfortable. The smell in truth was quite bad, and the furniture old and slightly broken, but it was better than the crew, that was for sure. The Captain himself went over, sitting in a chair as the candlelight flared upon his face, the stench of the Captain for the first time becoming noticeable. “Please make yourself comfortable, lord”
Wrinkling his nose somewhat, Mal said “Oh, I am no Lord. We do not have such amongst our people. My mother rules because the people wish it. I will make myself comfortable nonetheless.” Malamir smiled, taking a seat. “How does one eat at sea? Surely everything just slides about when the boat rocks?”
“Find calm waters my boy, and it is not as bad as you may think, the food is often lackluster and so it shall no doubt be tonight.” The captain said with a wide smile, doubting the young boy could even eat it. It didn’t take long before it was brought in, old salted fish which reeked as bad as the captain with old vegetables and fruits, only redeeming feature being the salted pork. The Captain himself cared little as he dug into the fish, “See, a true feast.”
Mal prodded the food as if to test its wholesomeness. Evidently finding it wanting, he opted to engage the captain in further conversation instead. “Tell me of Dreagar Isle and the Jagged Spire. One hears rumours, but reality often bears little resemblance. And the Drow King, rumour has it he stands at twice the height of a normal drow. Surely your Lord must have met him? Maybe even you yourself?”
“It's a horrible place, no life, no growth.” He said as he continued eating as if it was his last meal. “Slave markets, drows begging at the king's feet, ash as far as the eye can see, ugh.” Before he drew a smile, “But yes the king stands twice our height, strong and proud and never faces opposition, the wisest of rulers when he is not in his harem. He rules firmly and fairly.” The Captain said, his words probably to be taken with a grain of salt.
Mal would have been grateful for more than a grain of salt to mask the taste of this meal. Finding something that looked and, to his surprise, tasted good, he devoured it so as not to appear rude. “Implying he is not wise when amongst his women?” Mal smirked “I suppose women can make a fool of the best of men..” He sighed, looking past the captain. “But then again, we all have our foibles.”
“I am sure you know the allure of the creatures, of their wanton lust.” The Captain responded with a smirk of his own, “But our king is a man, simply takes what he wants, unlike boys.” He said shooting him a taunting glare. “My own foibles however is drink, no female creature shall ever take my mind.” He said with a wide smirk.
Malamir blushed a bit. “Such is the way of kings, I hear.” He sounded mildly disapproving. He attempted, largely successfully, to restrain a gag as the captain’s smell - and that of the meal - became momentarily too much. Regaining his composure, he continued “And if his subjects are willing to render such unto him, such is his right I suppose. Although for his subjects to be so weak I cannot imagine… No offence of course.” He caught himself, realising the Captain was one such subject.
“Careful boy.” The captain said, pieces of the fish in his beard, having grown tired of the young man, “Have you brought your mother’s gifts?” he said with anger in his voice.
“Yes, of course.” Malamir, oblivious to the captain’s ire, looked at Tolui, who gestured to one of the lower ranked individuals who had come aboard. He stepped forward with a small casket which he opened revealing a finer piece of Akkum’s silverwork, the fine filigree forming intricate patterns across it’s surface. “A small token of our friendship. Also…” Malamir waved to another individual, who brought forth a scabbarded sword, which he presented to the captain. “Unadorned, but it does it’s business. Excellent balance. You won’t find a finer tool. Just a sample of the forges of Akkum.”
The Captain took the sword and unsheathed it, swinging it and cutting a rotten apple in half as he looked at it very pleased. “Very good, a superb weapon.” the old man said as he looked at the other gifts. “My master will be most pleased.”
The Captain clapped his hand as one of the sailors under him entered with a chest as well, going over to Malamir before opening it. “Pieces of gold from Hroniden, a ruby ring for your mother along with golden bracelet and a golden necklace, fit for a duchess.” He said with a smile which was far more polite than warm or sincere.
Malamir returned an equally lukewarm smile to the captain. “Fine gifts indeed. I hope that, perhaps, trade may flourish between Dreagar and Akkum. Certainly, us drow are better off together than apart. In particular we have interest in slaves your master may be interested in selling after his, uh, business in the east. Those mines don't extract themselves!”
The captain laughed once more “My master is fully aware.” He said taking another bite of the fish. “You may just like the next gift.” He said as he clapped his hands once more, in being brought a young Elven woman by the men and dropped in front of them where she sat in fairly transparent silks. A beautiful body with good curves, milk white skin, green eyes and brown hair. “My master captured her, she was travelling to the Light Basin with her husband, fools they were. It is his gift to you, the first of many.” He said as the girl simply looked down into the ground
Malamir gave the girl a once over. Their fair skinned cousins were the subject of ambivalent curiosity for the drow. Divorced by millennia of culture, strife, and magic. No doubt such an exotic specimen would find suitors in many a quarter of Akkum, and perhaps if Mal hadn't already been ensnared he might have been quite taken with her. “A magnificent specimen. I think a number of such attractive creatures might find a good price, although primarily I - my mother - would be interested in more mundane muscle to man the farms and mines. Goblins only go so far.” He chuckled.
“Plenty will flow when trade rises.” The captain said looking at the young man before tilting his head slightly. “I have an Orc in the dungeon if you would prefer him over her, or shall we say your mother would prefer him over the girl. Or both if you pay a small price for one of Orc.”
“Oh, I am sure my mother will derive sufficient… amusement… from the girl.” Malamir new enough of his mother’s predilections to say that. “I am certainly interested in muscle of any sort.. to be bought in bulk. I understand there are some small populations of orcs in Hroniden? To be honest, I have no idea how good they are as slaves, it would be interesting to see how it turns out. Surely anything must be better than a goblin, eh?”
“Absolutely.” The Captain says, “Shall we say three gold pieces for the Orc?” He asked very eager.
“For an experiment that may turn out to to be incapable of taking even the most basic of commands? You must be joking; I haven’t even seen the beast! For all I know he may be a weasley little runt.”
“1 and half gold pieces, you are almost robbing me at this point.” The Captain said annoyed.
“You are saying he is worth half a warrior? Surely the worth of a slave whose only purpose is breaking earth can’t be measured in gold? How about seventy silvers?”
“Deal” the captain said grunting in annoyance.
Malamir spat on his hand and stretched it out, which the captain shook.
~*~
Their meeting concluded, somewhat fruitfully, Malamir, Tolui and others made their way back to the barge. As the gangplank of the larger warship was pulled away, the barge master quickly set about pulling his ship away and reversing its course. It slid through the waters amongst the few fishing boats towards the rend in the cliffs of Akkum that led to the cavernous subterranean space where the sea met a series of small wooden piers, each laden with a variety of goods, mostly fish but also metalwork from the forges of Akkum. The Orc didn't do much, but stayed away from the edges of the boats as the young Elf looked around eagerly.
The group disembarked, and headed up a flight of steps, through a passage and into the main cavern of Akkum. The smells of the sea faded, to be replaced by those of the market, acrid smoke, and all other odours one would associate with thousands of people living in close proximity to one another. The young Elf looked at all the children playing with glee and a warm smile.
“I shall take these to my mother.” Malamir indicated the slaves, and pointed up at the top of the cavern where his mother had her home. Most of the party dispersed, but a few remained to push the orc along his path.
~*~
Ayasún lay languidly on cushions strewn upon the floor, a bowl of fried, sliced tirtil - a fat, black, worm-like creature that could be found burrowing into the ash - at her elbow. As her son returned, she gracefully to greet him, her lips curving upwards and the corners of her eyes crinkling warmly. “Welcome back, my son. How did you find these seafaring kin of ours? A bizarre folk or more similar than you might give them credit for?”
Malamir shrugged tiredly, his interactions with the captain having drained his normally cerebral activities. “They have an appalling taste in food, don’t wash, and drive a hard bargain.” He waved forward the acquisitions. “Gifts were exchanged, the gold will be put to use, but I imagine you will be interested in these.” As they were brought in the young Elf looking embarrassed into the ground due to the transparent silks she wore, while the Orc sniffed the air, not caring for appearances or what he was wearing as he looked at Ayasún, or more specifically the meats in the bowl.
Ayasún appraised the two standing before her. Noticing the Orc’s interest, she held out the bowl of tirtil and asked “Want some?” fully aware his hands were bound. She signaled at the drow either side of him to lay off a little.
He breathed heavily as he looked at her and walked forward, he stood taller than the drows, more muscle as well as his speed picked up, going over to her at the bowl and stuffing his face into it, eating with a huge hunger.
Aya laughed with delight. “Well! This one certainly has no shame in being alive. What of you little one?” She addressed the elf as the orc continued to lick whatever scraps remained in the bowl. “I will not offer you this one’s leavings, but do you wish for food too?” Her eyes betrayed a deal of mischief as she surveyed her light skinned kin.
The Elf nodded slightly, looked worried at the guards around her before slowly looking up at Aya as she kept nodding.
“She is honest! Good, no use feigning in the hope of reward.” She turned her eyes back to the orc. “And you, I can only wonder what resemblance you bear to others of your kind. From whence have you come. Have you heard of the Uruck clan?”
He let out a grunt as he looked up, the bowl licked clean before he shook his head. “The Iruk clan, my tribe roams the north, we were ambushed and I was taken by that vile Captain.” He said as he looked into her eyes with anger before he quickly looked down her body.
Amused by the orc’s gaze she answered “So you were captured by a sailor? A Shame. You have no knowledge of the Uruk? Hmm.”
“By an ambush party of other Orcs!” He said in protest and disdain.
The orc in finer days.
“Ha, well said. You have pride still, at least. Where do you come from then, tell me of home. Do you mine? Farm? Raid?” Her eyes sparkled in amusement and interest.
He found this degrading, having to answer a female drow, “Hunt, we hunt for a living and raid the nearby humans, take them for ourselves.”
“Disappointing. Although, I agree that humans have little other use.” Turning to her son, she asked “I hope this one wasn’t a gift, I fail to see much worth in him.”
“No, mother. I am curious to see how well he will take to manual labour. It would be more efficient if we knew whether to enslave or butcher…”
The Orc laughed, wholeheartedly “Give me your best warrior and I will give you his skull to drink for come nightfall.”
They ignored him. “Do as you wish with him.” She gestured for her son to leave, along with the orc and guards. Turning her mirthful eyes to the demure elf she asked “From whence have you come? An unusual sight indeed, to find an elf in these lands, willingly or no.”
The Elf looked a bit worried as the rest left, even if she was relieved when the Orc was out. “Galadriel.” She said, “I.. um..” She tried to speak as she swallowed a lump, “I.. was on pilgrimage with my husband.. We were attacked.” She covered herself with her hands and arms as best she could.
“You poor thing. What happened to your spouse? Dead?” Even if her eyes continued to smile, there was little sympathy in Ayasún’s voice, simply casual disinterest.
She nodded quickly “They stabbed him, they.. Left him on the road side.”
