# Tæün: Reflections (Updated 11-1-04)



## Hjorimir (Mar 8, 2004)

*Tæün: Reflections (Updated 11-1-04)*

*1 - The Bottom Line

The Great Road, Darion’s March*
Lazzaro Balsorano smoothed his finely trimmed goatee and impishly smiled. Business had been good as of late. That business involved the transporting of rather illegal items for some individuals of questionable moral standards. With the profit he had acquired from that recent side venture he had managed to afford his latest expensive ensemble, which included a fine silken shirt imported from the Kishtü Empire and a broad-rimmed hat, in the latest style, complete with a long, blue feather from some exotic bird he’d never heard of. 

His cousin, Alfeo, and he sat upon the first of five wagons that made up a trade caravan that slowly made its way southeast along the Great Road from the Ainurian Kingdom of Vor’Andur towards the thriving markets to be found in the Castulian City-States. The wagons creaked and groaned with the pitch of the road under their heavy loads of leathers and the thick steel armor crafted only in the west. 

The armor was an especially hard to find commodity in the city-states, where the locals favored more refined trappings, wasn’t meant for the native Castulians; it was meant to sell to the mercenary levies they retained for their continued protection. Those mercenaries were mostly comprised of professional soldiers of Eduni and Fjoti stock with the occasional maniacal Vastil tossed in to keep things interesting. Besides maybe whores and spirits, there was nothing more valuable to a mercenary than the tools of his trade: the blade he used to keep his job and the armor he wore to keep his life.

But such things were far from the mind of Lazzaro that morning. If all went well he would be in the town of Wrensford by evening. There, Ewart Jardine, a merchant of no small wealth had been attempting to marry off his eldest daughter, Lysette, to Lazzaro for quite some time. While having absolutely no intention of courting the girl, Lazzaro appreciated the situation for an entirely different reason. Ewart had courteously extended Lazzaro the use of his private warehouse to store his freight. This had allowed Lazzaro to evade the rather costly tariffs, which were collected at the public warehouses, on behalf of the Marquis Jeannot Beauvais of Arlies.

The tariffs were for the use of the road and bridge maintained by the Marquis who owned the scir where Wrensford was located. The bridge was on of the few places one could cross the great Corandil River, whose deep, gelid waters meandered down from the Braetic Sea in the north along a wide, serpentine course before finally giving way to the dark marshlands far south of the frontier. There were, of course, other ways to cross. But they took one a bit too far off the Great Road or veered too close to some dangerous areas frequented by bandits and worse.

The Marquis, being aware of these facts, made sure to capitalize as much as he could. His heavy tax burden only added fuel to Lazzaro’s distaste for the Maqess, a people he found rather snobbish and, ultimately, boring. Besides, everybody knew that the Castulians were more sophisticated than anybody else on the continent of Emoria. And being half-Castulian himself he tended to lump himself in that category whenever convenient. Of course there were times were being Ainurian had its advantages as well. Lazzaro wore many hats in his line of business.

The road ahead made a shallow decline where it emerged into an open meadow before being consumed, once again, by the tracks of light forest that dominated the countryside of Darion’s March. Lazzaro, who had allowed the horses to take the reign as long as they kept to the road, was considering some of his more complex business schemes when he instinctively ducked to his side as an arrow imbedded itself in the crate behind the bench. There were already more arrows flying through the air and, if the screams he heard were any kind of indication, many were finding suitable targets in the shippers and guards of the Balsorano Trading Company. 

With a curse he came to his senses and noticed the orcs streaming from the trees on both sides of the road. Unfortunately, in his evasion of the sniper, he had dropped the reins of his team, which slid off the wagon to the ground below. The horses screamed and attempted desperately to turn the wagon around where they promptly wedged it in a precarious side position blocking the entire road. Lazzaro cursed as he struggled to maintain his balance upon his violently, lurching seat.

The orcs fired a second volley of arrows that screamed through the air though few found their mark this time as the men had started to react. Some of the guards returned fire from heavy crossbows into the main body of the charging orcs, felling a few, before tossing them aside in order to prepare for the coming melee. 

Lazzaro, intending to get his horses turned back around, whipped a dagger out as he leapt from the wagon and hurled it squarely into the gut of a charging orc. This put the orc into a running dive where it came skidding to a halt. This had pushed the blade deeper into its body where it formed a gory apex of skin from the small of its back. Lazzaro made a mental not to write the dagger off as a business expense.

Three orcs pounced upon Lazzaro’s position swinging large, curved blades. One struck true upon his shoulder where his blood seeped into his fine, white shirt. He sighed thinking of how much money that one cut had cost him.

Finding he didn’t at all like being alone with the three orcs, Lazzaro fell back in a tuck and rolled under the wagon where he popped to his feet with his short sword in hand. There he found himself on the blind side of an orc who was engaged with one of the caravan guards. He made a single, well-placed thrust sliding the blade easily between the ribs causing the orc to crumple to the ground with a gurgling moan.


***


The battle had been costly. While they did manage to route the orcs and send them running back off into the wilds, Lazzaro had lost five men in the struggle and all but a few others were injured, most of them seriously. They bandaged the wounded as best they could and gathered the fallen men before continuing on their way to Wrensford.

Lazzaro’s stop in Wrensford was brief and all business. News there told of a number of ambushes by northern orc tribes along the Great Road in the past weeks that were causing a great amount of concern for travelers and settlers alike. The town, as much as those who used their bridge, depended upon the trade for money and supplies. While orcs had occasionally been seen this far south, large marauding groups of them were literally unheard of. From what he gathered of those shippers coming up from the city-states en route to the kingdoms, the attacks had been even worse further down the road.

The fact that Lord Jeannot had only last year released a group of rangers from his service due to their status as a “superfluous expense” only served to make the entire situation increasingly bitter for everybody involved. Of course, living in Arlies, the Marquis himself was in no immediate danger from these orcish attacks so his position was quite understandable. Besides, the town guard should be more than sufficient to deal with any “unpleasantries.”

Quickly surmising that the town guard was in no position to do much more than keep the orcs from actually entering the town proper, Lazzaro turned his caravan back around and returned to his grandfather’s estate in Vor’Andur to discuss the situation.


***


*Aranarth, Vor’Andur*
Like many of their competitors the Balsorano Trading Company, a respected family business of brokers and shippers, relied upon the use of the Great Road to conduct their business between the Castulian City-States and Ainurian Kingdoms. So the news of the orcish attacks was taken quite seriously.

Amadeo Balsorano was Lazzaro’s grandfather and Patriarch of the family. He made all the final decisions about the family business and was, ultimately, responsible for their well-being. After hearing his grandson’s report of the ambushes that effectively closed the Great Road, he presented himself to the Traders Guild seeking their support. 

What Amadeo got was a bunch of traders who, in true entrepreneurial spirit, didn’t want to spend the money necessary to hire the kind of men who could take solve the problem. They argued over the course of three days laying blame and responsibility on any number of individuals, agencies, guilds, churches, and nobles. The one thing they agreed on, however, is that somebody else was responsible for opening the road. And that somebody would have to foot the bill.

Having nobody left to turn to, Amadeo and Lazzaro appealed to the Æhüthian Mother Church. While not exactly an obvious choice, the Church did want to improve its reputation within the March where the splintering Quinterion heterodoxy had been steadily growing over the past two decades. They played the “many people are dying” card in their plea and were summarily rewarded the service of one Aramon.

Father Aramon Botan was a young priest who had come into his faith late in life after his young wife, Shara, fell ill and passed away. Vardacale, a missionary priest, had comforted him during her passing, helping him understand death not as life’s ending, but as a transition to the Eternal.

But this wasn’t what interested the Balsoranos about the dark robed cleric. What was interesting to them was the Sign of Merlutat upon the holy symbol hanging from his neck. Merlutat was one of Exustius Optivus, The Chosen Seraphim, The Burning Hand of God, The Five. Merlutat was, in fact, the Angel of Death.

Aramon lowered his hood, gave a surprisingly warm smile and simply said, “Hello.” He had short, bowl-cut blonde hair and remarkably light blue eyes indicating at least a trace of Fjoti heritage within him. He wasn’t a very large man, as the northerners tended to be. Instead his Ainurian origins shined through, as he was rather short being well shy of six feet in height.

Amadeo, always the friendly businessman, extended his hand and returned the greeting. An uncomfortable silence followed as they considered the priest and what exactly to do with him.

“Not what you expected?” Aramon inquired sensing their unease.

The elder Balsorano shook his head and gave a half-hearted smile. “Not exactly, Father. Please, take no offence. But when we pressed for aid and were informed they were sending a priest we were expecting something a little more…shiny.”

The cleric nodded in understanding. “I am not a member of the Preceptory. I’ve never even been trained in heavy armor or the use of a shield for that matter. Actually I’m something of a scribe.”

Lazzaro groaned.

Ignoring the men, Aramon pressed on, “None the less, I am certain I can be of some aid within the March. If nothing else, I can always perform last rites for the dead and ease the burden of sorrow.” His explanation, meaning to efface their doubts, only made them all the more depressed.

“I’m sorry, but I’m not entirely sure how that is going to help with the orcs who have infested the area,” Lazzaro interrupted.

“It is not for us to comprehend the Mysterion. We can only do as Æhü intends,” Aramon countered.

“Oh sure, I know that,” Lazzaro lied smoothly. “It is just that by bringing a priest of your particular, uh, function we may be sending the wrong message to the March; suggesting they’re all going to die or something.”

“They are,” Aramon agreed.

He was met with flat stares.

Going on the cleric added, “Not that I am saying they will necessarily die at the hands of these orcs. But they will die. Eventually we all do. It is a certainty.”

His emphasis upon ‘will’ was perhaps said with too much earnest. Unsure if the priest was attempting to be witty or not, they capitulated and returned to Amadeo’s estate where Lazzaro and Aramon prepared to return to Wrensford.


***


“See if you can find some people to help figure out what is really going on down there,” Amadeo suggested as Lazzaro packed his belongings.

“I certainly don’t plan on going it alone,” Lazzaro replied stuffing a long-bladed dagger in his left boot.

Aramon cleared his throat.

“Well, you know what I mean,” Lazzaro explained. “Anyway, if I must I can always hire a sell-sword or two before we consider anything risky.”

“I’m not sending you there to be a hero, Laz. I’m sending you there to see if there is a way to open trade back up. If even only for us,” his grandfather chided.

Lazzaro only shrugged as he continued his packing. “Perhaps we could store the armor shipment in Lord Jardine’s warehouse indefinitely. As soon as the road is opened we would be at least a week ahead of our competitors here in Aranarth. The longer it takes, the more the prices will have risen in the city-states and we will be able to recover most, if not all, of our lost profit.”

Amadeo beamed a smile at his current, favorite grandson. “I like the way you think. I will send the caravan back down as soon as I replace the men we lost. As it is, I have yet to speak with their families and compensate them for their loss,” he said sadly.

Aramon sighed, disapproving of the manner in which they reduced the death of good men into debts to be paid. There was always a bottom line somewhere with traders.


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## Hjorimir (Mar 9, 2004)

*2 - Choices, Choices

Ermione, Arlies
The Cathedral of St. Gilles*
The Most Reverend Clément Rousseau, Bishop of Ermione, sat considering the writ, his brow furrowing, as the warming sun poured through the windows of the solar upon his cathedra. Gervais, the bishop’s Vicair, stood patiently before him in a simple black cassock and holy symbol bearing the Open Hand of Æhü. Catching the Bishop’s eye, Gervais gave a friendly smile to the aged bishop whom he served.

“What news, Your Excellency?”

As always, Clément answered while adhering to proper form of address. “His Royal Highness, the Prince of Arlies, is being appealed to end trouble within Darion’s March, has pressed Archbishop Vespasien for the aid of the Mother Church. It is my see that will answer that request.”

Gervais cleared his throat before asking, “Aid? What troubles could be so great within an eastern frontier some one-thousand miles distant to be brought to the attention of Arlies?” 

“The northern tribes have been marauding settlements along the Great Road,” Clément answered leaning forward in his chair. “There have been many deaths as a result, orcs knowing little in the ways of mercy.”

Gervais nodded slowly as he pondered the news. “While the Church certainly has an obligation to tend to those in suffering, it is an interesting notion that Édouard is concerned with such events. Most of his trade is freight by sea to the city-states. The impact on his economy, if any, would be positive.”

“True, though some of the Maqess nobles hold land interests within the March. Not that he is particularly worried about them. No, he has ‘requested’ a ‘conservative’ investigation into the ‘validity’ of these attacks.”

The vicair nodded in understanding. “Enough to show face but not so much as to actually resolve the issue. Which raises a question as to what the Ainurians are doing about the situation. They rely upon the security of the Great Road for their own trade and surely have a vested interest.”

“I am led to understand that clergy under the Aspect of Merlutat have left Aran’Arth to administer last rites,” Clément replied. “Undoubtedly they will proceed with their own cautious investigation. Unfortunately, that will give the time needed for Tol’Cathul to respond giving strength to the Quinterion heterodoxy, a faith that already has a growing influence in central Emoria, which disturbs me.”

“Édouard has placed us in a predicament,” Gervais said, finally understanding. “By dictating the strength of the Mother Church’s response he will make the orthodoxy appear weak in its commitment to the March. This, in turn, will strengthen the proselytization movement of the Quinterion Faith with his own nobles and subsequently weaken Æhüthian influence here in southern Rone. He has given us little time to respond. I will prepare at once and should be able to leave upon the morrow.”

“No, sending a member of the Magisterium is not the solution here…even a Prelate such as yourself. The Preceptory should be involved. Send word to the Cyrdion Motherhouse explaining the orthodoxy’s need in the March. The Preceptor should send somebody who can set a proper example of Æhüthian strength whilst maintaining all forms of propriety. Perhaps Sur Renard would be able to attend to this,” Clément suggested.

“Sur Renard is on pilgrimage to Edrion, I’m afraid.”

The bishop nodded. “A champion of the church would have been preferred. But I can hardly condemn Renard for fulfilling his duties. Sur Thierry should be able to make our presence known. He is quite capable and well mannered.”

“Unfortunately, Thierry is on mission to the Hiemalmark. Something about a troll attacking a group of Vascinian friars working there to bring enlightenment to the Fjoti barbarians,” Gervais responded with a frown.

Clément sighed and rubbed his temples. “Sur Armel will have to do. He’s a bit young…” the vicair interrupted with a shaking of the head. “Has my see been left without the service of our knights?”

“Pressing times, Your Excellency, but not quite as bad as that. Sur Étienne could be sent. He’s highly trained,” Gervais offered.

“While Étienne is indeed a favored knight, he lacks the perspective of the Church, nor is he a very capable diplomat.”

“Perhaps Sur Adrien would be appropriate,” Gervais suggested in earnest. “There is sure to be bloodshed involved and he can protect himself.”

“While I’m sure that Adrien would be sure to protect himself, it is the protection of the March I’m concerned with,” The bishop responded with the noticeable lack of honorific for the knight. “I’m not entirely convinced he is the right kind of man for the Preceptory as it is. No, I don’t want him out of my sight.”

Gervais clasped his hands behind his back and strolled a bit as he thought on the matter. “I think I know a knight who can achieve our goals.”

The bishop looked up in anticipation, “Yes?”

“Sur Trevier.”

“Who?”

“Sur Trevier,” Gervais repeated as if the words would hold more meaning the second time. “The one with a pleasant voice.”

Clément nodded remembering the man, “Trevier has at least a year’s study left if I recall correctly. He is still a novitiate, Gervais.”

“Actually his catechesis was completed during this past High Fading. I understand that Preceptor Bastien considers him an exemplar within their order.”

“May I remind you the importance of this task? We must evince to the March the strength and benefits of the Mother Church.”

The vicair nodded in agreement, “Sur Trevier, while very young, shows amazing promise. Not only is he quite capable in a martial capacity, he is well spoken and shows remarkable empathy for a knight.”

Clément leaned back in his chair and considered the vicair’s proposition. “Convey my blessings on his impending success in the March.”

“At once, Your Excellency.” Gervais kissed the bishop’s seal and turned to depart.

“And, Gervais, keep in contact with him via ‘sending’ to keep me appraised of his progress.”


***


*The Soulwells*
Melhaer prepared the conduit as he considered the Orders of the Prince he now served. The devil was well versed in the skills of deception. But the machinations of his master reached to denouements beyond his own considerable prescience. Not wishing to bring the wrath of his master, he quickly slipped into the transitive reality of the Vacuum and proceeded to translocate to the X’tromgaht.

The X’tromgaht was the single known point of ingression to the Umbra of the axial reality cluster. It lay within the skull cavity of a long, forgotten body of a dead god left floating amid the emptiness of the nether. Five umbral sentinels of significant power guarded access to the portal. Melhaer was underwhelmed.

In a manner that dared confrontation from the guardians, the pit fiend dropped five soulmotes upon the calcified floor (the price for access) as he strode towards the whirling darkness of the portal. As the soulmotes hit the floor, the sentinels moved with a blur to greedily collect their sustenance.

With practiced evasion, dark fey scurried away as the fiend manifested within the umbra. Melhaer looked to the sacrificial cages the fey kept hanging nearby and recouped his expenses by reducing six of the inhabitants to ash and collecting their soulmotes. Melhaer grinned. Profit.

Melhaer tossed his newfound profit at a navigator mage that stood nearby waiting to serve. “The Ermione border,” the devil said simply.

