Angst
Rambling and inconsistent
OOC: Make it what?
Sekai II: The Third Age
- Thread starter kkmo
- Start date
Nylan
Characters Welcome
The door opened with a slow creak as a small olive-gray head poked into the chamber.
"Master Tevi, there's...there's been another theft. It came from the revenue of our most recent trip to Egholme."
Master Tevi swore. "You can't be serious! Again? How many thieves are we dealing with here?!"
"Between five and ten, we believe. How they're tracking out movements so well is anyone's guess. Perhaps they have someone on the inside."
The guildmaster slammed his fist on his ornately-carved oak desk. "How long will I have to suffer this incompetence?! I'm sick of relying on the Tzeuniat and those ugly, arrogant elves!"
Master Tevi shook his small, throbbing hand as he spoke. "Listen to me and listen closely. Find out who the leak is. Use any means necessary. Then get rid of him...as quietly as possible. I want nothing of this to reach the public. We have an image to protect."
He let out an exasperated sigh. "...I think it's about time we let the Renai know what's happening...let Tavastara-Zai's finest take care of these professional thieves. They're good. They're dangerous. We can't let them just run amok like this. It could...it could..."
"...upset things?"
"Yes! That's the word! That's why I pay you! It'll upset things. So, I trust that I don't need to explain the importance of your charge any further, do I?"
"No, Master Tevi. Not at all."
"Excellent! Now, get out of my sight. I have things to count."
"Master Tevi, there's...there's been another theft. It came from the revenue of our most recent trip to Egholme."
Master Tevi swore. "You can't be serious! Again? How many thieves are we dealing with here?!"
"Between five and ten, we believe. How they're tracking out movements so well is anyone's guess. Perhaps they have someone on the inside."
The guildmaster slammed his fist on his ornately-carved oak desk. "How long will I have to suffer this incompetence?! I'm sick of relying on the Tzeuniat and those ugly, arrogant elves!"
Master Tevi shook his small, throbbing hand as he spoke. "Listen to me and listen closely. Find out who the leak is. Use any means necessary. Then get rid of him...as quietly as possible. I want nothing of this to reach the public. We have an image to protect."
He let out an exasperated sigh. "...I think it's about time we let the Renai know what's happening...let Tavastara-Zai's finest take care of these professional thieves. They're good. They're dangerous. We can't let them just run amok like this. It could...it could..."
"...upset things?"
"Yes! That's the word! That's why I pay you! It'll upset things. So, I trust that I don't need to explain the importance of your charge any further, do I?"
"No, Master Tevi. Not at all."
"Excellent! Now, get out of my sight. I have things to count."
Terrance888
Discord Reigns
OOC: Yeah, I read it as well.
IC:
Chapter 1: The Delegation-Woodland Folk Part 1
It was another day for the Delegation. Hours ago they started the third day of speeches debating about the relation ship with the Kalahnadh pirates and especially the practice of merchant ships to pay them off if Rivetwood warships aren't nearby. It started at dawn.
It is now three in the after noon when the motion to outfit all merchant ships with marines was tabled. "Good, it didn't waste too much time" muttered Haedrin. He knew that they will never agree on what to do about the Kalahnadh until some crisis or another angers them enough to unite... without dividing them into two or more united camps. The Merchant princes have worked hard at greasing palms; he knew because he himself have been tempted, but it came to nothing. "Now, onto our next order of business." He nodded towards the Sargent General, who was dozing. His more alert aide woke him up by tapping his helmet.
"Yes sir!" he cried, "On our next order of business... We have a Petition from the Shipmasters of Trubat. Let their representative enter!"
An Elven Ship Master entered the chamber. Although they aren't "Masters" per say, and more like translators and ambassadors between the Tree Folk and the Captains of the Navy, the common people believes that they control the ships like an extension of their body. No matter how much they protested, "Ship Master" became their title. Trubat, or the "Far Port", was a port on Greater Ainbridge which is furthest from Rivetwood, and one of the places where completed living ships were led down the streams to be accustomed to the salty seas before they are furnished with sailors.
He walked slowly towards the central podium, surrounded on all sides of the circular room. Humans (most just woke from their naps) Elves and Half-Elves watched as he entered the podium. A small medallion served to amplify his voice.
The Elven Ship Master bowed, "Lord Protector Haedrin (the half-human, he whispered), Members of the Delegation, I present you this Petition from the Ship Masters of Trubat-The Woodland Folk requests Representation."
Silence clouded the room.
A small cough comes from one of the humans, unfortunately it was close enough to the podium to be amplified as well, "Aren't they represented already?"
OOC: Woodland folk is Greater Ainbridge Elves+Tree Folk? Also, are Tree folk Entish, or more like Woodland Spirits which a preferance for trees?
IC:
Chapter 1: The Delegation-Woodland Folk Part 1
It was another day for the Delegation. Hours ago they started the third day of speeches debating about the relation ship with the Kalahnadh pirates and especially the practice of merchant ships to pay them off if Rivetwood warships aren't nearby. It started at dawn.
It is now three in the after noon when the motion to outfit all merchant ships with marines was tabled. "Good, it didn't waste too much time" muttered Haedrin. He knew that they will never agree on what to do about the Kalahnadh until some crisis or another angers them enough to unite... without dividing them into two or more united camps. The Merchant princes have worked hard at greasing palms; he knew because he himself have been tempted, but it came to nothing. "Now, onto our next order of business." He nodded towards the Sargent General, who was dozing. His more alert aide woke him up by tapping his helmet.
"Yes sir!" he cried, "On our next order of business... We have a Petition from the Shipmasters of Trubat. Let their representative enter!"
An Elven Ship Master entered the chamber. Although they aren't "Masters" per say, and more like translators and ambassadors between the Tree Folk and the Captains of the Navy, the common people believes that they control the ships like an extension of their body. No matter how much they protested, "Ship Master" became their title. Trubat, or the "Far Port", was a port on Greater Ainbridge which is furthest from Rivetwood, and one of the places where completed living ships were led down the streams to be accustomed to the salty seas before they are furnished with sailors.
He walked slowly towards the central podium, surrounded on all sides of the circular room. Humans (most just woke from their naps) Elves and Half-Elves watched as he entered the podium. A small medallion served to amplify his voice.
The Elven Ship Master bowed, "Lord Protector Haedrin (the half-human, he whispered), Members of the Delegation, I present you this Petition from the Ship Masters of Trubat-The Woodland Folk requests Representation."
Silence clouded the room.
A small cough comes from one of the humans, unfortunately it was close enough to the podium to be amplified as well, "Aren't they represented already?"
OOC: Woodland folk is Greater Ainbridge Elves+Tree Folk? Also, are Tree folk Entish, or more like Woodland Spirits which a preferance for trees?
OOC: not really an "action type" but this is something that's been bouncing around my head.
There was a sort of worried optimism in the air of the classroom, mages and sorcerers found themselves in a wing of the academy they've never seen before. The room too was like nothing else they've seen in the academy, it was a massive room filled with the sort of materials that one generally sees in a barracks. Sparring mats were laid out in one corner, training dummies in another, and a large amount of doors in a third corner.
A week ago all of these students passed their final test as trainees and were accept as proper Green Cloaks. They had all expected all sorts of great mysteries to be revealed to them but none expected this.
Just as the commotion was reaching a fervor pitch the door behind them opened up and yet another thing one would not expect at a magical academy walked into the room. A very burly dwarf entered the room covered in armor with a large axe on his back. A few of the mages had seen him around the academy but always assumed he was a guard of some sort not a teacher.
Whispers shot across the room as the dwarf walked up to the podium in the center of the room. "Alright cut the chatter now!" boomed the dwarf and the whole room fell silent, "My name Hohkad and I am in charge of Practical Contracts here at the academy and for whatever reason, whether to pay off your debts, see the world beyond the mountain, or because you enjoy causing things to explode, you are all now mine until your tour is up or you're promoted high enough to take individual contracts."
"Now yes in the eyes of the High Mage you are all now full Green Cloaks and should be treated with the respect that come with that but he's not here right now and in my eyes you are all bumbling idiots with more power than common sense until you prove otherwise to me. Before I let take any contract you are going to prove you can handle the real world beyond to walls of the academy."
"Now your teachers have all told you how superior your are to those without the talent or the drive to master the arcane, well I'm here to knock that out of you and show you the value of the mundane." He then gestured to various equipment around the room, "Each and every skill I will teach you here has saved my life countless times out on contracts, from basic fighting techniques to lock picking and the most important skill a magic user can know, when and how to run away. This last one I will drill into you until you can escape any situation. You are all valuable investments in the eyes of the academy and it would be a shame to see it be wasted."
The room kept its deadly silence even after Hohkad had stopped talking, he looked out over the stunned faces of the students and smirked, "Don't just sit there head over to the racks and grab a practice blade. Once you master this room we'll head over to the obstacle course..."
There was a sort of worried optimism in the air of the classroom, mages and sorcerers found themselves in a wing of the academy they've never seen before. The room too was like nothing else they've seen in the academy, it was a massive room filled with the sort of materials that one generally sees in a barracks. Sparring mats were laid out in one corner, training dummies in another, and a large amount of doors in a third corner.
A week ago all of these students passed their final test as trainees and were accept as proper Green Cloaks. They had all expected all sorts of great mysteries to be revealed to them but none expected this.
Just as the commotion was reaching a fervor pitch the door behind them opened up and yet another thing one would not expect at a magical academy walked into the room. A very burly dwarf entered the room covered in armor with a large axe on his back. A few of the mages had seen him around the academy but always assumed he was a guard of some sort not a teacher.
Whispers shot across the room as the dwarf walked up to the podium in the center of the room. "Alright cut the chatter now!" boomed the dwarf and the whole room fell silent, "My name Hohkad and I am in charge of Practical Contracts here at the academy and for whatever reason, whether to pay off your debts, see the world beyond the mountain, or because you enjoy causing things to explode, you are all now mine until your tour is up or you're promoted high enough to take individual contracts."
"Now yes in the eyes of the High Mage you are all now full Green Cloaks and should be treated with the respect that come with that but he's not here right now and in my eyes you are all bumbling idiots with more power than common sense until you prove otherwise to me. Before I let take any contract you are going to prove you can handle the real world beyond to walls of the academy."
"Now your teachers have all told you how superior your are to those without the talent or the drive to master the arcane, well I'm here to knock that out of you and show you the value of the mundane." He then gestured to various equipment around the room, "Each and every skill I will teach you here has saved my life countless times out on contracts, from basic fighting techniques to lock picking and the most important skill a magic user can know, when and how to run away. This last one I will drill into you until you can escape any situation. You are all valuable investments in the eyes of the academy and it would be a shame to see it be wasted."
The room kept its deadly silence even after Hohkad had stopped talking, he looked out over the stunned faces of the students and smirked, "Don't just sit there head over to the racks and grab a practice blade. Once you master this room we'll head over to the obstacle course..."
Luckymoose
The World is Mine
Missy the Trigger Happy
The coldest rain of the year poured over her cloak, dripping from the valley like wrinkles in the fabric and draining as if from gutters from her sides. Her boots slipped in the mud as she attempted to sneak her way around Egholme, her destination clear in her mind, but a secret known by only a select group in this town. The moon was new in the night sky, causing darkness to aid her journey, but also to inhibit it, as her clumsy nature would cause her to lose her balance in the slippery mud on more than one occasion during her trek. Getting sticky, icky filth all over her just washed rogueing gear.
The nightwatch was always rather slack in Egholme, as Missy had come to understand it, the guards were individually incapable of guarding anything, but she still took great care in hiding her whereabouts as she rounded a corner. Checking behind her and taking moments to pause and listen, as if she could hear anything over the sound of the rain and occasional thunder, she began to feel secure in her sneaking skills. In a back alley, on a tiny cobblestone walkway, she approached a slender, old wooden building with two doors. The first was the day entrance, a tall and sturdy oak door with iron bindings, while the second was a cellar door, far more reinforced than the previous. With one last look around, Missy leaned over, now soaked to the bone by this horrible downpour, and tapped on the cellar door twice, then three times more in a specific code.
She leaned back upright, shivering from the cold and in paranoia checking her sides. Finally after a minute of silence, there came a knock in return, Missy knew it called for the password so she complied.
“Bosom Punch.”
And with a creak and clank, the door, finally unlocked, swung open. Water piled high on the door fell off onto her boots like a waterfall, causing her to jump like a child and make a grunting noise at the young man standing before her, with half of his body now sticking out of the stairway entrance into the underground. Missy stepped inside as he shut the door behind him, there were no lights down here, but she took the moment to drain her cloak of water by twisting it, and her hair as well. Her clothing had begun to wrap around her frame like an entangling vine, but at least she was no longer in the elements.
“You're quite the troublemaker.” Called the soft and sensual voice of the young man that had let her inside. She turned to face him and was immediately overtaken by her heartbeat. It was Corwin, the Two-Blades, a dashing young man a few years her senior who was another member of her thieves guild; her first serious crush, an affection he has never shown to return.
“Uh.” She could barely speak, the shock from the cold in combination with her accelerated heart beat caused an unusual stammer.
“The incident with the mason, what's his name?” He quickly picked up the conversation to prevent awkwardness.
“Graystone.” She chirped, her voice cracking in nervousness, she was making a fool of herself and her paleness from the cold would hardly hide her blush.
“Right.” He chuckled. “You really made a fool of yourself then, but I see your arm is better. That's good.”
“Thanks-” She could not finish her words before he swiftly changed the subject.
“Why are you here?” His voice shifted to a more serious tone, losing that dreamy status in her eyes for a moment.
“I... I wish to speak to Tara.”
“She doesn't wish to speak to you. You know the rules Missy, you can't come here without invitation, and even then only on specific business.”
“I know, but...” Her eyes watered a bit with a fake whimper. She places her hand over her mouth and let out a brief but loud cry noise, before turning her back to him.
“What? I don't... Missy?” He reached out for her shoulder, but she shrugged him off. “Look, fine, she'll see you.”
He grabbed her hand and dragged her through the darkness to another doorway, behind which the faintest bit of candle light could be seen flickering through the cracks. He pushed the door open and with a bit of force pulled Missy inside with him. Now in a dimly lit room, with multiple tables and beds, boxes and bags of various goods and food, Missy could see, among a group of others, the one known as Tara.
“Look what the cat dragged in!” A mustached young man in the corner cracked a joke, much to the amusement of his fellow comrades. “Damn Missy, I knew you were pathetic, but you look like a wet rat.”
“You shut your fu-” Missy began to shout at him, she didn't even know that guys name, but she was silenced by the heartless voice of Tara, the leader of this guild. Tara, a woman of around thirty, scarred by years of successful and not so successful rogue work, was not someone easily confronted. Missy, however, was on a mission.
“You do not speak in my home!”
“I.”
“Shut your mouth or I'll cut your tongue out.” Tara stabbed a knife into the table she was leaning on and with a powerful stride walked over to Missy. “What do you want Tenderfoot?”
“You gave me bad information on that house. I-”
“You dare insult me in front of my men?” Tara raised her hand and popped Missy across the cheek with a powerful slap. “You ungrateful... ugh...”
