TNESIII: Beyond the Sundered Sea

Things are going quite purringly.

Two powerful NPC Maels, of the southern and northern kingdom, and a few of their family members.

House Øsvern

Mael Vedrik 'One-Eye' Øsvern (M, 47)

Dignified (+3)
Trained [Lancer] (+2)
Patient (+0)
Distant (-1)
Ugly [Maimed - Eye] (-2)
Obsessive [Princess Cyneleth] (-2)

Vedrik Øsvern is an undeniably famous figure, but has been marked by the two great tragedies of his life: The loss of his eye in the decisive battle that destroyed Clan U Tailliade, the last of the great northern Fennacht tribes, and the serious woes of courtly romance which have left him childless. His first wife, a Sigmund, died in childbirth, following which he was rejected by Princess Cyneleth following a brief period of courtship. His second wife is said to have committed suicide over her failure to bear him a child. As a result of this traumatic event, Vedrik has grown increasingly shut off from the world, occasionally taking part in Rædrik's court but mostly keeping to his seaside fortress of Tyrhald.

He is said to have no great love for Cirwyn Deorsen, but the insult of Cyneleth's rejection is said to have sunk deep into his heart, and it is claimed that he still loves her, albeit choosing to express that love in a way that looks quite a lot like hate.

Randulf Øsvern (M, 45)

Clever (+2)
Friendly (+1)
Skilled (Swordsman) (+1)
Cynic (+0)
Arrogant (-1)
Dishonest (-1)

Randulf Øsvern represents the interests of his brother and extended family at court. As the expected heir, he is often consulted in lieu of his reclusive brother, and often seems to act as if he is the Mael in truth. He particularly enjoys playing the game of royal politics, and enjoys being coveted by the Reds and the Greys while failing to associate with either of them. His one weak spot is his beloved only daughter, Bersild, who he keeps back in Tyrhald to keep his enemies at court from using her against him.

While once married, Randulf's wife, also a Sigmund, also died in childbirth, leading some to whisper of a curse and perpetually spoiling relations between the two families. For his part, he enjoys patronizing the temple prostitutes of Ilith while keeping himself open as an option for a strategic remarriage.

Bersild Øsvern (F, 17)

Smart (+2)
Attractive (+2)
Depraved (-1)
Dishonest (-1)
Lazy (-2)

Daughter of Randulf and niece of Vedrik, Bersild is known for having casual sex with most of the attractive servants of the castle, due to an intense degree of boredom with her surroundings and as an attempt to get back at her absent father for refusing to allow her to be 'corrupted' by the court at Yyredin and leaving her at home. She is said to have had eyes for her uncle, but is too afraid of the back of his hand to actually make a move.

She is actually pregnant, though she is not yet aware of it.

House Vjæling

Maelrik Grimvald Vjæling (32)

Master [Sailing] (+3)
Trained [Fighter] (+2)
Attractive (+2)
Friendly (+1)
Musical (+1)
Amoral (+0)
Idealist (+0)
Rebellious (-2)
Wroth (-2)
Greedy (-2)
Vain (-1)

Grimvald Vjaeling is, to put it simply, a big problem. To put it slightly less simply, he is a professional pirate who funds his lordly lifestyle almost entirely off the produce of said piracy, as Vjæling lands are rocky specks of inhospitable, cold land even by the standards of the Ulk kingdom.

To his friends and vassals, of course, the Mael is the epitome of everything a man should be: A bold warrior who takes what he pleases and is open-handed with the loot. Vjaeling lands have always been questionably lawless, as the Mael essentially lets his vassals do whatever, but the problem has certainly accelerated in recent years as Grimvald goes on ever-more ambitious and far-reaching plunder raids.

He is not stupid enough to attack Ulk lands directly, but has been known to raid from Kathar to the Scrapes, even as far afield as Lutair lands on one legendary voyage. He has been quoted to have greater ambitions still, and is said to yearn for the days when men could simply become kings by force of arms. Though he chafes under the rule of the Ulks, he knows better than to challenge them directly.

Vjæling is a famous rival of Dennet and the two have often fought border wars requiring royal intervention to quell. Dennet's pronounced dislike of the Illens has prevented them from supporting a royal crackdown on Grimvald's piracy, as long as he keeps it in foreign lands where it belongs.

Maela Hvelde Torvaldsdar (25)

Loyal (+2)
Kind (+2)
Slow (-1)

The daughter of a shipwright, Hvelde and the Mael married for love.

Hvelde makes sure there's always a roast turning on the hearth for when her husband comes home from a long day of piracy. They have a happy, fulfilling marriage, and approximately 8 children who Hvelde has been popping out since roughly the age of 15. For all his faults, the Mael is an incredibly faithful...and enthusiastic, husband. Outside of her area of expertise, which is making a forbidding cliffside pirate castle into a homey environment, Hvelde knows almost nothing about nothing, but she's very good at doing what she does.

Her young daughters adore her, and her sons live in perpetual fear of having their ears pulled if they track mud and snow on the rushes.

A small side note: Everyone who writes stories will receive story bonuses, though they may not necessarily be located in the stats. But I'll try to give bonuses commensurate with what you're writing about, since that reflects what your characters are focusing on.

In response to those who have asked me about relics, those with a sufficiently interesting backstory can definitely find or rediscover one, but this will tend to be the result of a long, drawn out process. I'd consult me with ideas before going ahead with any treasure hunting, though you are of course welcome to try.

Players who have diadems are encouraged to name them.

Oh, and one more thing. NPC stats will be up this weekend. I'll probably do another story and some diplomacy to get the ball rolling.

The Three Oldest Sons​

It was just another in a long stream of restless nights for Eraric. Between the fits of spitting up blood and the vivid nightmares, it had been over a month since Eraric had slept a good night's rest. The dreams were reoccurring.

Eraric was there this time. On the battlefield with Higbur. Higbur wanted so badly to impress his father and restore the name of the Valmaics. Why did Higbur have to be the one to lead the charge? It was a pointless battle. A minor skirmish. No ground was gained or lost by either side. If only Eraric had been there, he would have ordered a retreat. Eraric could have taught his son to fight another day, but he was a young father then. "Never accept a defeat. Never accept a compromise", he told his son. Every night, Eraric plunged the sword into his own son's heart. He awoke in a cold sweat every time.

To the farthest reaches of the world. That was the Sea Dragon's destination. Even as a boy, Tygern had wanted to explore the world. Tygern was always a troublemaker. Tygern never quite stood up to Higbur, but Eraric subtly encouraged his second son's rambunctiousness. Mildreia never approved. He thought she coddled the boy. As the Sea Dragon sailed off into the sunset, Eraric told his beloved wife that their son would return a hero, but she only wished to see him one last time before she died. Eraric never could bring himself to tell her that the ship had been lost. Every night, Eraric witnessed the storm that destroyed the Sea Dragon, as Tygern stood on the deck, boldly facing the rains and wind.