It didn’t take long to find a suitably tainted soul to use as an intermediary, as a particularly vile sneak thief presented himself, unknowingly, into his view. With proficiency honed from eons of practice, Melhaer gleefully slid into the man’s body and laughed as the he regurgitate his evening meal and begin to shake with cold sweat.


***


Twenty minutes later, the thief was standing in the bedroom of his target. “Awaken.”

The man in bed sat up with a start. He trembled as he peered into the shadows beyond the light of Merlutat’s moon at the dark silhouette.

“It is time for your master’s recompense,” the shadow said with a sneer.

“Master?” Slowly, a look of realization took over, “Who…wait…no…it is too soon!”

The thief stepped into the sickly, yellow moonlight, giving his face a deathly countenance. Yet his eyes showed the reflections of softly glowing flame as he leaned towards the man, “The Asperser stirs. He Commands thus…”


***


Melhaer awakened the thief’s perceptions enough to look upon the bodies of the freshly slain. Faint screams echoed through the fog of his mind.

[Why have you killed them?]

The devil chortled, [Me? You.]

[I don’t understand.]

[Because suffering is pleasing.]

[My suffering?]

[All suffering.]

[Mercy, I beg of you!]

[That is not within my purview. Witness.]

Melhaer released his grip on the soul of the thief as the wrathful husband attacked, tears of rage and pain in his eyes. The attack was fierce, extremely proficient and took a long time to complete. 

The outcome was never in doubt.


***


*Outside Ermione, Arlies
The Cyrdion Motherhouse*
Sur Trevier was kneeling and quietly whispering prayers within the Oratory when Chaplain Gaétan came in kneeled beside the young knight and joined in prayer.

When they were finished, they exchanged knowing smiles. “You were ‘praying aloud’ again, Brother Trevier,” the chaplain stated.

Trevier nodded in admission of guilt, “What shall my penance be, Brother Gaétan”

“You’re too quick to accept penance,” the elder laughed. “Of all our brotherhood, you spend more time in here.”

“Except you,” Trevier countered.

Gaétan smiled. “Well, it comes with the job…call it an occupational hazard.”

Trevier frowned, “Hazard?”

“Oh, come now, don’t read anything into it. I was only going to comment on what a beautiful day it was outside. Æhü went to all the trouble of making such a magnificent sun for us to enjoy. We’d be lacking in our duties to not appreciate it from time to time, no?”

The two friends shared a laugh as they made their way out into the bailey.

“Preceptor Bastien wishes to speak with you, Trevier.”

“Have I done something wrong?”

“Of course not. No, I think that Bishop Clément has requested a knight for something important.”

Trevier’s tongue rolled around the words slowly, “A knight?” His anointment having just taken place the month prior he was still in the process of accepting his new status within the Preceptory arm of the Mother Church.

“Well, you, to be specific. Vicair Gervais is here as we speak. Let’s not keep them waiting any longer than we already have,” Gaétan gestured towards the direction of the hall.

The two entered the hall amid an ongoing discussion between the Preceptor and Vicair. “…as his confessor I shall be the one to dictate castigation in this case. Ah, Sur Trevier,” Gervais turned. “Let me say the Mother Church is most pleased with your rapid ascent into the Cyrdion Order. We expect great things from you.”

Trevier bowed to the vicair, “Thank you, Father Aiton.”

“The Mother Church has need of you. Will you answer?”

“With all my being.”

***

*Pronunciation Guide*
Adrien, Sur (ad-ree-AWN)
Clément Rousseau, Bishop of Ermione (klay-MAWN)
Édouard, Prince (ay-DWAR)
Étienne, Sur (ay-TYEN)
Gervais Aiton, Vicair (zher-VAY)
Melhaer (mel-HAYR)
Renard, Sur (re-NAR)
Thierry, Sur (tye-REE)
Trevier, Sur (TREV-ee-ae)


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## Broccli_Head (Mar 9, 2004)

Sounds like medieval Earth. Is this a homebrew world or are you setting it there?

Glad I found a beginning story with good writing.   

Looking forward to more...now that I'm subscribed


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## Hjorimir (Mar 9, 2004)

Whoot, first subscriber!   

Thank you for your post, Broccli_Head. Yes, it is a homebrew world that is really just heavily influenced by Earth. People say to write what you know and, frankly, our own history fascinates me.

That being said, there are enough changes to keep the players on their toes. I find comfortable players to be rather boring.


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## Garlok (Mar 9, 2004)

Woot Looking good


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## Lodow MoBo (Mar 10, 2004)

The pagans will be much more interesting


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## Broccli_Head (Mar 10, 2004)

Hjorimir said:
			
		

> That being said, there are enough changes to keep the players on their toes. I find comfortable players to be rather boring.




yes, I noticed...orcs...pit fiends, but it still does convey a medieval European feel, which if very cool. I also like the sinister overtones.


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## Hjorimir (Mar 10, 2004)

Speaking of pagans...

(And thank you, ForceUser.)




*3 - Two of a kind

The Eastern Expanse, Ondria Highlands*
The orcs had left a string of carcasses in the wake of their movements. The longhaired, red cattle, a mainstay of Eduni life in the highlands, were a precious commodity. The slaughtered livestock had prompted the clansmen into action - not that anyone needed an excuse to kill any orcs that entered the Holdings.

Three days and nights Donal, Égun, and Odhrán had been on their trail, pressing hard to catch up with the invading humanoids. From their vantage, lying amongst the tall swaying grasses, upon a hill overlooking the orc encampment in the vale below, they discussed the _cruaidh'carraid_, or _bloodwork_, to be done (a time honored tradition of the _Rithmílidh_* where they planned the intricate strategies of an impending battle).

“I’ve got fourteen commons and nine pieces that say I can get to that big, fat one before you, Odhrán,” Égun jeered, pointing out a particularly large and dangerous looking orc.

Odhrán scratched around his empty eye socket. “You blither like a sheep, Égun, but I’ll be taking your monies before the sun has set.”

“I’m in on that; the kill is mine,” Donal added.

“You’re too slow to keep up with the likes of us, old man. Your money is wasted on the ‘usky I’ll be drinkin’ in your honor… tis prolly’ for the best seeing how you really can’t handle your own,” Égun jibed at Donal. “What was the name of that young lass again?” The ribbing was in reference to a rather embarrassing encounter between the older veteran and a wily young whore from Brelethon who had taken him for two gold as she drank him under the table during their last campaign in the city-states.

Odhrán guffawed.

“Quiet, you idgit!” Donal hissed. “Get low.”

The three clansmen settled deep into the grasses as the startled orcs below looked up at the overhanging crest with newfound interest. Égun and Odhrán were choking down their laughter as they struggled to remain silent. 

Donal sighed and shook his head at the orcs below who, now wary, began to muster. “Okay, so I’m a’ thinking…”

The screams of other two brought Donal up short as they leapt from the precipice and descended the slope quickly sliding towards the bottom and the waiting orcs. Donal cursed and started a slower, more controlled slide.

Odhrán was the first to reach the bottom and had the privilege to draw first blood (something that was always good for a few bragging rights among his kin). He whipped his _sparth_** in a wide arc felling the first one with a single, mighty hew and followed through to mark the second a bleeding wound.

Unfortunately, on his way down, Égun careened off a hidden rock in the grass that sent him into a flipping, rolling plunge. The violent fall tore his own sparth from his hands (eliciting all manner of profanities between the “oomphs,” “arrghs,” and “uggs”) before finally coming to the bottom where he planted himself before the group of orcs with a resounding thud.

An orc seized the moment and lunged forward with a spear, driving it into the flesh of Égun’s shoulder just before an axe (a token of Donal’s campaign in the Hiemalmark some years past for which he was often ridiculed for its small size) came whipping through the air from the hill above lodging itself firmly in the orc’s neck. 

Odhrán yelped in pain as the wounded orc landed a telling blow with a mace to the side of his right knee with a crack. As he fought on, three more orcs came to their senses and entered the fray. One viciously stabbed at Odhrán, its blade finding the meat of his right arm, starting a nice flow of blood. The other two orcs made powerful overhand attacks against the prone Égun. One of them drew a wicked gash across his back while the other, overextended, slashed harmlessly into the ground.

Égun came to his feet and was hit again as the orcs took the opportunity to repeat their assault. Looking at his fresh wounds, he started to scream incoherently at one of the orcs (something about the way its nose hair was too long) and gave himself over to the _riastarthe_***. The orc’s head tilted slightly to the side, its eyes widening, as it looked upon the screaming highlander. With his hands outstretched, Égun lunged forward. Successfully slipping inside the orc’s guard, he firmly gripped it around the throat and proceeded to squeeze.

Odhrán recovered and stumbled back a bit. A swipe of his sparth finished off the orc and marked his next. He smiled through bloodied lips and glared through his one remaining eye.

Donal, having finally managed to get all the way down, engaged Égun’s second attacker. A powerful swing of his broadsword sheared off a fleshy chunk of its upper thigh driving the orc to the ground where it wailed in pain.

Meanwhile, the ‘fat’ orc watched the battle carefully, looking for the best chance of victory. Not caring about the fate of the other orcs, it wasn’t willing to partake in any unnecessary risks that might get it killed.

Sliding quickly to his left, Odhrán evaded the pressing attack of the orc he faced. Nearby, Égun’s victim hopelessly flailed about the barbarian’s head and shoulders trying to escape the death grip.

Donal was caught unaware as the maimed orc at his feet thrust a dagger at him in a violent, sideways arc and impaled the blade into the meat of the clansman’s calf. Donal dropped instantly, joining the orc in a heap on the ground.

With a sickly pop, Égun felt the windpipe collapse in his hands. He let the gurgling orc slide from his grip to lie upon the ground, kicking and writhing as it struggled for air. He turned to their leader, who waited with a great-axe poised in a loose bobbing stance, a look of confidence on its ugly face. 

Égun unslung his _claimh mhor_, a fine steel blade of exceptional quality, and returned the look. The orc’s confidence melted into concern before it turned to flee. Unfortunately, for the orc, the Rithmílidh are notoriously fast and it wasn’t long before it realized that it wasn’t going anywhere without finishing the business at hand.

The two of them squared off in an exchange of frenzied blows before once again separating. That exchange left the orc wounded and heaving for its breath and Égun gripping his side in an effort to staunch the blood flowing from a vicious cut. Seeing the deep wound, the orc sensed victory and charged.

The clansman had anticipated the rush and whipped his blade around in a quick, curving arc, riving off the left hand of the orc in a single, well-placed stroke. In shock, the orc stood numb trying to figure out what was going on. [_Hand on ground. Not where hand should be._] Égun smiled and prepared to deliver the _coup de gras_.

With a thunk, Égun’s smile faded as he considered the fletching protruding from the side of the orc’s head. Donal’s damnable crossbow, this one a souvenir from his embarrassing trip to Brelethon, had killed the orc.

“Pay up!” called Donal from ground where he leaned over a dead orc.

The three bled and laughed together.


***


Having sucked the marrow clean, Donal tossed the rib bone into the fire with a flick, sending a spiral of embers whirling into the cool, night air. “It will be slow going back to Athorchel with me and Odhrán limping most of the way.”

Odhrán had been busily rummaging through the trove of the slain orcs. “Not much here. We can take the weapons back for the clan, not much else. Just a pack of leaves of all things.”

“Leaves?” asked Égun. “Show them here.”

“Smells odd,” Odhrán noticed before tossing the small pouch to Égun. 

Égun took a whiff and wrinkled his nose before shoving the leaves in Donal’s face for him to smell. 

Waving his hand, Donal brushed Égun back. “Dunno, lad.”

“Maybe a druid would know,” Odhrán suggested innocently.

Égun sighed, knowing exactly where this was leading. “Odhrán stop.”

“She’s your cousin,” Odhrán complained in a tone that was almost accusatory. “Besides, you could just run ahead while Donal and I haul back the find.”

Égun shook his head, “’Tis probably nothing anyway. Right, Donal?”

The older man simply replied with a shrug of his shoulders, choosing not to comment one way or another.

“Damn.”


***


Tríona had just started her tenure as an Initiate of the 9th Circle in service to the Aromalyan**** giving a sense of purpose in her still-young life. The Tree had bonded with her essence, changing her once auburn hair to the pale white of new snow and her green eyes to deep pools of violet.

This startling change in her appearance had caused no end of suspicious rumors amongst her kin about being touched by fey or worse. As a Druid, she held a respected position among the highland clans, where she cared to the needs of the Following. Yet she was always acutely aware of their curious looks and quiet whisperings when she visited their homesteads.

Disting, a time of planting new seeds for the coming year, had just passed. The celebration, also a time of sowing seeds of hopes and dreams, was especially poignant for Tríona as she struggled to find her niche in life. 

The druid, Ruadhán, had comforted her after the metamorphosis. “As the caterpillar transforms into the butterfly, your chrysalis is not a thing to be feared. Embrace evolution, my child. Change is a certainty.” While his analogy had certainly been wise and straight to the point, Tríona continued to be curious about what this change meant for her and the impact it would have. 

It was near evening as she dreamily stared into a pool of water, the same kind utilized by wiser druids to see things far away, contemplating this very facet of her life. [_Ruadhán is right…the Aromalyan knows best._] The face of her cousin, Égun, appeared in the water’s reflective surface.

Tríona turned and beamed a smile up at the tall man and laughed. Jumping up to her tiptoes, she embraced him.

“Uh, how are you doing, Tríona?” Égun asked. Slightly embarrassed by the open display of affection, he dislodged himself.

“Better now,” she replied, and stopped to take a critical look at her cousin. “You’ve gone and got yourself all hurt!” she complained.

“Oh, that?” he said looking at the wound in his side. “’Tis nothing really. It will mend in time.”

Tríona placed her hand gently along the wound and felt the heat of it. “No, it won’t.” Still young in her role as a druid, she tentatively reached out to her connection with the Tree. Feeling the power of Life course within her, she spoke an ancient rite of healing. Warm, soothing sunlight fell from her hand and closed the wound instantly.

Égun jumped back, startled and shaking. “Tríona, you should warn a man!”

Tríona stuck her tongue out at him and pouted.

“Err, thank you…sorry, I’m just not used to magic,” he explained.

She beamed a smile. “Much better and you’re welcome. Now tell me who did that to you.”

“You should see the other guy.”

“Oh, save it and just tell me what happened.”

“I’m trying to,” Égun complained. “You see me, Donal, and Odhrán were hunting down some orcs who had been making a living off our cattle. We came across their hidden camp and ambushed them with, uh, no small amount of good tactics. We dispatched the twelve of them, the conflict ending in a duel between me and their piggish leader.”

Tríona stared at him, skepticism written all over her face. “Twelve?” The question was more of an accusation.

“Uh-huh,” Égun answered as he scratched his head. “Anyways, there were so many of them all around us, they got in a few lucky shots ‘tis all,” Oblivious, he pressed on. “So I’m standing there staring down the boss and I say…” At that point, Tríona started urging on the description with a roll of the hand indicating he should come to some kind of point. “…well it doesn’t matter now. I found this.” Égun offered her the small bag of leaves Odhrán had discovered.

Tríona examined the contents of the pouch with some amount of uncertainty. There was no point in asking Égun what they were; he could hardly discern weeds from grass. Still, she was impressed he had the good sense to come to her. “Remarkable.”

“Yu-huh,” he agreed eagerly, not really knowing what was so remarkable. “They sure are special.”

Tríona gave him a flat stare.

“Right?”

“Tell me everything. Try the truth on while you’re at it,” she admonished.

“Twelve, I say!”

Égun gave a ‘differing perspective’ of the events.


***


Ruadhán turned the leaves over in his hands. “They’re still alive.”

“I felt that too,” Tríona agreed.

“Orcs, you say?” the druid asked, seeking confirmation.

Tríona bit her lip, “That’s what he told me. I think he’s being honest, though I have serious doubts about their numbers. What do you think it means?”

“Honestly, I have no idea,” Ruadhán conceded. “It isn’t native.” He tossed the open bag to the ground and assumed the shape of a wolf. He sniffed the leaves vigorously a few moments and resumed his natural form. “Nope, not native at all.”

“What is your council, Ruadhán?” the initiate inquired.

“I will take half of these and confer with Clíodhna and see what she has to say, as the Great Druid, she should be made aware. I have heard rumors of troubles within the March about growing orc incursions there. I can’t help but wonder if this might be of some importance in the frontier.” Ruadhán said, thinking out loud, as he studied the foliage. 

Ruadhán, turning his attention back to Tríona, looking at her intently said, “Maybe you and your cousin could travel to the March and investigate the matter there. A new plant, while seemingly a small thing, could have untold impact on the Balance,” 

“I’m sure that would be best. Thank you, Ruadhán.”










*Rithmílidh (rith-MIL-idth) roughly translates as ‘running warriors’ from the Eduni tongue. They form a rather prestigious mercenary band known for their speed on the field of battle. They are almost entirely comprised of barbarians.

**A sparth is a six-foot polearm the Eduni use that has a fifteen-inch curved axe blade that comes to a point that is both good for slashing and thrusting attacks.

***Riastarthe is the ‘warp-frenzy’ of Eduni barbarians.

****It is probably worth noting for the older D&D crowd here that Initiate of the 9th Circle is for 3rd-level druids. Like the annual rings of a tree, as a druid grows in understanding of nature’s power they become closer to the center of the tree. The Aromalyan is the Tree of Life, the wellspring of all life created by Æhü at the starting of the Second Epoch. It forms the basis of the druidic following.