“Who is ‘They’? Bandits? Men? Elves? Orcs?” Aya sought to expand her knowledge of the feuds and management of other domains.
“The Drows that sold me to your son.” She said with disdain for them.
“Interesting. So there is a coastal route to the light basin… I presume that was your destination? I had imagined a more inland one. Especially from Galadriel.” Aya looked at the bowl, now covered in orc saliva, and wished she had asked Mal to bring something fresh.
“We were along the coast, the civil war was brewing up again, making the inland route dangerous.” She said as she looked up at Aya.
Aya gazed at the little thing for a moment. “Quite a pretty little thing, aren't you? Did you have many suitors? Many males before your husband?”
“Some suitors.” she said reluctantly as she looked up at her. “But not before my husband.” She said, though Aya could tell she lied.
Aya looked at her speculatively before bestirring herself from her cushions to take a closer look at the object before her. Extending one hand she used one inches long fingernail to lift the girl’s chin. “Quite the pretty one. Do you miss him? You mate?” She asked callously.
She looked up at Aya, biting her teeth together as she nodded.
Aya paused as she considered what to do with the elf. She could keep her for personal amusement. Making her ‘available’ to the men in the army might have interesting results, but seemed a little wasteful. Simply keeping and observing her habits could yield interesting - if unimportant - information on elves as a whole. “Such is the way of life.” She said absentmindedly. “The strong survive.”
The girl just looking downwards to the floor again. Her future remained uncertain.
To be a Dancer
“You’ve become more skillful, but your form still needs to improve.” Belegûr, King of the Drow, remarked as Zarah slid her blade out of her latest opponent. Taking a deep breath to steady her nerves she wiped her brow and squinted at the seated monarch.
“How? I’ve done everything you’ve taught me!” She looked down at the stiffening corpse of her training partner. The prospect of killing had sickened her at first, but Zarah was nothing if not adaptable. The Drow King insisted that she become skilled in the art of personal combat, and so she had thrown herself into it. The training had been taxing, but straightforward. Her body was made stronger, more limber, and her senses honed to a razor’s edge to ensure she would notice the slightest change in her opponent’s stance.
She couldn’t help but feel a sense of loss as she reflected on the innocence that she had been forced to surrender when she had been thrust into a duel to the death. The warrior she faced today was just the latest of a seemingly endless pool of opponents that the Drow King found for her to fight. With each session she fought the opponents had become less and less like the horrific monsters they had first seemed and were now appearing like unwilling fighters, that they were likely to be. No doubt the Drow King was deliberately hardening her heart, making her more accustomed to attacking those that didn’t appear as threats. To what end she had refused to consider, until Belegûr had called her to today’s training with the promise of enlightenment.
“You have learned fast, and improved much, but even so there remain certain things that you do not seem to properly understand.” He motioned to the lifeless cadaver cooling on the chamber’s stone floor next to her. “Most of those you fight are not nimble on their feet. They are burdened with their armour, yes, just as you are but that does not mean you should ape their fighting style. To be effective you must fast and lethal. For every blow they try to make against you, you should land ten. Where their weapon goes it must meet nothing but air.” Zarah shook her head irritably.
“How am I meant to do that if I’m dressed like this!” She motioned to her rather cumbersome iron armour. Covering her torso, head, arms and legs it awarded her a good level of protection but certainly slowed her down. “I’m already faster than anyone I go up against, so why should I have to go faster still.”
“You should always strive for improvement, no matter how high you rise and how skilled you become.” The King remarked drily. “But if that armour ways you down so, remove it. I intended to ease you into this but you seem intent on pointing out your equipment’s flaws.”
“I didn’t-”
“Take off the armour. Now.” The words of the Drow reverberated in her mind forcing her hands to unwillingly obey. Despite her continued exposure to him he still remained capable of imposing his will on her. Looking up as she removed her greaves she went to complain before deciding against it, the look on the King’s face one that brooked no argument. The clang of her armour hitting the floor shattered the icy silence, till she stood there in the flimsy shift she wore underneath the iron and leather of her combat gear. Looking through her, rather than at her, Belegûr nodded and murmured something to himself.
Shifting on the spot uneasily Zarah jerked forward as she heard a faint rustling sound behind her. Whirling around she saw a thin blade slice through the air, right where her kidney was a mere second ago. The figure before her leapt back into a strange defensive looking stance, the garb of her assailant giving her pause.
“Good.” Belegûr said behind her as she stood alert. “I wasn’t sure if you were going to pass that little test.” Stepping past her he kicked her discarded armour aside and motioned to the still warrior. “That, Zarah, is one of my dancers.”
“Dancers?” She would’ve laughed if the last few moments of her life weren’t replaying endlessly in her mind. If she had moved a moment later than she had, the dancer’s blade would’ve have ended her life. Was this some new test of the King’s, or did this opponent have some other, hidden, purpose? As if reading her thoughts the Drow King strode over to the still dancer and motioned over the immobile body.
“Take a good look here Zarah, for this role shall be yours soon. The dancers are the hidden hand of my rule, the silent enforcers. Both at home and abroad they travel, leaving none the wiser. They are deathly quiet, clever and intuitive and, most importantly, utterly deadly.” He looked hard into her eyes, his pale-blue gaze boring into hers. “They are taught not just warfare, but history, politics, law, alchemy, blacksmithing, herbalism and theology… They are not assassins, no that would be too far a limited role. They are whatever they need to be at any given time. I send them out with a task, and how they accomplish it is left to them to decide. They know what I would wish in any given situation, and the ramifications their actions will have not just on the immediate land and people, but all across Agorath.”
Zarah tore her gaze from the King’s to study at the dancer with greater interest. The gender of the dancer was impossible to tell, clad as it was in long faded blue-gray robes, with golden embroideries decorating the hem and collar. The face was hidden under the voluminous clothing, and no sheath for the razor thin dagger it wielded could be seen. Licking her lips Zarah thought nervously on what the King hoped to see happen by having this dancer here.
“What do you want us to do…?” She flicked her hand towards the unmoving dancer. “You want to watch us fight?”
Belegûr showed his teeth in a facsimile grin, his eyes remaining stern and unamused. “You would die. So no. My dancer here shall teach you how to fight silently. You two will not leave this room until you have learnt enough.”
Without waiting for her to respond Belegûr walked towards the door, leaving Zarah standing there in shock. Whirling around she made to run to the King until an arm whipped around her neck and the point of a dagger was pressed against the small of her back. Freezing in place Zarah could only watch helplessly as the Drow King opened the door, glanced back at the two of them with a disinterested gaze, and left. The door closed and an audible click told Zarah that he had not been exaggerating. She was to stay and learn.
The arm left her neck and the pressure of the blade disappeared letting her turn around slowly. The dancer was back to its original spot, its stance one of defence. Slowly reaching down and picked up the blade she had discarded alongside her armour Zarah took a deep breath and prepared herself. How this thing was going to teach her, she didn’t know. She was willing to bet that the method would grueling, even by the standards of the Black Island.
Within the BasinMaster Hetman Pietrek took the floor of the squabbling mages and paladins, the order had seen a growth in magnitude, not a common occurrence since the first exodus from the Golden City and defeat of the Dark One. The Boyar lord was likely one of the only Pyrit statesman, and he already commanded a breadth of silence from the assembled officials. This pleased him, on the inside. His work with the the dwarves was well noted and Kholgrov is a burgeoning economic center, but still much work remained and had to be done. He had approached the Light Basin in hopes of opening vectors for a new ally in the region, but he had never expected their successes, nor failures. Rumors that his beliefs, and those of his people in truth, were heretical in nature and demanded their ousting were still present even despite the months of labor he toiled to strengthen this bond. With all this in mind the old man breathed, stroking his beard, taking his usual steps of the council room, where they often deliberated.
"My friends, my foes, my family.. We are all bound under the Holy Light, his holiness, the First, created this world. All those who reside within it must respect his sovereignty. There are those who indulge themselves, in his pleasures, often committing sin in the process of their gloated wealth. Mostly in the east, they reside. You have also on the other hand those who have never accepted his gifts, the savages of the cold north and the barren wastes to the west. They, themselves, are sinners for their own damnation!" He took a moment to see the agreeing faces, and even those who had yet to comply, wishing to hear what else this was pointing towards.
Pietrek continued with renewed vigor. "And, as we know, those of other races also cherish our lord. We do not intend to judge them here, but this is a human settlement, this is our holy site, as we have claimed it. Defended it. The dwarves are slow to action, but steadfast when they respond. The elves cherish their insulation, and likely neglect their brethren in the faith. Are these acts worthy of damnation? For there are twisted races, such as the orcs, who know not of our word, or rather should I say reject it. They strike their own path. Every race as I see it is divided, and so it must not be our duty to damn those who.. May prescribe to a different method, but reach the same result. We must, I say.. Nay, I demand, damn those who know of our faith and refuse it as well! The heretics, those bound to the dark lord, and worship his ilk!" A hand rose, a war call in his culture, gripped fist with his hat string in hand, pulling it off revealing his balding top.
"We are the defenders of the faith, we are the shield of the west, the bastion! The Holy Basin! Will you not stand with me today, and rebuke these.. Occultists, these... Heretics who encircle us. First the elves are to be moved upon, then what, Mutikabir, aflame in turmoil? The Basin herself? Kholgrov? Nay, our strongest moment is now. We must strike before our enemies have time to eliminate our natural allies.. The Dark One may be banished, but the war is not over. His minions still lurk in their bastions, the old lords of his Holiness have dipped their banners and declared victory. But they have merely surrendered to a white flag, letting the darkness creep and regrow. We rise anew, the true lords of the light, and we do it alone! But that may not be, join my call, and we shall defend the elves against their plight... Before it is too late." He raised his hands, his surrogates were silenced, but that did not mean all those who were within the order disliked his views. Many calls were had, before the High Mage could even respond there was heated debates being had as their next step of action was being theorized.
Duncan of Westmarch, High Mage of the Paladin Order of Light, watched intently as Pietrak made his speech. He studied the reactions of those who listened. Already, after only a few months, Kholgrov's emissary had obtained a small following, as evident in the emotional response among the council. His officers, however, remained dubious as they listened. After Pietrek finished, they all started to debate the next course of action, Duncan stood and the room fell hushed.
"Well said, Pietrek. You speak almost as if it has been you here all this time, defending the Basin." This earned a few laughs among the paladins, and a stern nod from all of them. "I will say I agree with you, my lord. I will not judge one who calls the Light One by another name, for all the east stood united against the hordes of Darkness. Lest of course they fall to methods of bribery and conspiracy, flaunting the law and tenants for which we stand." Duncan gave a knowing glance to Pietrek as he uttered these last words. "Know that we do not hold this sacred temple for Man alone, but for the Light and the Creator's devout. The attack on Vahamil is of grave concern and jeopardizes the security of this holy place. To lose the Light Basin would have grave consequences for all of Agorath, for not only is this place a symbol of Light and sacrifice, but it stands as the forward most stronghold against the evil of the west.