A warmness ran down the wet and cold forearm that Missy had just plunged into Tara's belly, dagger in hand, as both Tara and Missy stood in shock at what had just happened. Missy was calm on the outside, but panicky on the inside, she has acted on impulse, what now?
“Tara?” Corwin queried. He was standing directly behind Missy and could not yet see the blade she had so stealthily inserted into Tara. A trickle of blood flowed from Tara's mouth as she back stepped with the blade firmly in Missy's hand, before falling to the floor of the dirty room.
“What the f**k!” Shouted the same man who had mouthed off the joke at Missy moments earlier.
“Co... Corwin.” Missy spoke softly with the blood drenched dagger firmly in her grip. “Move.”
He wasn't sure how to handle this, his boss had just been killed by someone he didn't even like, but she had a dagger in her hand, so to play it safe he inched to the right as Missy spun on her heels for the door. She gave him a confident wink as she exited, but on the inside she was horrified jelly. As she dashed for the exit she heard Corwin and the others fall to the aid of Tara, applying pressure and shouting curses at Missy, but she had made it to the door.
The cold rain cleaning her hands of this crime she never intended to commit. She'd have to run, run very far away.
The coldest rain of the year poured over her cloak, dripping from the valley like wrinkles in the fabric and draining as if from gutters from her sides. Her boots slipped in the mud as she attempted to sneak her way around Egholme, her destination clear in her mind, but a secret known by only a select group in this town. The moon was new in the night sky, causing darkness to aid her journey, but also to inhibit it, as her clumsy nature would cause her to lose her balance in the slippery mud on more than one occasion during her trek. Getting sticky, icky filth all over her just washed rogueing gear.
The nightwatch was always rather slack in Egholme, as Missy had come to understand it, the guards were individually incapable of guarding anything, but she still took great care in hiding her whereabouts as she rounded a corner. Checking behind her and taking moments to pause and listen, as if she could hear anything over the sound of the rain and occasional thunder, she began to feel secure in her sneaking skills. In a back alley, on a tiny cobblestone walkway, she approached a slender, old wooden building with two doors. The first was the day entrance, a tall and sturdy oak door with iron bindings, while the second was a cellar door, far more reinforced than the previous. With one last look around, Missy leaned over, now soaked to the bone by this horrible downpour, and tapped on the cellar door twice, then three times more in a specific code.
She leaned back upright, shivering from the cold and in paranoia checking her sides. Finally after a minute of silence, there came a knock in return, Missy knew it called for the password so she complied.
“Bosom Punch.”
And with a creak and clank, the door, finally unlocked, swung open. Water piled high on the door fell off onto her boots like a waterfall, causing her to jump like a child and make a grunting noise at the young man standing before her, with half of his body now sticking out of the stairway entrance into the underground. Missy stepped inside as he shut the door behind him, there were no lights down here, but she took the moment to drain her cloak of water by twisting it, and her hair as well. Her clothing had begun to wrap around her frame like an entangling vine, but at least she was no longer in the elements.
“You're quite the troublemaker.” Called the soft and sensual voice of the young man that had let her inside. She turned to face him and was immediately overtaken by her heartbeat. It was Corwin, the Two-Blades, a dashing young man a few years her senior who was another member of her thieves guild; her first serious crush, an affection he has never shown to return.
“Uh.” She could barely speak, the shock from the cold in combination with her accelerated heart beat caused an unusual stammer.
“The incident with the mason, what's his name?” He quickly picked up the conversation to prevent awkwardness.
“Graystone.” She chirped, her voice cracking in nervousness, she was making a fool of herself and her paleness from the cold would hardly hide her blush.
“Right.” He chuckled. “You really made a fool of yourself then, but I see your arm is better. That's good.”
“Thanks-” She could not finish her words before he swiftly changed the subject.
“Why are you here?” His voice shifted to a more serious tone, losing that dreamy status in her eyes for a moment.
“I... I wish to speak to Tara.”
“She doesn't wish to speak to you. You know the rules Missy, you can't come here without invitation, and even then only on specific business.”
“I know, but...” Her eyes watered a bit with a fake whimper. She places her hand over her mouth and let out a brief but loud cry noise, before turning her back to him.
“What? I don't... Missy?” He reached out for her shoulder, but she shrugged him off. “Look, fine, she'll see you.”
He grabbed her hand and dragged her through the darkness to another doorway, behind which the faintest bit of candle light could be seen flickering through the cracks. He pushed the door open and with a bit of force pulled Missy inside with him. Now in a dimly lit room, with multiple tables and beds, boxes and bags of various goods and food, Missy could see, among a group of others, the one known as Tara.
“Look what the cat dragged in!” A mustached young man in the corner cracked a joke, much to the amusement of his fellow comrades. “Damn Missy, I knew you were pathetic, but you look like a wet rat.”
“You shut your fu-” Missy began to shout at him, she didn't even know that guys name, but she was silenced by the heartless voice of Tara, the leader of this guild. Tara, a woman of around thirty, scarred by years of successful and not so successful rogue work, was not someone easily confronted. Missy, however, was on a mission.
“You do not speak in my home!”
“I.”
“Shut your mouth or I'll cut your tongue out.” Tara stabbed a knife into the table she was leaning on and with a powerful stride walked over to Missy. “What do you want Tenderfoot?”
“You gave me bad information on that house. I-”
“You dare insult me in front of my men?” Tara raised her hand and popped Missy across the cheek with a powerful slap. “You ungrateful... ugh...”
A warmness ran down the wet and cold forearm that Missy had just plunged into Tara's belly, dagger in hand, as both Tara and Missy stood in shock at what had just happened. Missy was calm on the outside, but panicky on the inside, she has acted on impulse, what now?
“Tara?” Corwin queried. He was standing directly behind Missy and could not yet see the blade she had so stealthily inserted into Tara. A trickle of blood flowed from Tara's mouth as she back stepped with the blade firmly in Missy's hand, before falling to the floor of the dirty room.
“What the f**k!” Shouted the same man who had mouthed off the joke at Missy moments earlier.
“Co... Corwin.” Missy spoke softly with the blood drenched dagger firmly in her grip. “Move.”
He wasn't sure how to handle this, his boss had just been killed by someone he didn't even like, but she had a dagger in her hand, so to play it safe he inched to the right as Missy spun on her heels for the door. She gave him a confident wink as she exited, but on the inside she was horrified jelly. As she dashed for the exit she heard Corwin and the others fall to the aid of Tara, applying pressure and shouting curses at Missy, but she had made it to the door.
The cold rain cleaning her hands of this crime she never intended to commit. She'd have to run, run very far away.
The bitter chill of Amin was heavy across the plains around Izkili. It frosted the breath's of those who dared to walk away from hearth and home and during the dark hours of night it whispered the promise of a grave. But not so cold as in the north Borcas reflected.
Prince Borcas Windem the Ninth was a man of small stature. Standing at 5'6” he might easily be lost in a crowd if not for his large, well muscled torso and a stern glare which sat immutably upon his brow. Some might think to jest about his height but not many would do so in front of him.
Having just returned from Mokata and the court of King Bokra, the prince looked over his main encampment with a professional eye. Everything still remained as he had left it, well maintained and in good order. He gave a curt nod to the men on watch and moved into the camp accompanied by his lifeguards, Sir Rolf and Sir Trigar.
Many of his Knights and men at arms bowed their heads in acknowledgment to their liege lord as he passed but others, sell-swords and free riders, did not so much as look up from their evening meals. Borcas' lips turned down in distaste as he surveyed these mercenaries he had been forced to hire on to augment his forces. It could not be said that they lacked martial skill. As a sell-sword you either became adept at killing or you died. However they seemed to have sacrificed any civility they might have had for their skill with the sword. They respected him only as long as his gold lasted.
Except for one, a half elf by the name of Phelen. Phelen had a certain courtly grace about him. He was very well spoken and never forgot to acknowledge the rank of his betters. For all that he was a wonder on the battlefield. Others simply just hacked at their opponents; Phelen made his killing an art form. Prince Borcas was always very curious about him. By his accent Borcas judged him as having originated from Fyirmenedd by the Hael Sea. But Phelen declined to discuss where he was from or his past. His cares seemed to be limited to his horses and weapons.
Once he was seated on his throne in Kelen, Prince Borcas hoped to keep Phelen on as a retainer or perhaps even a knight in his court. Time would tell whether Phelen would agree to this or not.
As Borcas continued to march to his own tent he came across a group of Paladins saying their evening prayers. The Defenders of The Truth, as the paladins called themselves, had attached themselves to his Exiles six months past and had been a thorn in his side ever since. Borcas had to admit they were very useful given their powers and their zeal for destroying undead. But they were constantly harassing him with pious talk about the one True God. Furthermore they were always trying to recruit his lords and knights into their august brotherhood.
This was a real headache as Borcas needed those lords and knights once he had taken his throne back. Those lords who had given their allegiance to the Heras-Fel during the Night of the Bell would all be for the chopping block once Kelen was back in his hands. If his loyal lords swore themselves to The Defenders of the Truth Borcas wouldn't have anyone left to help govern his lands.
Prince Borcas successfully slipped around the Paladins without attracting their notice and finally made his way into his tent. It was a much larger tent then others as befitted a prince but was devoid of luxury. The Prince believed that men in the field must not allow any indulgence lest it should make them weak. As he allowed his squire to begin the laborious task of removing his armor, the Prince reflected on his meeting with King Bokra.
Prince Borcas Windem the Ninth was a man of small stature. Standing at 5'6” he might easily be lost in a crowd if not for his large, well muscled torso and a stern glare which sat immutably upon his brow. Some might think to jest about his height but not many would do so in front of him.
Having just returned from Mokata and the court of King Bokra, the prince looked over his main encampment with a professional eye. Everything still remained as he had left it, well maintained and in good order. He gave a curt nod to the men on watch and moved into the camp accompanied by his lifeguards, Sir Rolf and Sir Trigar.
Many of his Knights and men at arms bowed their heads in acknowledgment to their liege lord as he passed but others, sell-swords and free riders, did not so much as look up from their evening meals. Borcas' lips turned down in distaste as he surveyed these mercenaries he had been forced to hire on to augment his forces. It could not be said that they lacked martial skill. As a sell-sword you either became adept at killing or you died. However they seemed to have sacrificed any civility they might have had for their skill with the sword. They respected him only as long as his gold lasted.
Except for one, a half elf by the name of Phelen. Phelen had a certain courtly grace about him. He was very well spoken and never forgot to acknowledge the rank of his betters. For all that he was a wonder on the battlefield. Others simply just hacked at their opponents; Phelen made his killing an art form. Prince Borcas was always very curious about him. By his accent Borcas judged him as having originated from Fyirmenedd by the Hael Sea. But Phelen declined to discuss where he was from or his past. His cares seemed to be limited to his horses and weapons.
Once he was seated on his throne in Kelen, Prince Borcas hoped to keep Phelen on as a retainer or perhaps even a knight in his court. Time would tell whether Phelen would agree to this or not.
As Borcas continued to march to his own tent he came across a group of Paladins saying their evening prayers. The Defenders of The Truth, as the paladins called themselves, had attached themselves to his Exiles six months past and had been a thorn in his side ever since. Borcas had to admit they were very useful given their powers and their zeal for destroying undead. But they were constantly harassing him with pious talk about the one True God. Furthermore they were always trying to recruit his lords and knights into their august brotherhood.
This was a real headache as Borcas needed those lords and knights once he had taken his throne back. Those lords who had given their allegiance to the Heras-Fel during the Night of the Bell would all be for the chopping block once Kelen was back in his hands. If his loyal lords swore themselves to The Defenders of the Truth Borcas wouldn't have anyone left to help govern his lands.
Prince Borcas successfully slipped around the Paladins without attracting their notice and finally made his way into his tent. It was a much larger tent then others as befitted a prince but was devoid of luxury. The Prince believed that men in the field must not allow any indulgence lest it should make them weak. As he allowed his squire to begin the laborious task of removing his armor, the Prince reflected on his meeting with King Bokra.
Seon
Not An Evil Liar
Sounds of boiling chemicals, hissing of insects and snakes, and scratching of something sharp spilled out of the laboratory. Through the cracked windows, lurid lights danced.
"Are you sure this is the right place?" Sarah asked.
The hooded man sighed. "Yes."
"It looks creepy!"
"You haven't met the man inside yet," the man said. "You'll work here from now on."
A cackle erupted from within the building.
"Actually," Sarah said. "I changed my mind. Can I..."
The hooded man coughed and tapped his dagger. Sarah gulped. "I am not going to survive in there, you know," Sarah said.
"That's exactly why I am not going in there," the hooded man replied. "Now go and open the door."
"Why don't you open the door?"
"Because it's creepy," the hooded man replied calmly.
"FINE! I'LL OPEN THE DOOR!" Sarah yelled. She walked up to the door and knocked.
Loud crashes and bangs. Yelps of the terrified animals inside. Finally the doors opened, revealing a pale old man.
"WHAT?!" yelled the old man. "CAN'T AN OLD MAN GET HIS SLEEP?!"
The hooded man chuckled. "I can see that you two are going to get along just fine. Ahh....Mr. Ditter? Here is your new apprentice."
"WHAT?! Oh. In that case, come in!" said the old man. "Oh, heavens. I didn't clean up the house! Here, come in!"
The hooded man nodded and left. Sarah looked at the old man nervously, shrugged, and then went in. The old man was already on the floor, wiping the stains of spilt chemicals and animal droppings.
"Sorry, girl," said the old man. "When you are at this age, you would get as excitable as me. My hands won't stop shaking either!"
"Oh, ummm," said Sarah.
"Oh! Do you want something to eat? I saved a cake for just this occasion! I'll be right back." The old man left the room hurriedly. Sarah looked nervously at the venomous python in the cage next to her.
"I'm back! HOLD YOUR HORSES!" the old man said as he rushed into the room, holding to dishes of cake. "I put them in the venom fridge. Keeps them edible for a long long time!"
"Oh, err.... thank you," Sarah said. She nibbled at a tiny piece of the cake. "Will I be dealing with..."
"Deadly chemicals, animals, acids that will eat through your bones, and other wonderful little things? OF COURSE!" Said the old man. "Now I understand that you may be nervous around them at first, but you'll get how fun those things are soon enough!"
"Oh. That's nice. What do you think I should do if I get bitten by a deadly animal?" she looked around at the menagerie of the caged venomous animals around her.
The old man raised an eyebrow. "You die, of course! That's what deadly means!"
"Isn't there an antidote or something?" Sarah said, suddenly alarmed. Did that python cage just move closer to her?
The old man laughed. "Gal, do you know how much effort it takes to make an antidote? No, much more economical to make wonderful poison instead!"
The old man cackled. "Gal, how long have you been working for the Eyes again?"
"I don't think..."
"Oh, don't tell me!" the old man said. "I know that you must have worked for at least 5 years before you can come into this little abode of mine. Eh?"
Sarah nodded.
The old man laughed. "In that case, let me show you the Guild's Secrets! Here, let me pull it out..." the old man pulled out a small box from under a stack of papers.
"HERE!" the old man said, shoving the entire thing into Sarah's hands.
"What is it?" Sarah asked.
"It's what we call...Torino's Secrets! Well, what are you doing? Open it!"
"It's just an wooden stick with lots of enscryptions on it."