*Pronunciation Guide*
Clíodhna, Great Druid (KLEE-u-na)
Égun (A-gun)
Odhrán (O-rawn)
Ruadhán, Druid (ROO-awn)


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## Broccli_Head (Mar 10, 2004)

Lodow MoBo said:
			
		

> The pagans will be much more interesting




Yup! I think I'm likin' the pagans   

so do you have a map of this world of yours?


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## Hjorimir (Mar 10, 2004)

Yes, though it still lacks a great amount of detail. Between the two campaigns I run on Tæün it is high on my list of things to finish up. I have recently purchased Campaign Cartographer, so it will take a bit as I get used to the application. As soon as I have something worth showing I will take the time to imbed it here on ENWorld.

Thanks for reading, Broccli_Head. Every time I see more views it brings a smile to my face.


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## ForceUser (Mar 12, 2004)

Hjorimir has a grand imagination and impressive attention to detail. He's also the best GM I've ever played with. I was happy to help him get started.


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## Hjorimir (Mar 12, 2004)

For anybody who is wondering what he and I are talking about, ForceUser was kind enough to take some time and introduce me to grammar. If he ever has the inclination to write for ENWorld again, you'd be doing yourselves a disservice not to read his work. He has an amazing talent for words and is a true artist.


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## Hjorimir (Mar 12, 2004)

Time for a short update.



*4 – Ask the Sheep*


A quick note on Fjoti pronunciation: Ð and Þ (or ð and þ as the case may be) are pronounced with a hard ‘th’ as in word the. The letter j is spoken as the letter y and f is spoken as v (the proper pronunciation for Fjoti is ‘Vee-yo-tea’ and not as ‘F-joe-tea’).

So, with that…



*Concerning Fjoti*
Inhabiting the Hiemalmark, are the Fjoti, an old people with a long, bloody history of leaving destruction in their wake. The region is comprised of cold forests and icy fjords along the northeastern coast of Emoria before it finally turns east to form an isthmus with the distant continent of Darlundia. 

Life in the hard lands of the north bred a hard people. Considering them little more than cruel savages, the other peoples of Emoria value the Fjoti nonetheless; their presence in the Hiemalmark providing a convenient defensive barrier against any invading Vastil hordes that attempt to cross the land bridge from Darlundia during the Low and High Burnings every few years.

In time, missionary Vascinian friars, whom are called prestrs in the tongue of the north, came to the Hiemalmark and worked to convert the fierce Fjoti from their neopagan beliefs of warring goðar (gods) while giving them the benefit of an enlightenment that only Æhüthianism could provide. 

The prestrs taught of peace and joy and the value of life (even if that life belonged to another). These were neoteric concepts to the brutish Fjoti who had long consigned themselves to the forces of urðr and vyrd (doom and fate). Urðr, especially, had been a fundamental part of life in the north where it was taught to accept one’s destiny without fear, a belief the visiting friars completely failed to see as being anything other than tragically fatalistic.

Along with the proselytization of Æhüthianism, the prestrs advanced the Fjoti’s skill in working with stone and steel and with letters and numbers. This heralded a new era for the northerners who had been living in simple wooden longhouses at the time. The oral traditions that they had relied upon were recorded in the written word for the first time in history. In doing so, the itinerant clerics were able to better understand the fierce warrior people and the way they thought.

But, regardless of all the wondrous gifts the prestrs brought, Æhüthianism only ever managed to partially integrate itself into the Fjoti culture. Its presence has created a schism in their people; the fróðar (wise or enlightened) who built cities within walls of stone, worked steel, and learned the written tongue (rudimentary as it was) and the þjóði (the people or folk) who still lived deep in the wild forests and strictly adhered to the old ways while spurning the new teaching. Even the fróðar, however, continued to honor the older traditions and simply started to worship Æhü right alongside the goðar who had protected them for ages.


***


*Outside Edelhorn, The Hiemalmark*
The fjölkunnigr, Álfarr, had patiently waited nine days outside the hut along with his lamb. While most men would scoff at the idea of such a long tenure, he had endured learning the secrets his people call _rúnar_, which took years. He was a patient man, so he sat and he waited and he watched.

The völva, Hulda, who lived within the hut, was completely happy to ignore the magician whom she considered something of a witless, mongrel outcast being something between both fróðr and þjóð. Though people were often wary of such dangerous men and the power they wielded, she was unworried. As far as she was concerned, if he didn’t like it, he could complain to the Alföðr or maybe appeal to Véorr. So she left him sitting by the door to freeze.

But he and the sheep were starting to smell and with no rain in the foreseeable future things stood to get worse. Hulda found the situation becoming completely unacceptable and decided to take action.

“Leave me,” she dictated, as she lorded over him with the afternoon sun at her back transforming her into a sparkling silhouette.

Squinting up at the völva, he answered, “No.”

“I could summon the huscarls,” she threatened while pointing to the great hall of the jarl she served. “At my word they would descend upon you and leak the sword dew of your body.”

“I have summonings of my own,” he challenged. “Spare your men, Hulda.”

A bit surprised by his daring, she asked, “Who are you?”

“Men call me Álfarr, my master has called me maggot.”

“How appropriate and who is…” she started.

Already knowing her next question, he interrupted her mid-sentence. “The Dwarf.” His words caused the völva to catch her breath.

The Dwarf was in reference to Yngvi, an enigmatic and dangerous mage who was known to tamper in the calling of _önd_**. His reputation, which was far spread beyond the confines of the Hiemalmark, placed him as one of the preeminent conjurers in Emoria. There was more legend than fact known about Yngvi and Hulda knew this.

“Are there no prestrs within the Edelhorn to tend to whatever ills you?” she sighed, her face showing defeat. “Why must I be bothered with such things?”

“I am not ill,” Álfarr answered. “I have had dreyma* and I require your Sight.”

“You lie, why would any goð visit the likes of you?”

“Tell me,” he shrugged. “You have the white dots under your nails,” he said, looking at her hands. Such marks indicated the ability to see the urðr and vyrd; Hulda was an oracle.

Hulda returned inside and closed her door, once again leaving Álfarr to wait outside in the cold, while she considered the magician’s request for the evening. She knew she had to proceed carefully. If the upstart wizard was on some errand for Yngvi, it could prove troublesome for her not to submit to his request.

Early the next morning she exited, woke Álfarr with a rather firm kick to the chest, and said, “We will ask the sheep.” The magician had shown hubris by bringing a sacrifice with him as he was assuming she would concede and perform the ritual. This only fueled the disdain she had for him all the more.

Álfarr nodded, climbed to his feet, passed her a handful of gold coins and the leash of the lamb.

Hulda led the sheep over to a _hörgr_ (an alter comprised of stacked stones) and started the _blóð_ (blessing). Her hands held a horn, high above her head, as she called out to the goðar. Thrice she blew the blóð-horn, hallowing the ground.

_“Hallinskíði, bright holder of the horn, hear our worthy words!”
“Véorr, mighty warder of the garðs, guard this stead for holy works!”
“Hail Oski, The Alföðr, for your wisdom and forethought in guiding us forward through the year to come and for the knowledge you have shared with us. Hail Oski!”
”Hail to Árguð for the bountiful harvest you have brought to us. Hail Árguð!”
”Hail to Hörn for the love and life we hold to our hearts. Hail Hörn!”
”Hail to all the Ases and Wanes for the mighty work that you do. Hail the Ases and Wanes!”
”And Hail to our Ancestors and Wights of the land. Hail to the All who have crossed Bilröst before. Hail the Ancestors!”_

With a long, hooked knife, she skillfully slaughtered the lamb, capturing its blood within an earthen bowl. She then dipped a dark, wooden wand into the bowl and stirred its contents as she spoke in tongues. Turning to Álfarr, she whipped the wand, sprinkling droplets of blood upon him before pouring the remaining liquid upon the altar. With the blóð now completed, she delved into the spilled entrails of the carcass to see the urðr and vyrd of the magician.

The priestess smirked and pronounced, “Your doom lies within shadow, maggot.” The words sounding victorious as she delivered them.

Álfarr, understandably concerned, pressed for more, “Is that all you can tell me, woman?” His words coming harder than he intended his face softened.

“Have a care, fjölkunnigr, lest I take offense and put the mark of níðingr*** upon you!” she spat. “But, yes, there is more.” 

Letting her spirit flow free, she swayed slowly, seeking the truth of his destiny with the spirits beyond the veil. Her eyes snapped open, each now a differing color, as a chorus of voices issued forth, speaking in perfect unison. “Within the lands of the eventide hunt out the snow of the nest. Therein spawns the path unto the echoes of being.”

Álfarr rolled the words in his head, attempting to decipher the meaning before he gave Hulda a final nod.




* Dreyma are visions sent by the goðar. Literally, it translates as ‘it dreamt me.’

** Önd are powerful spirits of Fjoti belief. The term can be thought to refer to any of a variety of nasty outsiders.

*** A níðingr is one without out honor. To be marked as such would make him an anathema unto all of the Fjoti who could lawfully attack him without provocation. Such punishments are rare and usually reserved for the traitorous, thieves, or those living in such a manner to be found distasteful.


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## Broccli_Head (Mar 12, 2004)

Loved the insight into Fjoti culture and all the strange language notations...I'll have to practice my ASCII!

I have a couple of questions:
1)Are you using d20?
2)How are you doing ritual magic?


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## Hjorimir (Mar 13, 2004)

Hiya, Broccli_Head.

Yes, we're playing 3.5 D&D (which I consider a far cry better than 3.0 when it comes to game balance).

In regards to Ritual Magic, I utilize the rules presented in the Witch’s Handbook from Green Ronin Publishing (those guys make some great stuff).

Hulda, being marked as an oracle, gained _commune_ as a spell-like ability. What I wrote was only a loose interpretation of the spell flavored by her culture and not an actual ritual.


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## Lodow MoBo (Mar 15, 2004)

Maggots are The Dwarfs favorite food.  He specifically likes maggot bread with a nice maggot and mold spread.  Alfarr feels that the title Maggot is an honnorific.  After all, The Dwarf does not like much.


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## Hjorimir (Mar 16, 2004)

*5 – Gathering, Part 1 of 2

Wrensford, Darion’s March*
Rain had been pouring down since the midmorning hours on the 28th Day of Low Arriving and by the time Lazzaro and Aramon arrived soaking wet. There, they saw that the locals of Wrensford had started to erect a rather haphazard fence around the town as a defense from the increasing number of orcs within the area. But the rain had driven the laborers indoors leaving the fence to sway in the winds of the storm.

Lazzaro shook his head and sighed. As a businessman he appreciated quality craftsmanship and found the pitiful barrier to be woefully inadequate. He pointed the ramshackle construction out to the priest who only responded with a nod of the head.

“They can’t keep a pig out of this place with that fence,” Lazzaro complained.

The cleric pointed at a group of militia who were huddling under the porch of a nearby house. “Let’s hope they can, then.”

The two of them rode over to the house to speak with the guards.

“Hail, friend. I am Lazzaro and this is my…companion, Aramon. Can you tell me of affairs?”

“I know you, Master Balsorano,” said a familiar looking guardsman. “The Marquis has granted permission to build a wall as the attacks still continue upon the road. A group of Quinterion church guards with a priestess have arrived and are making plans to drive the orcs out of the area.”

“I see. How long have the Quints been here?” Lazzaro asked.

“Only two days. We hope to have the Great Road opened soon so business can return to normal,” the guard replied, looking more at the shrouded priest than Lazzaro.

“Good, good. Have you noticed any mercenaries who may be in town seeking work?” Lazzaro continued.

“Can’t say that I have, really.”

“What about the highlanders?” one of the other men added.

“Oh? Oh yeah,” the guardsman said as he turned back to Lazzaro. “Two Eduni arrived in town. One of them is big and carries even bigger weapons. I’m sure a couple of dirty pagans like them would need some work. I imagine you’d find them drinking at the inn.”

Ignoring the guard’s obvious dislike for the Eduni, Lazzaro smiled at the prospect and waved farewell as he turned his horse back down the road.

Aramon turned to the guardsman, before following, and closed with, “May your impending journeys be well.”

The guardsman shivered as he watched the priest ride off, wondering what the death priest meant by that.



*The Golden Tankard*
Égun, true to form, was drunk and enjoying himself immensely. He kicked his feet up on the edge of the hearth, leaned back in his chair and let the fire warm his boots. Finishing off his tankard with a long pull, he waved at the serving wench and pointed to his cup before turning to his cousin.

“Tríona, you remember Lief?” he asked.

Tríona didn’t speak the Ainurian tongue, which prominent in the March, and had been sitting quietly all day watching Égun drink himself into a comfortable stupor. Hearing her native words, she chirped up. “Yes I remember him, why?”

“Well he should be back to the Holdings soon and I was thinking the two of you might be good for each other.”

“What?” she answered, shocked at the notion. “He is betrothed, Égun!”

“Oh, her? She died during the Freeze. ‘Tis sad, really. So, now that Lief is free once again, I’m thinking the two of you could get together,” he slurred.

“Égun, you’re being an ass and you’re drunk,” she said, scolding him.

Égun rocked dangerously, nearly falling over, before catching himself on the table. “I’m not as think as you drunk I am,” he said, laughing at her.

Tríona buried her face in her hands and sighed.



*The Lord’s Manor*
After weeks of travel, Trevier had finally arrived to the town where he promptly presented himself to the Reeve, Émile. He had been left to wait in a sitting room for half an hour, as the reeve was already preoccupied with another guest.

The sound of melodic laughter coming from the hall announced the reeve as he escorted a strikingly beautiful woman towards the door. It wasn’t her honey-blonde hair that caught Trevier’s attention, however; it was the symbol of five orbs hanging from her neck. She was a Quinterion* priestess.

Émile noticed the knight, who was now standing, and acknowledge him with a smile, “Welcome to Wrensford, Sur Trevier. May I have the pleasure of introducing the Reverend Jacinda of Krace?”

The priestess examined Trevier with a critical eye and smiled as an afterthought. “How very nice to meet you. It is warming to my heart to see the Æhüthian salvation finally arrive.”

Responding to the priestess with a curt nod, Trevier said, “It is a pleasure to meet you, Jacinda.” Unaware of the entirety of her purpose in Wrensford, he was cautious in his greeting.

Jacinda turned back to the reeve and smiled. “I am afraid I must be going. My men need to be appraised of the situation here. We will start our search immediately.”

“Very well, Mother. I look forward to your progress and thank you for your help in resolving this matter,” Émile said as he showed her to the door. He then returned to the sitting room and Trevier.

“I’m terribly sorry about the wait. Had I been expecting you I would have been available upon your arrival,” the reeve said.

“No apology is necessary. I am Sur Trevier of the Cyrdion Order. The Most Reverend Clément Rousseau, Bishop of Ermione has sent me as a representative of Æhüthian Mother Church. I am to aid your noble lord, the Marquis Jeannot Beauvais of Arlies, by investigating the nature of the attacks that plague the Great Road and seeking a resolution to the situation,” Trevier replied, in a formal manner that displayed all the forms of propriety and decorum.

The Reeve smiled at the knight. “On behalf of Lord Jeannot, I welcome you to his manor and offer you what comforts I can,” he said with a bow.

“Thank you, Émile. I would like to discuss the latest news of the attacks and ascertain the best way to proceed in my investigation,” Trevier started.

“It just so happens that Jacinda has arrived to Wrensford along with a group of her church’s guard. They intend to scour the scir and seek out any orc encampments in order to remove them from our land. Once she has completed this, they will move down the Great Road to the next county and perform a similar function. Have you brought any men with you, Sur Trevier?”

The knight shook his head as he spoke, “I am afraid not.”

“I see. Well, perhaps you may conduct your investigation starting here in town and see if there is something you can do to ease their worries,” Émile suggested. “I suggest you start with Ewart Jardine, one of our more influential and informed merchants.”

“An excellent idea, Émile,” Trevier said. “I will start upon the morrow.”


***


*Back at the Inn*
Lazzaro and Aramon entered the warm inn, shook the rain from their cloaks and hung them amongst the others along the front wall of the common room. Lazzaro looked about and quickly found the clansmen the guard had mentioned.

As he was considering what would be the best manner to approach them, a group of eight soldiers entered the inn and slid past the two with an ‘excuse me, sir’ on their way to a large table near the back of the room. A few locals sitting there were asked to make way for the larger group and were happily rewarded with a few coins for their troubles.

Aramon studied them before turning to Lazzaro. “Quinterion church guards.”

“At least they were kind enough to pay for the table,” Lazzaro replied, thinking it was a decent gesture on their part.

Merla, the wench who was working in the common room, called Lazzaro and Aramon over to have a seat at a side table. “Welcome back, Lazzaro. How were things in Aranarth?” she asked.

“As well as can be expect, I suppose,” he answered, before turning to Aramon. “I suppose you’d like some food and drink.”

“That would be fine, thank you,” the cleric answered.

“I also suppose you’d like me to pay for it,” Lazzaro stated dryly.

“I expect it, to be honest,” came Aramon’s answer.

“Don’t you have any money?”

The cleric nodded in affirmation. “But not much,” he explained. “When you asked for the aid of the Mother Church in this endeavor it was presumed that you would provide some amount of financial support.”

“Fine, room and board,” Lazzaro agreed, though he was unhappy about accruing further expenses. He turned his attention back to Merla and continued, “Please bring a meal and drink to the good father here and I’d like a glass of your finest red.”