"Yet what would you have us do, Lord Pietrek? Are we to march out beyond the safety of these walls, headlong against the forces of Malarx? Do you know the strength of Karmont? I assure you I do. Open war is folly and doomed to failure. If it were so easy our banner would fly above their battlements rather then the sigil of their supposed god. This attack, this wanton aggression against the followers of Light concerns all of the Creator's people. I am calling an Assembly of Lords to convene, as it was in the days of our fathers. I see no other course. Only together can we assure victory." A rousing applause broke out among those gathered. Duncan bowed and took his seat, taking a slow drink of wine, studying Pietrek as he drank.
The Voivode
Hallows, Autumn, 20th Year of the New Age
co-starring Jako
Hallows, Autumn, 20th Year of the New Age
co-starring Jako
The starry sky above was a deep azure as the night deepened, rendering the world below in a crisp frost. The party’s breath froze into a mist in the air as they urged their horses up the rocky path onto the knees of Highathar, where the Amenra springs. Above their heads a banner flew adorned with a sun, marking them simply as members of the Order of Light. Their armour and weapons, however, clearly distinguished them from typical mages, identifying them as Paladins, holy warriors of the Light.
The leader, Duncan of Westmarch, gave a sigh of relief as the light of hearths became visible on the horizon. He was clad in leathers, emblazoned on his chest was the same sun upon the banner above, burned into the jerkin. He turned to the party behind him. “Lord Pietrek, is that Kholgrov I see?”
Pietrek spied the tower they were coming upon, his large boyar hat, made of bear fur, copying his cloak which was pinned by the golden blazon of his company, all made him seem like an important fellow. He wore a dark red robe, not often in armor as his days of fighting were long over. “It’s just an outpost, trust me my lord.. The city, she is beautiful, as much as her sovereign.” They were following the river, the city itself said to overlook a waterfall.
“Very well.” Duncan grunted. “Ride alongside me, if you will please, my lord. I’d prefer to have you easily on hand when we come across any scouts. Besides, you can fill me in on any court customs I should know upon meeting your sovereign.”
The Pyrit lord rode up to the Paladin, waving off the green scouts they sent to guard the capital. Their most experienced units were out in the wilds, as Kholgrov had many natural defenses. “Never call her a lady. Only Voivode and Lord. We have not had many female rulers, so custom is very important to her. The court will ask you for your weapon’s history, and any gifts you may have brought can be presented to her daughter..” He stroke his beard. “Offer your helmet at her throne, it is a large sign of respect to our people.”
“My thanks,” Duncan said simply. The rocky road began to even out, the babbling of the river quieting before giving way to a subdued roar, no doubt the waterfall Pietrek spoke of. As it became louder, they rode upon a sturdy gate, flanked by two towers. Duncan hung back and let Pietrek handle the sentries.
A captain came out of the bombardments, gazing at the score of knights. “Pietrek, we received your letter in advance. We had not known you would bring the entire order!” The captain bellowed as he eyed the some two dozen in the company. Looking more mercenary then guardsman, this warrior was well storied.
In response Pietrek let out a hearty laugh. Kholgrov was coming along well, twenty years ago it was unrecognizable to the majesty it now sat. It actually stretched along the river, an unqiue set of canals and sewers undernearth to direct the waterflow and keep the castle upright. “These are my friends, let us in, we have words with our Lord. Lodging and dinner arrangments?”
The question was answered with a wink and the raising of the gate “All done, now please if you will, be our guests.” The captain bowed and they entered the castletown, the pyrit architecture was unique. Much of their structures were rounded like one would see in the wilds or norseland, but coupled with Empire techniques for stonework, the entire thing was built like a traditional castle. Each slab of stone on the road had a different rune etched into it.
While there weren’t many tall castles, save for the main bombard, the walls were tiered in a way that gave the appearance of height. They had to travel uphill up many stairs to make it to the Voivode’s palace, and so dismounted these knights were. Pietrek clasped his hands together as the stable fee was paid. “And so, Arch Mage? What do you think of our humble abode, is it too your liking? It is no Light Basin, of course..”
“I must admit, I am surprised,” Duncan returned, not bothering to correct the title Pietrek gave. “Your people certainly seem well established after only being here a few years. No doubt attributed to the fortitude of your people, my lord.”
This pleased his companion, Pietrek’s old hands rubbing against the jeweled rings upon his fingers. “All of it due to the hospitality of our neighbors, of course.. Speaking of this, My Lord the conference.. Do you not think it is a bit hasty for such a drastic measure, surely you do not expect the entire world to beck at your call…” They had spoke little of the conference, but now was as good of a shot he could get, within his own city, before they would speak to his lord.
“Hasty? Perhaps, my lord.” Duncan replied in a low tone. “Though I’d prefer brash action to the alternative, lest we find ourselves surrounded. No doubt our call will go ignored by some, but I trust in the Light that the Creator will send us aid.”
They were escorted into the palace. Their swords weren’t taken from them, what tyrant would take away a man’s right to defend himself? Pietrek was worried of the outcome of this meeting, “May the Light guide us..” He said in a solemn prayer.
Shadowed by two new escorts, the paladin’s knights were slowly stripped of him, taking their places in the court. There were not many benches, or seats. At this moment, the only person sitting was Katrina, the Voevoda of Ostermark and Zarachneya, she sat regal, her crown was the largest in the room, she was adorned in maroon colours today, mirroring her advisor. Pietrek sank to his knees immediately, deeply loyal. Duncan was not expected of the same, since he was a lord himself, but she looked at him as if expecting something, the entire room’s looked on, as their eye contact pierced the silence and created a deadly tension awaiting to be broken.
Duncan strode forward confidently and bowed low. “Light blesses you, Voivode, and the Pyrit people. I come in the spirit of friendship and in the warm embrace of such friends I stand before you ever grateful of your support against our enemies in the west.”
Katarina frowned and dismissed his forward stature. “You come to me for money, for soldiers.. And now to commit myself against an enemy I do not know. Tell me, what does the Order do for me, and my people? Arrest my followers?” She spoke with an icy tongue, clearly not exactly pleased. Pietrek tried to defend her actions but she told him to leave right away.
Duncan rose from his bow, his smile faded. “Esteemed Voivode, I have made no such demands of you and your people, merely accepted that which was offered in, what I thought, was tokens of respect. As for those arrested at the Basin they were found to be attempting bribery of mages in an attempt to steer them from their faith, a crime that I am sure would not be readily accepted here, and I’m sure you are equally appalled by, wise Voivode.”
“Walk. Follow me.” She got up from her throne, leaving the consequences of the court into her personal balcony, so they could be alone. Her expression did not forsake an inch of emotion. Duncan gave a disarming nod to his officers and dutifully followed the voivode.
“I am at your service, Lord.”
The voivode extended her arms across the balcony. “See, all of this is my realm. And yet, I feel nothing but respect for it.. My duty is to protect my people, your words of war. They are disarming. I am sure Pietrek has spoken to you of our forces.. Many perished in the migration.” She placed a palm upon her supple face, “The faith is all we have, should we fail.. Well my people will truly be lost. How can you promise victory? That this war will not be folly, should we not be defending what we have, then sally outside our gates into the unknown?”
The mage followed her gaze out over the river valley. “I share your concerns, my lord, I do. It is precisely such fears that I seek the aid of the eastern lords before war is committed. This fight is at our door whether we will it or no. The question is, will we allow Vahamil to become a stronghold of darkness as it once was, and if so, what then is to become of the Basin, beset by enemies as it will surely be?”
She pursed her lips. “Are you a godly man, or a worldly one, my lord? I heard of your exploits. How can I trust you, with what precious few pieces I have.. This game, it takes from you. You cannot deny that.” Katarina was beset herself, she put a soft hand upon his chest, her grey eyes looking at him with worry, looking for an answer.
“If only I was fated to sit in lordship over dusty tomes in one of the towers of Ecclestius, reviewing the Tenants of Light, I could be a Godly man,” Duncan said with a hard gaze. “The Light has not seen such a life fit for me, Voivode. I command armies, and for the men who fight for my banner, I must be a realist. The Light Basin, holy place or not, is a fortress against the tides of the west, and I will die to defend it, lest a second War of Darkness washes over us all.”
This speech surprised her, but it did not rear her off her course. “I can help you if your ambitions are as you say. I must be a realist as well, Pietrek as you have seen is a very religious man, as much of my Boyars are. They do not have the mantle of absolute responsibility. Thank you for your frankness, my words earlier were to impress my court, perhaps we can have a private dinner. You can meet my daughter and see just a little part of my realm that I must protect and consider?” She slipped a key into his waistbag hanging from his belt.
Duncan offered a grin and let his eyes wonder up and down over Katrina before meeting her gaze. “I would like that very much, honoured Voivode.”
She offered a smile back at him, her gleaming white teeth reflecting the sun’s sleepy gaze. She let her hands wandered against him for a moment before returning them to her formal stature. “Tonight then. Make your run of the castle, your men will have board at my barracks. Grand Paladin.” She bowed her head and took her leave, Duncan’s eyes following behind her.
The Eastern Gate of Hroniden:
Herasnia in 20 A.o.C.
Herasnia in 20 A.o.C.
Like the rest of Hroniden, Herasnia survived, but not completely recovered from, the plague of corpus and the multiple invasions during the War of Darkness. It’s people had to adapt and rebuild what was leftover after the War of Darkness.
Economy
Trade has always been an important part of the Herasnia’s economy and has risen in importance in recent years. With it’s close location to Westmarch, Herasnia’s markets, especially in the city of Almeria, have both Hroniden and Ecclestian goods for sale. In addition, it is also where travellers stop before continuing their travels either west into Hroniden or east into Westmarch. For these reasons, Herasnia is known as “The Eastern Gate of Hroniden”.
Farmlands along the Safi and Umar Rivers, once growing the grain needed to feed its people, were greatly damaged during the War of Darkness. Farmers in the region realized that they could simply not complete with the banks of the Amenra and Ecclestius if they wanted to survive. Instead, they have shifted over, for the past 20 years, towards the cultivation of spices and silk, which are essentially cash crops. Both of these goods are particularly valued in Westmarch and Ecclestius.
The creation and trading of finished goods is also an important part of Herasnia’s economy, with iron and stone crafts as well as silk garments being the main types found in Herasnia. The iron and stone crafts are of good quality, but are not likely to be as valuable as dwarven iron and stone crafts. This does mean that they have an advantage in price, however. Being close to the source, the production of silk garments has grown along with the cultivation of silk due to the cheaper supply available.
Religion
Like many other lands, Alttanin, the religion of Herasnia, shares the common thread of the Creator creating the world and everything within it as well as the Dark One. Alttanin regards the Creator and the Dark One as two separate, but deeply interconnected, beings. For instance, the Dark One felt incomplete and vulnerable after the departure of the Creator, which caused the Dark One’s descent into madness.