"JUST AN WOODEN STICK? BAH!" the old man yelled. "This is a very dangerous weapon, ma'am! Use it wrong and this entire house will go up in flames!"
Sarah closed the box and placed it carefully on the side.
"Yes! It's an explosive rune!" the old man said. "We use it when we want things not just dead, but BLOWN THE HECK APART! Not very subtle though that's why we don't really use it. Apparently was very useful when we were still protecting caravans from laybandits! Then we killed them all and ran out of business. Dark days for the Guild."
"Who made these things?!" Sarah said.
"I did!" the old man said proudly. "Well, Torino made it first. Then his secrets were passed down to a guy, then to another guy, then to my master, then to me, and then it will be passed down to you! Well, if you survive making one, that is."
Sarah looked at the old man inquisitively.
"Kaboom?" the old man replied.
Sarah's eyes widened in fear as the old man broke loose with cackles.
"Are you sure this is the right place?" Sarah asked.
The hooded man sighed. "Yes."
"It looks creepy!"
"You haven't met the man inside yet," the man said. "You'll work here from now on."
A cackle erupted from within the building.
"Actually," Sarah said. "I changed my mind. Can I..."
The hooded man coughed and tapped his dagger. Sarah gulped. "I am not going to survive in there, you know," Sarah said.
"That's exactly why I am not going in there," the hooded man replied. "Now go and open the door."
"Why don't you open the door?"
"Because it's creepy," the hooded man replied calmly.
"FINE! I'LL OPEN THE DOOR!" Sarah yelled. She walked up to the door and knocked.
Loud crashes and bangs. Yelps of the terrified animals inside. Finally the doors opened, revealing a pale old man.
"WHAT?!" yelled the old man. "CAN'T AN OLD MAN GET HIS SLEEP?!"
The hooded man chuckled. "I can see that you two are going to get along just fine. Ahh....Mr. Ditter? Here is your new apprentice."
"WHAT?! Oh. In that case, come in!" said the old man. "Oh, heavens. I didn't clean up the house! Here, come in!"
The hooded man nodded and left. Sarah looked at the old man nervously, shrugged, and then went in. The old man was already on the floor, wiping the stains of spilt chemicals and animal droppings.
"Sorry, girl," said the old man. "When you are at this age, you would get as excitable as me. My hands won't stop shaking either!"
"Oh, ummm," said Sarah.
"Oh! Do you want something to eat? I saved a cake for just this occasion! I'll be right back." The old man left the room hurriedly. Sarah looked nervously at the venomous python in the cage next to her.
"I'm back! HOLD YOUR HORSES!" the old man said as he rushed into the room, holding to dishes of cake. "I put them in the venom fridge. Keeps them edible for a long long time!"
"Oh, err.... thank you," Sarah said. She nibbled at a tiny piece of the cake. "Will I be dealing with..."
"Deadly chemicals, animals, acids that will eat through your bones, and other wonderful little things? OF COURSE!" Said the old man. "Now I understand that you may be nervous around them at first, but you'll get how fun those things are soon enough!"
"Oh. That's nice. What do you think I should do if I get bitten by a deadly animal?" she looked around at the menagerie of the caged venomous animals around her.
The old man raised an eyebrow. "You die, of course! That's what deadly means!"
"Isn't there an antidote or something?" Sarah said, suddenly alarmed. Did that python cage just move closer to her?
The old man laughed. "Gal, do you know how much effort it takes to make an antidote? No, much more economical to make wonderful poison instead!"
The old man cackled. "Gal, how long have you been working for the Eyes again?"
"I don't think..."
"Oh, don't tell me!" the old man said. "I know that you must have worked for at least 5 years before you can come into this little abode of mine. Eh?"
Sarah nodded.
The old man laughed. "In that case, let me show you the Guild's Secrets! Here, let me pull it out..." the old man pulled out a small box from under a stack of papers.
"HERE!" the old man said, shoving the entire thing into Sarah's hands.
"What is it?" Sarah asked.
"It's what we call...Torino's Secrets! Well, what are you doing? Open it!"
"It's just an wooden stick with lots of enscryptions on it."
"JUST AN WOODEN STICK? BAH!" the old man yelled. "This is a very dangerous weapon, ma'am! Use it wrong and this entire house will go up in flames!"
Sarah closed the box and placed it carefully on the side.
"Yes! It's an explosive rune!" the old man said. "We use it when we want things not just dead, but BLOWN THE HECK APART! Not very subtle though that's why we don't really use it. Apparently was very useful when we were still protecting caravans from laybandits! Then we killed them all and ran out of business. Dark days for the Guild."
"Who made these things?!" Sarah said.
"I did!" the old man said proudly. "Well, Torino made it first. Then his secrets were passed down to a guy, then to another guy, then to my master, then to me, and then it will be passed down to you! Well, if you survive making one, that is."
Sarah looked at the old man inquisitively.
"Kaboom?" the old man replied.
Sarah's eyes widened in fear as the old man broke loose with cackles.
Earlier that day
“Now then your Grace, my men require a greater portion of quality metal to ensure that we are equipped and ready to fight when the time comes.” Prince Borcas Windem explained to the King of the Orcs. “Furthermore, we must have Warhorses to replace those that we lose in battle. Without these, The Exiles of Kelen will be no use to anyone.”
“Once we are out in the field we must rely on your generosity to keep us feed and watered for I do not have the man power to scavenge for myself.”
“In regards to Kelen, it is my city and I hope that you will see to it that your troops will not plunder it. We are going to free Kelen from the Heras-Fel, not pillage and rape it.”
“When all is said and done I hope that your Grace would be willing to supply Kelen with new peasants to replace those who were lost. I can not hope to bring back the glory of my lands without the low born to work the fields.”
OOC: This post is more of a diplo post to Fulton then a story post. Still I hope you can forgive the lack of creativity of this post.
“Now then your Grace, my men require a greater portion of quality metal to ensure that we are equipped and ready to fight when the time comes.” Prince Borcas Windem explained to the King of the Orcs. “Furthermore, we must have Warhorses to replace those that we lose in battle. Without these, The Exiles of Kelen will be no use to anyone.”
“Once we are out in the field we must rely on your generosity to keep us feed and watered for I do not have the man power to scavenge for myself.”
“In regards to Kelen, it is my city and I hope that you will see to it that your troops will not plunder it. We are going to free Kelen from the Heras-Fel, not pillage and rape it.”
“When all is said and done I hope that your Grace would be willing to supply Kelen with new peasants to replace those who were lost. I can not hope to bring back the glory of my lands without the low born to work the fields.”
OOC: This post is more of a diplo post to Fulton then a story post. Still I hope you can forgive the lack of creativity of this post.
LittleBoots
The Bloody Banner
- Joined
- Jul 25, 2006
- Messages
- 1,979
Conversations with an Old Philosopher, Part I
I have served the Boy-King for near fifty years now, and his father for fifty before that, for I am very old. I tutored him in his youth, accompanied him on his travels as a newblood[1], and gave him counsel when he took the throne. I was present the first time he killed a man, and I covered up the first time he bedded a female. I have seen him laugh, I have seen him fly into a rage, I have seen him shake with weeping, but in fifty years of service, I have never once seen him show fear.
In a practice bout, once, he killed his opponent, to his great shame, and in punishment he and I found ourselves entering the court of some petty despot of an unnamed mainland swamp to extract tribute and enforce the Laws. The lord or thain or king (the man may well have called himself emperor for all Diodor understood of that barbarian tongue, for he needed me to translate for him) of the town was, I gathered, descended from some ancient Kandoran nobility, or at least claimed to be, and so felt himself quite superior in learning and history to these "upstart" Orcs and their queer mysteries and rites. His were thought to be an ancient people, and their warriors were ferocious. A war to subdue them would be costly, though the outcome of course would be inevitable. We were sent to this newly installed sovereign to negotiate a capitulation without bloodshed. Unfortunately, as I recall, the ruler had only just assumed the throne and by means of some dubious action or another (something about a brother falling down a well and a minor civil war) and required an opportunity to display his strength to his nobles. He chose poorly.
I was born, I am told, on the banks of the Drena River, in the Sahoje, near the border of Enorti. At some point early in my life, my clan was raided and I was taken and sold into slavery. I was transported to the slave markets in Ka'elkannah and purchased by the Academy of Solossos, to train me as a Phronetoros[2], an educated slave who could be sold to noble families or the High Court as a tutor or advisor. I know the tongues of seventeen lands, I have read the epics of Maogra the Poet, the dialogues of the Wise Ones, and the works of Cadfenn of Fyirmenedd during my visit to the Fyir Academies. I am even one of the precious few permitted to study the religious works of the heathens, and I know all their refutations. I have never seen a greater republic, nor a more majestic court, nor a more civilized people than my homeland, Ka'elkannah.
I say these things because I wear the robes of the Phronetoroi, which are well-known. Perhaps because of this, perhaps because I am an elf and a slave, this fool chief of some crumbling ancient city thought to speak to me as if my lord were a simple thug. Sitting there, smug in his chair, his court of wood rotting through broken marble lit poorly by ceremonial lamps and well by cracks in the ceiling, he spoke to me not in his barbarian gabble, but in an ancient dialect of the elves, well-known to educated men. I was not surprised, for as the Elarkah states, the tongues of the foolish are turned to silver, the tongues of the wicked pour out honey[3]. He had said something about the Orcs of Ka'elkannah going soft through trade, that they were fat with wealth and had not the strength nor the will to take his kingdom, protected as it was with men of mighty heart. I never made eye contact with the braggart, but looked only on my lord. Eventually, even the petty tyrant turned to meet Diodor's gaze, and the color drained from his face, for he saw that Diodor understood his impudent speech. The lad had had a good teacher.
Diodor said nothing, but strode to the hearthfire of the court. Never breaking eye contact with the tyrant (whose guards had closed around him in anticipation of an attack), Diodor thrust his left hand in the flames. I did not see him blink. The petty lord gave a muffled cry, and looked on with horror and confusion, flitting back and forth with his eyes from the hand to my lord's face. The hall was silent, save for the sound of the flames, as the skin on my lord's hand crisped and crinkled and bubbled and burned. He began, with his deep, melodic voice, a low and steady intonation of the Scriptures.
The effect the speech had became apparent long before he had finished the prayer. The tyrant, horrified and perhaps disturbed by the spectacle, had flown into a terror at the sound of my lord's voice, terrible and deep, slow but inevitable, like the thunder or the mountain or a crashing wave. He began sobbing and crying out to heathen gods for protection. Finally, he ran out to my lord and grabbed his arm, frantically trying to force it out of the fire. Diodor, leaving his left hand in the flames, grabbed the tyrant by the throat with his sword-hand and raised him above the ground, sputtering and kicking and sobbing. At the conclusion of his prayer, his fingers with their iron grip closed around the man's throat and he flung him aside, as he gasped and gurgled in vain attempts for air. At length, almost as an afterthought, Diodor withdrew his ruined hand from the flames. The entire room was kneeling.
I tell this story not to impress upon fools the greatness of my lord's conviction, or to boast of his mighty deeds (for what is the conquest of some petty fief, and the slaughter of a boy more foolish than wicked?), but to reveal the iron-cold soul which resides in my master's heart, and the indomitable will which animates his limbs. And to prepare the way for another story, soon to come.
NOTES:
[1] Orcish young adulthood, equivalent to the twenties
[2] Lit. "wise-gift"
[3] Wisdom, line 438
[4] The Ka'elkannah Orcish word for left-hand
[5] Lamentations of Heaven, lines 1833-1837
I have served the Boy-King for near fifty years now, and his father for fifty before that, for I am very old. I tutored him in his youth, accompanied him on his travels as a newblood[1], and gave him counsel when he took the throne. I was present the first time he killed a man, and I covered up the first time he bedded a female. I have seen him laugh, I have seen him fly into a rage, I have seen him shake with weeping, but in fifty years of service, I have never once seen him show fear.
In a practice bout, once, he killed his opponent, to his great shame, and in punishment he and I found ourselves entering the court of some petty despot of an unnamed mainland swamp to extract tribute and enforce the Laws. The lord or thain or king (the man may well have called himself emperor for all Diodor understood of that barbarian tongue, for he needed me to translate for him) of the town was, I gathered, descended from some ancient Kandoran nobility, or at least claimed to be, and so felt himself quite superior in learning and history to these "upstart" Orcs and their queer mysteries and rites. His were thought to be an ancient people, and their warriors were ferocious. A war to subdue them would be costly, though the outcome of course would be inevitable. We were sent to this newly installed sovereign to negotiate a capitulation without bloodshed. Unfortunately, as I recall, the ruler had only just assumed the throne and by means of some dubious action or another (something about a brother falling down a well and a minor civil war) and required an opportunity to display his strength to his nobles. He chose poorly.
I was born, I am told, on the banks of the Drena River, in the Sahoje, near the border of Enorti. At some point early in my life, my clan was raided and I was taken and sold into slavery. I was transported to the slave markets in Ka'elkannah and purchased by the Academy of Solossos, to train me as a Phronetoros[2], an educated slave who could be sold to noble families or the High Court as a tutor or advisor. I know the tongues of seventeen lands, I have read the epics of Maogra the Poet, the dialogues of the Wise Ones, and the works of Cadfenn of Fyirmenedd during my visit to the Fyir Academies. I am even one of the precious few permitted to study the religious works of the heathens, and I know all their refutations. I have never seen a greater republic, nor a more majestic court, nor a more civilized people than my homeland, Ka'elkannah.
I say these things because I wear the robes of the Phronetoroi, which are well-known. Perhaps because of this, perhaps because I am an elf and a slave, this fool chief of some crumbling ancient city thought to speak to me as if my lord were a simple thug. Sitting there, smug in his chair, his court of wood rotting through broken marble lit poorly by ceremonial lamps and well by cracks in the ceiling, he spoke to me not in his barbarian gabble, but in an ancient dialect of the elves, well-known to educated men. I was not surprised, for as the Elarkah states, the tongues of the foolish are turned to silver, the tongues of the wicked pour out honey[3]. He had said something about the Orcs of Ka'elkannah going soft through trade, that they were fat with wealth and had not the strength nor the will to take his kingdom, protected as it was with men of mighty heart. I never made eye contact with the braggart, but looked only on my lord. Eventually, even the petty tyrant turned to meet Diodor's gaze, and the color drained from his face, for he saw that Diodor understood his impudent speech. The lad had had a good teacher.
Diodor said nothing, but strode to the hearthfire of the court. Never breaking eye contact with the tyrant (whose guards had closed around him in anticipation of an attack), Diodor thrust his left hand in the flames. I did not see him blink. The petty lord gave a muffled cry, and looked on with horror and confusion, flitting back and forth with his eyes from the hand to my lord's face. The hall was silent, save for the sound of the flames, as the skin on my lord's hand crisped and crinkled and bubbled and burned. He began, with his deep, melodic voice, a low and steady intonation of the Scriptures.