“The wine will be more than usual, Laz. With the road closure, our stock has become very low,” she explained. Lazzaro sighed and let her know that would be fine.

Upon receiving his glass, for which he paid an exuberant sum, Lazzaro made his way over to the highlanders and introduced himself. He explained that he was interested in hiring them to help remove the orcs that had brought open trade on the Great Road to a standstill. 

Égun took a long draw off his ale before replying. “This is my cousin, Tríona, and she’s spoken for. Don’t bother talking at her; she doesn’t know your words. Our wage is ten silvers and looting rights.”

Lazzaro turned to Tríona and switched into her native Eduni. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Tríona,” he said smoothly. Though her stark, white hair and violet eyes made her appear almost alien, he found her quite attractive.

Hearing her language brought a beaming smile to Tríona. “I’m pleased to meet you, sir.”

Égun shifted uneasily in his chair, suspiciously eyeing the charming southerner. “Do we have a deal?” he asked, once again in Ainurian.

Lazzaro shrewdly pondered the wages before answering. “What talents does Tríona bring? She doesn’t seem to be of warrior stock.”

Égun replied, “She can do…things. Also she can cook ‘n stuff. She’s very talented.”

Lazzaro was less than enthusiastic about hiring a maid. But Égun, on the other hand, looked strong and his trappings suggested he was with the Rithmílidh or had at least served with them at one time. “So you say, but this will be a bloody business. I will tell you what, five silver a week, room and board when in town, an equal cut of looting rights for each of you, and extra drink when I can provide it,” he suggested, as he looked at the four empty tankards on the table.

Tríona’s smile faded as she was once again left out in the dark. She looked at Égun and asked, “What is he saying? What is going on here? Why are you speaking Ainurian?”

Égun only smiled at her and continued to speak with Lazzaro. “How many of us are there?”

“So far, four. The two of you, me, and the cleric over there,” he answered, pointing at Aramon who was quietly sitting alone.

“Why doesn’t he come over and say hello?” Égun wondered.

“Nobody likes to talk to his kind,” Lazzaro explained.

“What kind is that?”

“He is a cleric of the grave.”

At that, Aramon made his way towards the Quinterion guards. As he approached one of the guards feigned an ongoing conversation, “…isn’t it a shame that a priest in service to the glorious Merlutat would be shown such disrespect?” His comment brought nods and murmurs of agreement from the other men gathered there.

Pretending to just now notice Aramon, the soldier welcomed him. “Ah, hail, good father. Come, join us, and have a drink.”

Aramon slid onto a bench at the table as he answered, “One does not serve His will seeking the respect of other men, instead one serves giving his respect…to Æhü.”

As the presence of Æhü was the fundamental dispute between the Æhüthian and Quinterion faiths, Aramon’s comment was especially poignant amongst those at the table. An uncomfortable silence followed.

“I’m Father Aramon Botan,” he said, introducing himself to the group.

The Quinterions each introduced themselves, their spokesman calling himself Grigor.

“So tell me, Goodman Grigor, what brings you fine men into the March?” Aramon inquired innocently.

“We’ve come from Krace to clear out the orcs and open the road for Wrensford,” Grigor proclaimed, loud enough for others sitting nearby to hear.

Aramon nodded and smiled at Grigor as he spoke the words. “I too have come for such a reason. It would seem that Wrensford is most fortuitous to have so many caring people as friends.”

“Did you bring any men with you?” the soldier asked.

“No, I’ve come alone. Well, I came with Lazzaro over there,” the cleric answered with a look at his companion.

“Just the two of you?” Grigor laughed.

Aramon looked about the table, “Just the eight of you?”

“We are led by the Reverend Jacinda, a priestess of our church,” Grigor added. “Besides, they’re only orcs.”

Seeing the man’s hubris, Aramon only nodded. “Well, I’ve brought my shovel.”


***


*The Wrensford Bridge*
The sun had set some time ago and, with the stormy weather, the bridge was cloaked in shadow as the guard peered from around large, wooden gates at the lone rider. A nervous mood had already settled in on Wrensford due to the increased orc activity. Men riding out of the wilderness in the dark hours of night were not met with open arms.

The stranger patiently waited for entrance upon his unnaturally still horse. After what seemed to be more than enough time, he called out to the gate a second time, “Hoy!”

“The gate is closed!” called the guardsman. “The road is overrun with orcs!”

The rider made a point of looking back over both shoulders looking for orcs that were nowhere to be seen. Satisfied he was indeed alone, he shrugged and turned back to the bridge. “I have coin!” he called back.

The guardsmen of the gate conferred on the manner and agreed it was in their best interest to take the traveler’s money and let him through. They pushed open one of the gates wide enough for the man to ride through before stopping him.

“There is a tax for shipping freight over the bridge.”

Again, the newcomer looked about, this time looking for any sign of cargo.

“What are you importing into fair Wrensford?” asked the guard.

The traveler shrugged and answered, “I have no import.”

A cagey look came to the guardsman as he eyed the odd horse. “Livestock!” he said greedily. Livestock was one of the more expensive products to move through Wrensford.

As that, the stranger climbed down from his horse, waved his hand in an odd pattern and the horse disintegrated into the fog of the night. “What livestock?”

Common folk hold few things more fearsome than magicians and the visitor’s display of power shook the guardsman who stammered, “Welcome to Wrensford, Master.”

Álfarr brushed past the men and made his way towards what appeared to be a sizeable inn.








*The Quinterion heterodoxy formed from of a schism in the Æhüthian Mother Church. They preach that Æhü, while great, had retreated from Tæün and left it in the care of the five angels of the Exustius Optivus whom they worship in His place. Their symbol, the Five Orbs, represents the five moons where the Seraphim dwell. This belief system stems from a failed ‘commune’ to Æhü by His Holiness The Canon Ciro III nearly three hundred years earlier. 

Originally seen as a harmless group of radicals, the Quinterion faith gained momentum in the remote frontier of Darion’s March where the Mother Church had long been absent from the small townships and burgs. This oversight by the Æhüthian orthodoxy is considered of critical importance by the current Papacy that, unofficially, pushes for Reunification. The inclusion of women within the priesthood remains a prominent difference between the two churches.

Krace is a city in the Ainurian Kingdom of Tol’Cathul where Queen Saranna, who is appreciative of a priesthood that includes women as equals and a faithful Quinterion herself, rules. Her law recognizes the Quinterion Faith as the official religion of the state and subsequent tithing has filled the young church’s coffers.


*Pronunciation Guide*
Æhü (EYE-who)
Émile (ay-MEEL)


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## Broccli_Head (Mar 16, 2004)

Nice work H.!

Thanks for the information on the Quinterions. Looks like the group will turn out to be formidable...now that the magus has entered the story   

Are you using the _Book of Exalted Deeds _ for the holy types? Aramon looks like he might be an aesthetic.


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## Hjorimir (Mar 16, 2004)

Hey there, Broccli_Head. I am indeed using the BoED (I pretty much use all the WotC 3.5 Hardbacks). Aramon is not an aesthetic, however. He is a multi-classed cloistered cleric/monk who wears no armor so he can enjoy his Wis bonus to AC. His player (Dennis) is the kind of guy who gives DMs nightmares. 

You can look at his character sheet and see that he will choose some rather innocuous looking feat or spell. This will continue over levels of the character's career. Then, one day, his master plan comes together and he has produced some kind of scary monster that just decimates everything you throw at him.

Every time he asks if some feat/spell can do X, I get really hesitant to set a precedence that will make me cry later. Heh, I love having sly players, keeps things interesting.

Álfarr (the magus) will be very interesting to see played. He is a conjuration specialist who has selected two powerhouse schools for his opposition: Evocation and Transmutation. Kyle (his player) is, much like Dennis, especially cunning. I have no fear that he will be adversely affected with his spell selection.

BTW, I do have an ascetic in my other Tæün campaign (Tæün: Masquerades) that I run every other Monday. Soon as I get off my lazy butt, I will start that thread if you care to take a look.

As always, thanks for reading.


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## ForceUser (Mar 16, 2004)

Aramon's player graduated _summa cum laude_ from law school and Alfarr's player is a software programmer, so what do you expect? 

I'm eager to see how Dennis will abuse the rules with Alaois, his kensai in the Monday game. I keep hearing him mutter "12th level, oh yeah, 12th level..."


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## Hjorimir (Mar 19, 2004)

I spent about five hours last night learning the ins and outs of Campaign Cartographer. I pretty much have the continents laid out. As soon as I label everything (meaning I figure out how to do it well) and learn out how to export it for web use, I will try and post it here. The map will really only detail the continent names and maybe a few countries or regions. I will link smaller, detailed maps off the larger once it is complete.


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## Broccli_Head (Mar 19, 2004)

A map! That's awesome!  

With your permission (and of course notes,etc  ), I might set a campaign in your world. I really like it!


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## Hjorimir (Mar 19, 2004)

That would be fine. But so much of my setting is on scribbled notes at this point it will be some time before I would have enough to feel comfortable distributing it to those who were interested.

I imagine that is true for most DMs who run home brewed worlds. I was toying with the idea of building a website...hrmmm.


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## Hjorimir (Mar 23, 2004)

The next week or so will be a bit slow for updates as I am in the process of converting my garage into a game room and building a new game table. 

Also, this Saturday I get to dust off my namesake character as we launch back into an old favorite campaign of ours.

Furthermore, I will be trying to polish up that first map for posting.

Life is busy. =)


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## Hjorimir (Apr 5, 2004)

As promised, here is the first map. I had to take a lot of detail off for the export (things just didn't look good at this scale). I am in the process of learning how to create linked sub-maps. Once I've done that, I will post some more detailed PNGs (JPGs are too large to upload here) of places of interest.


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## Broccli_Head (Apr 9, 2004)

Nice first draft...can't wait to see features both political and topographical    at some point. 

What about the adventure? Where has it gone?


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## Vymair (Apr 10, 2004)

We played last weekend so Hrojimir has some good backlog for story now.  However, he's still involved in house projects and between the two games he's the DM, the two games where he's a player and his new job he's been a busy boy.

I'm hoping we'll get some more story in the next few weeks.


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## Hjorimir (Apr 15, 2004)

*6 – Gathering, Part 2 of 2

Wrensford, Darion’s March*
Álfarr, dripping wet, strode over to the bar and planted himself upon a stool. After ordering a cup of mead, he wasted no time in scanning the room. 

[_New snow, she said. Where is one to find…_] 

His eyes fell upon Tríona and his breath stopped, her pale, white hair catching his gaze. 

[_Nothing is coincidental… vyrd is actualized._]

He quaffed the remainder of his drink, dried his mouth on the back of his still wet sleeve, and approached the table where the woman sat. Two of her three companions were in the process of draining their own tankards as they cheerfully conversed. The last, a death priest, sat quietly humming a well-known requiem.

Álfarr nodded to the group and asked if he could join them.

“Of course, friend,” said Lazzaro, gesturing to a chair. “What brings you to Wrensford, Northman?”

“_Sne_,” the magician said, answering snow in his native tongue. “What about you?”

“Orcs and leaves,” Égun returned. “What is sne?”

“Same thing as orcs and leaves,” he answered. “I am called Álfarr.”

“I’m Égun, the man buying the drinks is Lazzaro, the little one is Aramon, and the woman is my cousin, Tríona, who is already spoken for.”

“You’ve come for orcs and leaves?” Lazzaro interrupted.

“Have you?” Álfarr responded.

“Yes, well I don’t know anything about leaves. But we’re going to try and clear the orcs back from the Great Road.”

“Then so am I,” the magician stated.

“You’re in luck, Lazzaro pays good!” Égun added, to Lazzaro’s horror.

“Excellent!” Álfarr said, happily.

Lazzaro groaned.

Tríona leaned over to her cousin and whispered, “Are you sure we’re with the right kind of men?”

Égun took a long look at the free drink in his hand, smiled, and answered, “Yes…yes I am.”


***


*Later That Night, Upstairs*
The warm desert sun drove the cold from his body. He laid there, among the pillows and silks, admiring the dark, beautiful woman as she slowly approached. His heart pounded fiercely within his chest as it always did when she was near. He hadn’t known such complete joy in his homeland. The cold northern highlands on Emoria were becoming more and more a distant memory as his days with Ramlah grew. Theirs was a forbidden love. Neither of them cared.

“Wine, my barbarian?” she teased.

[_What was that?_]

Égun’s eyes snapped open at the sound. It was pitch black in the room and the clansman had been sleeping down near the door, leaving the small bed for Tríona’s use.

[_Bah, t’was nothing. If I hurry, I can get back to her before she leaves._]

- [size=-3]click[/size] [size=-2]click[/size] [size=-1]click[/size] CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK [size=-1]click[/size] [size=-2]click[/size] [size=-3]click[/size] –

Somebody – or some*thing* – shuffled past the door, outside in the hallway.

[_By the Wells, what is that?_]

Égun crept to his feet, found his claimh mhor, and stood waiting to strike at anything that came into the room through the door. Long moments passed as Égun waited, straining to hear anything over the continuous pattering of rain from outside.

[_Must be the drink talking._]

He moved over to the bed and groped for Tríona finding her foot. His cousin mumbled something in her sleep and kicked his hand away. Satisfied she was safe, Égun relaxed.

A flash of distant lightning flickered through the room’s small window painting the silhouette of something as it moved by.

The clansman crouched low in the room, eyes wide, waiting to spring upon whatever had stirred him from his dream.

The rain poured on through the night.


***


*The Next Morning*
Égun, stiff, tired and soar, left Tríona in the room to '_greet the tree_' and made his way downstairs for a bit of food. It was going to be a long day for him and he wanted to get something in his belly before he and his newfound companions left town for the hunt.

Coming down the stairs he found, sitting in the common room by herself, a remarkably beautiful young woman. Never being one to miss an opportunity when it came to women, Égun walked over and plopped down at her table before leaning in for a closer look.

Satisfied that she was indeed quite beautiful and his initial impression was not a lingering figment caused by the heroic amounts of ale he had downed the prior night, he smiled at the woman. “Top o’ the morning to you, lass. Me name’s Égun and who might you be?”

Taken back by the barbarian’s lewd behavior, she leaned back away from the table. “My name is Lysette Jardine, not that it is any concern of yours, sir.”

Undeterred, Égun pressed on. “Are you a guest here? I think I’d remember one such as yourself had I seen them, I mean you, last night.”

“As a matter of fact, I am not. My suitor came into town last night and I thought I would pay him a surprise visit. He must have been terribly busy with his business if he was unable to call on me. So I thought I would take the opportunity to share a breakfast with him.” Realizing she was saying far too much to the stranger she ended her conversation there.

“What business could be so important to make a pretty lass wait?” Égun asked. “Who is this suitor of yours? He is more of a fool than most if he was busying himself with coin when there were richer treasures to plunder!”

Wishing to be done with Égun, she attempted, once again, to end the conversation. “Not that you’d know him as he doesn’t deal with your kind, but his name is Lazzaro Balsorano. He is a wealthy and influential gentleman of refinement and an important member of his family’s business. Now if you’d please be kind enough to find a different table he should be along shortly and won’t take kindly to strange men being so forward with me.”

“Now that’s odd because I was up with a Lazzaro drinking all night,” Égun laughed.

At that, Lysette flushed and came to her feet. Starting in something of a squeal before regaining a modicum of control she seethed at the clansman, “Please convey to Lazzaro that I was here.” She then turned and fled from the inn.

It wasn’t long until Aramon came down to join him at the table.

Égun was uncertain what bothered him more, sharing breakfast with the dark-robed priest or his damnable smile. He considered telling him about the noises he had heard or his encounter with Lysette but ultimately decided a little bit of quiet time seemed appropriate.

Shortly thereafter, the Quinterion guardsmen descended from their rooms and made their way out towards the livery in order to prepare for their own hunt.

Within the hour, Álfarr and Tríona had emerged from their rooms to join the others and the four of them had finished their breakfast. Just as they were beginning to discuss who would be the lucky one who was going to wake their late-sleeping employer, a knight, clad in full plate, entered the common room.

Trevier looked about and found only one group of people in the establishment. They were obviously visitors here but he needed information from the road as well as the town. With great helm tucked under arm, he approached the group. The first two he guessed as consanguineous Eduni, the third he marked as a Fjoti outlander and upon seeing the fourth, a priest, he smiled.

“Good morning to you, my friends. My name is Sur Trevier Morneau and I was wondering if I might speak with you of the current events that trouble this scir.”

Égun eyed the charming knight suspiciously and leaned a bit closer to his cousin.

“Of course you may, sur. I am Father Aramon Botan out of Aranarth. These are my companions, Égun and Tríona of Ondria, and Álfarr has come all the way from the Hiemalmark. You’re welcome to take a seat as we find ourselves waiting on another.”

“Thank you, Father,” Trevier replied and sat. “I can only presume that you all know of the orcish raiders in the area of the Great Road. As I am just arrived and seek a means to reopen the way I was hoping that some of you might have some shred of news that would prove useful.”

The Eduni spoke briefly to one another before standing to leave.

“Going somewhere?” Álfarr asked Égun.

The clansman paused long enough to answer, “She needs to go see the trees or dirt or something.” With his cousin already out of sight, he jogged off to catch up with her.

“In truth,” Aramon went on to answer Trevier, “we have only been here a short while ourselves and know little that you probably have not heard already. Though we have been hired to clear the orcs out of the area and reestablish trade by a prominent shipping house from my homeland. Perhaps we could combine our efforts.”