Gillif was sickly from the beginning. Eraric never scorned him. He was a smart boy, if not the most physically able. Eraric had always believed the mind was the greatest weapon, after all. Eraric would not push the the boy beyond what he was capable of. But Gillif begged to go on the hunting trip. Eraric was taking his nephews and young Ildabald, who at only eight, was already showing signs of surpassing his elder brother by two years. Eraric relented, in the end. Gillif could accompany him. But the woods are a dark and dangerous place. "Keep your eye on him", said his beloved wife, Testsia. Eraric thought he had tried his best. He never did know when he had lost his sight of the boy. He only knew the fate of poor Gillif when the wolf they had killed was found carrying his son's arm.

Eraric did not need a priest or a soothsayer to illuminate him. He knew very well what his dreams meant. Another cough of blood. Eraric rang his bell to call for his servants. He needed to see his remaining sons immediately.

The Unknown Prince​

The journey to Destian was not pleasant, but for Theia, Ildabald would do anything. He trusted her judgement and a meeting with the Feorik of the Autumn Scythe made perfect sense at this time. As much as Ildabald regretted to admit it, he knew his father, Eraric, was not long for this world.

Ildabald found Destian to be an utter dump. Compared to the palace of Brethan, his quarters were cramp, the room smelled of rot and filth, and the servants struck him as ill tempered and stupid.

It did not matter. No more than a day did Ildabald plan to spend at Destian. He would renegotiate his position with the Autumn Scythe, let the people of Destian know they were still within the realms of the Valmaics and perhaps gain some of the latest intelligence on the Fennacht. These were his only goals, but it was the conversation with the Feork that left him utterly confused. The morning after arriving in Destian, Ildabald and the Feorik had their meeting.

To Ildabald's surprise,the Feorik almost immediately asked of Theia. "Have you come here to arrange a meeting between Theia herself, and the order?", the Foerik asked.

When Ildabald could not answer, the Feorik continued. "What of Valamir and his visits to the realms of the g’Aurené? And what of Wiggy? Was he soon to start a new campaign against the Fennacht?"

Although Ildabald tried to assure the Feorik that his own steady hand would continue to lead the Valmaics, he was dismayed to learn that the Feorik had never even heard his name. "Who is Ildabald?" The Feorik asked.

Although Ildabald completed the negotiations, he left Destian in a very fowl mood.

The Man in the Mist

The rain swept down in driving sheets on the kneeling boy and his murderer.

His killer's face was a storm-swept range of crags carved by time and pitiless wind. His eyes were sunken pits set far into the depths of two valleys, cut deep on either side of a massive flat-topped peak of a nose. Long gray, unkempt hair hung down on either side, brushing against a massive jaw beneath a dark crevice of a mouth. It was a face as far removed from mercy as that of an ancient beast.

His killer rested a massive bone club carved from some great beast's thigh up against the side of his face. It felt smooth and cool. Almost gentle.

"I will tell you why you must die," said the rumble of thunder that came from his killer's mouth.

Confels to Endspoint had been their road. South of Riverbend, few of the barges plied their trade, and that was where the cartsmen made their keep. There was no easy way for goods to get south, these days. Most of the trade went down to Yyredin by barge, and took ship through the Scrapes to get clear to Erhlith or Mernaix, but it was a pirate and storm infested journey in the best of times. The other choice was to take the south road, and haul over the foothills of cold and ragged mistland to reach the safety of Endspoint and the g'Aurené fortress. Brethan was an island of security, but villages even a day out from Levetias had been burned. The long route around the passes would take caravans just as close to Ellery raiders. It was no better.

For much of it they had the ancient Athsarin road, straight, smooth and crumbling, taking them from the golden fields of the Lantern City into the upper Cairyn. The wide stretches of cleared, cultivated land became dotted with hills, and the forests gradually grew deeper. The Daufmark was a wilder place than Cairyndell, but more beautiful, to his eyes. He had been born in the Daufmark, born in caravan and raised in it. He hoped to live and die in it. He would get his wish.

They stuck to the west side of the river, the safe side, until they reached the ford at Felling. Felling itself was surrounded by a rough-hewn new palisade and filled with Daufing guards when they reached it. Two knights leading them, a sandy-haired Ulklander named Ralf and his younger brother Garred, laughed openly in his father's face when he paid his toll and declared his intent to make for Brethan Pass.

"Old Eraric's dying. What few they can afford to keep are standing wary at castle to see if Wigmar will kill his brothers."

His father merely smiled in that disarming way of his and said, "More guards at Brethan is fine for us."

"Seor is out hunting, you fool," the knight called after him. "Do you know what that name means?"

His father hadn't listened. He had made this run so many times before. They all had. It would be fine. It was always fine.

When they were three days up into the pass, the weather turned. The mountains gathered a bowl of mist, and out of the mist came the rain. It was soft at first, forming wetness on their faces without even leaving the impression of a raindrop. Then it started to fall in earnest. There was no road here, only a rocky switchback trail rising further up and up, and the mist clinging to the ground, obscuring the desolate stretch of mossy rocks and mountain after mountain rising into the sky, glaciers hiding in the cloudy heavens. They were drawing close to the height of the pass, where the rocky ground crested between two great mountains.

A strange sound started to fill their ears, and they squinted up into the swirling mist as they climbed. "Careful now, we'll see this out." said his father. The mysterious sound gradually began to sound like music as they drew closer, and a shadow in the shape of a person slowly became visible.

The guards relaxed visibly when they saw that it was just a young woman. She was barefoot, and a short brown shift barely covered much of her body, despite the deep chill of the high mountain summer. Long, fire-red hair was woven into an intricate braid down her back. She looked to be perhaps fifteen.

She was singing in a strange language none of them could understand. In her right hand a knife glistened. It seemed she had cut herself, because a thin trickle of blood ran down the blade.

"Aldleith n berthei toc ranail mat?"

"Tm, tm n berthei."

"Ao n Saeor cuoleire toc raneil mat?"

"Tm, tm n berthei."

The oldest and wisest of their guards was Caloch, and he had a little Fennacht from when he was a boy.

"She's singing a dirge," he whispered.

His father strode forward, pointing his bronze-capped staff directly at the woman, who gazed at him with curious eyes. "You there, clear out of our way. We have no business with mountain folk and we'll thank you to have no business with us."

She stood there, looking at him, and tilted her head to the side. Then she looked down at the knife in her hand, as if seeing it for the first time.

"Tm, tm n berthei," she whispered. She threw the knife, which glittered as it spun. It was bronze, with a hilt of bone. And his father choked and gurgled as it was lodged in his neck. It happened before the boy could blink.