The effect the speech had became apparent long before he had finished the prayer. The tyrant, horrified and perhaps disturbed by the spectacle, had flown into a terror at the sound of my lord's voice, terrible and deep, slow but inevitable, like the thunder or the mountain or a crashing wave. He began sobbing and crying out to heathen gods for protection. Finally, he ran out to my lord and grabbed his arm, frantically trying to force it out of the fire. Diodor, leaving his left hand in the flames, grabbed the tyrant by the throat with his sword-hand and raised him above the ground, sputtering and kicking and sobbing. At the conclusion of his prayer, his fingers with their iron grip closed around the man's throat and he flung him aside, as he gasped and gurgled in vain attempts for air. At length, almost as an afterthought, Diodor withdrew his ruined hand from the flames. The entire room was kneeling.
I tell this story not to impress upon fools the greatness of my lord's conviction, or to boast of his mighty deeds (for what is the conquest of some petty fief, and the slaughter of a boy more foolish than wicked?), but to reveal the iron-cold soul which resides in my master's heart, and the indomitable will which animates his limbs. And to prepare the way for another story, soon to come.
NOTES:
[1] Orcish young adulthood, equivalent to the twenties
[2] Lit. "wise-gift"
[3] Wisdom, line 438
[4] The Ka'elkannah Orcish word for left-hand
[5] Lamentations of Heaven, lines 1833-1837
kkmo
世界
- Joined
- May 22, 2008
- Messages
- 1,245
OOC: Great story, Luckymoose. Here is a profile LittleBoots wrote for Egholme. You might find it useful in the future for some nuanced descriptions or whatever else.
[ I've had this post windowed for a while - forgive me, as I reply to other posts. ]
IC:
Missy, the Tenderfoot, Will she run from Egholme?
Around this time of year, cold rain pours heavily in the south-regions around the Anokan. Egholme is no exception. The place rarely receives snow in the winter, and is instead burdened by ice storms and constant sleet. It is enough to drive the denizens of the forgotten city mad, in all of their scurrying and looking into the wilderness to the west. In the only area of town that could be considered "urban", the coat-of-arms of Egholme can be seen on most buildings. The Dwarf without a mother made the present one: it resembles a regional symbol of old Kandora, featuring the crossed tusks of giant kyndophants, long gone from this region - in addition to the supposedly enchanted helmet of the old Dwarf-warden, which sits above the tusks in a regal fashion. The bastard Dwarf's helm was a simple cap with a single, shortened spike on the top, for which many lute-tunes were written in jest.
The symbol of Egholme would forever be in Missy's young, impressionable head. She has caused trouble before and she has certainly been guilty of, if not directly causing death, perhaps indirectly advancing it. However, this was different. The Jadefly Knives were notorious in Egholme. The tired citizens of this old city had long been exposed to the guild's presence, though there were certainly more benefactors than victims: the Knives had single-handedly taken over Egholme's burgeoning black market back in 991. Since then, guild-master after guild-master had taken over, employing thieves and tyrants of all ages to do this job and that. There was a scandal when seven-year-old children were found guilty of murder, and thirteen-year-old girls began whoring themselves to old-Orc nobles. No matter: Egholme was seldom an interesting place, and the Knives certainly corrected that.
Tara was the most recent guild-master of the Jadeflies. She was good, yes, but not great. Many opposed her take-over only one year ago. They considered her weak and inexperienced. Though in many ways, the Knives had suffered from a line of easily-killed masters. Tara thought she was different, and that confidence gave her a loyal following. She had already taken out some members of Egholme's court, and had even stolen from prominent members of the community with very little backlash. Her thugs owned all of Heninsly Road.
And Tara never cared for Missy. To her, Missy was arrogant. In reality, Tara was threatened by the young girl's immense skill. When Tara was sixteen, she could barely pick a lock. Meanwhile, Missy had accumulated a fair degree of wealth for the Knives. Yet Tara gossiped and made her thugs hate the Tenderfoot. And Tara plotted to kill her, threatened by her flourishing skills and exceptional charisma.
And now, Missy must run. Oh yes, she must run as far away as possible. Tara's followers will attempt to hunt her down. But Corwin. Perhaps he is different.
[ I've had this post windowed for a while - forgive me, as I reply to other posts. ]
IC:
Missy, the Tenderfoot, Will she run from Egholme?
Around this time of year, cold rain pours heavily in the south-regions around the Anokan. Egholme is no exception. The place rarely receives snow in the winter, and is instead burdened by ice storms and constant sleet. It is enough to drive the denizens of the forgotten city mad, in all of their scurrying and looking into the wilderness to the west. In the only area of town that could be considered "urban", the coat-of-arms of Egholme can be seen on most buildings. The Dwarf without a mother made the present one: it resembles a regional symbol of old Kandora, featuring the crossed tusks of giant kyndophants, long gone from this region - in addition to the supposedly enchanted helmet of the old Dwarf-warden, which sits above the tusks in a regal fashion. The bastard Dwarf's helm was a simple cap with a single, shortened spike on the top, for which many lute-tunes were written in jest.
The symbol of Egholme would forever be in Missy's young, impressionable head. She has caused trouble before and she has certainly been guilty of, if not directly causing death, perhaps indirectly advancing it. However, this was different. The Jadefly Knives were notorious in Egholme. The tired citizens of this old city had long been exposed to the guild's presence, though there were certainly more benefactors than victims: the Knives had single-handedly taken over Egholme's burgeoning black market back in 991. Since then, guild-master after guild-master had taken over, employing thieves and tyrants of all ages to do this job and that. There was a scandal when seven-year-old children were found guilty of murder, and thirteen-year-old girls began whoring themselves to old-Orc nobles. No matter: Egholme was seldom an interesting place, and the Knives certainly corrected that.
Tara was the most recent guild-master of the Jadeflies. She was good, yes, but not great. Many opposed her take-over only one year ago. They considered her weak and inexperienced. Though in many ways, the Knives had suffered from a line of easily-killed masters. Tara thought she was different, and that confidence gave her a loyal following. She had already taken out some members of Egholme's court, and had even stolen from prominent members of the community with very little backlash. Her thugs owned all of Heninsly Road.
And Tara never cared for Missy. To her, Missy was arrogant. In reality, Tara was threatened by the young girl's immense skill. When Tara was sixteen, she could barely pick a lock. Meanwhile, Missy had accumulated a fair degree of wealth for the Knives. Yet Tara gossiped and made her thugs hate the Tenderfoot. And Tara plotted to kill her, threatened by her flourishing skills and exceptional charisma.
And now, Missy must run. Oh yes, she must run as far away as possible. Tara's followers will attempt to hunt her down. But Corwin. Perhaps he is different.
Terrance888
Discord Reigns
Chapter 1: ALS Glenoak Grandeur Mission to Taiford Part 1
The sea rolled.
Kiorman was much more fickle and spirited than the Anokan. Waves bubbled and frothed beneath the prow while in the distance, small storms chased each other and canceled themselves out. Captain Steven watched their dance, flickering below the horizon. If they come too close... well, they will lose another day of sailing.
Glenoak Grandeur is a strong, proud ship crewed with strong men like himself and a good, trustworthy elven crew. Ship Master Peireaphar and his woodland folk have kept the tree-spirits well... sprited and ready for action. He doesn't pretend to understand what goes on on his panel of his, but he doesn't want his mind to be broken by trying to. No, he will complete his mission like he has always done; he will do his duty, and he will let Peireaphar do his.
In the hold lay 25 chests of gold. It was matched by 50 crates of armor, ammunition and weapons worth roughy the same amount. His cargo is strange, above the fact that he wasn't escourting dead-wood merchant ships or acting in a squadron of other Ainbridge Living Ships in partol and pirate hunting duties. That was because his mission is strange.
He is to reach the Taiford Islands of Horanor and find the rebels. He is the negotiate help against the Coalfire Pirates. And he is to report his findings to the Delegation.
He shook his head. No use in trying to understand the motivation of a Half Elf, he though. Trade to the north has been hampered by the rise of the Coralfire Pirates, he knew; but the Pirates have controlled an entire nation! What will his hold of more or less 50 gold do?
To his left, his navigator shouted, "Drusefaell Cove is in sight!" He checked the storms again... no, he has to camp through another storm. "Head for the cove!" he shouted to his crew. "And be ready in case we have Pirates there!" To the silent Ship Master he muttered, "Prepare the ship for combat just in case; we are landing soon."
Half way to Taiford, according to the old charts. He wonders what he will find there.
The sea rolled.
Kiorman was much more fickle and spirited than the Anokan. Waves bubbled and frothed beneath the prow while in the distance, small storms chased each other and canceled themselves out. Captain Steven watched their dance, flickering below the horizon. If they come too close... well, they will lose another day of sailing.
Glenoak Grandeur is a strong, proud ship crewed with strong men like himself and a good, trustworthy elven crew. Ship Master Peireaphar and his woodland folk have kept the tree-spirits well... sprited and ready for action. He doesn't pretend to understand what goes on on his panel of his, but he doesn't want his mind to be broken by trying to. No, he will complete his mission like he has always done; he will do his duty, and he will let Peireaphar do his.
In the hold lay 25 chests of gold. It was matched by 50 crates of armor, ammunition and weapons worth roughy the same amount. His cargo is strange, above the fact that he wasn't escourting dead-wood merchant ships or acting in a squadron of other Ainbridge Living Ships in partol and pirate hunting duties. That was because his mission is strange.
He is to reach the Taiford Islands of Horanor and find the rebels. He is the negotiate help against the Coalfire Pirates. And he is to report his findings to the Delegation.
He shook his head. No use in trying to understand the motivation of a Half Elf, he though. Trade to the north has been hampered by the rise of the Coralfire Pirates, he knew; but the Pirates have controlled an entire nation! What will his hold of more or less 50 gold do?
To his left, his navigator shouted, "Drusefaell Cove is in sight!" He checked the storms again... no, he has to camp through another storm. "Head for the cove!" he shouted to his crew. "And be ready in case we have Pirates there!" To the silent Ship Master he muttered, "Prepare the ship for combat just in case; we are landing soon."
Half way to Taiford, according to the old charts. He wonders what he will find there.
kkmo
世界
- Joined
- May 22, 2008
- Messages
- 1,245
Night came to Izkili earlier than usual, even for the winter months. The encampment of Prince Borcas Windem the Ninth began to glow with the embers of scattered fires. Seen from a distance, it appeared as if snow-spirits had floated to the fallen flakes, on a mission to mingle with mortals. Yet the grace of spirits was not present here, and underneath a thick hide of loyalty and honor, there was frightened blood and tormented organs.
As the plains became darker, the campfires silenced. Men gobbled down plates of meat and drowned their throats with goblets of ale. Others left the camps for patrol duty. However, one campfire was in a suspended state of chatter. One man spoke quietly. As he spoke, more and more drifters surrounded the fire to listen to his whispers.
"Are any of you sorry soldiers married?" the man asked. Some chuckles here, a few nods there, and some somber faces. "A strange question to ask a bunch of men, who'd rather sleep with steeds than beautiful women." Laughs all around, and the clattering of goblets. Then the crowd silenced again.
"I was married through the customs of the old Hiradon court. Quite silly, those customs. I took dear Selan's hand and walked her down an aisle, flanked on both sides with glowing candles being held by completely motionless Hiradon priests. The court was small and half-full. I can only remember a dozen or so people in the room at the time, mostly Selan's family as mine had been killed long ago in the mad prince's burnings. Any of you have family in the burnings?" Some nods again, and a little bit of laughter.
"Aye. Sure you did. Back to the main event: every soul in that court was quiet, their eyes following Selan's every movement. She was radiant, oh yes. Can you expect anything less, with a face like this to guide her?" Laughter.
"And it was tradition, in that time, for all in the room to keep their eyes locked to the ring on the woman's right hand. When it glistened in the candlelight, our guests had to bow their heads and recite the Hiradon code of personal union. What a stupid custom! It made her anxious. Who here has been forced to endure an anxious woman on her wedding day? Bah!" Immense laughter.
"The ring was silver, and it glistened often - suddenly, we'd hear the chant, 'May peace be in your family, but strength be in your blood.' Over a hundred times, my lads! What nonsense." By this time, every soul in the crowd around the older man had begun to laugh hysterically. Remembering the traditions of old Hiradon was always a source of entertainment for the exiles. Yet the man did not laugh. He waited, until the campfire's surroundings grew quiet once more.
"But now, my lads, I would give anything to be in the middle of pointless, atrocious customs once more. I would sit in the Maliadon's[1] chair once more, nervously awaiting my Selan's graceful bow." The campfire had become somber.
"Let me tell you of another custom. During the Night of the Bell[2], I was called to spy on Lord Leras[3]. Lord Leras, the fine piece of work who killed his entire entourage and spit on our prince. Yes, that Lord Leras. Our own Borcas was suspicious of the lord. Apparently, before the Night, he had been visiting the Underhills[4] on an almost-daily basis. Associating with fiends, and what not. I left my armor at home that night, and went out with little more than a dagger to protect myself. I tied my steed at the edge of Hilisor Street. You know, the one with the leaning taverns and the big-bosomed servants. I walked quietly for some time, and finally came to the little pub in the Underhills that Leras had constantly been accused of visiting. I looked through a small glass window, and in true Underhill fashion I saw men with twisted faces. They were watching snakes the size of streams fighting in a small pit, and not making a sound. I saw one of the slithering slimies use its fangs to grab the other beneath its head. The victor was raised high by one of the fiends, and the whole lot began to eat its scaly skin and drink its blood." Some men around the campfire appeared disgusted.
"Under one of the cloaks, I could see Leras. The scar under his left eye, right down to the bottom of his chin. Who could hide such a face? He raised his hands and all of the fiends followed him to a back room. I opened the front door quietly and entered the now-empty main bar area of the pub. No one said I was smart, eh?" A little bit of laughter, but not much.
"The back room had no window, so I leaned my ear against the door. I heard the whispers of a hundred men, uttering a language I had never heard. My head began to hurt, and blood began to pour from my ears, dripping on the wooden planks beneath my leaning face. I kept my ear to the door, still loyal to my Prince, seeking information. I began to hear screams from the room, and I feared a tyrant had begun to execute. I ran back onto the street, right back through the door I had come through, and lit a Aselen flare[5]. Again, not the smartest lad in this camp, I'll tell you that much." Even less laughter this time.
"The white light of the flare landed onto the street after I had slung it high into the air. The embers flickered and fizzled out, but not before my owl lit up dozens of faces on her way down to the cobblestone - faces of some unsavory characters. I pulled my dagger, but that wouldn't be enough. The roar of hooves could be heard in the distance, and I knew my friends would arrive soon. Until then, I ran down the street, being pursued by fiends. One had an eye on his forehead, I tell you. At the right time, my friends arrived, and cut down the fiends in the street. They hardly moaned. I hopped onto one of the knight-steeds, and told the fellow to head towards the tavern I had spied upon. He made haste."
"We arrived, and I myself knocked down the screaming door, all of our ears bleeding by now - we could all hear those whispers. When I looked inside, the fiends were sat in a circle with their legs crossed, donned in black cloaks, their hands one over the other on their foreheads, their arms making the shape of a diamond. They whispered still. Every few seconds, they would all together slap the wooden floor with their palms. In the middle of the circle, I could sometimes see the single candle flare up with the face of a screaming man, woman, or child, dissipating into the fog that had gathered throughout the room. We yelled to them. They did not move. We began to confront them, but when we put our hands on their arms, they seemed heavier than boulders. I put my dagger in the arm of one, and he didn't even flinch."