“Perhaps…I understand that there is a local businessman by the name of Ewart Jardine that may have some insight to the matter as well. You don’t happen to know him, do you?”

As the cleric was starting to reply, Lazzaro answered from the bottom of the stairs. How long he had been standing there, none of them were certain. “I know Master Jardine. He and I are good friends and often do business together.” Walking over he extended his hand in friendship to the knight, “My name is Lazzaro Balsorano.”

Trevier stood, formally introduced himself yet again, and shook his hand. With everybody now sitting, Lazzaro continued. “I don’t think that he will know any more than me on this matter, but you can check with him if you’d like.”

“Maybe we could start with what you know.”

Lazzaro went on to recount his encounter with the orcs outside of town answering a few questions along the way as posed by the knight and others.

“I see. It is by Æhü’s Grace that you survived at all, it would seem. Do you think we could speak with Master Jardine and see if he has learned anything in your absence?”

“Absolutely. I have to go there this morning anyway. Why don’t you come along? And I can make an introduction.”

“That is very kind of you.”

The group of them gathered outside only to find Égun literally dripping in mud. While Égun was more than a little irritated, Tríona seemed quite pleased with herself.

“What happened to you?” Lazzaro asked.

Eager to move on, Égun shrugged and only offered, “Druid stuff. She had me in the searching mud pits… Never mind, it is of no matter. Are we ready to kill some orcs?” 

Lazzaro shook his head. “No, I need to attend to some business with a friend of mine this morning and introduce Sur Trevier as well. Hopefully we will be able to leave soon after.”

“I am not so sure you will be able to do that, Lazzaro,” Trevier added.

“Pardon?”

“I was with the reeve last eve and he made it rather clear to me that the bridge would remain closed to everybody other than the Quinterions who have come from Tol’Cathul.”

“Why would he do that?” Égun asked.

“I am told it has something to do with leaving additional tracks that would only confound their efforts to locate the orcs,” Trevier replied flatly.

Lazzaro considered the situation a moment before speaking. “Perhaps Master Jardine can put some pressure on the reeve to grant us access to the bridge. At any rate, our course is set, let us go see the man.”

As the group started off, Álfarr noticed the Égun was lagging behind and frowning. “Is something wrong?”

The name, Jardine, sounded vaguely familiar to the clansman, but he couldn’t quite place it. “I just feel like I’m forgetting something. Oh well, I’m sure it’s not important.”


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## Broccli_Head (Apr 16, 2004)

You know, when you forget something important, it means that something really bad is going to happen. 

Nice writing, Hjorimir.


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## Hjorimir (Apr 24, 2004)

*7 – Elephants Never Forget
(Égun says, “What’s an elephant?”)

Wrensford, Darion’s March*
Lazzaro sighed inwardly as he considered the motley band he found himself with. The priest, Father Aramon Botan, would no doubt prove to be useful if he could actually call upon the power of God. He’d heard tales of the miraculous things that some of the faithful, or ‘channelers’ as they were called, could do but had never actually witnessed anything remotely miraculous in his life. (There was a certain young courtesan in Athros he knew, but it wasn’t exactly the same thing.) That, coupled with the fact that Aramon was under the aspect of Merlutat, the Angel of Death, put the cleric firmly in the category of _risky investments_.

The Northman, Álfarr, was worse in Lazzaro’s mind. The Fjoti were known as an unpredictable people who were prone to sudden outbursts of uncontrollable rage that often resulted in needless violence and, worse still, death. He placed Álfarr squarely in the category of _possible liabilities_.

As a Cyrdion Knight, Sur Trevier was undoubtedly a model gentleman and proficient soldier. The Preceptory of the Church, which was comprised of various Orders of Knighthood that were sworn to uphold the Orthodoxy, had a long, prestigious history of heroic figures that usually ended up sacrificing themselves time and time again in order to protect the Church; a fate that Lazzaro found to be ultimately tragic. But none of that really concerned him. What concerned him about the knight was the embodiment of the Church’s strict high ideals and moral code. 

Lazzaro considered himself a good enough person overall, but in his line of work one had to make certain _adjustments_ and _allowances_ in order to prosper or even survive. Needless to say, involvement with the Æhüthians could become sticky for the young entrepreneur. He would have to drop the knight off with Ewart Jardine as soon as possible and then get back to work. So, Sur Trevier was haphazardly tossed into the _expendables_ bin.

Égun, however, was a solid investment in almost every sense of the word. He would certainly prove to be a brutally efficient fighter and, better yet, enthusiastic about the bloody work that lay ahead. The reputation of the Rithmílidh preceded him and Lazzaro felt confident that the clansman would live up to the expectations. He defined the highlander as the _strongest asset_ in his portfolio. There was only one downside to Égun…

Tríona, who was certainly easy on his eyes, seemed to be completely useless. Not only did she not speak the local language she was a constant distraction to her valuable cousin. While Égun had insisted she would prove useful and could “cook n’ stuff,” Lazzaro couldn’t help but feel like he was throwing away valuable silver retaining her employment. Regardless, she wasn’t the first _write-off_ Lazzaro had had in his career and certainly wouldn’t be his last. After considering the woman a bit longer, he counted her as a _retaining fee_ for his _strongest asset_.

His accounting for the day completed, Lazzaro prepared to introduce the lot of them to Ewart, whose house they were now approaching.

The house was, in fact, more of a mansion. Complete with a five-foot wall of stone that encompassed a pleasant flower garden and a beautifully sculpted water fountain in the form of a mermaid that emptied a seemingly endless decanter of water into a pool below.

Seeing the group as they arrived, one of three gardeners quickly made his way up to the house to inform the staff that they had visitors.

As they made their final approach, Ewart stepped out onto the porch to greet them.

“Well if it isn’t my _good_ friend, Lazzaro!” the older businessman called.

Something about the way Ewart had stressed the word ‘good’ put Lazzaro on edge. He’d known the man for quite sometime now, but something seemed to be bothering his partner. As the target of the conversation, Lazzaro assumed that he must somehow be the culprit.

“I trust I find you in good health, Ewart,” Lazzaro said cautiously.

Ewart gave Lazzaro a very firm handshake, squeezing a bit more than necessary. “Who are your friends, Laz?”

“Ah, these fine people are here to assist us with the clearing of the road so we can get back to business.”

Hearing this, Ewart perked up and smiled. “Excellent!”

“Let me introduce, Álfarr of the Hiemalmark, Father Aramon Botan of Aranarth, Égun and Tríona of Ondria, and Sur Trevier of Arlies.”

Hearing his queue, Trevier stepped forward, “Greeting Master Jardine, I have been sent by the Most Reverend Clément Rousseau, Bishop of Ermione and was wondering if we might discuss this unfortunate business of orcs and any ideas you may have about resolving the crisis.”

“Of course, of course. I do have some business to attend to this day, but you all should come back this eve and we will share a fine dinner and discuss all such matters.” As soon as he said it though, Ewart regretted it. He looked upon the two Eduni covered in mud and muck and thought of his fine, imported furniture.

Sensing his thoughts, Trevier added, “That would be splendid. It will also give us an opportunity to clean up. I apologize that we are so disheveled at the moment.” In honesty, the knight was at somewhat of a loss as to how he could explain the clansmen’s appearance and utter lack of propriety.

“Speaking of business,” Ewart said as he turned back to Lazzaro, “Lysette is a bit…disappointed that you didn’t call on her last eve.”

“That’s it!” Égun exclaimed. “I remember now!” Nonchalantly, the clansman walked up behind Lazzaro and loudly whispered, “I have a message for you, Laz.”

Lazzaro groaned pitifully and shooed Égun away. “Please understand, Ewart, that I had to secure soldiers to drive off the orcs as a top priority. While nothing would please me more than the company of your lovely daughter, it would be irresponsible of me to fritter away precious time while our business is at a standstill.”

[_Damn, I’m smooth._]

Nodding in complete understanding, Ewart smiled. “Of course, Lazzaro. I’m sorry, she should be more understanding of a man’s work and I applaud your attention to enterprise. Perhaps you could use this afternoon to visit with her?”

While it was posed as a question, Ewart wasn’t really looking for an answer. The instructions were as clear as a profit margin to Lazzaro. “Absolutely! It was what I had hoped for from the start.”

“I thought he said we’re going to kill orcs?” Égun asked.

“Quiet you.” Álfarr admonished with a chuckle of his own.



*The Golden Tankard*
With Lazzaro sharing a pleasant afternoon with the lovely Lysette and Trevier off at the local chapel for some much needed prayer time before once again meeting with the reeve, the others returned to the inn for what they hoped would be a quiet afternoon of drinking and general laziness.

Not two hours had passed before Merla, the bar wench, came to Aramon. “Sir priest…”

“Just Father will do. What can I do for you, child?”

“Sorry, Father. A woman from town is most distraught and is asking to speak with you. We’ve taken her to a private room if you’d like to see her.”

Aramon stood. “Of course, please show me the way.”

Merla brought Aramon to a back room where an elderly woman was crying with a frightened child clinging to the hem of her dress.

“Aida, this is Father Aramon,” Merla said introducing the cleric.

“Thank you, Merla, please excuse us,” Aramon said and gestured towards the door with a pleasant smile.

Merla gave a curtsey and excused herself as she closed the door behind her.

Aramon gave a smile and placed a hand upon the head of the child before looking back to Aida. “What troubles you?”

“They took him!” she blurted. “They’ve taken my husband and now he is gone!” At that, she started sobbing even harder.

“Please, child, calm yourself and explain to me the whole of the matter. Who has taken your husband and how can I help? Are there no guards?”

“No, no. You don’t understand!”

If Aida expected a response at that she was to be disappointed. Aramon simply sat down and patiently waited for her to explain. He had no small experience, of course, in listening to all manner of complaints and pleas of those in need and had learned some time ago when to speak and when to listen.

Aida went on. “My husband had been killed in one of the ambushes while he was working as a caravan guard. I brought our son, Kade, to the cemetery to pay our respects and where my husband was buried there is nothing but a gaping hole!”

Now very interested, Aramon stood once again. “A hole, you say? Can you show me?”

“Of course, Father. Come with me.”

As the three of them hurriedly made their way to leave, Álfarr stopped them in the common room. “Is there trouble?”

Hearing the word trouble brought Égun over as well as he didn’t want to be left out of anything that just might be ‘fun.’

“It seems that this widow’s husband has gone missing,” Aramon explained. “She is taking me to the cemetery so that I may investigate.”

”Alright!” exclaimed Égun. “I’m coming too!”

Aramon sighed at the callous barbarian. He wanted nothing more than to leave the clansman behind, but was wise enough to know that he may be walking into danger. “Very well, though I’d have you mind your manners and remain quiet.”

“Oh, you know me! It won’t be a problem!” Égun smiled.

Aida motioned for Aramon to step aside before speaking to him. “Father, can we trust these… _pagans_?”

“I assure you, they will be fine,” Aramon said. 

[_Father, let me be right._]

Égun grabbed up Tríona and they all made their way outside. Dark, angry skies looked down upon Wrensford as thunder roared in the distance. Determined, the group made its way out of town towards the cemetery that loomed upon a shady hill.


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## Garlok (Apr 26, 2004)

*Excellent*

Looking good. Can't wait for more


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## Broccli_Head (Apr 30, 2004)

Nor can I. Glad I caught up.


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## Hjorimir (May 4, 2004)

*8-Troubling Developments

The Cemetery, Wrensford*
Aramon, along with his three companions, escorted Aida and her son, Kade, to the large hill north of Wrensford that served as the location of the town’s cemetery. Though it was only past noon, the sky was dark and brooding. Strong, cold winds rolled the tall grasses in waves and whistled eerily through the branches of the great elm trees that huddled along the back half of the graveyard.

Tríona huddled under her cloak to keep warm. It was the lingering aura of death permeating the landscape that chilled the druid and not the cold winds common during the early days of Arriving. Her beliefs…the Tree’s teachings…held Life as the most sacred and blessed of things and the foul taste of death in the land seemed to sap the will from her.

“Égun, let us not linger here longer than needed.”

The clansman only smiled and nodded in response.

[_He’s brave to a fault._]

Álfarr, however, was tense. The Fjoti are a superstitious lot by nature and wandering among dead bodies wasn’t something they were very comfortable with. But being something of a paradox, the manner in which they confronted their own inevitable doom made them strong where others were weak. So with chest pushed out and a broad grin on face, the Northman strode forward as if he were somehow enjoying himself.

The group came to a halt before a set of large, rod iron gates. One of which was swinging freely causing the metal to screech sporadically over the howl of winds.

Aramon paused, held up an open hand, his fingers widespread, and gave a brief benediction at the threshold. “Æhü-Father, please ease the troubled hearts of Aida and Kade. And let the souls departed from those herein dwell in the eternal peace of your loving embrace so that we may find no haunt of evil, nor taint of body. Your Will Be Done.”

“Evil haunts? Tainted bodied? What are you talking about?” Égun asked.

“Have no fear, clansman. Æhü is among us. Let us continue and please be respectful of the dead.”

With that, they entered the cemetery and started along the lengthy, winding trail that meandered amongst the tombstones. Higher on the hill, a small collection of tombs served as resting places for the wealthier families of Wrensford.

“I’m going to go look at them crypts,” Égun said.

“Those are not crypts, they are tombs. Crypts are underground,” Aramon corrected him.

“Are you sure?”

The priest looked at him flatly. “Yes, I’m sure. Try not to touch anything.”

Égun nodded and, along with his cousin, started to climb up in that direction.

Aramon sighed and hurried along to catch up to Aida, Kade, and Álfarr. He was quite disappointed with the shoddy condition of the graveyard and concluded that care-taking duties fell to those few loving visitors who came here. A light drizzle began to fall as they started to round the hill to the darker, cheaper side where the graves had been placed haphazardly amongst the roots of the overhanging elms. A thick carpet of tall grass and leaves covered most everything. The cleric shook his head and scowled.

Ahead, clearly, was the point of interest. A muddy hole and broken casket were in plain view. Aida crumpled to her knees, her body wracking in convulsions from her wailing lament. “Beloved,” she moaned pitifully to the sky.

Overhead, Égun and Tríona were running their direction. While the druid was careful to avoid treading upon the graves, the clansman tromped callously in a straight line with no heed or care of what may lie underfoot.

“Égun!” Aramon shouted in disgust.

“Coming!” Égun replied.

[_Hopeless!_]

“We, well Tríona, found three more holes,” the clansman explained.

“I think I see another further down the hill,” Álfarr added.

Aramon turned to examine the scene. After some time he concluded that somebody, or some*thing*, used the wooden grave marker as a makeshift shovel, exhumed the corpse, and made off with the cadaver.

Álfarr, coming to his own conclusions, said, “Well, he didn’t crawl out of there on his own. That’s good news.”

Aida was staring at the Northman with venom in her eyes.

Égun added, “I’m pretty sure it were grave-robbers that done it.”

“Grave robbers!” Aida shrieked, now nearly hysterical.

“I don’t think so. If anything, it was a necromancer,” Álfarr suggested.

At the word necromancer, Aida fainted and fell down beside the casket in the mud sending Kade into a fit of his own tears.

“Momma!”

“Enough!” Aramon declared before kneeling down next to the fallen woman. 

Within a few moments, Aramon revived her and helped her to stand. “Aida, you and Kade should return to town while I look at things here. I can send somebody to escort you back.”

Aida looked at the three pagans. “We can make it ourselves, Father.” With child in tow, Aida left to return to town.

Aramon turned to his companions. “Spread out and let’s take a count.”


***


*Wrensford*
A frustrated Trevier made his way down the lane, towards the inn, to meet his companions for dinner. Besides the Quinterions, the reeve remained adamant in his reluctance to allow anyone access to the bridge in order to cross the Corandil. The fact that it was the Heterodoxy taking charge of the situation only served to fuel his frustration all the more. So, with his head in prayer, seeking guidance, Trevier came upon a running woman and child as they rounded the corner of a building in front of him.

The woman froze and put an arm up to protect herself and her child, her eyes wide with fear. Trevier’s warhorse bore down on them, but with the practiced ease that came only from extensive training in the saddle, Trevier pulled his horse up and turned it aside as his steed neighed and snorted fiercely while kicking forward into the air with its steel-shod hooves.

“My apologies, I did not…are you alright?” Trevier changed up, as the tears of the woman and child were evident even through the constant drizzle of afternoon rain.

“Oh, Sur Knight, I beseech your aid!” Aida cried, placing a hand upon this boot.

“What distressed you so?” Trevier asked.

“My dead husband’s body has been stolen by necromancers!”

“What?!” 

“It is true! Father Aramon and his pagan followers told us it was so. They have sent me away from the cemetery and I thought to alert the reeve so that he may protect us!”

“I will escort you to the manor at once,” Trevier declared.


***


*The Lord’s Manor, Wrensford*
Émile was less than pleased with the escalating pressure on him to maintain control of the township. In addition to the political crossfire he was evading between the Æhüthian and Quinterion churches (something he was less than comfortable with in the first place) he was now faced with rumors of grave-robbing necromancers in Wrensford. And grave-robbing necromancers could *not* be good for business.

After hearing Aida’s recount of recent events, the reeve had a room provided for Kade and her to rest in while he considered how to proceed.

“Sur Trevier, you say you know these men?”