Dragons are also an important part of Alttanin. [1] When the world had taken shape, the Creator made four Guardian Dragons for each part of the world: North, South, East, and West. In addition. By the end of the Age of Heroes, the guardian Dragons had been slain one way or another, with the rest of the dragons scattering across the land and hunted by the mortals. Today, dragons are a very rare sight, but the Guardian Dragons are worshipped in Herasnia, especially Radaru, who is said to have resided somewhere near the settlement of Tanin ‘Abyad.
The Stone of Creation is also an important site for Alttanin. The Stone is said to be one of the first creations of the Creator, with runes carved into the Stone that supposedly detail the process of creation, though no one is certain about what the runes of the Stone exactly mean. This is also claimed in Alttanin to be the last place where the Creator was ever seen by mortals, though not many outside of Herasnia believe it to be true. The Stone is a place of pilgrimage for followers of Alttanin, as it is associated very closely with the Creator.
Culture
After the War of Darkness, the people of Herasnia were no strangers to hardship like the rest of Hroniden. For the farmers, craftsmen, and other members of the lower classes, the only change was a shift to cash crops rather than grain. The merchants did not see much change at all, with the trade from Ecclestius returning to normal after the end of the war.
The nobility and Alttanin leaders became more interested in the well being of Herasnia itself rather than focusing on the outside. They did support Shah Asad’s efforts to keep the kingdom together, as that was believed to be in the best interests of Herasnia, but were more focused on rebuild Herasnia, especially as the Ayyubid dynasty tore apart.
Slavery in Herasnia, which serves as a status symbol and as servants of the nobility, still existed even after the elf slave ban. Both human and elf slaves were used by the nobility before the ban, and elf slaves were simply seen as more exotic than human slaves. More human slaves were simply acquired in order to make up for the losses of elf slaves. Resistance against this ban was not possible due to the presence of elf armies from Galadriel.
[1] The full name of Alttanin, Alttanin Aleibada, translates to “Dragon Worship”.
A Gathering of Greens
Before the Throne of Ghullkazid prostrated six lowly beings, gaudy creatures dressed in golds and silvers. Their musty green skin had been scrubbed, their bristly hairs had been washed, and their wounds had been mended, but despite such efforts, they could not shirk the distinct appearance of savages. In their scratchy voices, almost comically high in pitch, they murmured among themselves praises to Ghullkazid and its King. Naturally, their murmurs rose, as one decided to become louder in an attempt to gain favor, only for his peers to follow suit until it became an unintelligible cacophony.
Loghain Warjaw stood beside the vacant Throne, his father attending to more demanding affairs. But still, someone was needed to receive fealty to the House and Kingdom, to observe proper ceremony, even to Goblins. Watching with narrowed eyes, Warjaw gave a bellowing bid for silence. Without question, the creatures obeyed, each giving the other an evil eye, but giving Warjaw nothing but submissive nods.
"As I call you forward as representative of your peoples-" began Warjaw, "-you shall affirm your allegiance to the might of Ghullkazid and be granted royal assent."
From an attendant, Warjaw procured several documents from which he read with solemn tone.
"Chief Schrimp of the Schrimps"
A spindly Goblin arose, his neck almost overburdened by chains of golden loops which connected to similar jewelry pierced into his massive ears. Eagerly, he half-scrambled before Warjaw. Even before Dwarves, Goblins came up short, made moreso present by the grovelling posture of the Schrimp Chief.
"M-master Prince-chief, Schrimps stand with Ghoo-Kazed! We rich and our bellies are full with meats, our beds filled with good mates! We happy to be under Big King-Chief! Yes, yes, yes!"
Such level of discourse was one of the more refined statements ever uttered by Goblinkind. When Ghullkazid called upon the Goblin clans for submission, only the most docile came forward, a measly six. But they proved most malleable to civilization and they were easily cowed when they were delivered gold and saw the might of the Golems. And so when the iron fist of Ghullkazid came upon the resisters, their clans were dismantled and forced to assimilate into the docile six, bolstering them with mates and children to raise as best they could manage. It was but a minor step, but a step nonetheless.
"Chief Schrimp, we accept your pledge on behalf of all Schrimps and recognize your clan as loyal. For this, the Crown hereby elevates your clan, naming it the Schrimp Host. For now and evermore, the Schrimp Host shall be treated as agents of Ghullkazid and rightful masters over those clans which have been absorbed in your clan. The Schrimps shall forever hold the reins of this Host and shall never be threatened with usurpation from any lesser clan."
The Schrimp Chief gave profuse thanks, though he didn't quite understand much of what had been said other than that he was being rewarded with something. Warjaw handed over a scroll of parchment, filled to the brim with legalese detailing the nature of what rights and laws were afforded to the concept of a host, but it was hardly considered that the Goblin would read it, much less understand it.
With this, he likewise handed over a golden coin, forged with the visage of the Schrimp Chief, a token to commemorate the founding of the Schrimp Host. Accepting it happily, Schrimp scampered back to his original spot, while his peers jealously craned their necks to look at what treasure was afoot. But they would soon receive their own treasures, and by the end of the ceremony, six hosts had been formed, six mega-tribes of Goblins recognized under the sovereignty of Ghullkazid: Schrimp, Dun, Zapo, Gugug, Yig, and Koobin.
On the practical level, not much changed, as the old clans had been forcibly broken, their males thrown into what amounted to slavery, while the rest were forced to serve the original six, however now the chiefs had full backing in pushing their personal clans ahead, their ambitions emboldened. In terms of the policy and laws of Ghullkazid, in effect this meant that no longer would it recognize Goblins as vermin, but instead as affiliates, not to be exterminated, but controlled.
To what end, Agorath had yet to see; would they receive civilization or exploitation? And what did this mean for others, what would happen when the greens begin to gather?
Almar Loraris
Elven
32
Like most elves, Almar was already a decent archer by his adolescence, having trained with his mother before her untimely death. Although Almar had just a rudimentary understanding of the sword by the time he turned 12, thanks to his father's insistence during the young elf's childhood, he loved it much more than the bow. While the bow was deadly, accurate, and precise, it also felt reserved, calm, and complacent compared to the sword. The sword inspired fear, courage, and heroism, it was brash, brutal, and beautiful, which were words used often to describe Almar Loraris. In Azeratii, Almar met Ninrael, a warrior sworn to guard the Queen of the Elves. She took pity on Almar, and introduced him to the art of the sword. Ninrael and Almar trained daily, and by the time Ninrael departed the city to escort the Queen to the final battle between the Light and the Dark, Almar was a much better swordsman than in when he first grasped the coarse leather handle of the blade. With the death of his mother and father still recent in Almar's mind, he found solace in practicing with a blade. Practice filled his free time, it was his life. It was at this point that Almar returned to Coal, where a new chapter in his life would unfold.
After much rejoicing in the city of Azeratii after the Dark One's defeat, Almar and the rest of his people returned to Galadriel. After reuniting with his mentor, Ninrael, the teenage elf resumed his training, even going as far as to best his mentor in a duel. Incredibly skilled, it was only natural for Almar to pursue a career in the elven armies. He hated it. Always a bit of a free spirit, and fiercely stubborn, Almar wasn't a good fit in the strict and hierarchical armies of Galadriel. Instead opting to pursue a life as a hunter. But, the monotony of hunting wasn't enough for Almar. He wanted something more, he wanted something that had more meaning. Almar traveled first to Highathar, where he joined a company of explorers, sent to chart the oceans north of the towering Dwarven mountains. Fending off raiders, slavers, and many other -ers, Almar finally found his purpose.
He was an adventurer, an explorer. Almar Loraris would chart the unknown, brave great dangers, and go through hell and back, just because he can. Almar grew to develop an cynical and witty personality, much to the dismay of his fellow shipmates. Known his pessimistic attitude, Almar has gotten himself in a fair amount of trouble due to his quick wit and sarcastic comments. Now, the white haired elf is sailing around the Skagarene Coast in a boat full of dwarves and men, with the cynical elf being the lone member of his race upon the small, sweaty ship.
((IC character))
A Forgotten Hero
Part I
Part I
The winds clashed against his body, the smell to be felt by everyone who passed by as it assaulted their nostrils with the vomiting sensation of the rotting flesh of the carcass hanging above. The symbol of the light sown into his clothes, his feet dirty and his knees scraped from being dragged over the ground. The birds would already have eaten his tongue if not for the fact that it had been cut out for spreading lies and falsehood.
It was under this corpse that three dozen men marched through, their path having been opened by others and yet even more men standing guard to ensure that no hostile guard would interrupt what they considered to be the most holy and proper business. To correct the wrongs that has been committed in the name of not only the king but also the creator.
It was under this that the sounds of footsteps echoed throughout the halls as a guard was knocked out from behind, another one rushed and incapacitated before he could sound the alarm. Whispers began circulating and before long the door was kicked in as the soldiers rushed the man sleeping in his bed, dragging him out and holding him down. It was fast, quick and effective and within two minutes the nobleman lay dead on the floor, his head rolling down the corridor as blood spewed out of his neck where his head had been just a few hours earlier.
It didn’t take long before the sound of the rolling head down the quiet corridor remained, men rushed forward and attacked the three dozen men, all of them carrying the flag of Ecclestius. Guards against guards as swords clashed and armor was pierced, dozens more dead at the end of the fight as the vigilantes fled with their tails between their legs, fleeing the city and running away.
He was old, his once silver lined hair had by now turned white, the volume of his hair had likewise gotten thinner, now being able to see his scalp as he stood before Varian who reached a hand out to stop him from bowing. He tried to do his duty, as he always had done but his bones no longer allowed it, he had begun to shake as he attempted to bow, requiring another cane to support himself as he held one in each hand, while his body gave way to the scars that had plagued him for decades.
The wrinkles covered the surface of his face, going from his eyes all the way down over his cheeks. His once brown and clear eyes now clouded as he looked upon Varian, as he had done so often in the past. How the old man had once stood with a book in one hand and parchments in the other, beating the political landscape of Agorath into the young Prince’s mind, while King Ares demanded his adviser to keep him up to date on occurring events.
The old duke had invested near all of his energy into Ecclestius, no matter pain, disease or suffering, at least until that event eight years ago, the Slaughter of Fratil. The Slaughter which saw King Ares slain along with most of his armies, the noble commanders and his military advisers, the biggest military defeat suffered in the twenty five years of the Kingdom, the singular defeat that lost them Westmarch. The duke’s son was among the slain in that field, he was thirty-two at the time. The duke himself began distancing himself, hiding away from the world, his writing changed, his reports became less focused, took longer to complete, he didn’t enjoy life and Varian knew. That look, that distinct look in his eyes of someone who no longer had the will to carry on was clear if one just took a moment to stop, the tired look, the look which his mother shared with the duke. Varian had sent the old duke home, giving him the rest he needed, to spend his final years in peace.