"Then I found Leras. The snake had his eyes open, and a smirk on his face. The Lerasian smirk. I won't forget it. Outside of the door, a group of deadies had gathered. We decided to make our way through them instead of trying to budge the gathered fiends, and that is when the bells rang. But before I left that tavern and slowly made my way through a horde, I heard a familiar voice coming from that lone candle. It was Selan's. She said my name softly. As I looked behind me, I saw her faded face in the candlelight. She screamed, and it flicked upwards, disappearing into the fog as the other souls had." His voice seemed to fade a bit in the end, there. No laughter at all. Only solemn looks came from the men around that campfire, directed at the older man. He leaned back with his arms behind him, staring at the stars and the tip of the Skyfather Mount.
"Aye, my friends. An enemy without customs is no more than a cave troll or a blundering sky-serpent. I wish our enemy was such."
Notes
[1] Maliadon: The name given to a Hiradon royal knight.
[2] Night of the Bell: The night of terror which marked Kelen's fall to the Cult.
[3] Leras: One of the names of the Old Wallbringers. There were originally four Wallbringer families, which were Leras, Goliner, Andim, and Ulyior.
[4] The Underhills: A district of Kelen famed for its mysterious, unchecked fascination with the occult.
[5] Aselen flare: A magical gem given to all knights of Hiradon, which can be activated and then flung into the air to signal other knights. Each old principality of Hiradon has its own color and shape. Kelen's color is bright white; its shape is that of a north-plains snow owl.
As the plains became darker, the campfires silenced. Men gobbled down plates of meat and drowned their throats with goblets of ale. Others left the camps for patrol duty. However, one campfire was in a suspended state of chatter. One man spoke quietly. As he spoke, more and more drifters surrounded the fire to listen to his whispers.
"Are any of you sorry soldiers married?" the man asked. Some chuckles here, a few nods there, and some somber faces. "A strange question to ask a bunch of men, who'd rather sleep with steeds than beautiful women." Laughs all around, and the clattering of goblets. Then the crowd silenced again.
"I was married through the customs of the old Hiradon court. Quite silly, those customs. I took dear Selan's hand and walked her down an aisle, flanked on both sides with glowing candles being held by completely motionless Hiradon priests. The court was small and half-full. I can only remember a dozen or so people in the room at the time, mostly Selan's family as mine had been killed long ago in the mad prince's burnings. Any of you have family in the burnings?" Some nods again, and a little bit of laughter.
"Aye. Sure you did. Back to the main event: every soul in that court was quiet, their eyes following Selan's every movement. She was radiant, oh yes. Can you expect anything less, with a face like this to guide her?" Laughter.
"And it was tradition, in that time, for all in the room to keep their eyes locked to the ring on the woman's right hand. When it glistened in the candlelight, our guests had to bow their heads and recite the Hiradon code of personal union. What a stupid custom! It made her anxious. Who here has been forced to endure an anxious woman on her wedding day? Bah!" Immense laughter.
"The ring was silver, and it glistened often - suddenly, we'd hear the chant, 'May peace be in your family, but strength be in your blood.' Over a hundred times, my lads! What nonsense." By this time, every soul in the crowd around the older man had begun to laugh hysterically. Remembering the traditions of old Hiradon was always a source of entertainment for the exiles. Yet the man did not laugh. He waited, until the campfire's surroundings grew quiet once more.
"But now, my lads, I would give anything to be in the middle of pointless, atrocious customs once more. I would sit in the Maliadon's[1] chair once more, nervously awaiting my Selan's graceful bow." The campfire had become somber.
"Let me tell you of another custom. During the Night of the Bell[2], I was called to spy on Lord Leras[3]. Lord Leras, the fine piece of work who killed his entire entourage and spit on our prince. Yes, that Lord Leras. Our own Borcas was suspicious of the lord. Apparently, before the Night, he had been visiting the Underhills[4] on an almost-daily basis. Associating with fiends, and what not. I left my armor at home that night, and went out with little more than a dagger to protect myself. I tied my steed at the edge of Hilisor Street. You know, the one with the leaning taverns and the big-bosomed servants. I walked quietly for some time, and finally came to the little pub in the Underhills that Leras had constantly been accused of visiting. I looked through a small glass window, and in true Underhill fashion I saw men with twisted faces. They were watching snakes the size of streams fighting in a small pit, and not making a sound. I saw one of the slithering slimies use its fangs to grab the other beneath its head. The victor was raised high by one of the fiends, and the whole lot began to eat its scaly skin and drink its blood." Some men around the campfire appeared disgusted.
"Under one of the cloaks, I could see Leras. The scar under his left eye, right down to the bottom of his chin. Who could hide such a face? He raised his hands and all of the fiends followed him to a back room. I opened the front door quietly and entered the now-empty main bar area of the pub. No one said I was smart, eh?" A little bit of laughter, but not much.
"The back room had no window, so I leaned my ear against the door. I heard the whispers of a hundred men, uttering a language I had never heard. My head began to hurt, and blood began to pour from my ears, dripping on the wooden planks beneath my leaning face. I kept my ear to the door, still loyal to my Prince, seeking information. I began to hear screams from the room, and I feared a tyrant had begun to execute. I ran back onto the street, right back through the door I had come through, and lit a Aselen flare[5]. Again, not the smartest lad in this camp, I'll tell you that much." Even less laughter this time.
"The white light of the flare landed onto the street after I had slung it high into the air. The embers flickered and fizzled out, but not before my owl lit up dozens of faces on her way down to the cobblestone - faces of some unsavory characters. I pulled my dagger, but that wouldn't be enough. The roar of hooves could be heard in the distance, and I knew my friends would arrive soon. Until then, I ran down the street, being pursued by fiends. One had an eye on his forehead, I tell you. At the right time, my friends arrived, and cut down the fiends in the street. They hardly moaned. I hopped onto one of the knight-steeds, and told the fellow to head towards the tavern I had spied upon. He made haste."
"We arrived, and I myself knocked down the screaming door, all of our ears bleeding by now - we could all hear those whispers. When I looked inside, the fiends were sat in a circle with their legs crossed, donned in black cloaks, their hands one over the other on their foreheads, their arms making the shape of a diamond. They whispered still. Every few seconds, they would all together slap the wooden floor with their palms. In the middle of the circle, I could sometimes see the single candle flare up with the face of a screaming man, woman, or child, dissipating into the fog that had gathered throughout the room. We yelled to them. They did not move. We began to confront them, but when we put our hands on their arms, they seemed heavier than boulders. I put my dagger in the arm of one, and he didn't even flinch."
"Then I found Leras. The snake had his eyes open, and a smirk on his face. The Lerasian smirk. I won't forget it. Outside of the door, a group of deadies had gathered. We decided to make our way through them instead of trying to budge the gathered fiends, and that is when the bells rang. But before I left that tavern and slowly made my way through a horde, I heard a familiar voice coming from that lone candle. It was Selan's. She said my name softly. As I looked behind me, I saw her faded face in the candlelight. She screamed, and it flicked upwards, disappearing into the fog as the other souls had." His voice seemed to fade a bit in the end, there. No laughter at all. Only solemn looks came from the men around that campfire, directed at the older man. He leaned back with his arms behind him, staring at the stars and the tip of the Skyfather Mount.
"Aye, my friends. An enemy without customs is no more than a cave troll or a blundering sky-serpent. I wish our enemy was such."
Notes
[1] Maliadon: The name given to a Hiradon royal knight.
[2] Night of the Bell: The night of terror which marked Kelen's fall to the Cult.
[3] Leras: One of the names of the Old Wallbringers. There were originally four Wallbringer families, which were Leras, Goliner, Andim, and Ulyior.
[4] The Underhills: A district of Kelen famed for its mysterious, unchecked fascination with the occult.
[5] Aselen flare: A magical gem given to all knights of Hiradon, which can be activated and then flung into the air to signal other knights. Each old principality of Hiradon has its own color and shape. Kelen's color is bright white; its shape is that of a north-plains snow owl.
Seon
Not An Evil Liar
"You have a lot of nerve," the bartender said. The "Coming here, good sir."
The representative from the Ainbridge Commonwealth fidgeted. "Let's just get this over with."
The bartender chuckled. "Indeed, so you said that you wanted information, sir?"
"Yes."
"We do know a lot of things," the bartender said. "We know a lot of people who know a lot of things, sir. And they tell us things. Don't know why."
The representative chose not to pursue the reason.
"So what kind of information do you wish for, sir?" the bartender finished.
"Everything you have on Coralfires."
Silence. Bartender bursts into laughter. "The CORALFIRES, sir?" the bartender said midst chuckles. "You are going against the Coralfires?! They run an entire nation! They are one of our best clients!"
"I'm sorry," the representative said, suddenly pale. "I seem to have come to the wrong place."
"Sit down sir. That will be 100 bars of gold in price."
Silence. "What?" the representative said.
"We'll do it. Please give us time to compile the information." Bartender passed the representative a drink. "Looks like you need a drink or two."
........................................................................................................................
Secure Crystal Ball Message sent to Winged Eye Chapterhouses in Eliri and Anyuvel
Contract received. Please identify Coralfire members and information regarding them, esp scandalous ones. Rumors heard in bars may be the best source for these information, along with the gossips of local courteseans. Also use our contacts within the Court and our previous records with the Coralfires to discover important officials who are part of the Coralfire Guild.
No crazy stuff yet, please. We don't want to kill anyone just yet.
The representative from the Ainbridge Commonwealth fidgeted. "Let's just get this over with."
The bartender chuckled. "Indeed, so you said that you wanted information, sir?"
"Yes."
"We do know a lot of things," the bartender said. "We know a lot of people who know a lot of things, sir. And they tell us things. Don't know why."
The representative chose not to pursue the reason.
"So what kind of information do you wish for, sir?" the bartender finished.
"Everything you have on Coralfires."
Silence. Bartender bursts into laughter. "The CORALFIRES, sir?" the bartender said midst chuckles. "You are going against the Coralfires?! They run an entire nation! They are one of our best clients!"
"I'm sorry," the representative said, suddenly pale. "I seem to have come to the wrong place."
"Sit down sir. That will be 100 bars of gold in price."
Silence. "What?" the representative said.
"We'll do it. Please give us time to compile the information." Bartender passed the representative a drink. "Looks like you need a drink or two."
........................................................................................................................
Secure Crystal Ball Message sent to Winged Eye Chapterhouses in Eliri and Anyuvel
Contract received. Please identify Coralfire members and information regarding them, esp scandalous ones. Rumors heard in bars may be the best source for these information, along with the gossips of local courteseans. Also use our contacts within the Court and our previous records with the Coralfires to discover important officials who are part of the Coralfire Guild.
No crazy stuff yet, please. We don't want to kill anyone just yet.
Terrance888
Discord Reigns
Chapter 1: The Rangers The Payment
The cartload of beer and wine clattered on the streets of Rivetwood. The oxen groaned as they pulled the load. Their driver, annoyed, flicked his whip again and again.
Trehareli was bored. Such a simple mission for a half-elf raised in the woods, but it was the word of the Delegation, and it must be done. His cowl was the only camouflage he wore, and as he walked through the crowds behind the wagon he, to a random passerby, seemed like any other human walking the streets of Rivetwood. His short crossbow lay hidden to his right side, as was the brace of throwing knives to the left.
Infront of an inconspicuous bar, noted only by angel wings gracing a cyclopes, he watched as the beer was unloaded. The two strong men carried it in to cheers, but every so often, a barrel seemed to be heavier than they thought, and they brought it into the cellars instead of into the bar.
After the wagondriver was sent away, he knocked on the back door of the bar. "Payment received?" was all he said.
"Payment received" returned the voice, "And thanks for the putting them in the best wine from Jyiru, we'll party tonight. "
"Don't forget."
"We won't."
Trehareli pulled out his cloak and put it on, seemingly dissolving into the shadows of the ally. No need for others to know anything special about this particular ally. As he navigates the back allys of Rivetwood, he pulls out a flagon.
"Hmm... that old bartender was right" he said after taking a sip.
The cartload of beer and wine clattered on the streets of Rivetwood. The oxen groaned as they pulled the load. Their driver, annoyed, flicked his whip again and again.
Trehareli was bored. Such a simple mission for a half-elf raised in the woods, but it was the word of the Delegation, and it must be done. His cowl was the only camouflage he wore, and as he walked through the crowds behind the wagon he, to a random passerby, seemed like any other human walking the streets of Rivetwood. His short crossbow lay hidden to his right side, as was the brace of throwing knives to the left.
Infront of an inconspicuous bar, noted only by angel wings gracing a cyclopes, he watched as the beer was unloaded. The two strong men carried it in to cheers, but every so often, a barrel seemed to be heavier than they thought, and they brought it into the cellars instead of into the bar.
After the wagondriver was sent away, he knocked on the back door of the bar. "Payment received?" was all he said.
"Payment received" returned the voice, "And thanks for the putting them in the best wine from Jyiru, we'll party tonight. "
"Don't forget."
"We won't."
Trehareli pulled out his cloak and put it on, seemingly dissolving into the shadows of the ally. No need for others to know anything special about this particular ally. As he navigates the back allys of Rivetwood, he pulls out a flagon.
"Hmm... that old bartender was right" he said after taking a sip.
kkmo
世界
- Joined
- May 22, 2008
- Messages
- 1,245
Terrance888 said:
When the oak-ship Glenoak Grandeur sailed near Drusefaell, the sun was beginning to set. Captain Steven glanced westward towards the Kiorman Sea. It glowed with orange and yellow hues and flicked waves into great shadows. A watcher at the top of the tree-tower called down to the dear captain: "Lights in the coves, sir!" The captain had been in the service of the Commonwealth for years, yet the sight of the Kiorman during sunset had never failed to amaze him. He snapped out of it for a moment and strutted proudly to the bow. He reached into his thick, worn blue wool jacket and pulled from its inner pocket a pair of golden binoculars. The cold, Amin wind grabbed the captain's neck and chilled it. He shivered for a bit, then raised the binoculars to his eyes. Sure enough, there were lights in the cove.
The captain walked to the under-dwellings of the Grandeur. He came to a door which was hanging half-way off of its hinges and had all kinds of strange trinkets and papers attached to the wood. An embossed golden plate read "Sir Aliar Temune the Third".
"Aliar!" the captain yelled, as he knocked and pushed the door open. Sitting with his legs up on his desk, reading a book, and smoking a pipe, an Elf jumped up to greet the captain. "Aye, sir," he spoke softly.
"There are lights in the cove. Any records of small towns north of the Lorelan?"
The Elf rose from his desk. The walls of his quarters were covered in strange maps and shrines. Statues of birds hung from the ceiling by thread. The floor was almost entirely covered in odd writings written in a barely legible hand. Aliar Temune was approaching his years, for an Elf. But he looked no older than the captain. He was a pale-face from around the Caldr River.
Aliar walked slowly to a desk on the far side of his quarters, near the small "window", dodging the writings strewn on the floor. He shuffled around a bit in this desk, and finally pulled forth an old, dusty document - made, perhaps, from mulberry parchment. He opened it and blew the dust away, coughing a bit in the process. He took some time and looked over the document.