Then the screaming started to begin, and the mist around them had voices. He was screaming along with them.

---

They were all dead but him before long.

One of their wagons burned from a fire arrow, black column of smoke rising to mix with the white mist. The woman continued to sing her soft song as she slowly severed the head from his father's dead body with her knife. Taking it in her hands, she kissed the forehead. Then she picked up the bronze-capped rod from his father's nerveless fingers where it had fallen. She lifted it up and drove it hard into the rocky ground, twisting it back and forth.

Then she stuck his father's head on the stick.

The rain started to fall again, and the cart hissed.

The boy knelt there in shock. He had not even fought, just watched as everyone was slaughtered. For some reason they had ignored him.

Two of the Fennacht lay dead, and most of the others gathered around them in a circle, painting signs and symbols in the blood of the fallen on their faces, singing again in their lilting language.

Then, as one, they went quiet, as his killer walked out of the mist. He said two words to his men and they vanished back into the mist, leaving the bodies where they lay. Only the girl remained, singing her sad song as she stripped his father's body naked.

He wore a pelt of a mountain bear, black fur fringed with red, and a helmet carved from a ram's skull. Strings of human skulls were draped down his body. The skulls were small. Strands of bird feathers, charms, and amulets were hung around his neck, his arms, and his legs. And below the helm was the pitiless face.

"I will tell you why you must die."

"Once the Feiaghta lived in peace, serving ysberyd and drnfheis. Your people took the land, killed the drnfheis, chained the world in stone and iron. You pull gold from the ground and you burn the forests. You hunt the creatures of the earth and kill them all."

His killer grabbed his chin, and forced him to look directly into his eyes.

"Your people enslaved us and murdered our children. So I will sacrifice theirs until the ysberyd return."

"It's not my fault," the boy said. It was all he could say.

"And this is not mine," said the Old Seor. He wound up, his huge muscles rippling, and smashed the club against the side of the boy's face. The mighty blow crushed his skull instantly and he died.

A few will o' wisps appeared, dancing in the air around the boy's crumpled form, the ysberyd twinkling in acceptance of the sacrifice, then evaporated as if they had never been there. The girl clasped her hands in delight, laughing a sweet melodious laugh at the dance of the spirits.

The heads were left on stakes for the Greylings to find. But not the bodies.

The buzz of a cicada carried on the warm morning air; ten riders in steel mail and crisp white linens traveling in company along the road, lances trailing blue ribbons. They were bound for the Alsbourg, and the Lourdesier banner carried before them hung limp on the still day. The young vexillifer held it up with pride nonetheless. A farmer leading an ox waved to them from a nearby field, and the Peregrin raised his hand in greeting. Jean turned to regard his brother from the saddle - this simple gesture, as with everything Xavid did, seemed to possess an undeniable gravity. Perhaps this was why men strove to obey him. Jean's hair was wet, and he wiped the sweat from his brow.

"How is it, brother, that this blasted summer heat leaves you untroubled? Already I feel like I've taken a dip in the Nén!" Jean said.

"Posture, Jean. Sit as if you are untroubled, and it will be so." Xavid replied, the corner of his mouth turned up ever-so-slightly, his sharp blue eyes glittering with amusement. Jean was quiet for a pointed moment, and then gave a loudly unimpressed grunt.

"If only we could all be as our Peregrin. So noble and fine that even the fierce sun leans down with a gentle kiss!" he called out, loud enough that the riders both ahead and behind could hear. "Is that not so, Adrien?"

The lancer in question, laughing with one of his fellows, abruptly straightened in the saddle and snapped his head forward. Xavid favoured his brother with a raised eyebrow. "Discipline and bearing feed an army's spirit as bread and cheese feed its stomach." Jean quoted.

"I feel as if I've heard that somewhere before." Xavid said. Jean laughed, and Xavid wore a wide grin. The brothers rode companionably as the sun climbed towards its zenith. Their column made way on the road for a family headed to the city, cart laden down with a heavy crop of carrots. Jean nodded politely to the father, who doffed his hat in return. The Via Velcier was a straight length and well-kept, its cobbles tightly locked. Jean was surprised they had not passed more traffic. Perhaps the people were simply smarter than these Peregrin brothers, and avoided unnecessary journeys in this heat.

"Shall we take it as a portent?" Xavid said of a sudden, bringing Jean out of his reverie.

"What?" Jean asked.

Xavid pointed to the southeast. "Two falcons ride the air. It is the height of noon, and yet they circle for their prey." he answered.

Jean shaded his eyes with his hand and squinted into the distance. "I can hardly make them out." he said. "And I am no priest besides. I know little of auguries. Does the Goddess speak?"

Xavid sat for a moment, his forehead wrinkling in concentration. "Perhaps. Though never clearly. Calia gives not what must be earned." he said. "But I must think we have taken the right course, Jean. I cannot waver in my resolve. Our Brotherhood stands still, and so I must see its grip on the past broken that it might move forward. Athsar-That-Was should inspire us to surpass and surmount our origins, not cling desperately to them as some dusty relic. Things fall apart so that they might be put back together."

Jean considered his brother's words as the day wore on and as the eight tall towers of the Alsbourg came into view, rising on a gentle slope from green and golden countryside. Xavid was right, he thought. Things must fall apart in order to be set aright. The timbre of their horses' hoofbeats changed as they passed over Old Iron Bridge, its surface clad in a strange and lustrous black metal. The wind picked up then, and the banner snapped full upon its staff. The helm of Luredes amidst its wreath of laurels, sewn in noble blue.

"Our ancestor at least speaks plainly." Jean said.

"Luredes has always been more direct." Xavid agreed.

From: Brother-Commander Castrenavis
To: Brothers-Commander Lieve, Iverre, Emprise

The wretched demon Kalimakas has betrayed the pact forged with the last Council, and captured the eastern provinces of the Republic in treachery. It is with grief that I share with my brothers that Peregrin Erzam has fallen defending his post, leaving the Raphelian passes open.

This is a tragedy, but also an opportunity. This so-called god-king has committed his best armies to a costly strike. Crushing him now could secure our frontiers for a generation of peace and set countless glories at Calia's feet. I convey the Call from the Father-Commander himself in this hour of need. I have promised him twenty thousand soldiers from the north, and though even that shall leave us sorely outnumbered, it is NOT to Peregrins to quail. One brother in arms is worth ten Oyar rabble.

Never has the Republic depended on the north as it does now. We will ride in a month's time. I pray you shall all be at my side.

From: Prince Cirwyn Deorsen
To: Ward Courdre g'Aurené

I've won you titles dearly bought, my friend. It wasn't easy to secure Øsvern and Raskakalle's support at court to re-create the Wardship. You have always been an appreciative benefactor, and I do not complain on that account. But our party is due for more appreciation if it is to maintain its standing.