“I have met them, yes. I believe they are retainers hired by Lazzaro Balsorano as a mercenary force he has gathered in order to open the Great Road,” the knight replied.

“I see. The Balsorano Trading Company has long been respected member of the business community throughout the March and I understand the urgency of the situation but I cannot have these rumors flying throughout the scir. For God’s sake, necromancers! If this gets out it will surely put a bigger stop to business than the orcish brigands!”

Sur Trevier cleared his throat.

“I am sorry. Please forgive me for my outburst. I am but a poor man saddled with such overwhelming responsibilities. Would you do me the favor of expressing the importance of rumor-control to young Master Lazzaro and ask that he speak with his employees in regards to such matters?” the reeve asked.

“Of course I will, Émile. As the bridge remains yet closed to me, I will utilize this time to also make an investigation into the validity of Aida’s story.”

Émile sighed.

Pressing on, Trevier continued, “You can be assured that I will adhere to both canonical and local laws in my efforts. Furthermore, I will bear in mind the sensitive nature of the information and the effects it could have on both your local economy and, more importantly, populace.”

The reeve, finding no avenue for logical argument, couldn’t help but place his trust in the knight’s hands. “Thank you, Sur Trevier. Please keep me informed of your progress.”


***


*The Golden Tankard*
Lazzaro, wearing a fine, blue doublet for their dinner with Ewart and Lysette, was waiting alone when Trevier arrived.

“I am afraid it will be just you and I this evening. I have no idea where the others ran off to,” Lazzaro explained.

“I do,” Trevier replied. Looking around that the crowded inn room where patrons were arriving for their own evening meals, he added, “I will explain on the way. We should get going before the rain picks up too much.”

With that, Lazzaro pulled on his cloak and followed the knight outside. “What’s going on?”

“It seems something is amiss up at the cemetery. A grave has apparently been dug up and a body removed; for what purpose, I am uncertain. A grieving widow discovered the open grave and spoke of it with Aramon. I gather that he, along with the others, went up there to poke around. I came upon the widow and her son as they were making their way to the manor with stories of grave robbers and necromancers.”

Pulling himself into the saddle, Lazzaro nearly slipped to fall off into the muddy street. “Necromancers?”

“It would seem that one of the ‘pagans’ indicated as such. Which is why I am to inform you that Émile has request to have you speak with your employees about their indiscretions and particular choice of vocabulary with the locals. He is rightfully concerned about the effect such rumors could have on business.”

Lazzaro frowned, shaking his head. “What do you think?”

“I’m more concerned about the safety of the people who live here and, though I remain committed to my appointed task, will make an investigation of my own. Necromancy is a very dangerous practice, Lazzaro. Left unchecked, it could fester and prove to be ultimately fatal to everybody in the scir…and beyond.”

Lazzaro only nodded. “Let’s not bring this up at dinner.”

“Agreed.”


*The Cemetery, Wrensford*
“There is another here,” Aramon called.

After spending the waning hours of stormy daylight searching the entire hill, the companions found a total of eleven open graves. All of which were found in out of the way locations that seemed to be dominated by the deceased poor of Wrensford.

Tríona spoke to Égun who waved her off.

“What did she say?” the priest inquired.

“Oh, ‘tis nothing important. She found a hole under the inn earlier and thought it related somehow. No worries,” the clansman replied.

“I wouldn’t be too hasty to make any conclusions, Égun,” Álfarr offered.

“Well, we’re headed back there at any rate. Why don’t you show us?” Aramon asked.

Égun shrugged. “If you want.”


***


*The Golden Tankard*
Positioned near the edge of town, where the ground sloped downward towards the Corandil, the inn and surrounding buildings had been built upon raised platforms to allow for seasonal floods. As the current waters were low, this left a four-foot crawlspace beneath the entire inn save a brick basement that went deep into the earth from where it had been dug out near the rear of the building.

The sun was setting as Aramon, Álfarr, and the two Highlanders crouched along the side of the inn to have a better view of the crawlspace below. Before them was a large, muddy hole that sunk into a foreboding darkness.

“See? Nothing but a hole. I’m tired of standing in the rain. Let’s put some warmth under our feet and in our bellies,” Égun suggested.

Tríona moved forward, intent on going down to have a better look. She made it all of three feet before her cousin grabbed one of her arms.

“Whoa! What are you doing?”

The druid shook her arm in a failed attempt to be free of his grasp. “Let go, Égun. We need to see what is down there. The Land is hurting and it must stop.”

“Alright, alright. *I* will go down and look. You stay put,” he said firmly.

Égun handed his sparth and claimh mhor to Álfarr, placed a dirk between his teeth and crawled head first into the hole. “Mmm, dark. ‘Canna see nothing.”

Aramon, with surprising agility, scuttled over near the hole himself. “Égun, look at me.”

The clansman turned to face the priest who reached out and lightly touched the pommel of his dirk.

“_Shirak!_”

An eerie, bright, violet light spilled forth from the weapon allowing everybody to see.

Égun reeled, dropped the dirk, which planted itself in the ground, and fell back. “Careful with that! You must warn a man be for you magic on him!”

Aramon picked up the glowing blade causing long, dark pools of violet hued shadow to fall over his normally jovial face creating a fiendish visage of darkness. “I am sorry to have upset you. If you please?” his voice little more than a whisper, he offered back the dirk to the highlander.

Égun shivered before he, hesitantly, replaced the dirk back between his teeth and returned to the hole. Head first he peered down into the ground. “It goes further than I thought. Let me crawl down a bit.” With that he continued to crawl down the muddy hole.

Álfarr laughed. “Nice kilt.”

“Shaddup, you!” the clansman’s reply echoed back before he gave a short scream that ended with a loud splash.

“Égun!” cried Tríona.

Again, with a physical grace unknown to the others, Aramon sprung into action and wiggled his way down the hole where he held himself fast along the sides of the mud-slicked burrow and looked down upon the murky, violet glow of muddy runoff. “Rope!” he called.

Álfarr tossed the clansman’s weapons into the mud, pulled out a rope and hook, and handed it down to the priest who promptly tossed the hook into the water below.

Meanwhile, Égun was floundering to find some much needed oxygen. He fell to the bottom, turned head up, and sprang up to the surface where he found a five-inch air pocket and stone. _Thunk._ He quickly took a gurgling breath before plummeting towards the bottom again. The violet glow showed all kinds of detritus floating within the water.

Something moved past him in the water. [_What was that!_]

Just as Égun was about to go into a full panic, a grappling hook managed to bounce off of his head.

_Thunk._

Égun grabbed the rope that was attached to it and pushed off the bottom, pulling his way along the rope as we went, before exploding from the surface. Above him, head first, was the dark priest who lunged down and grabbed him by collar of his breastplate.

“I got him!” Aramon’s voice called from the hole. “Are you alright?”

Égun nodded. “There is all kinds of stuff floating around down here. Also, I think there is something else moving around down there as well.” He thrust the dirk into the side of the hole as he continued and tied the rope around his waist. “Im’a going back down and see if I can grab something.”

“Are you sure that is wise?” Aramon asked and regretted it immediately.

“’Course it is,” Égun answered before wrenching the dirk free and replacing it in his mouth. Taking a deep breath, Égun pushed himself back down into the dark water.

Looking about he saw what he thought to be a body tightly wrapped up in some kind of white cloth. With a push from the bottom, he jumped for it and grabbed what he assumed were its shoulders. There was a swirl of motion that sent everything into an eddy and the body was quickly snatched from his grasp.

[_Aww, hell!_]

Falling back to the bottom, Égun reached out and grabbed the first thing he could. A large sheet of skin almost two feet long and half as wide before pulling himself up along the rope to the surface. “Skin! I had a body, but they took it away from me.” Égun flung the skin up the hole, past Aramon, where it landed in a sickening, wet heap at the feet of his cousin.

Tríona turned, heaved twice, and threw up in the alley.

Aramon had seen enough and cast ‘_detect undead_’ that culminated in a brief pulse of light from his outstretched hand. He thrust his arm into the water and concentrated. “The Unliving… it is _strong_… and coming this way!”

Nearly pushing Aramon down into the water in the process, Égun squirmed up the hole with speed and strength inspired through his own sense of self-preservation.

“Begone unholy spawn of darkness!” Aramon commanded as a pale, yellow light burst from the holy symbol he held forth causing the entirety of the pool to glow.

“Let us be away from this place!” the priest commanded as he quickly pulled himself out from under the inn.

“Will it not give chase?” Álfarr asked.

“Not if we’re lucky.”


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## megamania (May 5, 2004)

Saw your query on the General section and thought I would check this out.  You have a clean, crisp and flowing writing style which I envy.  When I write it tends to be a bit chopped up (cost of trying for humor).

Keep it up the good work.


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## megamania (May 5, 2004)

Hjorimir said:
			
		

> I spent about five hours last night learning the ins and outs of Campaign Cartographer. I pretty much have the continents laid out. As soon as I label everything (meaning I figure out how to do it well) and learn out how to export it for web use, I will try and post it here. The map will really only detail the continent names and maybe a few countries or regions. I will link smaller, detailed maps off the larger once it is complete.




What do you think of the program?  I have been considering buying one for a while now but have not.  Jenner's World calls.


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## Hjorimir (May 5, 2004)

Thank you for taking a look, megamania.

As far as Campaign Cartographer is concerned, I find it extremely powerful and (by extension) highly sophisticated. With sophistication (fortunately or unfortunately as the case may be) comes a certain complexity. Reading the instruction book (approx 90 pages of normal sized text) is critically important.

Overall, I find it to be very powerful and I expect to produce some better work for my world.


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## Broccli_Head (May 5, 2004)

Beautiful!


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## LordVyreth (May 6, 2004)

Wow, very impressive so far!  I'm curious how much of this was done in a game.  How many times have you played this campaign so far?  And far along in those games are the updates so far?

Also, how much of the original story was role-played, how much was backstory, and how much was narrative embellisment on your part?  I'd be even more impressed if it turned out that the first game consisted of "You all meet in a bar, and decided to team up to fight some orcs.  "


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## Hjorimir (May 6, 2004)

Thank you for your kind words, LordVyreth; it means a lot.

Everything prior to Gathering (Part 1 of 2) was pre-campaign background that the respective players and I worked on together (I did all of the actual writing, however).

From Gathering to Troubling Events, we're still in the first session (we play long sessions of a little more than eight hours at a time). I have quite a bit of story from the first session to cover still and am about two months behind at this moment. 

Other than the character backgrounds, there has been very little embellishment as far as events and character interaction goes (though I wrote the conversations from memory). I've had to speculate somewhat on the emotions and thoughts of the player characters, obviously.

We've been playing together a long time (some of these players I've known longer than I haven't...meaning for more than half of my life). We're pretty much past the "meet at the bar and go hunting orc" stage - not that it is a bad way to play, just that we've done that many times already.

As far as players go, I consider myself damn lucky. Tríona is played by my wife (Michelle) and I consider it a godsend that I have a wife that will hang out with the gang and play make-believe. 

Álfarr is played my Kyle, who (as I think I mentioned on an earlier post) constantly amazes me with his unorthodox (yet highly effective) strategies (though he sometimes bites off more than he can chew).

Égun is played by one of my oldest friends, Chris. He is a published author and one hell of a nice guy. One of the most enjoyable things about Chris is his utter lack of interest in munchkin rules (he barely knows the rules to be honest). Instead, he just dives into the character and lets the dice fall as they may. I can stress enough how enjoyable and refreshing this can be for a DM.

Aramon is played by Dennis (and I know I already mentioned him on this thread – but it bears repeating). Dennis is definitely a guy to watch. He isn’t a full-fledged munchkin but he comes about as close as you can without actually being one. Again, a player that will come up with some amazing stuff.

Lazzaro is played by Mark whom I have known for over 25 years now…he’s more like a brother than a friend. I’m really looking forward to his take on a rogue, as Mark is a quintessential capitalist and republican.

Trevier (our local, stuffy knight) is played by Scott who, as somewhat of a theologian himself, will be in a great position to really portrait some aspects of church life within the campaign.

All in all, I expect this to be a great game…if they live.


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## LordVyreth (May 7, 2004)

I noticed that all the PCs appear human, unless I'm mistaken.  If I'm correct, was that intentional, or just coincidence?  Are demi-humans even a regular part of your world?  And what would you say the magic level is in your world?


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## Hjorimir (May 7, 2004)

All the player characters are human and that is by my design. Most humans don't even believe in the existence of elves and dwarves (and have no concept of other typical player races). Orcs, however, are obviously a reality and a major source of concern.

Magic...that's a big question. Okay, I will try and elucidate how I think of magic within my campaign. As far as spellcasters go, demographically speaking, there are far fewer than what is probably typical for a D&D world. Wizards, for example, cannot just go to a major city to track down the local wizard and purchase scrolls. Other than the spells allocated to them upon gaining a new level (two) they are pretty much forced to research each spell individually. 

The theory is that they will research variations of the spells within the books or (even better) create original works that help define their characters within the world. As they are still young, they haven't actually had the opportunity to start any research. But I know it is coming and it should be interesting to see what they produce. 

I should mention that I utilize the optional spell-point system within Unearthed Arcana for all of the spell casters (except Sorcerers which do something else).

Divine casters (clerics/druids for the most part) are required to keep a _prayer book_ that contains the _litanies_ (read: cleric spells) and _rites_ (read: druid spells) they have access to. When a cleric or druid obtains a new level, he may add two spells of his choice into his prayer book (much like a wizards). If it was a new spell level as well the cleric also adds his domain spells or, in the case of the druid, adds the appropriate _Summon Nature’s Ally_ spell. Scribing costs are identical to what a wizard pays and they utilize either Knowledge: Religion or Knowledge: Nature in lieu of Spellcraft in order to determine ability to learn a new litany/rite.

This was a design decision based on two factors: That divine casters are extremely powerful as presented within the rules and that I didn’t like the fact that (other than domain access) all of the divine casters had the exact same spell lists taking away any unique characteristics.

Much like in Sepulchrave’s (man, that guy is awesome) Wyre campaign, the vast majority of the clergy are experts; meaning they don’t actually have any ability to _channel_ Æhü’s (God’s) power.

In the case of magic items, there isn’t one among the group. I prefer to have fewer magic items than what most games have (where players work diligently to fit all of the items onto their ‘paper-doll’ while making sure no slot is left unadorned). Instead, I create items of power that have stronger abilities, often function differently than what is presented in the DMG, and have colorful histories.

This wraps into another house rule. I am of the opinion (and most of the DMs in our group agree) that traditional 3E experience advancement is too quick. Characters tend to race so fast through the levels that they have a hard time really understanding all of their own abilities. So, one way I slow the level advancement is through _attunement_ costs.

Attunement is an experience cost to connect with a magic item. Once the experience is spent, it is lost forever to the character (even if the item is later destroyed, sold, lost, etc.). A character can also _sever_ an attunement as a way of separation. The reason they would do this is because they cannot have more attuned at any one time than what is appropriate for their character level (as presented in the DMG). This is nice because it polices itself for character balance. It also forces the players to make a conscious choice on what items they actually use. Attunement to scrolls and potions are made at time of use (so you can administer a potion of healing to a dying character who would be able to attune automatically and gain the benefits of the curative magic).

Another nice benefit is that you can have powerful items without it being ‘Monty Haul.’ For example, the value of a +5 sword is 50,000 gp which is far too much for a 4th-level character to possess (5,400 to be precise). So a 4th-level character that _somehow_ came to possess such a powerful weapon wouldn’t be able to attune it past a +1 sword (as +2 is 8,000 and far too expensive). This allows you to have items that grow with the character and take on a campaign history. 

Magic item creation is another beast as well. Days become weeks when determining development time (save potions and scrolls). Furthermore, recipes need to be found or researched for items they are trying to craft. Often, the recipe will require rare and exotic components that forces a character to seek them out (read: adventure hook). It should be noted that the experience spent in creating an item can be levied against any attunement costs if the character is making an item for himself.

Lastly, there are materials within the world that are _infused_ or ‘naturally magical’ that are used to craft (for the most part) arms and armor. These must still be attuned but you won’t need any of those rare spell casters to create the item (just the appropriate craftsmen).


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## ForceUser (May 7, 2004)

> In the case of magic items, there isn’t one among the group. I prefer to have fewer magic items than what most games have (where players work diligently to fit all of the items onto their ‘paper-doll’ while making sure no slot is left unadorned). Instead, I create items of power that have stronger abilities, often function differently than what is presented in the DMG, and have colorful histories.



That beggars the question (and I keep forgetting to ask!), since normal D&D challenge ratings are designed with by-the-book character wealth levels in mind, do you adjust encounter difficulties downward to reflect the lack of magic items? For instance, it's great that Bob the 8th-level fighter has the _+2 longsword of ogre decapitation_, but that's not going to help him much verses a _fireball_. In the standard game, Bob's probably got a _+1 cloak of resistance_ to help him out there, but in Taeun he couldn't attune it _and_ the sword, or more likely, he doesn't even know _cloaks of resistance_ exist. In normal D&D the game design seems to assume that characters are buying those "paper-doll" magic items and rounding out their defenses. I've been wondering if you've considered this when designing encounters, or if you don't think it'll be much of an issue.


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## Hjorimir (May 7, 2004)

Hey ForceUser. 

While the game certainly assumes a certain level of character wealth, I don’t think it assumes the content of that wealth. Meaning, I don’t think there is a big list of ‘standard’ items each character is assumed to have. If anything, they might be assuming magic weapons needed to overcome DR. But that beggars another question: Why have DR if you’re going to design the game assuming characters will always be able to bypass the resistance?