"No, sir. The nearest town on the coast north of Lorelan is in Taiford. Otherwise, just sand and rocks."
"Thank you," said the captain. He walked back to the ship's deck and thought for a moment. He signaled the helmsman and ordered for the Grandeur to head for the cove.
As the Grandeur approached Drusefaell, Captain Steven noticed the lights in the cove beginning to flicker. He ordered a halt and for the ship to be anchored. The sun had completely set at this point, the air had become far colder, and the wind had quietly faded. He gathered an expedition team and boarded a small detachment vessel. The waves rocked the small ship as it was lowered into the sea. Eight men accompanied the captain. As they rowed to the rocks, the lights began to dim. They rowed faster. Finally, they set foot onto land, and glanced around. Nothing could be seen, and the lights were nowhere to be found. The men began to taunt one another with ghost stories and tales of tired ships. Captain Steven chuckled at this, and told his men to stay alert. They patrolled the cove for a bit and lit a fire, signaling for the Grandeur to send another expedition. Captain Steven ordered three of his men to search the far rocks, where earlier, from the ship, he had seen a cave. His men complied, but did not seem content with their new assignment.
A bit of time passed and the captain had lit his pipe. The other expedition arrived, and they assisted in the search for the mysterious lights. The small team the captain had sent to "the cave" had not returned, so he gathered all of his men. They would search for his missing crewmen together.
Meanwhile, the Elvish scholar Sir Aliar Temune III sat in his quarters reading and smoking. He suddenly dropped his book onto his desk and looked up, startled, his pipe hanging from his bottom lip. He quickly rose from his desk and walked to a dusty bookshelf. He had remembered, perhaps a bit too late, an old folk tale about lights on the mainland attempting to lure sailors. He rummaged through his books and finally found one titled Stories of the Merworld, Volume I. The erudite Elf searched and searched until finally he found one entry titled, "Of Lights and the Seer's Sacrifice". He read for a bit, dropped the book, and ran from his quarters and onto the deck. He ordered for an expedition ship. "It's an emergency," he told an officer on the deck. Complying, the officer gave him a ship and a few armored soldiers.
* * * * *
The captain and his expedition approached the caves. At first, there was no sign of the three men. Then, one man yelped as he stepped in a pool of blood. The soldiers drew their swords, the captain included, and approached cautiously. They walked slowly through the cave. It was an extensive network of caverns, and the team's lanterns cast eerie shadows on the rocky walls. Every now and then, a smear of blood was seen on the rock. The rock was damp and cold.
As they moved deeper into the caves, they began to hear chattering. It was obviously a language derived from common Merfolk tongue[1], but the captain could hardly understand it. Something about an altar, a sacrifice, and blood. At that moment, emerging from one of the passageways, a group of snake-like humanoids[2] slithered from the opening, holding long spears in their hands. They spoke in a strange Merfolk tongue, and the captain could not understand. He wished he had brought Aliar along. One thing was clear: their voices were raspy, meaning they could not survive on land for much longer. And that is when the sound of water could be heard rushing from the passageway.
The captain yelled to his men to bolt. The whole expedition began to run, with the Merfolk in pursuit. The captain glanced behind and noticed the surge of water fast approaching. The water swallowed the captain and his team, and ejected them from the cave.
* * * * *
Captain Steven awoke on the beach, staring at the face of Aliar, with the night's stars behind his features. The captain rose and grabbed his head. "You and those two men over there were the only survivors of that blast of water," spoke the Elvish scholar. The captain looked over to where Aliar was pointing and saw two sailors lying flat on the beach being tended to by other members of his crew. "I came as fast as I could. And that was a good thing, too," Aliar began. "When we landed, we saw all of you emerge from the cave with a burst of violent water. You are lucky you did not drown in that mess. Look there." Captain Steven looked at the cave, which was now a rushing waterfall. Beneath it lay the bodies of the Merfolk soldiers. "They tried to drag you away, but our swords were enough to halt them," Aliar finished.
Aliar told Captain Steven of the Merfolk tribes that once dotted this coastline. He told him of several stories involving towns from the inland leading Merfolk-hunts several centuries ago. It has long been thought the tribes had migrated to the western ridges of Greater Ainbridge, seeking unsettled coasts to carve their underwater caves. The tribes that once settled these coasts were obsessed with prophecy. They told of a great beast that would guide them to paradise. Other than that, Aliar seemed to lack information on the subject; a rare occurrence, in the captain's experience. "They seem to have returned" Aliar told the captain. "Surely, there is more information about these tribes at Balifeather[3]. What shall we do, sir?"
Notes
[1] Merfolk tongue: This refers to the broad category of the land languages of Merfolk, which are typically full of extreme rising and dropping tones (but differ depending on tribe and region). Merfolk speak an entirely different language when underwater, which has not been deciphered or even adequately heard.
[2] Snake-like humanoids: All types of Merfolk do not have legs, but some can travel on land by slithering with a snake-like body (perhaps eel-like would be more appropriate). However, the derogatory term "snake-people" (used by small town hunters) is scientifically inaccurate, as Merfolk are not related to snakes.
[3] Balifeather: (or Balifeather Library) A library in Rivetwood founded by Sir Aliar Temune. He guides a team of scholars there when he is not serving as a field scholar for the Commonwealth. The library specializes in the study of cultures, customs, religions, languages, and general anthropology.
Krilak lay still on the ridge. Snowflakes burned the flesh of his face that the scarf didn’t cover. The ground war already white. Soon, the paths would be too icey for the horses. But Krilak knew the price of returning to the Skyfather’s chosen emptyhanded.
Tiny figures approached through the pass below. He’d watched them ever since they were the tiniest dots riding down the road from Kelen. They carried no banner but soon Krilak would be able to mark what kind of men they were. If they were still men at all.
The road below led to Izkili, through the no man’s land of the Skychildren, the seven hills that lay between Oagramakandi and Heras-Fel. A few nomads lived here, but they knew better than to trouble riders bearings scarfs bearing the woven yellow and red of Izkric’s tribe.
Bruz wanted to leave a week ago. Krilak should have let him go, leave the watch to goblins who deserved the glory. But he would have been lost in the passes somehow and Krilak didn’t relish the though of explaining the loss to his under-chief.
The caravan grew closer. The carts were loaded with something wrapped in brown cloth. Long and thin, but he couldn’t puzzle out what they were. A pair of mounted warriors and a score of footmen accompanied the carts as they passed. It made no sense. He would watch and wait some more.
He heard the crunch of snow behind him.
Not even Bruz was dumb enough to make that kind of noise. Slowly, his hand went to his side, where a flip-blade hung from his belt. The crunching grew closer.
In one fluid motion Krilak was on his feet, his flip-blade out and covered with blood.
A man stood there, clutching his throat. A reddish black ichor oozed from his throat. A hand grabbed at the wound, then it made an unholy shriek. Krilak leapt forward, knocking the thing to the ground. He jammed the blade again and again into the things torso until it stopped squirming.
He pulled himself to his feet, panting. The eyes, there was something wrong with the eyes. He wasted precious seconds caught in the dead things gaze.
A horse cried out, bringing him back to reality. He ran down the path towards his comrades. A dozen of the things had mobbed the horses! Three of them thrashed against the horde.
Three? Where was the fourth?
“Bruz!” Krilak screamed, but the coward was long gone.
He couldn’t fight through a dozen of the things. He looked to his left. The drop was four times his height, but what choice did he have. Perhaps the caravan would save him. Or perhaps not. He closed his eyes, gave a silent prayer to the Skyfather then threw himself down the hillside.
************************************************************************************
On the first day of Amin-Ichir, the rightful Prince of Kelen came to the halls of King Bokra. The man had come to the King every season for the past year, each time asking the same question, but a single word “When?”
The King replied the same every time. “When it is time.”
The Prince accepted at first but grew frustrated with the King’s words. When he came on that day in the year of the lizard he had different questions, for time had not been kind to the army without a kingdom. “My King, we need metal, horses, or I fear that my men will be too weak to fight when it is time.”
And the King said to him, “Metal we have in abundance, but horses we do not, for I fear that the slight horses of the goblins are not meant for you. But in Lorenthia, there are many horses and I shall send for my sister the duchess to send us proper horses.”
“That is good.” Said the Prince. “But I still have fears. It is said that the orks are fierce in battle and when roused are liable to destroy their own prizes. I seek assurances that my people will be safe when we liberate them.”
The King thought, as he always does when asked such a question, for he knew his own people but he also knew the ignorance that others had, born of stories from wild orcs like the Helisk and the Kayuga. “My Prince, you have but to look around you for your assurances. Was Dhirum sacked when it was taken? Was Morain? Was Izkili? No, for it was not the people we sought to punish, it was the people we sought to free, as it is doubly so with your people.”
The Prince was satisfied with the answer, but had one more question. “I fear that the demons who rule my land will slay too many of my people. Kelen was once a great city. I ask that you bring me new peasants to replace those have been slain, for a fear that my great city will crumble without the people to maintain it.”
The King nodded at the Prince. He was the sign of a true leader, for this was a question not born of fear or ignorance or the needs of the moment, but a worry that showed foresight and care for his kingdom. Yet the King would not break his own laws to help his ally. He thought long before he answered. “My brother Prince, I cannot force the people to move, but I will aid you. I will make it known throughout my realm and that of all the lands that my people travel through that there is land and wealth to be had in your realm for those with the courage to take it. They will flock to the empty farms for a chance such as this, and I shall ensure that any who choose to come to Kelen will arrive safely.”
The Prince was pleased with his answers for now, but a season hence, he would return with the same question. “When?”
(All chronicle posts will take liberties with actual events to portray things from the Oagramakandian point of view)
************************************************************************************
“He will return, my liege. Soon. His people will melt away if they don’t see movement.”
Bokra sighed. Loremaster Kortec was a master of the obvious. Bokra kept him around mostly as an early warning system. If even Kortec could see a man’s intent, Bokra could know whether he had any use. Also, he had an excellent singing voice. “He will get his war soon enough.”
Loremaster Tyr had none of Kortec’s failings. He had plenty of his own, an unreasonably pessimistic nature being one of them, “Are you so eager to earn your Oag? Heras-Fel has never touched us. They live in fear of our power, but only because they haven’t tested it yet. When they see you are not invincible, it will open the floodgates, not just from attacks by the cult, but from Madraga, or northern nomads, or the remnants of the Koani elves. Don’t gamble your kingdom on a war. It took many lives to Brana and Brakaman to learn the lesson of the value of peace.”
“I know better than any what lessons my grandfather learned. I don’t wan a war, but a war is what we need. Heras-Fel has grown strong because we didn’t make a stand when we should have. My father was weak. If we’d stood with Kelen or Tena, we wouldn’t need a war today, and we wouldn’t risk nearly as much.”
“Your father was a good king. He kept the peace.” Tyr
“But he was also a weak one.” Kortec offered.
Bokra raised a hand to prevent an inevitable argument. He would not repeat the mistakes of his father by listening to Tyr. “Send for Loremaster Kvan. Tell him to summon his best journeymen. He will need them.”
The two bowed and walked backwards out of the hall. Bokra waited, deep in thought.
************************************************************************************
Oan knelt in the doorway to Loremaster Kvan’s room. The old orc was hunched over a desk writing. The sun shone through the large stained glass window, covering the room in a many-coloured glow. It showed Lord Mok when he cast aside him sword to take up the loremaster’s robes. Oan had always liked it. He felt a kinship with Mok, caught between the pulls of two worlds.
The Loremaster looked up, finally, and stared at his apprentice. His eyes were always neutral, devoid of emotion, despite the liveliness that filled his voice and body. Oan had tried to learn that stare, but he lacked the control over his mind to do it. But even Kvan wasn’t perfect. Oan felt the judgment in those eyes as they glaced over his sword and armour. He worse the cloak of the loremaster too, but it seemed those eyes never noticed that. They never noticed the compromises Oan had made, only those he had yet to make.
He tried to tell himself that he didn’t care but deep inside it still stung, even after all these years. Kvan motioned for Oan to stand by the window. He did.
He contemplated Mok. Master of the two contrary trades. But Oan didn’t see the contradictions. Don’t soldiers have stories? Don’t loremasters fight a war of words and ideas? With sword and word he would defend the realm, no matter how ungrateful it’s servants. Before he was laid to rest, he would write his own story, just as Mok did.
He had much time to contemplate. The other loremasters apprenticed to Kvan were slow in coming. Eventually, they all arrived. Normally, Kvan liked to teach one on one, or at most in groups of three. Today’s lesson must be important.
“There will be no formal lesson today. Your King has seen fit to gives send you into the world. I support him in this. I know you better than I know my own children and I know that each of you will do your duty.”
He was a good liar. Oan almost believed him.
“You have heard the rumours of war for some time now. They are true. We march against Heras-Fel once the snows have melted. We will fight beside our kingdom, but in our way. We fight the war of words so that it is our story that rules the minds of men and orc.”
“Each of you will take six mounted warriors and go to the court of the realm I tell you. I will give each of you’re a scroll with the details of your assignment. The cultists of Heras-Fel are said to have more soldiers than we have in our legions, so we must even the odds.”
“You will convince the lords of these realms to send us warriors to fight the cultists. Bring with you the stories of Kelen and Tena. Bring one of Borcas’ men if you see fit to do so. Some of them linger in Mokata with their prince, surely he will not begrudge us a few warriors for this purpose. Whatever you do, make sure they understand that this is a threat that all kingdoms must face. Oagramakandi holds more souls than any other kingdom, should we fail, the necromancers will be unstoppable.”
He grabbed the first of his scrolls. “Kotyr!”
The least of the journeymen stepped forward, nervous.
“You will go to Onyd. They are the key to this. They are afraid of the cult and will likely need little persuasion, but this assignment is important all the same. Without them, we are likely to fail.”
The orc took the scroll and bowed out of the room.
“Jormun, Kortyl! You go to Dorn and Sonol. They should know that they are as weak as Tena and Kelen were, and even more likely to fall if we do. Even should the cultists leave them alone, the loss of our nation would impoverish their merchants. I do not expect them to send many warriors, but they should see the sense if sending us something.”
“Mokat! You will go to Lorenathia, where your brother serves as our ambassador. He will help you. Tell the Lorenathians that their vassals on the plains are sure to abandon them forever if Lorenathia is seen to abandon them to Heras-Fel.”
“Kizzi!”
The goblin stepped forward, the other outcast among them.
“You will go to Arrek. You will understand them better than any of us will. Bribe their warriors with promises of wealth if you have to.”
“Aggo!”
The only human loremaster Oan had ever known stepped forward, a proud older man of the steppes.
“Go to the Green Cloaks. The cultists have powerful magic and we will need more than just our shamans to overpower them in the realm of the gods. Hire a band of powerful magic users trained to counter the necromantic arts.”
“Gorn! Helisk. Your task there may be difficult, but the War Party is strong there. They seek blood and honour, and we can give them both without risking their city. Play on their fears and their ambitions. We are the two great orc societies, and need each other more than any other states.”
Oan’s lip twitched. He surpressed the face he wanted to make. Helisk should have been his. How could these weak ones in robes understand the ways of the warrior? The room was nearly empty now, surely the next assignment would be his
“Chicri!”