Perhaps it is time to show Hendrei some of the royal city's splendor. It would be advantageous for the young lord to introduce him to the great Maels of the realm, so they can see he is not the foppish son of a snake that Cyneleth's lackeys have made him out to be.

These councils so easily slip through our fingers when conducted by bird. Your son and I might have words on more private matters. Be well.

From: Princess Cyneleth the Lily
To: Dear Cousin Leofric

It's been so long since last we met. Ere the end of autumn, come to my castle if your duties allow. I would see the face of the man who has been like a second father to me. The Mutt is bringing his pets to play. We should be wary.

From: Brother-Commander Levicas
To: Brother-Commander Castrenavis

Brother,

Let us not mince words. You know well of my quarrel with our Council over the disposition of my rightful authorities, and you know of my reluctance to strip my protectorate of its defenders. The power of the Cult waxes, and they are all about us.

You have promised men you do not have on the presumption of my grace. You are fortunate to judge me correctly. I will not abandon my sworn brothers to their fate - not if my blade could deliver them from evil. Levica shall enjoin its soldiers to the muster, with provisions suitable to feed and supply some four-thousand for four months. Four-hundred equites, one-thousand foot and three-hundred bows - all vested - shall join me. I expect a sundry levy of some two-thousand assorted auxiliaries.

We shall discuss what considerations this affords me come our meeting.

Calia Magnans!

Xavid Rhodeus ge Lourdesier, Dux & Peregrin

From: Brother-Commander Castrenavis
To: Brother-Commander Levicas

How fortunate this world is to have those who will recognize their greater duty, and bow to it in the end.

Act One, Scene One

The sliver of a flower half-seen – gilded by moonlight, but curled up against the night air. Some flowers opened for the nighttime, but most remained closed, hidden away in harems of nectar, waiting for the dawn. This one, a lily, maybe red, though it was hard to see in the dark. The brush around it, stunted by the heathland soil and the cold of early spring, was waist high, when he stood. He was not standing.

The color of a wisp of breath – white against the stars. He drew it in measured heartbeats. In, two, three, four, hold, two, three, four, out, two, three, four. Through the mouth, to be as quiet as possible.

The stillness of an arm – relaxed, the bow held loosely in both hands, the arrow nocked but not drawn.

The slightest twinge of a nerve – a mosquito poking at the gap between two hairs. He'd had a preternatural ability to sense and kill them since he was a child, but he sighed inwardly, suppressing it for now. What was a little bit of blood? A sacrifice, maybe, to a hunt near ended. A first payment of a debt yet incurred.

Somewhere, a hundred yards away or more, a deer browsed, sniffling at buds bent under cloven hoof, taking them carefully in her mouth and clamping, stripping them from the bush. She was a long way from home, and she knew she ought to return soon. Animals rarely stop to admire the light of the moon – they know it lights them more clearly than any lantern. Beauty is not for prey. Only predators.

From the darkness, death.

It was a well-placed shot, and she stumbled a bit as she ran, out of reflex more than hope, the arrowhead tearing at her arteries and widening the gap a little more. Blood flecked across the ground in little droplets. Come morning, flies will alight here to mop up the liquid.

A long while later, after the crickets had begun to sing once more, the lilies bent under boot, not hoof, and the men found their quarry. An itch started to whisper from his arm, but Creigh studiously ignored the sensation. There would be a bump there.

“Well struck, my lord.”

Creigh nodded in acknowledgment, and ordered them to bind the legs to a pole. It was a doe, but either she'd not birthed children this winter, or she'd lost them. Either way, she would feed a few dozen at the Castle; he'd always liked the taste of venison.

The servants joked among themselves while they went about their work, but Creigh walked a few dozen paces from the group, relishing the chance to have his thoughts to himself. The stars had come out in full force to one side, but he could see a bank of clouds rolling in from the west, palely illuminated enough so that his mind began to trace fanciful shapes in the front. He hunched down to study the lay of the land around him, but his heart wasn't really in it – it was back at Castle Gyll, where he imagined a night as quiet as this one: a whole castle's worth of people staring sullenly at each other.

What a mess.

He'd almost finished berating himself when the rain started. He frowned – the cloud bank had moved faster than he'd anticipated – and looked up in time to get a faceful of droplets. It was one of those sudden storms the little isles were so famous for, and its timing could not have been more annoying. He looked back to the servants, who seemed even more annoyed than he was.

“My lord?”

“Let's get back to the Castle,” Creigh said. He had no inclination of spending the night outdoors.

The wind had begun to pick up on their walk back, driving the water almost horizontally into his face. Head down, it was all he could do to look up once in a while and make sure they were going the right way. Even then, the rain made his vision blurry. They'd been hunting some three miles from the castle grounds, over a few of the great moors that would eventually rise in the heartland of the island, and where that hike had been trivial before, as the ground got slippery and mud caked his boots, it was turning into quite an adventure.

It did not get better. When they got to the big gully between the moors, they found it completely flooded, the rainwater rushing down the hill. It didn't look particularly wide or deep, but it was fast, fast enough that they probably couldn't wade across... and he was not a strong swimmer.

Water streamed off his face in sheets as he put a hand to his forehead, shielding his eyes to look at the rest of his companions.

“It'll probably die down after a while, my lord.”

He would have glared if they could see his face properly. “Or it could go all night,” he said, annoyed. You never knew, with these storms.

They set up a hasty camp a few yards up from the little river, though none of them had thought to bring tents, this close to the castle. Instead, he drew his cloak about him, though it made for poor shelter, with the wool soaking up the water and clinging against his skin. He'd heard a woodsman tell him once that cloaks were usually life, but could just as easily be death out here, as they trapped cold water against you. Heat bled out as fast as blood did, if it was cold enough. Once or twice he wrung it out, but it was no use, with the heavens seeming to open up above them. With luck, he would be able to change into drier clothing come morning, but it was going to be an awful night.

His thoughts drifted for a while, gravitating to warm things – fresh bread, roaring fires, women – before he fell asleep.

He blinked and stared at his hands, which seemed to be holding a sweet roll between them. Hadn't he been in the rain? But he was hungry – famished, even – and without thinking, he broke the roll in half. The smell of cinnamon tickled at his nose, and the bread came apart easily in his mouth, almost custard-like, sugary and buttery all at once.

He wasn't surprised to see his mother when he looked up, nor that she was a great deal younger than he remembered of late.

“Creigh,” she said, smiling, and sat down across from him. “You look a bit sick.”

He shook his head. “It's nothing, mother.”

“Nothing!? You look like something the cat threw up.”

“Thanks.”

“I should get that wife of yours to fix something up. You ought to be in bed. Of course, you really always ought to be, with that wife of yours...” She trailed off as she saw his face. “Something is wrong, isn't it? Where is she, anyway?”