Hrmmm…

I do consider group ability (as opposed to a specific character’s ability) when designing an encounter. Though, I do not design all encounters to be defeated by the player characters (I suggest using scouts, investigation, information gathering, and other legwork as necessary in order to have a chance at knowing what you may be up against). 

You should expect some encounters over the course of the game where the players do not have the ideal items to overcome the defenses of the opponents you face. However, if you recall my experience system, that will mean that for the same encounter you will be rewarded with an even greater amount of experience points.

I do agree that this can make some encounters a bit tougher than they normally would be. I am comfortable with that. I don’t really like the players to always be comfortable in combat. Combat is dangerous and people can die. I am hopeful that this will encourage the players to not always think with their sword and see if there are other (less dangerous) ways of achieving their goals. But, on the other hand, I love a good melee! Tæün will be a bit grittier than some of my past campaigns. The removal of conventional alignments alone creates an environment full of moralistic grays.

I suspect that tracking down magic items will be something the player characters will have to busy themselves with in addition to other objectives, goals, and plots.


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## Hjorimir (Jun 1, 2004)

_*Being part of an account concerning the rise and fall of the Knights of the Valley
-author unknown*

Now it came to pass that Amassian of Pala, who was a powerful man of station, was shunned by his wife, Eira whose beauty was unmatched throughout the Valley. She turned him away, naming him wicked and unblessed in the eyes of the Æhü-Father.

Amassian was angered and did place blame upon the holy man, Jaspin, who had joined them in the Temple. “It is thy failings as council unto my wife that has caused this hardship upon me,” he did say unto Jaspin. “Thou shouldst command her love upon me and make my house proper.”

But Jaspin denied him in saying, “Nay, I will not avail unto thee in this matter. Thou art wicked, Amassian-Lord and should seek atonement under the Law of the Æhü-Father.”

Amassian grew wrathful at the words of Jaspin and did strike and rend his flesh. “I am a Lord unto you, lowly Jaspin. Your treachery and failure will be thine Ending. Henceforth thou art outcast in all the Valley.”

Amassian then went to Esrik, father of Eira, so that he may council his daughter. “I have given unto thee a great dowry, yet Eira fails to serve me as wife. Thou art to attend to this matter and make her pleasing unto me.”

Fearful of Amassian, Lord of the Valley, Esrik did go unto Eira and plead. “Thou must submit to his lordship lest we all suffer by his Hand. Thine own Acts will condemn us all.”

“Wouldst thou have me surrender my purity unto so vile and fallen a man, father? Art thou paid in silver or gold for thy honor?” did Eira ask. “I will deny him to the End of Days and remain pure seeking Grace and Blessings from the Æhü-Father.”

Esrik did return to Amassian and tell him of her words. “She will not surrender her purity unto you, Amassian-Lord.” Hearing this, Amassian did rage and curse the name of his wife and thought to do murder upon her.

But then did a Stranger appear unto them, his body wreathed in shadow. “If thee wouldst bow to the Master and none other, all shalt be yours. With Dominion and Fortune, thou wouldst be both Power and Prince within the Valley. All wouldst kneel before thee and call blessings upon thine house.”

Amassian and Esrik did recoil and fall before the terrible Stranger and weep at the dark Presence.

“Yet more, thine body will be made eternal and touched with the Master’s Will. All will tremble in thine own wake and falter under thine gaze.”

Amassian did come to his knees before the Stranger and ask, “Will Eira-wife be mine?”

“Once she knows thine own flesh, Eira will be thine eternal and will sing of your beauty ever more if thee wouldst bow to the Master and none other.”

Amassian did then invoke the name of the Master and bow unto his Will in the dark of the night. He confronted Esrik and did say, “And where does lay thine loyalty now?”

Esrik did fear and tremble and humble himself before Amassian. “Thou are truly the Lord of all the Valley. Unto the End Days will I serve thee in loving fealty.”

Then did Amassian and Esrik return to Eira and command her obedience. But Eira did turn her eyes from him and pray to Æhü-Father for deliverance. Amassian raged and struck her from her prayer. “Nay! None shall bow evermore unto the Æhü-Father who has shunned me. Only unto the Master will thee pray or pray no more.” Eira again turned away from Amassian and thought to pray. But Esrik took hold of her and forced her before Amassian.

“Thou will know my flesh and unto me give thine love and purity.” So then did Amassian force his Lust upon her and they did couple.

Amassian then exerted his Will upon the Valley. Temples of the Æhü-Father were raised and the people celebrated the Master and the Lord of the Valley with coition and sacrifice.

Esrik, decumbent before Amassian, did ask, “Great is thine glory and righteous thine rule. But Jaspin-Betrayer speaks against thee and yet lives. What shall be his fate, oh mighty and terrible Lord?”

Amassian did consider Jaspin who he had already made vagabond. “As his faith in the Æhü-Father is Blind to Truth, so shall he be in his suffering. Pluck then his eyes from him and bring them to me and cast him into the wilds where tooth of beast and pain of hunger shall be his only comfort before his ending.” And so it was done as Amassian had bid.

From the Lands came three men, dressed in the clothes of peasants, who did present themselves before Amassian and the People of the Valley in their pace of Worship and of their Sin. “What crime was done by Jaspin’s hand that he should be blinded and cast out? He is humble before the Æhü-Father and blessed in His light,” one did ask of the Lord of the Valley.

“Prostrate thyself before me and give worship unto the Master! Only then shalt ye know the Truth and All! Lo the Æhü-Father is no more within the Valley and naught a bygone god in the lapse of His care,” Amassian answered from his throne of blood and gold.

“Thine own Fall is of a singular Accord, Amassian-Maggot. But castigation of thine Creator before the people shalt be answered on High. Hear me, for I am Usariel, Herald unto the Æhü-Father! Your deeds have set to motion a Coming! Repent in the eyes of the Æhü-Father and leave this place lest you be consumed in the Autumn-harvest! Deceived ye have been and thine love misplaced in the Taint of things most unholy.” Usariel then did strike the foundation of the temple and sunder it with his rod.

Amassian cursed the three for their words and the Æhü-Father whom they worshipped. High on post, they were sacrificed before his dark Master and an angel of the pit was called to dwell there and give strength to the Fallen. “Fear not the empty threats of a god removed. Behold the power of our Master and know that he alone is the Undeniable.”

His Wrath was but then delivered by plague and swarm as Burning Merlutat ascended to be Great in the Heavens. And so the people of the Valley suffered and were hewn by scythe as was foretold. To the great lords of the north did they plea for deliverance from the disease and darkness. But none would answer their need and they were turned away.

Then did they come to the Temples of the Æhü-Father in the east and make great offerings of jewels and gems and of gold and silver. So the Chair of the Temple gathered a host and sent them into the Valley so that they would undo the dark works therein. But great was the Master’s Hold and his darkness consumed the host. Still did the Chair of the Temple send forth more warriors so long as the offerings were made with each ascension of the Pale Hand.

But it came to pass that the people of the Valley had given all their wealth to the Temple and could donate no more. “Where then is thine Offering to the Æhü-Father?” the Chair of the Temple did ask. When told there was no more to give he spat upon them. “The People of the Valley no longer dwell within His light and shalt linger ever more in Tainted darkness unto the End of Days.” And so the Valley was left to Shadow.

Now the fiercest warriors of the Lands had gathered in a great contest so it may be known who among them was strongest in arms. But their contest was stilled by a blind man who took the field amongst them and would not yield to the thunder of hoof nor point of lance. “If ye would know which of thee is the greatest, go unto the Valley and make thine contest upon those cursed in the eyes of the Æhü-Father! Blessed is he that answers the Horn!”

“All that have gone unto the Valley have come to their Ending, none may go there and yet live,” they did answer to his call.

The words of the blind man did embrace them. “It is true that all who have fought for weight of gold and silver have fallen to the Darkness. But such things are not the design of the Æhü-Father and only an Ending will be won by any who would seek to profit at the suffering of thine brothers. If ye be true men of the Æhü-Father, go there and sacrifice thine selves and face the Enemy.”

His words did ring of the Divine and so from the Lords of the East did come Matteo, Celio, Amato, Danilu, Melchior, Vascian, and Orso. From the Lords of the North answered Owayn, Rhodric, Urion, Arn, Vaund, Mathumn, Haulus, Kendyl, Edryc, Alvar, Bedvyr, Darion, and Casamyr. And from the Lords of the East did respond Ariane, Didier, Corentin, Reynaud, Thierry, Guillaume, and Vespasien.

“We shall March upon the Fallen in the name of the Æhü-Father and do war upon his kind. Great is His Will and the Mysterion,” said Darion.

Along their travel did they come upon a great menhir that marked their way to the Valley. Together they bent their knee before it and pray upon their arms to the Æhü-Father for guidance and blessing so that their final moments be not in vain. 

Divine power struck the menhir and they were showered in fire. An angel appeared, concealed in light, and soothed their worries. “Know then that thine arms are blessed and ye hearts will know no fear and as your faith doth hold so shall your soul be shielded. Ye are not forgotten in the eyes of the Æhü-Father.” And so each was blessed unto the qualities of the man…

_


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## Garlok (Jun 2, 2004)

*Hrmmmmm*

Sounds Ominous. The players had better be on their toes.


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## LordVyreth (Jul 2, 2004)

Bump to keep this from falling off of the last page, and to inquire on when the next update will be.


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## Hjorimir (Nov 1, 2004)

I will just slip in and post quietly.


*9 – What evil lurks in the night?

[Wrensford, the Home of Ewart Jardine]*
Lazzaro and Trevier were busily enjoying their dinner, which included a steaming roast dripping with flavorful juices and a quality red wine from the City-States. Trevier was bidding his time as Lazzaro made pleasant small talk with Lysette while Ewart looked on smiling with approval. The knight, however, was more interested in speaking about the closure of the Great Road and hoped Ewart could somehow persuade the reeve to let them cross the bridge. As Lazzaro paused to take a long drink (something he had noticed Lazz was doing more and more while speaking with Lysette) he started in.

“Master Jardine, you set a wonderful table. This is certainly a fine meal,” Trevier opened.

“Think nothing of it. It isn’t often that your countrymen come this way and I’m always eager to hear of things abroad,” Ewart smiled. “I’m just sorry all of your friends couldn’t make it as well,” he added just a little too late to be convincing.

Trevier nodded as he set down his wine. “Yes, well given the current situation perhaps we can talk of local affairs? I have been charged to open the Great Road and drive the orcs from the area.”

“Well we certainly do appreciate that. Though it hasn’t gone unnoticed how both the Mother Church and the Quinterions are using this as an opportunity that will undoubtedly lead to proselytization within the scir.”

Trevier swallowed hard, looking a bit uncomfortable.

“Now, now,” continued Ewart, “don’t let my words unsettle you. I’m all for having some church support…within limits. But what exactly can I do in this matter?”

“The reeve has closed the bridge over the Corandil and we need to get out there if we’re going to find out exactly what is going on.”

Ewart nodded in understanding, “I see. Perhaps I could speak with Émile about the situation and see if…”

Raised voices from the front of the house interrupted the conversation.

“We need to speak with Lazzaro and Trevier at once!” Aramon’s voice echoed from the front hallway.

Hearing that, everybody left the table and went to the foyer to find Aramon, and the others, dripping mud all over Ewart’s floor. Furthermore, Égun seemed to have bits of rotted skin and odd pieces of what could only be described as ‘fleshy parts’ hanging all over him and tangled in his hair.

“What is all this commotion about?” Ewart demanded.

“We got dead things under the inn!” Égun answered.

Lysette faltered, almost falling down at the highlander’s words, only to be steadied by her father. Trevier groaned and put his head in his hands to calm himself.

At that, Lazzaro quickly turned to Ewart and bowed. “I’m sorry, Ewart, but it would appear that events require my immediate attention. We won’t trouble you or your house any more this evening. The meal was, of course, excellent.”


*[Outside the Golden Tankard]* 
The fact that _’dead things under the inn’_ had nothing to do with orcs or the closure of the Great Road hadn’t escaped Lazzaro’s mind as he found himself crawling through mud and muck beneath the Golden Tankard. But Álfarr was insistent that somebody needed to search the area for any symbols. What kind of symbols he expected to find – or Lazzaro to find – he did not share. Only that it must be looked for. Just as Laz was considering how much pay to dock from Álfarr for this most joyous red herring that was ruining some fine clothes he noticed an odd carving within a large central support beam of the building. 

Laz studied the beam under the light of his lantern. Overhead, thunder roared. [_What the hell is that?_] Something about the odd symbol seemed unsettling. But whatever it was, he couldn’t describe it. He committed the symbol to memory and made his way out to the others.

Álfarr looked down in the mud while Lazzaro scribed what he saw in its surface. Before Laz had completed his work, he rubbed it out with his boot. Lazzaro looked up at the wizard questionably. A flash of lightning etched a dark silhouette of the magician.

“Necromancy,” was all Álfarr offered. It seemed to be enough of an explanation.

“Black magic?!” Égun exclaimed. “That settles it, we kill the innkeeper!”

“No we don’t!” Trevier challenged, stopping the highlander with a hand. “We don’t know if he has anything to do with this. Anybody could have placed that mark there. We need to determine who is responsible first.”

“The man has a black magic thing on his inn! What more proof do ya’ need?” Égun continued, violence settling in his eyes.

Trevier, however, tightened his jaw and matched stares with the barbarian. “Égun, we need to know the truth. Then we can decide what must be done…legally.”

Égun only shook his head and sulked silently.

“Trevier is right,” agreed Álfarr. “We can just accuse him of the practice and let the reeve work out the details. It is not for us to dispense the lord’s law in this place.”

Lazzaro shook his head. “There isn’t enough evidence to justify an open accusation. We really don’t know what is going on here at all. Before we go getting ourselves involved in these matters we need to figure some things out.”

“We’re already involved, Lazzaro. At least I am,” Aramon said. “You need to understand that necromancy makes all other matters secondary. Such practices can involve the creation of the unliving. The Taint cannot be ignored. It is a blasphemy unto Æhü!”

“I understand,” Trevier said. “But we are not the lords of the scir. There are laws and we are not above them. Our actions, Aramon, speak for the Mother Church and we cannot afford to be seen as bullies or brigands.”

“We should at least confront the innkeeper. This is his establishment and he may know much of these matters,” Álfarr suggested. “He may offer us the information we seek…if pressed.”

When a Fjoti says _pressed_ he really means _squeezed hard_. The translation was not lost on the others.

“We can *speak* with him. And it needs to be private,” Trevier added. “I will not be part to slander or condemn a man in ignorance.”


*[Inside the Golden Tankard]*
The conversation with Faron Nashur, the innkeeper, went about as well as could be expected. Once Égun had been removed from the room it was learned that the inn had been owned and operated by the Nashur family for three generations. Actual ownership of the inn lay with Faron’s older brother, Rhisiart, who just happened to be in town at the time. Quite naturally, Rhisiart stayed at the inn when in Wrensford. After Álfarr threatened to ask the patrons how they felt about the matter, Faron took everybody upstairs to discuss the matter with his brother.

Rhisiart was an older man, somewhere in his mid-forties. Yet he seemed strong and vibrant for a man of his age. After listening to Faron’s explanation he dismissed his brother to return to the bar and invited the others into his suite to discuss the matter.

“You’re all wet. Can I offer you some warm cider?” he said upon his brother’s dismissal.

“We’re not here to talk about apples! There is a necromancer here and we’re going to put him on the pole!” Égun said as he barged in menacingly.

Rhisiart took a step back from the clansman in a defensive manner. But what caught Lazzaro’s eye was the fact that the older man seemed completely unafraid of the towering warrior. _[Interesting.]_

“Égun, calm down,” Trevier admonished before turning to the man. “Rhisiart, bodies have been exhumed from the cemetery for some unknown and foul purpose; we’ve sensed the unliving within the township and find that this very inn has been marked as a place of dark practices. Can you explain any of this?”

Rhisiart’s brow furrowed and his mood darkened. “You think to accuse me of such things? Do you see any bodies here? I am a respected businessman in the scir and won’t have my reputation smeared by visiting troublemakers! What possible evidence do you have that is conclusive? Don’t bother answering that! I know you have none because there is none!”

Trevier sighed, “Nobody is accusing you of anything.”

“I am!” Égun said before being silenced with a stare from the knight.

“As I was saying, nobody is accusing you or your brother of anything. This is simply an investigation.”

Rhisiart’s scowl faded, “What do you want from me? Such a thing can not only hurt this business it could even start a panic or worse…a riot.”

“We certainly wish to avoid that,” Trevier said. “To be honest, I’m not sure what I expected to gain from this conversation. Perhaps Émile should be involved.”

“I think that would be far more appropriate than being accosted in the night like some criminal,” Rhisiart agreed. “Please convey to the reeve that I will be by his manor tomorrow to discuss this matter and what it means for my business.”


*[The Next Morning, The Golden Tankard]*
“He’s guilty,” Lazzaro offered.

“How can you know that?” Aramon asked.

“I’m telling you that is no ordinary businessman. When Égun bore down on him he looked ready to fight, not flee,” Laz explained.

“I noticed that too, Laz. It doesn’t prove his guilt, however,” Trevier added.