Varian couldn’t stop the cold chill from running down his spine, a fear in his mind that he was looking at himself. Would he stand there in forty years, leaning on a cane, scars keeping him from walking, from running, from being himself. Would sadness be at home in his eyes, resting behind the glare. Would Varian himself be alone, without a wife, mother, sister, brother, child? Would he breathe a sigh of relief by no longer having to bow as his joints crackled while they moved about, would he wake up every morning hoping it would be his last. Are the choices he is making the right for him, for Ecclestius, for his children, for Ares.
“Your Majesty.” His Grace said, the voice rough and tired in between heavy breaths as struggled for enough air to fill his lungs.
“Your Grace.” Varian responded as he let him balance himself back up using the young King’s strength to balance out the lack of his.
“I’m gladdened that you visit us, that you grant us this honour.” He said as he let go of Varian’s arm, instead using his strength to balance on the canes, offering a polite smile with several of his teeth missing.
“Don’t thank me, I know the pains that you have been put through organizing this.” Varian said, as they began walking towards a staircase, it was short steps, slow and painful for the duke, and troublesome for Varian to see the decay of such a great man before him, shattering the mental image he himself held.
“It is of no issue, Your Majesty, it was my duty and I did so with eager happiness without issue, if I am to speak truthfully then I found it quite refreshing, giving me new vigor.” The Duke said smiling and forcing a laugh which made Varian smile and forced a small chuckle. Varian however knew the truth, the duke was exhausted and tired, he could hear it in his voice, see it in the way he moved around and feel the lack of energy around his person as they walked, he had not long for the world which he risked his life for time and time again.
It took time getting down the circular staircase, even longer as neither of them spoke, the Duke instead attempting to appear calm and in control as he struggled for air but eventually they got there. The room itself smelled, the body having died and started to rot as a man stood over the casket in the middle of the room. The light from the touches allowed Varian to see the side of the man’s face, it was scarred, which would give away a life of trouble if not for the fact that his hands were well kept and clean. He was working at the corpse, sewing the head back onto the body and it appeared he was just about done as they entered.
The King walked over the corpse slowly as the duke followed, the nobleman still had his chain of office around his neck. He had defied Varian and taken the law into his own hand, killing a mage for distributing a pamphlet after being given express command that the harshest punishment was the loss of the hand which distributed the illegal writing. The cut around his neck was clean, the stiches holding together the corpse being clear, poorly hidden.
The physician just bowed, “Your Majesty, Your Grace.” He uttered as he took five steps back, letting his master and the king examine the corpse of the local nobleman that had been murdered. Committing a crime as the nobleman felt above the law to act as judge, jury and executioner, only to be executed by a dozen other men who felt likewise about themselves over the nobleman, it was shameful and it needed to be stamped down. For now though Varian needed to clean this up, first by dealing with the clergy of his realm which had been left ill-contended following the recent events.
“Cut his head off again and mount it on a pole outside the castle gates.” The king commanded, with the physician who spent hours sowing it back on giving a disappointed look towards the corpse before nodding in acceptance. Varian just shook his head, “It will be as good a symbol as any for when the Lords Spiritual arrive.”
“I concur.” The duke added, looking towards his servant who began going over to the side, searching for the right equipment for the new job he had been tasked, hoping not to make the headless man appear even worse.
As the physician set to work once more, the King and his vassal began climbing up the steps again, the breath of the duke even heavier now as he struggled to climb back up. When they finally reached the ground floor once more he stopped, needing a moment to catch his break as well as taking one to speak “Your Majesty, may i?” he looked up at Varien sincerely, giving away at the importance of the matter. “I’ve heard that slavery is returning to the world.” The duke sighed, “A dreaded thing that I thought we finally had ridden, but the Orcs of Gor’Orka and several lords of Hroniden seems to have embraced it despite the passing of the law in the Assembly of Light twenty-four years ago. No person, Man, Elf or otherwise has ever been a slave in my lands, but I fear that the rest of the world may return to the darkness which we plunged ourselves out of. They seem to forget the laws of their father’s, the will of the Light and the peace which so many found.” The duke sighed once more, although much more heavily. “Varian, I wish that you would spend your energy on this instead. You have the power, energy and resources to put this to an end if you merely wished, improve the lives of all, not just your immediate subjects, this is my plea to you. To ensure that the work of your grandfather, as well as your real father is not forgotten, that their laws and edicts are maintained and that those who falter are brought back to the right path. You are the King of Ecclestius, do not waste away your prime with women and drink, spend it on the good of your subjects and the health of your realm.”
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Feel free to send in your orders, guys. Tapp and I will likely begin posting results leading into the weekend. So the sooner you get them in the sooner we can look forward to the mini update.
A Banner Furled
Hallows, 20th Year of the New Age
The following is based on my interpretation of Ordivanti lore as put down by Iisbroke. Though there is a lot of information to be found, I found very little regarding the actual capital of Dracona. Hopefully my interpretation is okay but may be susceptible to change following input from Iisbroke.
Narien cursed the biting fall wind as she clasped her scarf tighter against her face. The road ascending up into the Ordivanti Highlands had almost been too much for Harthil, her trusted mare. The horse protested loudly as an icy mist enveloped them as they climbed the crumbling road. The journey had been marked with unsettling signs that eluded that not all was well in Ordivantis. Scorched halls, untended fields, unmarked graves, and corpses had become frequent sights as they neared the capital, Dracona.
Einir had conceded to the demands of King Deftspear, thus avoiding war with Ghullkazid following the butchering of the king's envoys. It was a bitter concession, and one that she knew Einir took no pleasure in swallowing, yet such was the price of peace. Had Einir shunned the demands of Deftspear he would be facing the wrath of the Dwarves as well as the Borci. It seemed Einir merely exchanged a war in the Wilds for a war at home.
The troops of Narien's banner began to chatter excitedly as Dracona came into view, the town shimmering from the setting sun like a golden crown atop the hill before them. Gharold spurned his stout draft horse beside Narien, Lucias followed close behind.
"We should be wary," advised Gharold. "I hate to say it, but Ordivantis seems ready for war."
"I agree," said Lucias. "The tension here is colder then this damned wind."
"It's Dracona," Narien retorted trying to sound confident. "Surely we will find no danger here."
"Don't be so sure, Captain," Gharold replied. "The High Chief is still at the front, there's no telling what evils have come in his absence."
The company finished the ride in silence, coming upon the town gate as the sun's fingers painted a fleeting crimson across the sky. The wall was craft of sturdy stone, and the gate of wrought iron. The battlements appeared to be unmanned and the gate securely locked. Narien scoffed impatiently as Gharold slammed his heavy fist against the large door.
"Oi in there! Oi! Who stands guard in there?! Oi! You layabouts!" Gharold bellowed.
A face appeared above the gate, peering over the wall. It looked to be a lad of no more then fifteen years. "The gate is closed at nightfall. Come back on the morrow."
"Nightfall?!" Gharold snorted. "The sun's not yet down, boy." The face disappeared back behind the wall. "Oi! Get back here or I will have you skinned!"
Narien urged Harthil forward. "I am Captain Narien Krestarii, errant to the High Chief, and I demand to know why the hospitality of his city is now closed to me!"
"We don't play host to halflings!" A voice called from behind the gate.
Gharold fumed and doubled his pounding on the gate.
"This is pointless," said Lucias. "Let's find a spot out of the wind and raise..." Just then lock on the gate was heard unclasping, followed by a screech from the iron hinges as it swung slowly open. A portly man revealed himself with a sandy grey beard nearly reaching to his knees. "Apologies, Captain Krestarii," he said, "my nephew is a fool and took to jest while I was indisposed."
Gharold thrust an accusing finger at the man. "The High Chief will hear of this, you can be sure!"
"Mercy I beg, lords," The man bowed, quivering and shaking. "These are trying times and the youth are blind with eyes only for japes!"
"Pathetic excuse for a..." Gharold began before being interrupted by Narien.
"Easy, Gharold." She turned to the portly guard. "We saw signs of fighting on the road from the frontier. Why are your walls bare?"
"Master Tudonii has left with much of the garrison. Routing out rebels to the south, 'ee is!"
"The High Chief fights for the glory of Ordivantis while the unworthy whine behind his back!" Narien spat. "Come, men. To the Great Hall!"
The company ascended to the top of the hill where the Tudonii Great Hall stood. It was a large building of high walls etched in carvings of their glorious past. There, Narien and her company were promptly given guest rights by the steward, and a great meal was cooked for them, following a donation from Narien's purse. The banner's chests were laid down and her standard was raised over the hall below the Tudonii dragon, to fly over Ordivantis one last time.
Seated before the dais of the High Chief, Narien presided over the feast, where every last golden crown was paid out to her men for their service. It was bitter-sweet for her soldiers, most of whom were Ordivanti, aside from the Imperials that joined her earlier in the year. They returned home from the front only to find their country descending into turmoil. Now her banner was to be disbanded, her men free to follow their own path. She assumed that most would join the fighters of Dracona, and see to its safety, at least she hoped. When the last stipend was paid, Narien rose from her seat, mug of ale in her hand.
"Soldiers of Ordivantis, hear me!" The men ceased their reveling, putting down food and drink to listen to their commander. "For three years now we have been as brothers. Many of you thought me little more then a silly elf girl, so frail a strong wind could knock me over. Whereas I thought of you as brutish drunks, more interested in drinking then fighting!" A few chuckled at this. "How we have grown. Over the years we learned mutual respect. Now, we would die for each other!"
"Here, here!" Several shouted.
"Sadly, now is the time of our parting. Ordivantes has been like home to me these past few years, but you all know as well as I that the day would come when I am called back to kith and kind. Sadly it is this day, when this strong and proud land reels from war, and more then ever needs my sword. I find comfort, however, knowing that you all will remain, taking up the call in defense of Ordivantes! Light bless you all!" The room stood from their seats, giving solemn salute to their commander. The weight of the parting taking full effect on Narien, she struggled not to cry. "Where is Gharold, brave and true?"
Gharold stepped forward among the crowd. "Here I stand, Captain."
"Will you take up your own banner in the cause of Ordivantis?"
"Nay, Captain. I owe you my life, and it is by your side that I shall stay."
Narien blinked in disbelief. "I... I accept your service with gratitude, trusted thane."
Barak stepped forward. "Captain, if I may... Dutifully have I carried your banner in battle, and if you will permit, let me carry it back to your hall, to keep in safety and trust, in the hope that one day you will return to see it unfurled once more."
"My most noble standard bearer, I accept and grant you this duty. Yet do not fly my banner above the hall, but rather your own. I name you the master of Halfling's Hall and charge you to rule as dutifully as the service you have shown me. Go with Light, Barak, son of Harold."
Following the dinner, Narien and her company proceeded to drink well into the night. Drunk, Narien made her way to Einir's chambers, collapsing on his bed with an inebriated sigh. Her time in Ordivantis was at an end and she couldn't say for sure if she would be back. Reeling from wine and ale, Narien slipped into an uneasy dream, chased by a haunting voice...
"She is Mine!"