“Mother, she's dead. You know that.”

His mother frowned, and after a moment replied, “Yes, I suppose I did.”

“Well, that can't be helped, I suppose.”

“So they tell me.”

A tutting noise came from behind him, and he turned in the chair.

The details of Halda's beauty did not elude his imagination: nearly of a height with him, her shape was narrow, but gracile rather than spindly. Blue-gray eyes the size of saucers seemed to take up almost half her face, and hazelnut locks swung to and fro in a mane that would have looked wild on any other woman. She held out a hand, and when he took it, she pulled him from the table, through a door that was not supposed to be there, and into the gardens behind the keep.

“I know you've been avoiding me.”

He didn't bother to deny it.

“Well tell me, then, should I be jealous?”

“You know, the entire reason I'm out hunting is to avoid conversations like these.”

She looked at him, half curious, half amused. “You could have done a better job.”

“I suppose I could have.”

“But why, then, are you shunning me? Mourn you Lea still? You ought to know I'm flesh and bone, where she is only dust. And though she's known the most of you, I knew you the longest.”

“I think that honor would go to my mother.”

“Truth be told, you bedding her would take too much investment – not just in honor, nor in gumption, but also setup time.”

He smiled. They'd walked to the springs near the castle, where the water seeped up through the rocks themselves, as if to make the walls weep. Bowers laced the air above them, and clubs of moss hung off in bright green thickets, brushing their heads as they passed beneath. It felt like a bridal veil. Broad, black stones lay around the pools that gathered there, inviting them to sit. They did.

“It's not that I feel jealous, nor that I am bold. It must be said, you looked so sad – and I prefer you happy.”

“I don't want to be unhappy,” he began to protest, but she had lost interest, and was staring at the pool. He wondered what she was thinking, but cathedral-sized windows to the soul or no, her eyes were unreadable.

They sat there in silence for a while, just watching the water (though, out of the corner of his eye, he marveled at her shape, the folds of her dress hinting at her willowy figure; how unlike any other girl she was!). He kept waiting for her to talk again, but she seemed perfectly at ease, investigating the shimmer of springwater around mossy concretions, and the skittish darting of little voles from one side of the pool to the other.

It struck him all at once – this moment, so perfect that he ought to enshrine it in his memory forever – and the sheer contentment that came from sitting next to someone you loved. It was almost, almost, enough to stop him from spiraling into his own thoughts, but not quite.

“I think she means you two should fuck.”

Klare was leaning against the stone wall, the rivulets forming a Klare-shaped pattern in the spring. Her hair had already started to plaster to her face, but that did nothing to diminish her appearance. He wondered how he'd forgotten the curve of her cheekbone, eyes blue as an ocean –

“But then, I could understand how the prospect would make you a little wary.” She moved to sit on the other side of him, quite a bit curvier than her counterpart, and he suddenly realized how cold he was. Why was he so cold? “So, answer the poor girl. Are you still hung up on a woman who died a year ago? Or are you just afraid of choosing between us?”

“I don't think afraid is the right word.”

“If not afraid, what would you say?” came Halda's voice from the other side.

“Maybe it'd be better if you thought less like it was choosing between us and more choosing between a woman and an empty home.”

“Between a girl and none.”

“Sure, there will be a couple of years of alienation and bitter stares, and maybe a house in open rebellion, but that's fairly normal for any given barony.”

“Okay, stop,” he said, standing. “I appreciate your advice, but there is a choice to be made here.”

“Is there?” they said as one.

“Perhaps the choice is one between two fates.”

“Contentment and glory.”

“'Twixt faith and truth.”

And each reached for him in turn, pulling him back to the stone between them –

He woke with a start, the lingering drizzle trickling down his face, and his hair clumping in black bands as he shook the water from it as best he could. One of the servants looked at him curiously, and Creigh wondered if he had talked in his sleep.

The water beneath them had begun to recede, and the clouds in the east were turning purple.

It was time to return home.

Foals of the Doe

“My lord, please…” the girl looked incredibly nervous. It was likely the first time she was ever in the presence of a noble, much less being the focus of that noble’s attention. Aethelred sighed. It was such a shame that grandfather had taken away that last serving girl. She had no hesitation, and had learned very quickly. Still, as Aethelred turned to the woman, he could not complain too much. She was a fine looking woman, with long legs and a perfect buttocks. Clean and well combed, she would be a daughter pretty enough for a noble. He said sweetly “Cille, sweetling, what is the matter?”

Cille looked down as to avoid his eyes “My lord, what you’re asking….what if I hurt you?” At this, Aethelred felt the need to suppress a laugh “My dear Cille, hurt me with that? Do not fret sweetling. Also, please make eye contact, you’re supposed to be in charge, remember?”

Cille took a deep breath and exhaled “And you promise...I won’t be punished for this?” Aethelred nodded and spoke softly to her. “My dear, the only one that is getting punished today is myself”

Cille nodded. Still nervous, she lifted the whip and let it fly to his back. Aethelred gave a sharp moan of both pain and pleasure. “Excellent, Cille, excellent! Again!” She nodded and let the whip fly. “Again!” And the whip cracked against his back once more, Cille grew more and more confident as she continued whipping him, harder and harder. Aethelred’s moans became louder and louder Oh sweet Gods you must be thanked he thought. The whip, the pain, the submission...Though it was not true submission, when one had a reputation to consider this might be the closest he could get. It was best to enjoy it, and enjoy it he would….

A hard knocking sound reverberated throughout the room.

...or he would not. A familiar voiced called “Brother? Brother?”

Aethelred snapped out of his reverie and whispered “Damnation” and then, louder “Coming, just a second!”

Aethelred turned to his companion and hissed “Unbind me, quickly now!” The girl quickly returned to her earlier, frightened demeanor as she attempted to undo the ropes. He was a bit disappointed about how quickly she returned to her meek self. Of all the women he had tried, she was definitely the least assertive. Perhaps it would change over time? He shrugged as Cille unbound him from the last constraint. He nodded at a corner “Hide behind the desk. Make no noise while my brother is in here.”

The knock at the door came again “Brother?” asked the man at the door. Aethelred shouted “Coming!” Quickly covering himself in a blanket, he opened the door to his younger brother, Riveon.

Aethelred forced a smile “Riveon! What can I do for you!” But it sounded more like Riveon! Why are you here!

Riveon looked up and down at Aethelred “Why are you naked?”

“I’m not naked, I’m wearing a blanket”

“Why are you wearing a blanket then?”

“I sleep in the nude”

“Ahh, I see.” He furrowed his brow “And you just awoke from sleeping then?”