“It isn’t only that. Last night I took a look around. I wanted to get a peek into the cellar to see what might be crawling around down there. Guess what? It has been boarded up. Faron told me that they boarded it up for safety reasons and he tried to make some excuse about flooding and said he wanted to keep it closed ‘just in case’ what we said was true. But later Merla said that it was closed about a week ago…right after Rhisiart arrived. They are definitely hiding something.”

“It doesn’t look good, I will admit that much. I will bring it up when I speak with Émile later this morning,” Trevier said.

“Later? What are you waiting for?” Égun asked.

“First I must give perform my morning devotionals,” Trevier explained.

“Just skip them. God is probably too busy to listen anyway,” Égun suggested.

Trevier’s jaw tightened. “Don’t presume to speak to me of faith or Æhü. Even if he doesn’t listen – and I’m not agreeing that He doesn’t – He knows my soul. For me, that is enough.”

“Why is it so damn important if he doesn’t even have to listen to you?” Égun asked.

“You miss the point. It isn’t a matter of Æhü listening to me, it is a matter of me listening to Him. I don’t expect you to understand,” the knight answered.

Égun only shrugged.

Aramon had already started his own prayers when Trevier knelt beside him.


*[The Reeve]*
Later that morning Trevier reported his findings to Émile that included the necromantic sigil discovered underneath the inn, the sealed basement, and mysterious exhumations. He hoped that the reeve would act with earnest before things went too far. But Émile was of a different mind and was more concerned with even further damage to the local economy.

“The fact that the road is closed has hurt business enough as it is. If rumors of a necromancer uprising in Wrensford get out we could be ruined for good. No, Trevier, we must proceed with caution. I beg of you to be extremely discreet in these matters,” the reeve said.

“You are charged with the protection of this scir, Émile. These are dangerous matters,” Trevier challenged.

“Yes, it is my responsibility. However, part of that same responsibility includes the strength of the market as well. What will the people do when there is no trade? How exactly shall they survive? Trust me when I say I take your words seriously. But this cannot be my only concern.”

“Are we then to do nothing?” 

Émile sighed and thought on the matter. He rolled the word around in his head. [_Necromancy._] Like a dark cloud is brought a certain amount of fear with it. He was completely ignorant on the lives of magicians and the practices of their art. Magic alone was scary enough. There were stories of men who could bring lightning from the sky or even call forth the fires from hell to consume their enemies. But necromancy, as he understood it, delved into the unliving. The reeve trembled ever so slightly. Trevier was right, something had to be done. 

“I will empower you to pursuit this matter if you promise that both restraint and discretion will be exercised. Furthermore, your investigation must proceed within the limits of the law. No breaking and entering,’ the reeve offered.

“I can agree to that. Do not worry, Émile. We will be circumspect in our investigation,” Trevier said in acceptance.


*[Wrensford, The Next Day]*
Everybody spent most of the next day wandering the town looking for any sign of foul play. Tension in the streets was high and already murmurs of necromancers performing nefarious rituals were on the lips of the townspeople. Luckily, the rumors were limited to the events that transpired in the cemetery and there was no mention of the inn. It was near sundown when they gathered to share their limited findings. There was but one lead.

Álfarr had bribed some young children with a handful of hard candy to talk with him. Fjoti were a fearsome people and most kept a good distance from the magician. Still, candy was still candy and children being what they are quickly found the stranger quite friendly and began speaking with him.

“They apparently heard some odd noises from a warehouse late one night. They described it as digging with a kind of moaning,” Álfarr explained.

“I’m a’thinking they just wanted the candy and had to tell you something,” Égun laughed.

But Álfarr was undeterred by the barbarian’s jibe. “Try not to use the word think too often, Égun. It isn’t convincing.”

Égun looked perplexed as he tried to decipher what Álfarr had just said to him. Not wanting to appear stupid, he opted to remain silent for the time being and only nodded with a smile.

“Did you get a look at the warehouse?” Lazzaro asked.

“Of course,” answered the magician. “We have time to look at it before nightfall if we hurry.”

…

The sun had set by the time they arrived.

“That warehouse is the property of Paden Marescot. His family has business connections up in Vor’Andur. They deal mostly in imported silks out of the City-States and other fineries,” Lazz explained.

“What would be doing in the middle of the night in that warehouse?” Trevier asked.

Lazzaro shrugged, “He’s kind of an ass. He is probably just burying something illegal, but I guess it is worth a look.”

Trevier was about to press him to explain what kind of illegal things traders bury in warehouses but the look on Lazzaro’s face indicated the topic was closed. With a sigh, the knight went on, “I will see about getting a warrant to search the building from Émile tomorrow. Until then, we wait.”

“It is perfectly legal to take a look around, Trevier. Let’s split up and circle about to get a closer look,” Lazzaro suggested.

“I suppose that is acceptable,” Trevier conceded.

Lazzaro turned to the others, “Álfarr and Égun you’re with me. Aramon and Tríona can go with Trevier.” He made the choices seem almost random.

Trevier shook his head, “Nice try Lazzaro, but I think I’d be more comfortable with a representative of the Church in both groups. I will take Égun and you take Aramon.”

Lazzaro looked incredulous. “Are you suggesting that I’m not trustworthy?”

“I’m not suggesting anything?” Trevier answered, leaving the others to interpret the double entendre as they see fit.

“Oh, all right. I suppose that is fine,” Lazzaro agreed, appearing crestfallen. He then steered his group knowingly to the left leaving the others to go to the right.

“Hey, look! A side door,” Lazzaro said, feigning surprise before he quickly pressed an ear up to its surface. “I can’t seem hear anything. Maybe we should just take a quick peek inside to make sure everything is okay.”

Aramon remained silent. Álfarr nodded as Lazz jiggled the handle.

“Hrm, it also seems to be locked,” he explained. “You know, my family once came into a bunch of chests – long story, I won’t bother you with the details – and my grandfather put me in charge of opening them. You see, the problem was we didn’t have the keys so I had to kind of learn how to pick locks. I know it isn’t a well respected trade, but it was really honest work for me. So let me just take a look and see if I can maybe get us in so we can just kind of look around, okay?”

Álfarr shook his head. “That was pathetic, Laz.”

Not being a particularly lawful individual and being more concerned with the growing threat of unliving within the scir, Aramon only nodded. [_You’re not fooling anybody with that story, Laz. Just pick the damned lock already._]

Laz set to the task of trying to open the lock with a dagger. He had been looking for a good set of lock picks for quite some time now, but just couldn’t put his hands on a set. “This is pretty hard without the proper tools,” he explained as he struggled with the lock. He was still struggling with it when Trevier’s group rounded the corner.

“We didn’t see any… what do you think you’re doing, Laz?!” Trevier said as he pulled him away.

“Listen, Trevier. Something evil might be going on in there and we have to take a look,” Lazzaro said.

“We are not thieves in the night, Laz. The reeve was very clear on this point!”

A short distance off, near the main cargo doors of the warehouse, Tríona was struggling to peek through the chained doors while the others argued. There was enough slack to pull them apart enough to poke her head in, but the doors were heavy for her. Seeing this, Égun moved over to help and pulled the doors open as far as the chains would allow. With that Tríona slipped in.

“…and another thing, Lazzaro, we have to…Tríona! Get out of there!” Trevier called after her. But it was too late. He couldn’t possibly follow her through the narrow opening.

Tríona crept slowly through the dark warehouse. There were no windows in the building and what light she had was only what was provided by the gap in the doors. Feeling about for long minutes she discovered nothing. But Tríona wasn’t just anybody. She was a druid of the Tree and her connection with the land was undeniable. She opened herself to the flows of Essænce and allowed its power to well up within her. Her connection with nature came alive; the smell of the air, the feel of the dirt between her toes and the taste of it on her tongue. Something was definitely wrong here. But her inexperience proved to be too much. She didn’t understand the nature of it.

Tríona emerged from the warehouse and explained – to Égun and Lazzaro as only they understood her words – that there was something unsettling about the place but she could not determine what. 

“She isn’t making much sense,” Lazzaro explained to the others. “Something about the ground isn’t how it is supposed to be. It is all very confusing.”

“She’s a druid,” Égun said as if that explained everything. Lazzaro only shrugged.

“She gets her power from the land and the Tree. We’d be wise to listen to her warning,” Égun cautioned.

“Well, it is late now and it will rain again tonight,” said Álfarr. “Let’s head back to the inn and put the warmth of mead in our guts.”

“Sounds like a good idea,” Lazzaro agreed.

“Tríona and I are going to stay and watch the warehouse and see if anybody comes by to do evil things,” Égun said.

“Very well,” Trevier replied. “And while the rest of you are warming yourselves, I’m going to go see Émile about a warrant. I want to get a better look inside, but we need to respect the law here. Perhaps on the morrow we could…”

“In my lands we’d have torn the doors down already,” Álfarr sniped.

“Law holds the people together, Álfarr,” the knight chided.

“Oh, we have laws too. If we had entered a place without due cause or killed somebody on accident there would be accounts to settle at the Thing,” Álfarr explained.

“A thing?” Aramon asked.

“No, The Thing. It is a gathering of the men to recite the laws and for the Jarl to settle any disputes. Often such things are settled in a duel or sometimes a wergild will be awarded to the victim’s family,” Álfarr explained.

“What’s a wergild?” the priest asked.

“It is a value placed on the lost life of the murdered; the higher the status of the victim, the greater the amount that would need to be paid in coin or kind to the family.”

“So you basically can kill anybody in the Hiemalmark and get away with it?” Trevier interrupted.

“No. First of all, you’re not Fjoti so you don’t have any protection under the law. So you could be killed without reason. But if I were to kill somebody and it was viewed a particularly terrible crime I’d be declared outlaw.”

“Then the Jarl kills you,” Lazzaro saw where this was going.

“Wrong again,” Álfarr corrected. “But being an outlaw means that you’re no longer protected by the laws just like an outsider. Outlaws can be beaten or killed without fear of reprisal from the Jarl. They are usually hunted down and slaughtered pretty quickly, though.”

“Nice place. Remind me never to go there,” Lazzaro said.

Álfarr only shrugged. “How about that mead?”


*[The Lord’s Manor]*
Trevier was somewhat surprised to find Rhisiart waiting outside of the Lord’s Manor in the rain. It was a cold and bleak night; far too cold for lingering needlessly in the storm.

“Rhisiart,” Trevier said. “What brings you to the manor at such a late hour?”

“I have some information for Émile and you. Information that you will find…useful. I wanted to wait for your arrival before sharing it.”

“Have you some lead about the sigil discovered under your inn?” Trevier asked.

Rhisiart shook his head. “Unfortunately, no, I do not. However, I do think you’ll find what I do have to be very, very important.”

[_What game are you playing, Rhisiart?_] Trevier nodded and gestured for Rhisiart to lead their way in. “Let us then speak with the reeve.”

The two of them shook the rain from their cloaks and hung them in the foyer. Trevier could sense something wrong in the situation but lacked the insight to understand Rhisiart’s motives. Without much affair, he found himself sipping brandy and sitting near a crackling fire along with Émile and Rhisiart. He couldn’t help but notice how the low light of the fire formed pools of shadow that cast a hellish visage of a skull upon Rhisiart. With a shake of the head, he dismissed the imagery as unfounded zeal in his investigation. [_I’m seeing things where there are none._]

“I am sorry to call upon you at such a late hour, Émile. But I have just come into some important information. Information that will help solve the problems of the scir.”

“Have you unraveled the sigil under the inn?” the reeve asked.

Rhisiart drew forth a folded sheet of parchment, “No, but this is even better.” He said as he offered it to Émile.

The reeve set down his brandy and leaned forward to take a look at the parchment in the low firelight. “It’s a map of the Great Road, though it hardly looks extraordinary.”

Rhisiart pointed to a small x upon the map near a known campsite. “There, near the rest stop. That is Colm’s mark. It is where the orcs are based.”

“Who is Colm?” Trevier asked.

“He was a ranger that was recently under the employ of the marquis. He knows these lands well,” Émile answered.

“How did this come to you, Rhisiart?” the knight asked. “Is Colm here? I’d like to speak with him.”

“Unfortunately, he is no longer here. Colm was more than a little upset when he and his companions were released from service here in Wrensford. But he did care enough about the scir to take a look around for us anyway. He was always fond of the townsfolk here,” Rhisiart explained with a long sigh.

A servant quietly walked over to Émile and whispered to him. The reeve nodded in return and dismissed the servant.

“I am sorry, please continue,” the reeve said. “What were you saying? Oh yes, Colm. I seem to recall, Rhisiart, that when your taxes were due you brought forth complaints of the unnecessary expenses that had lead to the increasing of taxes. In particular, I seem to recall you thought the rangers were far too expensive to employ. Am I right?”

Rhisiart shifted uneasily and sighed yet again. “It is as you say. Had I known such dangers were coming, I obviously would have felt very differently about the matter. It is hard to make ends meet these days. My margins are already thin.”

“Still, I am curious why he didn’t just send the information here,” Émile mused.

“Well, he probably didn’t even know how I felt about the rangers and only knew it was you who released him from duty…on behalf of the marquis that is,” Rhisiart offered as an explanation. “But that isn’t what is important. What is important is that we now have a vital piece of information. We also have a Cyrdion Knight of the Mother Church who has been sent here to deal with these matters. I think the Quinterions have fooled around quite long enough and encourage you to open the bridge to Sur Trevier and his fine companions so that they may return to the duties that brought them here in the first place.”

“What are we talking about?” a voice from behind them said.

Trevier, whose mind was already rolling as he was trying to piece together everything that was going on, turned to see Jacinda standing there. Etiquette being instinctive to him, he was the first to rise. “Jacinda,” he said with a nod.

“If you’ll excuse us,” Rhisiart began, “we are in the middle of a conversation.”

“It is all right, Jacinda,” Émile said. “This concerns you as well.”

“Émile, I don’t think…”

The reeve quieted Rhisiart with an upheld hand. “Rhisiart, I have already granted charge to Jacinda in the matter of these orcs. Besides, Trevier is now investigating other important matters in service to the marquis.”

Émile turned his attention to Jacinda. “Have you discovered anything?”

“Not yet, I’m afraid. There is a lot of ground to cover, Émile, and this storm is not making it any easier,” she answered.

“I understand. Well fortune smiles upon us this night,” the reeve answered as he offered her the map. “The x along the road marks an often used rest stop by merchant caravans. A ranger that used to be within the employ of the marquis thinks it is also an area the orcs may lair.”

Rhisiart seemed like he was going to explode. He took a moment to calm himself as Jacinda examined the map. “Émile, please reconsider this!” he said earnestly. “Trevier is a trained knight! He is obviously more qualified for this kind of work.”

Trevier remained silent as he tried to decide what course of action to take. On one hand, he had been charged with opening the Great Road. On the other, he already suspected Rhisiart may have some connection to the necromancy that was apparently being practiced within the town. Rhisiart also seemed fixated on removing Trevier from the town, which he could only assume to be indicative of his involvement. Regardless, the decision was about to be decided for him.

“Excellent,” Jacinda said. “My men and I will make for the camp tomorrow.” She folded up the map and stuck it in her belt.

Turning to her, Trevier said, “Perhaps my companions and I should come along with you.”

“That will not be necessary, I can assure you,” she answered. “The Quinterion Church will handle this as we said we would. Good night, gentlemen.”


*[Two Days Later]*
The group had spent the last two days in frustration. Whatever had been lurking under the Golden Tankard had apparently disappeared, along with anything of interest in the flooded hollow. There were a few sewers that ran from the town and dumped into the Corandil and the grate had been removed from the one that seemed to service the area of town where the inn was located. Unfortunately, it was badly flooded and none felt confident enough in their own ability to swim to try and probe deeper.

So, late that night, Trevier was making his way to the Lord’s Manor to once again press for a warrant for Paden Marescot’s warehouse. He had left the others at the inn, save Égun and Tríona who continued their nightly vigil watching the warehouse for suspicious activity. Looking down at his armor, he noticed a few small spots of rust. He raised his right hand to examine the gauntlet. [_That’s what spending time in the rain will do to you. I suppose I’ll have to take care of this soon._]

Suddenly, his warhorse stopped and neighed violently. “Easy there. What do you…” Trevier’s words came up short as he just now noticed a dark-robed man standing in the mouth of a narrow alley between two houses; his hands were already weaving a spidery pattern in the air. From behind him, in the ally, a skeleton wielding a wicked curved blade and shield started to charge. Just as Trevier made for his own sword, the magician’s spell was released. 

Pain ripped through Trevier’s right arm. Off came his gauntlet to fall unceremoniously in the muddy road. Holding his hand aloft, he could see what had once been strong flesh was now nothing more than a withered claw, dried and useless. The skeleton was already upon him and made a cut at the neck of his mount. At the last moment, Trevier pulled the horse back and evaded the blow. Seeing an opportunity, Trevier directed his horse to attack. Steel-shot hooves snapped at the creature but were turned aside by its shield. To his horror, Trevier saw the magician release another spell.

Gold. Everywhere Trevier looked, he saw golden stars burning brightly. Unable to see, Trevier continued to let his horse attack the skeleton while he shook his head, hoping his vision would clear. Over the melee he was engaged in, he could hear yet another spell being woven. “Æhü have mercy!”


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## Garlok (Nov 3, 2004)

*Great Post*

Now tell us what happens next!


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## Garlok (Nov 3, 2004)

*Great Post*

Now tell us what happens next!


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## Lodow MoBo (Nov 28, 2004)

bump


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