Wreck
He felt the waves rock the boat. The Glory, was what it was called. Almar thought that it was a glorious failure of a ship, leaks sprung almost daily, and it's sail was in tatters. Why he ever agreed to go on this expedition, Almar would never know. Shifting, the elf stretched out his arms, his armor clinking with his movement. Purposefully leaving his plate armor in Galadriel, Almar was dressed light for the expedition off of the Skagarene Coast. He wore a leather jerkin embellished with the tree of Galadriel over a shirt of chain mail and, complete with rough woolen breeches, and his most valued item, fur-lined leather boots. They were his one solace on this expedition, his one treasure, aside from his short sword and recurve bow. Above his normal armor was a fur cloak, with rough wool wrapped around the elf's face to shield him from the biting wind of Skagarene. Almar had two rules he always followed. Number One,, always win. Number Two, always look good when doing it.
The elf turned, and walked across the small length of the ship to look out at the other side of the boat, the side facing the Skagarene Coast. It was equally as mist-shrouded as the other side. Letting out a cough, Almar covered his mouth briefly, and then looked back to gaze out at the horizon. His job was to scout for Skagarene raiders, something Almar knew was common, especially with the wars being waged upon the coast. The elf yawned, and was just about to turn around before he saw it. The hint of a growling dragon's face loomed in the mist, it's face almost haunting in the grey expanse. Swallowing in fear, Almar looked to the dwarf next to him, and then turned around. Bringing his hands up to his mouth, he lets out a shout. One that every person on the ship was fearing. "RAIDERS!"
The crew of the ship sprung into action. Dwarves ran to their cabins, procuring large crossbows, inserting the crossbows into a series of notches set on the railing of the boat. The Norsemen on the boat, much more lightly armored than their stout companions, grasped throwing spears and short swords, knowing in full the environment of sea battle. The lone elf aboard the ship pulled the short recurve bow off of his soldier, and twanged on the bow's sinew string. Staring out at the dragon's head, Almar let out a sigh as he saw the full form of the ship emerge from the mist. It was huge, packed with angry Skagarenes. They carried crude spears, swords, knives, shields, armed to the teeth.
Almar looked to Daín, the dwarf standing next to him, and gave a small smile. "We're fucked, aren't we."
The Dwarf let out a laugh. "You bet your ass we are."
Almar let out a laugh, and looked up at the ship, dangerously close, no longer shrouded in grey mist. Looking a Skagerene raider dead in the eye, he only smiled at the youthful warrior as Almar raised his yew bow, nocking an arrow in the string. Pulling his arm back, Almar stretched his sinew string back to his ear. Listening to the bow creak, Almar lifted up his fingers, loosing the arrow. His hazel eyes watched it travel through the freezing air, and land directly in the chest of the young raider he smiled at before. A animalistic roar came up from the boat, which only inflamed the crew of The Glory to let out a roar in response. The raider's ship sped up, and Almar heard the captain of The Glory, call out to the crew, "BRACE!" A ram, hidden by the dark blue water of the coast, slammed into The Glory. Almar winced as he heard wood splinter, but he barely had time to react to the noise before Skagerene raiders jumped aboard the ship. Whirling, Almar drew his short sword, the blade whining as it slid from the scabbard on his hip. Sliding his bow back onto his body, Almar ran towards the first of the raiders. The Skagarene was standing over a slain dwarf, jamming a spear into the dead halfling's body. The raider looked up and snarled at Almar, which only caused the elf to smile at the raider, inflaming the Norseman further. The raider, his spear firmly implanted into the dead dwarf, drew his sword, and lunged at Almar with his blade. Easily dodging the blow, the elf moved with incredibly speed, and shoved his short sword in the Norseman's torso. He placed his head on the Norseman's shoulder, and whispered in the dying raider's ear. "Try better next time."
Looking down, and grimacing as he saw Daín's dead body below him, Almar charged the next raider. This one was much better armed, with an axe, shield, and a chain-mail jerkin protecting him. He was fending off an Imperial mercenary, hired to protect The Glory. Snorting in amusement as the Imperial was gutted by the raider, Almar let out a yell and charged his well-armored foe. The clang of steel rang across the boat as the raider parried Almar's stab with his axe. The two engaged in a fierce melee, with Almar relying on his speed and skill, whilst the raider relied upon his pure strength. Just as the raider was about to gain an advantage over the elf, the wooden floor beneath them splintered. The Skagarene raider looked down, allowing Almar the perfect moment to firmly implant his blade in the raider's chest. Smiling as victory swept over him, Almar's moment of triumph was short lived as The Glory snapped in two.
His sword still implanted in the raider, Almar felt the floor beneath him give way as he was sucked into oblivion, the cold water of the deadliest coast in Agorath covering him. Feeling the cold and the exhaustion take over his body, Almar's pale eyelids closed, and he felt himself being swept away to his destiny before he passed out.
A letter is sent out to courts all over Agorath, bearing the seal of house Mindrilla.
Dear pious Lords and Ladies of our bountiful continent.
Many years have now passed since our lands stood ablaze from the scorching haunt of the Dark One's mace. What seemed a near impossible task, so far away, our realms have been rebuilt. Our people yet again water the millstone for the harvest, our hunters leading from the great gifts of the forests, our miners breaking artistic metals in silver and gold, not only iron to be soaked in blood. As the Dark days seem behind us, there is now again time appropriate for the celebration of all life's beauty once more. Such as the love inside one's hearts.
I hereby invite you to witness the celebration of my daughter and heir's wedding to his highness, the crown-prince of Coal, Armas of house Coamenel. The Elven capital will invite you with open arms to celebrate this just and heartfelt occasion in which two loving youths may swear their duty to each other in the eyes of the Creator. His divine gaze that fill our lives with Light every day, will now have a chance to rejoice as his children, instead of force, celebrate harmony and peace.
May the Light preserve you,
Eylinn of house Mindrilla, Therain of the Green Chasm.
Many years have now passed since our lands stood ablaze from the scorching haunt of the Dark One's mace. What seemed a near impossible task, so far away, our realms have been rebuilt. Our people yet again water the millstone for the harvest, our hunters leading from the great gifts of the forests, our miners breaking artistic metals in silver and gold, not only iron to be soaked in blood. As the Dark days seem behind us, there is now again time appropriate for the celebration of all life's beauty once more. Such as the love inside one's hearts.
I hereby invite you to witness the celebration of my daughter and heir's wedding to his highness, the crown-prince of Coal, Armas of house Coamenel. The Elven capital will invite you with open arms to celebrate this just and heartfelt occasion in which two loving youths may swear their duty to each other in the eyes of the Creator. His divine gaze that fill our lives with Light every day, will now have a chance to rejoice as his children, instead of force, celebrate harmony and peace.
May the Light preserve you,
Eylinn of house Mindrilla, Therain of the Green Chasm.
The Bristled Griffin
Last Harvest, Autumn, 20th Year of the New Age
Narien only lingered in Dracona for a few days before she saddled Harthil once again and said her final goodbyes. She begrudged Gharold for choosing to stay at her side and earned a cursory glance from his wife as their reunion was cut short. Nevertheless, she was glad to have him with her. The Ecclestian knights were all too happy to leave Dracona behind him. As for Narien, she found her feet were weighed with lead, reluctant to leave Ordivantis. The vision and nightmares that followed, however, compelled her to venture out onto the road.
Deciding she would stop in Lurien before moving on to Coal for her sister's wedding, Narien decided they would journey south and seeing the rumoured Carbon Pass that now linked the Underkingdom of Carbon with the Green Chasm. She guessed it wouldn't add any more then a fortnight on the journey, and perhaps she would catch her sister and mother before they departed for the Elven capital.
The journey south should have been relatively peaceful, however Ordivantis seemed to be decaying by the day, and they were dogged by scouts of questionable allegiance. Luckily the remnants of her banner had offered to see their captain safely to the border, and they passed through the southern reaches of Ordivantis unmolested.
Now numbering fifteen, Narien's party navigated the mountain passes of Highathar on their course to Mount Carbon. The party was struck with how few they chanced upon on the road. There was the odd caravan and traveler but the typically talkative Dwarves, always hungry for news and songs, seemed to be struck dumb. Everytime Narien or her followers attempted to talk to a passerby they were met with cold disdain and suspicion. It was clear to all of them that not all was well in Highathar. It wasn't until they reached the town of Macefall along Carbon's northern border that they learned the source of these tensions.
High King Deagrin Benthorn is dead.
Narien and her followers acquired room and board at Macefall's lone inn, The Bristled Griffin. It was a large building with high a vaulted ceiling, a large common room, and guest rooms that reached several stories beneath the agor. Even when building above ground, Dwarves couldn't resist digging deep basements and cellars. Narien was all too happy to change out of her travel clothes and have a hot bath. First she would learn what news she could in the common room.
The common room of the Bristled Griffin was circular with alcoves branching off from the main room which offered more private seating. A large hearth burned brightly in the center of the room and an open hallway leading to the kitchen where servers walked to and fro, bringing the patrons their orders with haste. The clientele was mostly Dwarves with a few elves. Narien noticed that it wasn't very busy, with many tables empty and the servers complaining that the recent attack near the capital has kept most from traveling the road. It was frustrating to find that beyond this passing chatter, the Dwarves were tight lipped, suspicious of all outsiders.
After considerable prodding, Narien found an aged Elf that had spent the last few years in Highathar, working for various caravan masters. After a few beers, which were surprisingly good, the tongue of the elf loosened.
"Now I can't say for sure who was behind it," the Elf who introduced himself as Galon said. "It depends on who you ask, and where. Asking a trader from Carbon will get you a vastly different answer then a soldier from Kogansunan."
"Such is the way of rumours," returned Narien, gripping her mug of beer, trying to be patient. "Surely there is some truth to be gleamed, wise one?"
Galon's wrinkled face chortled. "Oh, aye! Yet I can only tell you what my old peepers have seen. Whether there is truth I leave for you to say."
"Tell me," urged Narien.
"Well, I was heading from the Tooth to Carbon. I heard Therain Mindrilla was opening up the Carbon Pass, and a whole new road would see merchants flooding into Galadriel, no longer having to reckon with the Wild folk of Ordivantis to get to Galadriel." The old Elf took a long sip of beer. "There were these suspicious sorts said to be on the road then, this merely being in the summer mind you. Dwarves hooded and cloaked and steering their mules from any town or village. A queer thing, I says, considering a Dwarves love of beer and gossip. Up to no good, I says, mark my words. Next thing I know riders from High Mountain are trampling over the countryside, crying 'Woe is us, the High King is dead!" Galron stopped to take another sip of beer, his eyes looking around suspiciously as if they were being spied on.
Narien looked over her shoulder, finding Galron's paranoia to be contagious. The lightly populated room seemed busy with their own affairs, save for one fiery red bearded Dwarf that seemed to be looking in their direction, but quickly looked away.
"Anyways," continued Galon, "it is said that the King's party came under attack as they marched north from High Mountain to reinforce Kogansunan, vexed by Orcs as they are."
"I heard tell of that," said Narien. "Orcs of Goi'Orka?"