“Indeed I did”

“I see.” Riveon nodded “Then this may come to a shock to you brother, but there is a woman hiding behind your desk. She must have snuck in while you slept”

Aethelred stammered “Well…”

Riveon turned to his guard, none other than Grayvheg Siegaesc. “Uncle, would you escort the lady out of the Mael’s chambers?” Grayvheg nodded gruffly and grabbed the woman by the arm, roughly pulling her out of the room. Riveon looked over at his brother and smiled.

“Why are you here Riveon? You better have good reason for this intrusion”

“Aye brother. I have letters for you. The first from Father, who was visiting his cousin.”

“The Mael Raskakalle hrm?” He looked over the letter. “Elrus Raskakalle is to squire for me?”

“Aye. And it makes sense too. From what I hear, the boy is rather…effeminate.”

“Ahh, than we best keep him far away from you.”

He snorted “Funny, aren’t you. In any case, that’s not all.”

Aethelred looked up from the letter “Ahh?”

Riveon smiled as he held up a letter. Aethelred recognized it at once and shouted “Unferth!” as he reached for it.

Riveon stepped back, dangling the letter out of reach. Aethelred dropped the blanket and rushed at Riveon. Riveon attempted pushing back, but Aethelred was a warrior and Riveon was a musician. Athelred quickly put Riveon in a headlock and twisted his brother, who quickly shouted “Alright! Alright! I yield!”

Aethelred grabbed the letter and allowed Riveon to drop to the floor. He began gnashing his teeth as he read. He looked over at Riveon, who was dusting himself off and shouted “Can you believe this? The complete lack of respect. He starts the letter with ’My foolish nephew’” He shook his head “Unferth has gone too far.”

Riveon shrugged “Grandfather is right. You risk too much with your…escapades with these women. What if word got out that the Mael of Siegaesc enjoyed being whipped by peasant women?”

“You do not understand. There is no war, there are no tournaments, there is nothing to occupy one’s time except the tender embraces of the flesh. Besides, I have not spawned a bastard yet. Can you say the same, brother?”

“That is beside the point. In any case, grandfather has taken care of that. Keep reading”

As he scanned the parchment he gasped “You can’t mean…”

“Surely”

“Unferth must be joking. ‘You will be engaged to…’”

“Politically it makes sense.”

“The two of you must be out of your minds. I haven’t even met her”

“But you will! Besides it’s not all bad for you. They say her beauty is unrivalled by any other.” And then Riveon lowered his voice “Her cruelty is also legendary. Perhaps you two might make a good match.”

Aethelred sat on the bed and gave a long dramatic sigh. He looked at Riveon, pleading in his eyes “This is not what I had in mind. I was to win a maiden’s heart by saving her from some foul creature who locked her away in a tower, not meet my betrothed on the day of our wedding.”

Riveon shrugged “If you’d like we can have Greyvheg lock her in a tower. I’m sure all parties would be willing to accommodate you.”

Aethelred rolled into his blankets “It’s not the same! If we need her so much, why don’t you marry her?”

Riveon scoffed “Her father would not have me. You’re the son every father dreams their daughter would be lucky enough to marry. The second born of this family, I’m afraid, not so much.”

Aethelred winked at him “Do you still plan on courting…”

Riveon coughed “We will see. My last visit there was…fruitful. But grandfather has need of me at the moment.”

“Right. In any case, is this set in stone?”

“Everything except the contract, but you can consider this as good as sealed. And even if she were to die, you’d marry the younger sister. Grandfather intends for this to happen no matter what you might say otherwise.”

“Very well then. You say she is pretty?”

“The prettiest”

“And cruel?”

“The cruelest”

“Then we may yet have a match. Now, if that’s all, I will meet you in the main hall shortly from now.”

“Clothed?”

“You would be so lucky.”

“Very well then” Riveon began walking towards the door and then Aethelred snapped his fingers.

“Brother, I forgot something I was meaning to ask you.”

“Yes?”

“What happens to the women that have...entertained me when Unferth takes them away?”

“Ahh. That, I cannot say. And that should strike fear into you, or at the very least, enough sympathy to stop doing this to these poor girls. And with that, I bid you farewell.”

In the Grove of the Red God​

In the cold, hateful tundra, nothing grew. To the south and east, the towering glacier cut a slow, arduous descent into the valley. At its feet, the citadel Glasscrown, its forlorn and tattered red banners fluttering imperceptibly in the biting wind. In all other directions, naught but twilight grass clutching fitfully to life in the expanse, cut here and there by the broken stone path of the Bitter Road. To the untrained eye it was a barren and inhospitable landscape, equally devoid of distinctive natural feature as it was devoid of the civilizing influence of man's hand. The hooded party eschewing the relative safety and modernity of the Bitter Road knew better. Thirteen carved silhouettes took leave of that blasted and pockmarked path and made their way, more like ghosts than men, into the thick of the vomit-like grass and the buboes-colored weeds that adorned it.

The mounted silhouettes stood stark against the barren land. In the pale moonlight their green robes became that ghastly tint usually reserved for clinical illustrations of cadavers; wooden masks they wore in the shape of bird's beaks. Unearthly and queer they marched, horses plodding along like men mounting the gallows, ridden into the cold darkness by hooded birdmen. A solitary bird of prey, indistinguishable by its shape in the pale light, took flight leagues away from the glacier's crags. Wings spread, from its height one might have seen the thirteen mounted figures wind their way across the beaten, dead landscape up the slightest hint of a hill and towards nothing at all. Behind them they dragged a great cage, mounted on a cart. The faintest glimmer of torchlight emanated from the queer company as it passed through the cracked twilight grass.

The way opened up to them. Before the company the sharp and clear air of the tundra moistened and misted. To the bird cutting through the cloudless skies overhead it might have seemed that suddenly an entire thunderstorm had appeared out of the nothingness so many feet below. All at once, the great fog dissipated, and what had been but moments before the slight incline and curvature of the cracked and frozen fields had become a great hill. A number of formidable green trees ringed each level of the hill like sentinels, and through them the company passed, dragging their cage and cart behind them as the trees parted.

Through his red mask the Ymherador Daidh Dugallach took one commanding look back at his procession: the cunningmen of Dugallach answered to one man and one man alone, the Young Fox. His horse guided him effortlessly up the hill, as the thick wall of tall trees parted before him. They had arrived in the sacred grove of the Red God of Fire, Wood and Stone. Above, a lonely bird cut precise angles in the moonlit sky. The Grove, suddenly manifest, seemed carved into the land by the hand of some great and inscrutable giant. Its trees saluted the horizon at right angles, and the crest of its hill rose abruptly against the earth and fell, like some stone monolith made earthen.