An Endichi stepped forward.
“You will go to the Kayuga. Your people are as their, strong mountain orcs, friends to the mountain spirits, bring them down on the cult and their spirits too. Promise them battle, plunder, and eternal friendship.”
The Endichi bowed and left with his scroll, leaving Oan alone with his master. He dug his fingers into his palms to control his anger. “Master, the Kayuga should have been mine.”
Kvan shook his head.
A trickle of blood dripped from Oan’s left hand.
“No Oan, that is not your place. I have saved for you perhaps the most difficult task of all. You will go to Madraga.”
“Madraga? The elves hate us and they occupy land that is rightfully Mokano!”
“And so you see why this is the most difficult task of all. Yet it is the most essential. If Madraga is an enemy, then we must leave two of the eight legions in the south. They will be sorely missed on the front. But I have faith in you, Oan. I finally have a use for your talents.”
“Go to the elves and show them what an orc warrior is. Tell them that the cult will come for them, as surely as they have come for all the others and will surely come for us. Elves are different from us. They have long lives and longer memories. But they think in the long term too. They will see the truth of these words, and reason may defeat the old grudges. But you will not come empty-handed. Make sure that they know Oagramakandi remembers too. We remember who our friends are and we are willing to throw away the old grudges too. It has been a long time since we lived in their forests, and we shall abandon our right to return if they help us in this hour of need that threatens all of Sekai.” The old orc paused for a moment, as if looking for a word.
Oan answered the unasked question, “And should they refuse, we shall remember that their land was once ours and will be again, for we remember those who stand to the side as surely as we remember those who stand beside us.”
The old orc smiled. “You have learned something. Now go, and show the world all that you have learned. Your training is over, but your education is only now beginning.”
(OOC: I was going to write a few stories for the more important, or at least PC related, envoys but I’ve already hit 2500 for tonight and that’s just not going to be feasible. Take some liberties with what the envoys say if you want. Also, I couldn't stats for Madraga.)
Tiny figures approached through the pass below. He’d watched them ever since they were the tiniest dots riding down the road from Kelen. They carried no banner but soon Krilak would be able to mark what kind of men they were. If they were still men at all.
The road below led to Izkili, through the no man’s land of the Skychildren, the seven hills that lay between Oagramakandi and Heras-Fel. A few nomads lived here, but they knew better than to trouble riders bearings scarfs bearing the woven yellow and red of Izkric’s tribe.
Bruz wanted to leave a week ago. Krilak should have let him go, leave the watch to goblins who deserved the glory. But he would have been lost in the passes somehow and Krilak didn’t relish the though of explaining the loss to his under-chief.
The caravan grew closer. The carts were loaded with something wrapped in brown cloth. Long and thin, but he couldn’t puzzle out what they were. A pair of mounted warriors and a score of footmen accompanied the carts as they passed. It made no sense. He would watch and wait some more.
He heard the crunch of snow behind him.
Not even Bruz was dumb enough to make that kind of noise. Slowly, his hand went to his side, where a flip-blade hung from his belt. The crunching grew closer.
In one fluid motion Krilak was on his feet, his flip-blade out and covered with blood.
A man stood there, clutching his throat. A reddish black ichor oozed from his throat. A hand grabbed at the wound, then it made an unholy shriek. Krilak leapt forward, knocking the thing to the ground. He jammed the blade again and again into the things torso until it stopped squirming.
He pulled himself to his feet, panting. The eyes, there was something wrong with the eyes. He wasted precious seconds caught in the dead things gaze.
A horse cried out, bringing him back to reality. He ran down the path towards his comrades. A dozen of the things had mobbed the horses! Three of them thrashed against the horde.
Three? Where was the fourth?
“Bruz!” Krilak screamed, but the coward was long gone.
He couldn’t fight through a dozen of the things. He looked to his left. The drop was four times his height, but what choice did he have. Perhaps the caravan would save him. Or perhaps not. He closed his eyes, gave a silent prayer to the Skyfather then threw himself down the hillside.
************************************************************************************
On the first day of Amin-Ichir, the rightful Prince of Kelen came to the halls of King Bokra. The man had come to the King every season for the past year, each time asking the same question, but a single word “When?”
The King replied the same every time. “When it is time.”
The Prince accepted at first but grew frustrated with the King’s words. When he came on that day in the year of the lizard he had different questions, for time had not been kind to the army without a kingdom. “My King, we need metal, horses, or I fear that my men will be too weak to fight when it is time.”
And the King said to him, “Metal we have in abundance, but horses we do not, for I fear that the slight horses of the goblins are not meant for you. But in Lorenthia, there are many horses and I shall send for my sister the duchess to send us proper horses.”
“That is good.” Said the Prince. “But I still have fears. It is said that the orks are fierce in battle and when roused are liable to destroy their own prizes. I seek assurances that my people will be safe when we liberate them.”
The King thought, as he always does when asked such a question, for he knew his own people but he also knew the ignorance that others had, born of stories from wild orcs like the Helisk and the Kayuga. “My Prince, you have but to look around you for your assurances. Was Dhirum sacked when it was taken? Was Morain? Was Izkili? No, for it was not the people we sought to punish, it was the people we sought to free, as it is doubly so with your people.”
The Prince was satisfied with the answer, but had one more question. “I fear that the demons who rule my land will slay too many of my people. Kelen was once a great city. I ask that you bring me new peasants to replace those have been slain, for a fear that my great city will crumble without the people to maintain it.”
The King nodded at the Prince. He was the sign of a true leader, for this was a question not born of fear or ignorance or the needs of the moment, but a worry that showed foresight and care for his kingdom. Yet the King would not break his own laws to help his ally. He thought long before he answered. “My brother Prince, I cannot force the people to move, but I will aid you. I will make it known throughout my realm and that of all the lands that my people travel through that there is land and wealth to be had in your realm for those with the courage to take it. They will flock to the empty farms for a chance such as this, and I shall ensure that any who choose to come to Kelen will arrive safely.”
The Prince was pleased with his answers for now, but a season hence, he would return with the same question. “When?”
(All chronicle posts will take liberties with actual events to portray things from the Oagramakandian point of view)
************************************************************************************
“He will return, my liege. Soon. His people will melt away if they don’t see movement.”
Bokra sighed. Loremaster Kortec was a master of the obvious. Bokra kept him around mostly as an early warning system. If even Kortec could see a man’s intent, Bokra could know whether he had any use. Also, he had an excellent singing voice. “He will get his war soon enough.”
Loremaster Tyr had none of Kortec’s failings. He had plenty of his own, an unreasonably pessimistic nature being one of them, “Are you so eager to earn your Oag? Heras-Fel has never touched us. They live in fear of our power, but only because they haven’t tested it yet. When they see you are not invincible, it will open the floodgates, not just from attacks by the cult, but from Madraga, or northern nomads, or the remnants of the Koani elves. Don’t gamble your kingdom on a war. It took many lives to Brana and Brakaman to learn the lesson of the value of peace.”
“I know better than any what lessons my grandfather learned. I don’t wan a war, but a war is what we need. Heras-Fel has grown strong because we didn’t make a stand when we should have. My father was weak. If we’d stood with Kelen or Tena, we wouldn’t need a war today, and we wouldn’t risk nearly as much.”
“Your father was a good king. He kept the peace.” Tyr
“But he was also a weak one.” Kortec offered.
Bokra raised a hand to prevent an inevitable argument. He would not repeat the mistakes of his father by listening to Tyr. “Send for Loremaster Kvan. Tell him to summon his best journeymen. He will need them.”
The two bowed and walked backwards out of the hall. Bokra waited, deep in thought.
************************************************************************************
Oan knelt in the doorway to Loremaster Kvan’s room. The old orc was hunched over a desk writing. The sun shone through the large stained glass window, covering the room in a many-coloured glow. It showed Lord Mok when he cast aside him sword to take up the loremaster’s robes. Oan had always liked it. He felt a kinship with Mok, caught between the pulls of two worlds.
The Loremaster looked up, finally, and stared at his apprentice. His eyes were always neutral, devoid of emotion, despite the liveliness that filled his voice and body. Oan had tried to learn that stare, but he lacked the control over his mind to do it. But even Kvan wasn’t perfect. Oan felt the judgment in those eyes as they glaced over his sword and armour. He worse the cloak of the loremaster too, but it seemed those eyes never noticed that. They never noticed the compromises Oan had made, only those he had yet to make.
He tried to tell himself that he didn’t care but deep inside it still stung, even after all these years. Kvan motioned for Oan to stand by the window. He did.
He contemplated Mok. Master of the two contrary trades. But Oan didn’t see the contradictions. Don’t soldiers have stories? Don’t loremasters fight a war of words and ideas? With sword and word he would defend the realm, no matter how ungrateful it’s servants. Before he was laid to rest, he would write his own story, just as Mok did.
He had much time to contemplate. The other loremasters apprenticed to Kvan were slow in coming. Eventually, they all arrived. Normally, Kvan liked to teach one on one, or at most in groups of three. Today’s lesson must be important.
“There will be no formal lesson today. Your King has seen fit to gives send you into the world. I support him in this. I know you better than I know my own children and I know that each of you will do your duty.”
He was a good liar. Oan almost believed him.
“You have heard the rumours of war for some time now. They are true. We march against Heras-Fel once the snows have melted. We will fight beside our kingdom, but in our way. We fight the war of words so that it is our story that rules the minds of men and orc.”
“Each of you will take six mounted warriors and go to the court of the realm I tell you. I will give each of you’re a scroll with the details of your assignment. The cultists of Heras-Fel are said to have more soldiers than we have in our legions, so we must even the odds.”
“You will convince the lords of these realms to send us warriors to fight the cultists. Bring with you the stories of Kelen and Tena. Bring one of Borcas’ men if you see fit to do so. Some of them linger in Mokata with their prince, surely he will not begrudge us a few warriors for this purpose. Whatever you do, make sure they understand that this is a threat that all kingdoms must face. Oagramakandi holds more souls than any other kingdom, should we fail, the necromancers will be unstoppable.”
He grabbed the first of his scrolls. “Kotyr!”
The least of the journeymen stepped forward, nervous.
“You will go to Onyd. They are the key to this. They are afraid of the cult and will likely need little persuasion, but this assignment is important all the same. Without them, we are likely to fail.”
The orc took the scroll and bowed out of the room.
“Jormun, Kortyl! You go to Dorn and Sonol. They should know that they are as weak as Tena and Kelen were, and even more likely to fall if we do. Even should the cultists leave them alone, the loss of our nation would impoverish their merchants. I do not expect them to send many warriors, but they should see the sense if sending us something.”
“Mokat! You will go to Lorenathia, where your brother serves as our ambassador. He will help you. Tell the Lorenathians that their vassals on the plains are sure to abandon them forever if Lorenathia is seen to abandon them to Heras-Fel.”
“Kizzi!”
The goblin stepped forward, the other outcast among them.
“You will go to Arrek. You will understand them better than any of us will. Bribe their warriors with promises of wealth if you have to.”
“Aggo!”
The only human loremaster Oan had ever known stepped forward, a proud older man of the steppes.
“Go to the Green Cloaks. The cultists have powerful magic and we will need more than just our shamans to overpower them in the realm of the gods. Hire a band of powerful magic users trained to counter the necromantic arts.”
“Gorn! Helisk. Your task there may be difficult, but the War Party is strong there. They seek blood and honour, and we can give them both without risking their city. Play on their fears and their ambitions. We are the two great orc societies, and need each other more than any other states.”
Oan’s lip twitched. He surpressed the face he wanted to make. Helisk should have been his. How could these weak ones in robes understand the ways of the warrior? The room was nearly empty now, surely the next assignment would be his
“Chicri!”
An Endichi stepped forward.
“You will go to the Kayuga. Your people are as their, strong mountain orcs, friends to the mountain spirits, bring them down on the cult and their spirits too. Promise them battle, plunder, and eternal friendship.”
The Endichi bowed and left with his scroll, leaving Oan alone with his master. He dug his fingers into his palms to control his anger. “Master, the Kayuga should have been mine.”
Kvan shook his head.
A trickle of blood dripped from Oan’s left hand.
“No Oan, that is not your place. I have saved for you perhaps the most difficult task of all. You will go to Madraga.”
“Madraga? The elves hate us and they occupy land that is rightfully Mokano!”
“And so you see why this is the most difficult task of all. Yet it is the most essential. If Madraga is an enemy, then we must leave two of the eight legions in the south. They will be sorely missed on the front. But I have faith in you, Oan. I finally have a use for your talents.”
“Go to the elves and show them what an orc warrior is. Tell them that the cult will come for them, as surely as they have come for all the others and will surely come for us. Elves are different from us. They have long lives and longer memories. But they think in the long term too. They will see the truth of these words, and reason may defeat the old grudges. But you will not come empty-handed. Make sure that they know Oagramakandi remembers too. We remember who our friends are and we are willing to throw away the old grudges too. It has been a long time since we lived in their forests, and we shall abandon our right to return if they help us in this hour of need that threatens all of Sekai.” The old orc paused for a moment, as if looking for a word.
Oan answered the unasked question, “And should they refuse, we shall remember that their land was once ours and will be again, for we remember those who stand to the side as surely as we remember those who stand beside us.”
The old orc smiled. “You have learned something. Now go, and show the world all that you have learned. Your training is over, but your education is only now beginning.”
(OOC: I was going to write a few stories for the more important, or at least PC related, envoys but I’ve already hit 2500 for tonight and that’s just not going to be feasible. Take some liberties with what the envoys say if you want. Also, I couldn't stats for Madraga.)
Seon
Not An Evil Liar
Eliri
Farel paused before the bar. It was a bustling place, with travelers and the local drunks going in and out once in a while. It was, after all, where many of them came to listen in on the hottest gossips of the city after all.
The letter in his pockets felt as if it had been dipped in acid.
Farel gulped and opened the doors to the bar.
All the eyes in the world focused on hi-
but it was only an illusion. Everybody continued drinking and chattering like normal.
Farel found the courage and walked up to the bartender.
"Hello, Mr. Farel!" the bartender said, beaming. Farel had never been to the bar before. "You look nervous! Here, have a drink. On the house!"
The bartender placed a cup of ale in front of Farel. Farel grabbed at it, spilling some in the process. He hadn't noticed that he was shaking before.
"You look nervous, sire," the bartender went on. "Miss Clemenza there may help you... loosen up a little. For a fee, of course." The bartender winked. A charming woman in a slightly revealing dress suddenly appeared right beside Farel, held his arms, and giggled.
"We have a room prepared upstairs just for a situation like this," the bartender said. Farel felt his body become limp as he was half-dragged to an upstairs bedroom.
"I have a message fro-"
"Shh," said Clemenza. "Relax. You are stiff. You may be seen. You were followed after all."
"Are you sure nobody would have noticed that?"
"You and a dozen other random idiot who came into the bar. It's called noise tactic. People don't know if this is a random procedure or something that we arranged beforehand. Hell. Sometimes our own people act as said random idiots."
Farel didn't dare ask what she did with the other dozen idiots.
"So," Clemenza said. She sat on the couch in the room and leaned back. "What's up?"