"Light no, child!" Galon laughed. "Amiable fellows the Goi'Orka once you get to know them. No, these were from the invasion twenty years ago. Seems they liked being beholden to no master and set roots under the mountain. Would have worked well for them too if Benthorn didn't send old Bathror Greybeard to rebuild the city. Damned fool nearly brought the whole mountain down on him fighting the Orcs."
"Are you saying Dark Orcs killed the High King?" Narien questioned impatiently.
"I'm merely giving you context, child. Don't be hasty. So the High King marched out to Kogansunan to set Greybeard right only to be ambushed by these no good lot that were rallying their folk through the summer."
"The cloaked Dwarves?"
"Yes!" Galon leaned forward and spoke barely above a whisper. "They were from Yurdaest."
Narien scoffed, believing she had just wasted good copper on the old coot's beer. "That's impossible. There's no way Yurdaest could hope to challenge High Mountain."
"Of course not, but do you really think that Darkness ever left the grip of that lonely mountain, hmm? No, no, Dark permeates those rocks, I know! Those Yudaesti who propose to be pure will no doubt envision a Highathar ruled by Underkings!"
"What are you babbling about, outlanders?!" Bellowed the red bearded Dwarf. "Nonsense, no doubt!" He stood up from his table and approached them, his shoulders tensed and wearing a frown under his beard.
"Nothing of consequence, Leadborn, I assure you," Galon stammered.
The Dwarf slammed his massive fist upon the table. "Didn't sound like nothing, Elf!"
Narien held up her hands, palms out in a gesture of peace. "My friend here was just telling me of what befalls the High Kingdom. We mean no harm, sir."
Lucias was upon them in an instant. "What seems to be the trouble here?"
"Pah! Another outlander!" Spat the Dwarf. "You lot breed in the shadows?"
"We're just passing through, friend. Now let me buy you a drink," Lucias said calmly.
"Listen to me, long ears," Leadborn seethed, leaning low over the table, his ale laced breath thick in the air. "Mahakan will not suffer a Deagrin pup as High King. It will be a Mahakan who will sit the throne under High Mountain, elves and imperials be damned!" With that he let his fist slam against the table once more, before teetering out of the common room, muttering darkly to himself."
"I think it's time we turn in." Lucias whispered to Narien.
"Couldn't agree more." She flicked a gold crown to Galon. "Thanks for the news, Galon. Have another on me."
The Elf gave the coin a bite and grinned. "A pleasure, friend! If ever you need a guide, you know to call on old Galon!"
Narien frowned as she made her way to her room. She had met King Benthorn once as a child. He had seemed pleasant enough. She remembered he had given her a toy, some trinket that Anwen broke following a quarrel. Narien recalled that the king had reminded her of her father, in that they both seemed invincible.
Now, like her father, he was dead.
Summoned
In the days and weeks since his return to Coal, Armas and Anwën had spoken of a hundred small things. Despite the madness that had overtaken the court when it was announced that they were to be wed, the couple had managed to make a great deal of time for themselves. They frequently walked the palace’s elaborate garden, filled with gorgeous statues and water features, as well as rare flora and fauna from across Agorath.
He had told her of the cities, towns, and villages he had seen, some which could scarcely be found on a map. Tales of revelry, despair, and adventure that had found him in these out of the way places. In return, she told him plenty of the court lives and events that surrounded her time as groomed in Coal. Stories of treaties, feasts, dances and the shift in climate and power in Ecclestius. It was quite the contrast, yet it was clear that even though she led the life in courts, she had a healthy dose of distance towards it. As not a challenge, but a trough of water one must pass through.
It had been a wonderful time for Armas, unmatched by any adventure they had fantasized about in their youth. It was not without its challenges of course, becoming reintegrated to a court where so much could change in four days, much less four years, took time, and there was no shortage of courtiers who were eager to gain his influence. But even the inanities of these men and women could not truly disappoint him, for as much as he had come to enjoy his excursion across the continent, there was something to be said for finally being home once again. In all, his efforts to gain a firm grasp over not only the state of the elven court, but others across Agorath, had demanded study not unlike when he was a child, though with Anwën's aid it had hardly seemed like work.
Now, as the summer days began to grow shorter and the forest’s leaves began to change, Nienna had summoned the two of them to the council chambers, though she had not been entirely clear as to why. Armas had made himself proper for court again shortly after his return, shaving away his rough beard, cutting his hair to a more reasonable length such that it no longer reached his shoulders. Gone too was the battered robe, replaced with fine silk trimmed with golden thread. The clothing almost felt too soft at times, so used to the coarse apparel of his travels.
He smiled winsomely as he reached Anwën’s rooms and knocked on her door. Behind it stood a confident smile, hair clad in a neat bun with strands of hair hanging loose upon her shoulders. The dress had them bared, and had slits across the back in patterns reminiscent of starfall, from which her shining light skin shone through. Anwën took in Armas from top to bottom, biting her lower lip.
“I can get used to that sight, I’m sure. To what pleasure do I owe such allure?” She rhymed, while a practice she was abusing now less often, to Armas’s great regret, though it seemed old habits died very hard with this young woman.
Armas took a deep breath as he looked over Anwën. “More likely it is business rather than pleasure I’m afraid. Mother wants the two of us to join her in the council chambers.” His smile widened as he met her eyes. “And it is good that one of us can, because I don’t think I will ever get used to seeing you.” Anwën chuckled as her cheeks turned into a gentle flush.
“I must say, had I not known better you were still trying to win me over, my prince!” She reached her hand towards Armas, heeding to him to lead her forth. “Not that I’m complaining. Let us have the journey through the castle be our pleasure then.” She smiled, her eyes open and inviting.
He laughed taking her hand in his. “Forgive me for speaking the truth princess, in the future I will endeavor to tell only unflattering lies, though even that will be a challenge.” He began leading them down the hall, walking slowly without any real sense of urgency. “What do you think she wants? She’s almost never this formal.” Anwën squinted her eyes, deep in thought.
“I rarely ever seen Nienna in a formal mood towards me, or her son for that matter. She’s a homely queen to be sure. It can only mean one of two things.” She gave Armas a gaze of conspiracy and villainy. “We’re invaded, or there are wedding plans to be made.” She said with stern determination.
“Or both,” Armas suggested with a wink, equally seriously in tone. “I am beginning to think that running away to your sister and marrying in the wilds might have been the simpler option.” But Anwën only scoffed.
“You won’t escape that easily! A wedding is a grand, romantic affair to be sure. And you would rather take your bride in a mudhut covered with straw and leather? We’d n’er know the priest even to be sober as he connects us with the Creator’s Light!” She sneered.
“Oh, come now Anwën,” He said sweetly. “Would you really rather deal with hundreds of guests and speeches and ceremony. It sounds exhausting just to say.” She smiled, mischievously, nodding eagerly.
“Absolutely…” She took a dramatic pose, while walking gracefully as ever. “The world shall know what couple to fear and admire! The new leaders of the coming age, a threat to never underestimate.” She held a hand upon her chest and closed her eyes. “Yet gentle, merciful and kind as the summer wind, united by the sweet fragrance of love. Oh, Armas! Can’t you feel the excitement already? From toe to the tip of the hair? Like shudders and ecstatic pulses tingling through both flesh and bone?” Had it not been a rather unnatural phenomenon, one could have thought a sparkle lit in the Elf princess’ eyes.
Try as he might, Armas could not resist her, and his smile grew to match hers. “I can’t wait for it Anwën, I only wish that I did not have to share you with the rest of them.” She rolled her eyes, looking behind them, to the side, and to the front before jumping on her toes and giving Armas a soft kiss on the cheek.
“Isn’t that the very opposite of this whole affair? Soon I’ll be nobody’s but yours.” She said with a wide content smile.
“I suppose that’s a way to look at it,” Armas answered, not sounding terribly convinced. She nudged him.
“Armas… You aren’t afraid of standing in front of a crowd, are you?” She teased. “You’re to be king someday. I’m sure it’s within the job description there somewhere.”
“It’s not that,” he said quickly. “It is simply all of the pomp and circumstance, lords and ladies from all of Agorath coming to Coal, and for what purpose? To curry favor with my mother, with us? It seems such a waste of time and energy.” Anwën titled her head, nodding, without any clear direction of her emotions on the matter, though Armas was rather sure she welcomed the idea. She gazed yonder upon the door to the queen’s council-room with a deep breath to collect her composure.
“I’ve seen that all my life, my prince. I care little as long that energy is spent on us. Their energy is our currency.” She pursed her lips as to attain her lipstick was indeed stuck and made a few adjustments to her hair. “Let’s spend it wisely.”
“Hopefully that is something that I can leave to you,” Armas stated with a laugh as he went to the door, holding it open for Anwën to enter.
The High King Is Dead
Tomb of Deagrin Benthorn, King Under The Mountain, The Hallowed Hall, High Mountain
Throughout the month of Hallows, rumours swirled of the death of High King Deagrin Benthorn, ruler of Highathar. Tales spun by the tongues of merchants travelling the Kholgrov Pass and the Carbon Pass all the way to Azeratii told of an ambush of the King's party in the closing days of summer, butchering all to the last Dwarf. Blame seemed ever shifting and varied from Orc, Ghullkazid, Yurdaest, and Dreagar. While early rumours were easily dismissed as mere gossip, the steady out pour of insistent news became impossible to ignore. By Last Harvest, heralds from High Mountain had spread across the east to speak the fell news that their liege was dead. The perpetrator of the heinous act is still unknown, but early investigations of the ambush site point to Dwarves of unknown origin.
High King Deagrin Benthorn, first son of Deagrin Wrothiron, passed to the Light in the last day of Last Seed, ending his twenty year reign. While Benthorn wasn't endowed with the same tactical brilliance of his father, he did lead an effective resistance against the forces of Darkness occupying the Golden City during the War of Darkness. As High King, Benthorn led his people back to Highathar to the fabled High Mountain to reestablish their former capital from the ruin it had become. Benthorn presided over the High Mountain's restoration to become a bustling center of commerce. Deagrin Victor, son of Deagrin Benthorn, is expected to succeed to the high throne of Highathar.
Tomb of Deagrin Benthorn, King Under The Mountain, The Hallowed Hall, High Mountain
Throughout the month of Hallows, rumours swirled of the death of High King Deagrin Benthorn, ruler of Highathar. Tales spun by the tongues of merchants travelling the Kholgrov Pass and the Carbon Pass all the way to Azeratii told of an ambush of the King's party in the closing days of summer, butchering all to the last Dwarf. Blame seemed ever shifting and varied from Orc, Ghullkazid, Yurdaest, and Dreagar. While early rumours were easily dismissed as mere gossip, the steady out pour of insistent news became impossible to ignore. By Last Harvest, heralds from High Mountain had spread across the east to speak the fell news that their liege was dead. The perpetrator of the heinous act is still unknown, but early investigations of the ambush site point to Dwarves of unknown origin.