Daidh raised his right hand, gloved, in signal to the procession. On cue the well-trained horses stopped, digging their hooves into the earth. All beheld the stone shrine of the Red God, a number of triangular rocks arranged in a circle and lit by a queer red glow. Somehow the moon seemed to be directly overhead, aligned in frightful symmetry with the center delineated by the stones. The cage was rattled by the wind. The Ymherador dismounted and his attendants did the same.

"Wake him," the Ymherador commanded roughly through the miniature echo chamber that was the red Mask of Fire. The Mask's beak curved sharply and resembled the protrusion of no living bird. The cunningmen of the Young Fox's court hurried to obey. Like a pack of vultures they descended on the cage, green robes fluttering, chattering in shrill, cold-bitten voices. Covered in rags and a worn blanket, the emaciated man in the cage was dragged from dark and cruel dreams. Perhaps it was just Daidh's imagination but it seemed that the red glow of the stones was beginning to wink, on and off, like the dancing light of a torch in the breeze.

Daidh's musings were interrupted by a dog-like barking and wheezing. The emaciated man in the cage was beginning to talk.

"Blast and confound the Red-dreaded lot of you," the man shouted. "Ten years you've kept me alive, feeding me gruel and prodding me with knives, taunting me!" his harsh, canine cries shook the leaves of the trees. It seemed that the winking was now a pulse, the red glow of the stones becoming brighter and dimmer and brighter again. One of the cunningmen rustled a thick piece of rope from within his robes and started to gag the emaciated man in the cage, but a sharp command from the Ymherador stopped him.

Daidh Dugallach approached the cage, peering through the bars and through the holes of the Mask of Fire. "Old Hyrwdd of Glasscrown," he mused "it is ten years hence the great treachery you undertook against my dear father. Your punishment, stripped though you are of your land and your title and your dignity, has been much delayed at my pleasure and," he paused to savor his own words "mercy."

The Old Hyrwdd spat and cursed. Daidh raised his gloved hand and allowed the cunningmen to gag him. Bound at his hands and knees, he rolled around the cold floor of the cage. Whatever confused and misguided guardian angel that saved the emaciated Hyrwdd from frostbitten death had delivered him up to the hands of the Fox's cunningmen, who grabbed Hyrwdd by his legs and hoisted him bodily as he shouted his protestations, barking furiously. In the scarlet light of the Grove the Old Hyrwdd looked more like a sick dog than a disgraced lord. The cunningman in the mask of a falcon retrieved a thick club from his robe and brained Hyrwdd. In the distance it seemed that Daidh Dugallach could hear voices speaking to him, just outside of earshot. As the cunningmen approached the stone slab at the center of the Grove the voices grew distinct and bodily, audible to the Ymherador. They were singing.

The blood sacrifice is an ancient and secretive tradition. Often it is only possible to appease the ysberyda by offering up the soul of a man. More often still, powerful men who are fearful in their hearts make such a sacrifice in the hopes of receiving a vision from the God of Fire, Wood and Stone of things that will or may be. The Ymherador lowered his hood as he approached the stone slab and suddenly he was on fire.

The Old Hyrwdd had been kept alive for ten long, miserable years in Glasscrown's dungeons for tonight. Looking up into the dark sky, Daidh knew that tonight the stars were right. Tonight, the stars were right for a vision. One of his cunningmen reached into a pouch inside his robes and handed him a dagger carved of human mandible. Daidh Dugallach took off his gloves.

To a bird, high above in the sky seeing only the faintest outline of events in the Grove, it would have seemed that there was a man on fire. The red Mask of the Ymherador burned and the red light of the Grove and the crimson-gold fire of the Mask mixed.

The dog was barking. Why do the smallest hounds always make the loudest noises? Daidh thought. His brother was fond of dogs. He would ask sometime.

The damned dog kept barking and barking and barking, frothing at the mouth, kicking its lame legs in the air. The voices were singing a beautiful chorus in his ears and the red light was blinding. Daidh raised the dagger high and thrust it with all the force he could muster straight into the dog's heart. There was a crescendo, and Daidh could hear all the music of an Athsarach orchestra with the beautiful singing of the voices.

He fell over. The world swam before him as the scarlet liquid issued forth and the dog lay limp. He was covered in blood.

My God, he thought, I can see everything.

Somewhere high above, for no particular reason at all, a bird died in midair and plummeted to the earth. Its carcass burst open, and worms slithered away into the tundra.

Hey Thlayli, where are we at with NPC Stats?

This thread is looking a little bare, time to write more, and I encourage others to do the same

Thanks for reminding me, nuka. Work and class got a bit crazy, but NPC stats should be up by Friday. I'm making it a priority now.

Awesome, good to hear

I would prefer to maintain my NES on this site, but there is a significant chance that may prove impossible. I am waiting for the outcome of various deliberations regarding the selection of a moderator from within our community, however, before I make a final determination.

This is not a threat or anything of that nature. I love CFC and this forum, and it has been my home for a decade. But I simply will go where the community is; and as of now, that community is leaving. Hopefully there will be some changes to stem that tide.

The story is not complete, but well...ugh.


Hail Calia of the lavender dipped tongue, Queen of the bird-alighted mind. On gallnut dipped finger play my soul to melt the frozen sluggard's mind; whose cooled imagination shackles the mind to go no further than the bottom of a wine cup. But to those who speak the unknown words, whose shadow-draped mind walks as though in day, I invoke you Mother; that my Kermennos driven steps lead them through the desolate mire of banality which grips men's minds.

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As I continued down the Haeder River we stopped at Cope Keep to take on supplies and pay the toll. Here I was introduced for the first time to the lands of Grijsman, and a poor introduction it was. Cope Keep was a modest wooden structure, embarrassed to even call itself a castle, built on a motte which overlooked the lazy flow of the river. So little esteemed is it that when the Third Lord of Raskakalle gave it to Grijsman as dowry for his daughter, Kees, Lord of Grijsman did not replace the Raskakalle banners for ten years. Even now I would not wager a loaf of bread that the wide-nosed warden could correctly name his liege. The only thing which might tempt one to linger was the keep's cistern, which was built, as they say, by the Athsarins and which Eodris once used to water his horse and so to this day is called the Horses' Cistern. But if this cistern plays a role in any rites or mysteries of devotion, I cannot say, for either they were ignorant of such rites or else judged me as one of the uninitiated.

*************************************************************************************

Travelling south from Greyport I passed the farmlands of Connil which are known throughout the lands for their devotions to Breln Connil. Breln himself taught them his devotions, so the locals claim, in those days when one could entertain a god unawares. Such was the case with the first lord of the land, one Amalric by name. Now Amalric was one wise in the manner of justice but he was of great age, and his wife was barren. So all the people feared what might happen at his death because there was no heir.

Now as Amalric surveyed his land he came to a crossroads at which an old man sat. Now the old man was so dirty that he seemed part of the ground. As Amalric passed the old man cried with a load voice, "Have mercy on me, great lord, and give me a piece of bread." Three times he cried thusly.