"I have a message from Lord Trin," Farel said. "He consents." He pulled out a letter and a small bag filled with uncut gemstones from his pockets and tossed it to Clemenza.
Clemenza chuckled as she felt the gemstones through the bag. She hid it within her dress somewhere. The thing had surprisingly many pockets. "Tell him that... we will get to work immediately."
"Then am I free to go now?"
Clemenza shrugged. "You've been in this room for only a minute. Unless you want to have... a bad reputation... with the woman of this town from now on, you may want to wait for a couple of more minutes here."
"What are you... oh, right." Farel said.
"Or you could pay me 15 extra gold coins," Clemenza suggested.
30 minutes later, Farel left looking visibly less unnerved. The bartender nodded at a couple of armed men sitting next to the bar.
"Follow him. Make sure he gets home safe," the bartender said. The armed men grunted and quickly left the bar.
Clemenza walked down the stairs. Her hair looked disheveled. Bartender frowned. "You've been up there for quite a while," he said.
"We had a long discussion," Clemenza replied. Bartender chuckled.
..................................................................................................................
Elsewhere in Eliri
"Really? Tell me more about it," Samuel said. The two courteseans hugging his arms giggled.
"Well, Mister Ferinth has a rather... strange taste! He likes us to do..."
They both described a situation which Samuel couldn't help but visibly recoil. He would have to try to wipe this memory out when the job was finished. The courteseans giggled at his reaction.
"And he said he's a pirate!" one of the girls said.
"But don't tell anyone!" the other quickly said.
"It's a secret!"
Samuel nodded. "Of course, ma'am. Your secrets are safe with me." So old Mister Ferinth, the wealthy merchant, was the pirate. No wonder why the Guild couldn't easily find his financial records.
"So," Samuel said, moving on. "I am assuming that you two go along with him even to parties? Doesn't his wife object?"
"Oh no, he's unmarried," the courtesean said. "But you are right! He does go to parties!"
"Hell, do you remember when we went to the house of..."
"Yeah! That guy what'shisname... Right! He was there too..."
Flurry of names as the courteseans began chatting. Samuel quickly committed them all to his memories. Names. Contacts. They would all become important later on. Samuel smiled and continued on the conversation...
..............................................................................................................
Outskirts of Eliri. Night.
"Sir, what are we doing here again?" the apprentice assassin said.
"We," the senior assassin replied. "Are waiting outside the home of the one of the most well-known pirates of the city. Keep it down. They can't see us from in there, but they might hear us. Then we'll have to do this all over again."
The apprentice assassin nodded. "But what do we accomplish by doing this?"
"Pirates are secretive bunch, at least in Eliri. They are infiltrating the city, but they can't risk the direct wrath of Lord Trin just yet," the senior assassin said. "They might meet together at night to discuss things. Or they might send a courior out. Then we follow the courior to wherever he goes and then we'll be able to know the identities of TWO pirates. Or alternatively we just shoot the courior, get the letter, and deduce information from him. Workes either way."
"Oh, I see," the apprentice said. "When do we sleep?"
"At day," the senior assassin said. "Don't worry. You'll adjust to this life sooner or later."
"If you say so," the apprentice moaned.
Farel paused before the bar. It was a bustling place, with travelers and the local drunks going in and out once in a while. It was, after all, where many of them came to listen in on the hottest gossips of the city after all.
The letter in his pockets felt as if it had been dipped in acid.
Farel gulped and opened the doors to the bar.
All the eyes in the world focused on hi-
but it was only an illusion. Everybody continued drinking and chattering like normal.
Farel found the courage and walked up to the bartender.
"Hello, Mr. Farel!" the bartender said, beaming. Farel had never been to the bar before. "You look nervous! Here, have a drink. On the house!"
The bartender placed a cup of ale in front of Farel. Farel grabbed at it, spilling some in the process. He hadn't noticed that he was shaking before.
"You look nervous, sire," the bartender went on. "Miss Clemenza there may help you... loosen up a little. For a fee, of course." The bartender winked. A charming woman in a slightly revealing dress suddenly appeared right beside Farel, held his arms, and giggled.
"We have a room prepared upstairs just for a situation like this," the bartender said. Farel felt his body become limp as he was half-dragged to an upstairs bedroom.
"I have a message fro-"
"Shh," said Clemenza. "Relax. You are stiff. You may be seen. You were followed after all."
"Are you sure nobody would have noticed that?"
"You and a dozen other random idiot who came into the bar. It's called noise tactic. People don't know if this is a random procedure or something that we arranged beforehand. Hell. Sometimes our own people act as said random idiots."
Farel didn't dare ask what she did with the other dozen idiots.
"So," Clemenza said. She sat on the couch in the room and leaned back. "What's up?"
"I have a message from Lord Trin," Farel said. "He consents." He pulled out a letter and a small bag filled with uncut gemstones from his pockets and tossed it to Clemenza.
Clemenza chuckled as she felt the gemstones through the bag. She hid it within her dress somewhere. The thing had surprisingly many pockets. "Tell him that... we will get to work immediately."
"Then am I free to go now?"
Clemenza shrugged. "You've been in this room for only a minute. Unless you want to have... a bad reputation... with the woman of this town from now on, you may want to wait for a couple of more minutes here."
"What are you... oh, right." Farel said.
"Or you could pay me 15 extra gold coins," Clemenza suggested.
30 minutes later, Farel left looking visibly less unnerved. The bartender nodded at a couple of armed men sitting next to the bar.
"Follow him. Make sure he gets home safe," the bartender said. The armed men grunted and quickly left the bar.
Clemenza walked down the stairs. Her hair looked disheveled. Bartender frowned. "You've been up there for quite a while," he said.
"We had a long discussion," Clemenza replied. Bartender chuckled.
..................................................................................................................
Elsewhere in Eliri
"Really? Tell me more about it," Samuel said. The two courteseans hugging his arms giggled.
"Well, Mister Ferinth has a rather... strange taste! He likes us to do..."
They both described a situation which Samuel couldn't help but visibly recoil. He would have to try to wipe this memory out when the job was finished. The courteseans giggled at his reaction.
"And he said he's a pirate!" one of the girls said.
"But don't tell anyone!" the other quickly said.
"It's a secret!"
Samuel nodded. "Of course, ma'am. Your secrets are safe with me." So old Mister Ferinth, the wealthy merchant, was the pirate. No wonder why the Guild couldn't easily find his financial records.
"So," Samuel said, moving on. "I am assuming that you two go along with him even to parties? Doesn't his wife object?"
"Oh no, he's unmarried," the courtesean said. "But you are right! He does go to parties!"
"Hell, do you remember when we went to the house of..."
"Yeah! That guy what'shisname... Right! He was there too..."
Flurry of names as the courteseans began chatting. Samuel quickly committed them all to his memories. Names. Contacts. They would all become important later on. Samuel smiled and continued on the conversation...
..............................................................................................................
Outskirts of Eliri. Night.
"Sir, what are we doing here again?" the apprentice assassin said.
"We," the senior assassin replied. "Are waiting outside the home of the one of the most well-known pirates of the city. Keep it down. They can't see us from in there, but they might hear us. Then we'll have to do this all over again."
The apprentice assassin nodded. "But what do we accomplish by doing this?"
"Pirates are secretive bunch, at least in Eliri. They are infiltrating the city, but they can't risk the direct wrath of Lord Trin just yet," the senior assassin said. "They might meet together at night to discuss things. Or they might send a courior out. Then we follow the courior to wherever he goes and then we'll be able to know the identities of TWO pirates. Or alternatively we just shoot the courior, get the letter, and deduce information from him. Workes either way."
"Oh, I see," the apprentice said. "When do we sleep?"
"At day," the senior assassin said. "Don't worry. You'll adjust to this life sooner or later."
"If you say so," the apprentice moaned.
kkmo
世界
- Joined
- May 22, 2008
- Messages
- 1,245
OOC: OK, some now. The major ones will come later.
IC:
The center of the world is Oagramakandi. The center of that is Mokata. Even still, the center goes further, to our very hearts and where wisdom can no longer see light.
In Onyd, Kotyr brings Lore
Prince Alidon strutted around his chambers, furious. Something was amiss with his advisors, and most of all, his knight-order. They refused to go to war or participate in the activities of the Harbingers. No matter. Hundreds of capable men had flocked into Onyd from the countryside, eager to serve a prince they view as competent. Still, Prince Alidon had fought with some of his principality's knights. They had served him well. Why do they sit in taverns, drinking ale and fondling whores? The dark cult is upon this realm.
Meanwhile, Kotyr the Loremaster rode in with his entourage through the poorly-kept city gates, after riding through towns after towns that had been emptied of young men. Something grim floated around this realm, and as Kotyr entered Onyd's gate district, he suddenly felt dozens of pairs of eyes staring at his frame. He could see Prince Alidon's court down a long, narrow corridor flanked by empty shops and taverns. He proceeded with care. The moment a dagger flew towards his neck, missing by a hair, Kotyr began to make haste.
Onyd will most certainly join Oagramakandi in their war against the cult. However, something is strange with the knight-order. Prince Alidon's personal army, the Harbingers, would be more suitable. The alarmist prince believes his knight-order to be cursed. As for the Esalos priesthood: they have remained suspiciously silent, but have consistently blessed Onyd to keep it safe from demons. They see the Orcs as heathens as well, but Prince Alidon does not follow their words. To accept a small army from Onyd is to accept the fact that they will attach missionary-priests to this army.
Temporary: +6 companies of "Onyd Harbingers", description as zealous Human soldiers with minor Elvish elements.
In Dorn, Jormun brings Lore
Dorn is close to Lorenathia, and the regal air can be smelled the closer one gets to the old city's gates. To seek help from Dorn is to seek help from Lorenathia, but perhaps some semblance of autonomy can be seen from the crumbling walls, crawling with browned snowy vines and coated in frozen moss.
Jormun is greeted at the gates by men wearing white cloaks with black fringe. They have large, golden crosses in their hands and they move them in a circular motion[1] as Jormun enters the gate. The commoners stared at Jormun as he passed them by, their faces reflecting old glory they no longer had a grasp of.
Prince Finedin, upon hearing Jormun, is startled. There are some Orcs in Dorn, but none who are so educated. He stuffed his face with turkey, poured wine down his throat, and gnashed dolumet-size[2] grapes between his teeth, spilling juices onto the large wooden table.
Dorn will think about this request. The city has little to spare and our priests believe this threat to be passing. Do not listen to the alarmist words of my brother in Onyd. He seeks conflict because he no longer vies for the throne in Senathia.
In Sonol, Kortyl brings Lore
This task would be most difficult. Sonol and the Kingdom do not have the most friendly of relations. Sonol was once a power to be reckoned with in the great road, but now it is crumbling at its edges. A rather large chapter of Oagramakandi merchants lives in Sonol, and they personally greet Kortyl and take him on a tour through the dying realm. Despite its status, the winter-morning markets are still somewhat bustling, though the priests here give nasty glares to Kortyl and his entourage.
Adjacent to Prince Wandil's court is a massive cathedral, now largely empty and with only a small order of priests and nuns.
Sonol will assist Oagramakandi, though the city will only offer a dozen priests.
Temporary: +12 Sonolite priests of the Order of Esalos, description as quite powerful, though inexperienced, priest-mages.
Of course, thought Kortyl. Such a thing for the Sonolites to do.
Notes
[1] The Priests of Esalos move their crosses in a circular motion to represent the never-ending life, and the circle of reincarnation, of the True God.
[2] The dolumer was the largest coin in the coinage system used by old Senathia. Pieces of it still float around and are worth a hefty sum.
IC:
The center of the world is Oagramakandi. The center of that is Mokata. Even still, the center goes further, to our very hearts and where wisdom can no longer see light.
In Onyd, Kotyr brings Lore
Prince Alidon strutted around his chambers, furious. Something was amiss with his advisors, and most of all, his knight-order. They refused to go to war or participate in the activities of the Harbingers. No matter. Hundreds of capable men had flocked into Onyd from the countryside, eager to serve a prince they view as competent. Still, Prince Alidon had fought with some of his principality's knights. They had served him well. Why do they sit in taverns, drinking ale and fondling whores? The dark cult is upon this realm.
Meanwhile, Kotyr the Loremaster rode in with his entourage through the poorly-kept city gates, after riding through towns after towns that had been emptied of young men. Something grim floated around this realm, and as Kotyr entered Onyd's gate district, he suddenly felt dozens of pairs of eyes staring at his frame. He could see Prince Alidon's court down a long, narrow corridor flanked by empty shops and taverns. He proceeded with care. The moment a dagger flew towards his neck, missing by a hair, Kotyr began to make haste.
Onyd will most certainly join Oagramakandi in their war against the cult. However, something is strange with the knight-order. Prince Alidon's personal army, the Harbingers, would be more suitable. The alarmist prince believes his knight-order to be cursed. As for the Esalos priesthood: they have remained suspiciously silent, but have consistently blessed Onyd to keep it safe from demons. They see the Orcs as heathens as well, but Prince Alidon does not follow their words. To accept a small army from Onyd is to accept the fact that they will attach missionary-priests to this army.
Temporary: +6 companies of "Onyd Harbingers", description as zealous Human soldiers with minor Elvish elements.
In Dorn, Jormun brings Lore
Dorn is close to Lorenathia, and the regal air can be smelled the closer one gets to the old city's gates. To seek help from Dorn is to seek help from Lorenathia, but perhaps some semblance of autonomy can be seen from the crumbling walls, crawling with browned snowy vines and coated in frozen moss.
Jormun is greeted at the gates by men wearing white cloaks with black fringe. They have large, golden crosses in their hands and they move them in a circular motion[1] as Jormun enters the gate. The commoners stared at Jormun as he passed them by, their faces reflecting old glory they no longer had a grasp of.
Prince Finedin, upon hearing Jormun, is startled. There are some Orcs in Dorn, but none who are so educated. He stuffed his face with turkey, poured wine down his throat, and gnashed dolumet-size[2] grapes between his teeth, spilling juices onto the large wooden table.
Dorn will think about this request. The city has little to spare and our priests believe this threat to be passing. Do not listen to the alarmist words of my brother in Onyd. He seeks conflict because he no longer vies for the throne in Senathia.
In Sonol, Kortyl brings Lore
This task would be most difficult. Sonol and the Kingdom do not have the most friendly of relations. Sonol was once a power to be reckoned with in the great road, but now it is crumbling at its edges. A rather large chapter of Oagramakandi merchants lives in Sonol, and they personally greet Kortyl and take him on a tour through the dying realm. Despite its status, the winter-morning markets are still somewhat bustling, though the priests here give nasty glares to Kortyl and his entourage.
Adjacent to Prince Wandil's court is a massive cathedral, now largely empty and with only a small order of priests and nuns.
Sonol will assist Oagramakandi, though the city will only offer a dozen priests.
Temporary: +12 Sonolite priests of the Order of Esalos, description as quite powerful, though inexperienced, priest-mages.
Of course, thought Kortyl. Such a thing for the Sonolites to do.
Notes
[1] The Priests of Esalos move their crosses in a circular motion to represent the never-ending life, and the circle of reincarnation, of the True God.
[2] The dolumer was the largest coin in the coinage system used by old Senathia. Pieces of it still float around and are worth a hefty sum.
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