High King Deagrin Benthorn, first son of Deagrin Wrothiron, passed to the Light in the last day of Last Seed, ending his twenty year reign. While Benthorn wasn't endowed with the same tactical brilliance of his father, he did lead an effective resistance against the forces of Darkness occupying the Golden City during the War of Darkness. As High King, Benthorn led his people back to Highathar to the fabled High Mountain to reestablish their former capital from the ruin it had become. Benthorn presided over the High Mountain's restoration to become a bustling center of commerce. Deagrin Victor, son of Deagrin Benthorn, is expected to succeed to the high throne of Highathar.
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Routine Report
Nurik Tempal gave the required pass phrase to the third set of guards as he walked further into the inner sanctum of Malarx. It was a measure for security as much as safety, since most valuable information was collected within the heart of the citadel, both on the Cult's resources, the disposition of their enemies, and more... esoteric knowledge. Not that anyone had ever managed to infiltrate even the farthest fringes of Malarx, but it never hurt to be too careful. Though Nurik did think the spike traps in the hallway leading to the Arbiter's chambers were a bit much. To his knowledge no one had ever died from them, yet, but he wouldn't be surprised if that was a lie. Lies permeated the Cult after all.
Nurik announced himself as he entered, "Special Agent Nurik Tempal, of the Arbiter's Infiltration Corps, reporting on the Light Basin, Your Eminence."
It was only his third time meeting the Arbiter. She was a busy woman after all, and he had only recently been promoted to a rank worthy of witnessing His Holiness in the flesh. Or steel as the case was. The sword, the vessel of their most merciful and just Lord Balthar Birch, it glistened in the low light of the room, cast from simple candles arranged at the edges. The face of the Arbiter was shrouded in shadow, until a flash of lightning along the blade illuminated her face. For a woman scarcely in middle age, it was in quite poor shape, marked by no less than three scars. It may have been blasphemy to think such, but Nurik could not deny that she was an ugly woman. Her eyes stood out the most, once you got past the initial shock of the scars. They were the eyes of a predator, icy and judging, sizing up your worth, examining for weaknesses. When the lightning of the blade crackled, it reflected in her eyes and made her seem otherworldly and terrifying. Nurik was sure the regularance of the reflection was no coincidence.
Without stirring from her seat upon a simple throne, Arbiter Nasala Veariment responded, "And what news comes from the Basin? Are the fanatics preparing a response to Our subjugation of the Steppe Elves?"
Nurik hesitated briefly before giving his reply, "In a manner of speaking, Your Eminence. The fanatics, led by Duncan the Daft, seem unwilling to offer a response to our campaign, but there are elements within the Basin who are pushing for them to intervene and assist the Elves. Specifically this group seems to be led by a Kholgrovian emissary, one Pietrak."
The Arbiter raised an eyebrow, "Kholgrov? We're surprised, they seemed spineless and of no concern. They rejected feelers to work together to divide the Steppe Elves, and then they swore vassalage to the Dwarven King. The Dwarves of all people." She shakes her head with a chuckle, "The news from that kingdom these days is simply a series of comical failures. And these Kholgrovians willing choose to bind themselves to such a lot? That they now wish to gather a force to oppose Us is unwelcome, but not a matter of concern. They seem to be a feeble-minded people, no match for His Holiness' chosen."
Nurik nods along intently, giving the remainder of his report once she finishes, "Of course, Your Eminence. However, there is another facet in the debate within the Light Basin that is of greater concern. Duncan has not agreed to the Kholgrovian demands as of yet, but he has called an Assembly of Light, to gather the Lords of Light to organize a response to the campaign against the Steppe Elves."
A look of shock comes across Arbiter Veariment's face, and she turn her focus to the sword that remains in her grasp, running her fingers along it as she stares at it intently. For several long moments, this continues in silence, before she returns her gaze to Nurik.
"This is most surprising. Such a gathering, so soon, for so little? It is not as we have foreseen. The Lords of Light have not gathered united since the fall of His Holiness. Their petty squabbles have kept them divided, and will likely to continue to do so, but this gathering worries Us. We do not have the strength to stand against the East, not even a fraction of it. Why should they do so, I- We choose to strike against the Steppe Elves now because we had a clear reason to and they had alienated all others in the region. Even if this Assembly is nothing more than a farce, which is likely, its very existence is concerning. A greater fear of Us lies with them still than We expected."
Nurik considers her musings carefully, getting in his own thoughts when she trails off in thought again, "Your Eminence, perhaps we could kill Duncan and this Kholgrovian. They seem to be at the center of the movement to respond to the Cult. Striking them down would rob the movement of leadership and allow us to continue to consolidate power unmolested."
The Arbiter was shaking her head even before the spy finished his proposal, "It wouldn't work that way. They would become martyrs, and We would be the obvious culprits. The movement against Us would only grow, as the fear those men expressed becomes justified. The east would be more likely to act against Us, not less. No, to destroy the movement against us, force is not the solution, diplomacy is."
Nurik looks hesitantly between the Arbiter and the sword she still holds, occasionally flashing lightning. The lessons had been drilled into him for over two decades now. The East, and the Lords of Light in particular, were not to be trusted, they were the greatest enemies of His Holiness. The goal was always to strike them down, to free the humans who were oppressed by the race mixing and moral degeneracy of the Lords of Light. Diplomacy with these same men struck counter to such teachings. But these words came from the Arbiter's mouth, and she had the approval and command of His Holiness. He would have struck her down if she did not. Nurik did not know what to make of this dissonance.
"Diplomacy Your Eminence? With the Lords of Light, our most hated enemies? I must confess confusion at such a notion, please enlighten me." Nurik bowed deeply as he finished speaking.
The Arbiter sighed in an exasperated manner, "Like many you interpret the scriptures too literally, with too much pride. The days of liberation are not on the horizon. The glory of freedom is not likely to come to the men of the East in my lifetime, nor yours. His Holiness had an army of tens of thousands at his beck and call, incredible magic powers, and the support of tens of thousand more allies, dubious though they were. Even with such a force, He failed to defeat the Lords of Light. We will not beat them through blunt force, the east is far stronger than the west. They will unite against any great threat. So We must not be a great threat. We must divide them. Piece by piece they will become pawns in Our plans. It will not be a campaign of arms that frees the east, but a battle of words, of ideas. The evil of Light, and of Dark, are too entrenched to be defeated through force of arms by our power alone. We need to undermine their faith. We cannot do that if their leaders can frame us in a way to justify their beliefs."
Nurik nods his head along fiercely, hoping to his the shame upon his face from requiring such an obvious explanation, "Yes, of course Your Eminence. It all makes sense now. Though.." He hesitates again, worried his question is another one that will invoke her ire, before continuing on regardless, "Who should we contact to make diplomatic channels?"
The Arbiter considers this for a moment, then muses out loud, "A fair question. Duncan and the Kholgrovians are obviously too opposed to be worth contacting, the Dwarves and Nords don't matter outside their immediate realms. The Elves are obviously not an option. Ecclestius would be ideal, except..." The swords crackles with an exceptionally large bolt of lightning, "The spawn of Ra'Gru still sits the throne. Perhaps some realms in Westmarch, but it is questionable how much power they hold. The Hronidenian Emirs, by process of elimination, are thus the best options."
She stood up and began to gather papers and markers, as well as the scabbard for His Holiness, "That will be all for you. Return to the Light Basin and continue to gather information. I'll contact the Magistranium about the diplomatic contacts."
Nurik bowed deeply once more, "Of course, Your Eminience."
He left swiftly, once more careful to avoid the spike traps. He always hated these reports, going through so many hurdles to merely report in, only to face the intimidating presence of a harsh woman with the overwhelming power of His Holiness. It was of course a tremendous honour to be in the same room as His Holiness, but Nurik always feared that he'd be struck down for any out of line comment or misstep. Leaving was a welcome relief.
Survival
After the boat sunk, Almar washed up upon the northern coast of Skagarene, barely conscious, and wounded. He struggled to survive at first, due to the extreme cold and the lack of any meaningful source of food. He struggled his way to the forest, where Almar built his shelter. It was rudimentary at best, but luckily Almar was an elven hunter, and he knew how to survive in forests. Cutting off branches from trees using his saxe knife, the one weapon of his that wasn't lost during the sinking of The Glory, Almar laid the branches against a large boulder, and piling pine needles and smaller branches to serve as a barrier from the frigid breeze. After warming up, at least as much as he could, Almar set out from his shelter. His destination, Galadriel.
As the pale elf padded through the cold landscape of the Skagarene Coast, his mind wandered back to his home. Almar always thought that it was his destiny, his fate to live a life away from the forest that he grew up in. He thought that the shaded groves and dappled trees would only limit him, but now, Almar longed for his home. He had spent the last five years of his life away from his home, and now, he wanted it. He wanted it more than anything he ever had. It was that primal sense that drove Almar to keep on walking. That desire to see his home, one more time.
Coming over a hill, the elf stopped as a horrid view filled his hazel eyes. A village, barely prosperous, and partially on fire. Almar saw hordes of men, all bearing the banner of a warlord foreign to Almar. The elf looked down at the sorry state of his armor. His leather jerkin was torn, his chain mail looking to have a hint of rust on it, due to it not being cleaned in over three weeks. His boots were still comfortable, but slightly worn. Almar's fur cloak was torn in three places. All in all, he looked more like a deserter than anything else. Pulling out his saxe knife, Almar stepped off of the road, his dirty blonde hair rustling in the cold breeze. Stepping into the dense forest bordering the road, he advanced through the bush.
Coming up close to the village, Almar laid down in the cold weeds of the Skagarene Coast, saxe knife in hand. He didn't stand a chance against these warriors, he wasn't there to be the hero. He just wanted to skirt around the village, and continue on his path to the Icevein Bay. By his best estimates, he was a week or two out from the Bay, but when he got there, well, he'd cross that bridge when he came to it. A crunching sound distracted the elf from his train of thought. The pale explorer looked up, and watched a lightly armored soldier step into the bushes, he cringed as the soldier pulled down his breeches, and began to urinate.
It was a perfect time to get a new sword, as well as some better armor. Smiling to himself, he began to approach the Norseman, saxe knife in hand. Almar was a hunter by trade, and he barely made any noise as he approached the Norseman. In a moment's notice, Almar sprung into action. The knife swept across the warrior's throat, a faint splurting noise barely audible as the warrior fell to the ground. Almar quickly pulled the cloak off of the soldier, replacing the torn fur cloak with the coarse wool one of the deceased Norseman. He unbuckled the warrior's belt, and made care buckle the belt around his own. Lastly, he slid the half-helm off of the warrior's head, and placed it on his own. Although Almar's pointed ears and pale complexion still marked him out as an elf, he looked less of a deserter and more of a warrior now.
After blundering through the forest around the village, Almar came out back on the road to Icevein Bay. Placing his bare fingers on the cold pommel of his newly acquired Norse shortsword, Almar smiled to himself, before setting back on his path to home.