Now because Amalric was pious, and known far and wide as one who gave hospitality to strangers, he alighted from his horse and said, "Alas, because my journey is short, I carried no bread with me, nor any substance. But if you travel with me to my hall you will receive sustenance and be refreshed for your journey." Then taking his horse he mounted the old man on it and sent a servant ahead of them to prepare the hall for a feast.

So it was, when Amalric and his guest made merry, and feasted on wild pork, and bread, and all manner of savory things, the old man put down his wine glass and said, "I see that you and your wife are pious, and fear the gods. For though I am a stranger, you welcomed me, and set before me this great feast, even holding nothing back from me. Now therefore ask anything you will, and if it is my power I will give it to you, lest I be known as one who knows not how to repay kindness."

At these words Amalric laughed within himself saying, "Am I not a lord, and he but an old man? What can he give me that I have not already? For can I not but lift my finger and have fifty helms immediately rush to fulfill any of my whims?"

When the old man perceived what was in Amalric's heart, he stood up. And behold, he was as the evening sun, when in its last light it caresses the land. None could look upon him and all fell to their feet as if dead. Then Breln, for that is who Amalric had supped with unawares, touched the womb of Amalric's wife and immediately she felt a kick, as of a strong warrior within her.

Then Amalric, seeing the favor of the god rested upon him, fell down and worshipped saying, "Threefold praise to Breln, even shall my tongue proclaim his greatness seven times. For when my enemies encompassed me and spoke a curse against me saying, 'So shall Amalric be forgotten, and his lineage shrivel like the vine in the burning sun,' then Breln had mercy on me and gave me a son, so that my house will never fail." Then turning to Breln he beseeched him, "O great Breln, before whom the earth itself bows, teach me I pray, your mysteries, so that my line may honor you forever."

So it was accomplished that Breln taught his mysteries to Amalric, lord of Connil, and Amalric taught them to his son, and his son's son, and so the devotions continue even until the present time. So it is that even now, before any man of Connil goes out to sow his fields. First they must all, both great and small gather together and perform the devotions. And when the rites are accomplished according to tradition, the lord of Connil, that is Lord Grijsman, goes to the fields accompanied by flutes, and dancers, and all the inhabitants of the land. Then if the lord has fulfilled all piety, and gave hospitality to the stranger, and gave the gods their sacrifice, then Breln comes upon him and before all the people he spills his seed upon the ground and all the ground is thus made fertile. But if he has trafficked in impiety, then the lord is unable to become hard and spill his seed, then all the land is barren. So it is to ensure a bountiful harvest, that all the women braid their hair, and put ornaments upon themselves, and dance naked before the lord until he is able to spill his seed. And it is for that reason that from the ancient times even until today, Connil is known as the land which never ceases to bloom.

*************************************************************************************

Under fair winds we quickly espied Igale Island. It was an inauspicious introduction to a Mael's home, a brutish little scrub inhabited by nothing but pigs and the hovels of fishermen. On the near side you are greeted by a crumbling ruin. It was a temple to Jölvandr, or so the sailors say, erected by giants before man walked the land. When the Athsarin first came and purged the land of all manner of foul beasts, the giants gathered together all their clans at the temple. Then the word of Jölvandr fell upon the priestess and she prophesized before them all saying, "Arise up sons of Jölvandr and gird yourselves for battle. For behold, though a handful shall fall before the Athsarins, the Athsarins will not slay you."

These words were like some strong mead which when consumed gives bravery even to the most timid. So each one armed themselves as they were able and went out to give battle. But the Athsarins made war upon the giants and drove them as sheep. Then the giants huddled together in their temple and cried out to Jölvandr, that he would deliver them from the slaughter that the Athsarins visited upon them. But the temple shook and the walls fell and there were buried so that the words of Jölvandr might be fulfilled when he said, "the Athsarins will not slay you."

So from that day forward the temple was treated as accursed ground because the wrath of Jölvandr lays upon it. But men say that if you are at sea, and the winds blow and the sea rages, take a stone picked from the ruins of the temple of Jölvandr on Igale Island and write your name upon it, and cast it into the sea, the winds will immediately calm and the waters become as a gentle lamb, for the wrath of Jölvandr has forgotten you and went upon the stone instead. But if you ask me what the giants did to be treated thusly you forget. For Jölvandr neither punishes impiety nor rewards piety, but like a sea kissed storm rages where he wills and departs when he wills and none can understand him.

But when you round Igale Island you come upon Mirror Bay. Now neither wind nor wave disturbs this bay, but it is flat as unleavened bread. So it is that you must row to shore because all winds fail here. So it is that the surface of the water will reflect back perfectly whatever looks down upon it and so it is called Mirror Bay. But they say that on the new moon the bay does not reflect what looks down upon it but rather a fey world. And if a man gazes too long upon its waters during the new moon, the feys will rise up and steal you. So none venture to sail in the bay during the new moon.

*************************************************************************************

And it was then that I set foot in Grijsman's ancestral lands. Now in the days when gods walked as men upon the earth, the eight kings ruled in Eredinium. But it was not for the dignity of such an office to huddle as chicks under a hen when a people who bowed the knee to no king lived wild and rebellious. So Elming Shipking called together all kings, and lords, and all the mighty men and said, "Are we cowards that we huddle together as one who fears the dark huddles to the evening's fire? Or are we women that our sword arm fails us? But hear what I propose. Outside these walls are all manner of men live like creeping beasts without king nor lord nor light of gods. Now let us arise and subdue them, and make them bend their knees to us and till our land and serve us and our descendants forever. " And all the assembled people cried their assent with one voice.

Then one of the kings, Kor surnamed the Grey, gave council to the assembled kings. "The land is great, teaming with all manners of beasts and farmland so rich that man does not even need to till it. But so that selfish ambition not cloud our eyes and cause dissention among us, let us cast lots. And each of us kings will take the land that the lots assign him as his own, and as his sons, and his sons' sons, even till the end of time. Thus the gods will decide where each of us will dwell and each one will accept his fate, and not cast covetous eyes on his neighbor."

So all swore to follow the council of Kor the Grey and accept as their own whatever fate decreed. And each cast lots and to Kor was appointed the land around Alaitier Bay as an inheritance. And so it passed to his son and his son's son, even until the present day.
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Okay, this needs to be said and done - Who is still here?

I'm leaning towards maintaining this NES thread here for the time being, because 1) The Frontier sucks and 2) I have, for better or worse, chosen loyalty to CFC. But I need to know if my players are here. This NES exists for them, so consider this an informal poll. Should I remain here or move the thread?

I will follow along with the majority vote.

I'm still here. But I'm also there. So it's not big thing to me.