# The Scars Run Deep (Updated  - 3/29/2004)



## Ruined (Sep 18, 2002)

*The Scars Run Deep* is a campaign set in the Scarred Lands campaign setting. It focuses on four characters drawn from various countries as they are bound together by fate.

I’ve started the campaign by running each player through a solo introductory session, allowing us to build the character backgrounds and get a feel for them before having to interact with the other players. So far, I am very impressed with my players.

*The Cast of Characters:*

*Tréan of Madriel*: Female Half-elf Cleric (Madriel) 3.  Tréan was raised by the temple of Madriel in Angelsgate, never having known her mother. As she learned and grew in strength, her tutelage took her to Vesh where she became a member of the Order of the Morning Sky. She is a staunch foe of the undead and a capable speaker on behalf of her temple.

*Gerad Caedmon*: Male Human Fighter 3.  Gerad is a former janissary slave-warrior to the Calastian Empire. A man so brutal to his enemies that he gained the monicker ‘Scourge’ in his younger days. He has rebelled against everything he once lived for, and now looks to find his place in the world.

*Surielle Moonshade*: Female Human Druid 3.  A druidic servant of Denev walking the footsteps of her mother Amara. She and her wolf companion Snowmelt try to heal the wounded land and oppose the deadly machinations of titan-worshipping druids in the land.

*Silas Meren’stadt*: Male Elven Rogue 1/Urban Ranger 2. A bitter hunter driven by the death of his beloved sister. Moving from city to city, Silas hunts assassins that belong to the shadowy Cult of the Ancients. Only when they are destroyed will he stop his quest.


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## Ruined (Sep 18, 2002)

Tréan -  20th of Tanot, yr. 150 A.V.

The coming of dawn is a wondrous thing to behold in the Temple of the Sun. The Eastern wall is dominated with open windows to allow Madriel’s golden rays to bless her temple. Architects had labored to allow the most possible sunlight into the main temple without leaving it open to the frequent rains of Durrover. In those places where the morning dew had pooled, young initiates worked steadily to scrub and clean.

Tréan recalled her years spent in the temple, working to keep its stone floors and walls spotless. Some would say that such tasks were pointless and menial, but they did not understand the pride that comes from such work. Purity was one of the first tenets taught to those who followed the path of Madriel. It was a far cry from the tenets that she had learned while in Vesh…

“Acolyte Tréan?” A small blonde-haired initiate wearing simple white robes interrupted her thoughts. “Yes, dear?” she asked.

“Maester Taigral requests your presence in his office.”

Tréan smiled at the young girl as she curtsied and went off to other duties. Tréan wondered what the high priest needed of her, hoping it was a challenging assignment. The few months since she had returned to Angelsgate had been comforting, but she had tasted action in Vesh and now she yearned to have it again. Tréan could apply the healing arts as well as any other of her rank, but she knew that her gifts lay also in the martial disciplines.

The door to Maester Taigral’s chamber was partially closed, and Trean could hear voices inside. She knocked and was greeted by the Maester and another, Helena Garrond. Tréan knew Helena, as both were of the Order of the Morning Sky. The Maester asked Tréan if she could wait outside while they finished their conversation. She did so, leaving the door as she first found it.

Her ears, which rose to a slight point due to her elven heritage, picked up fragments of the conversation. In Tréan’s mind, it wasn’t snooping as much as it was curiosity. She heard a few details, mostly from the Maester’s raised voice, including her name, plans for another youth, and the word ‘Sussephra’. What it meant, she knew not, but she was intrigued. Soon enough, she found herself standing before Helena and the Maester.

“Divinities Day approaches, Tréan, and every year there is a week-long festival held in the Zathiskan town of Quelsk. As the country officially worships Chardun, there are no established temples to our Lady nearby.”  Trean noted the way the Maester’s white eyebrows furrowed when he named Chardun, the Slaver. Maester Taigral was a respected elder among the faithful – one of few men to assume a position of authority in what was mostly a matriarchal religion. In the years she had known him, Tréan had developed a profound respect for the man.

“A pilgrimage is set every year so that the people of Zathiske will know the mercies of Madriel, and remember that she cares for them, even if their rulers have forgotten her.”  Helena was next to speak.

“Zathiske is in the heart of the Hegemony, and given our country’s current state of war, we feel it would be wise to send the Order of the Morning Sky.”  Helena spoke truly; Durrover had been under siege from the neighboring country of Lageni, a province of the Calastian Hegemony. The Order, known for missions of mercy, was allowed to cross the borders even in times of war. 

Tréan readily agreed to the mission, looking forward to travel through these unfamiliar lands. She was given basic details of the path that will lead them to Zathiske. She also learned that they will be accompanied on their quest by a younger acolyte, a youth by name of Mitran. The Maester escorted them from his office, wishing them good fortune on their travels.

“You, Mitran and I shall meet tonight for dinner and discussion,” Helena said. “We have much to do, and I, for one, am eager to begin this journey.”


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## Horacio (Sep 19, 2002)

Cool, your story begins!

Could I suggest putting a link in your signature?


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## SSS-Druid (Sep 19, 2002)

Excellent!

Another story hour with which I might while away hours that I should be using to produce new books. 

Spectacular start, theRuinedOne. Looking forward to hearing more about it.


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## Ruined (Sep 19, 2002)

Silas - 5th of Corer,  yr. 144 AV

“Silas, I will only say this once more. I forbid you to seek these men out!”

Silas narrowed his eyes at his father as he paced around the study. Brigham Loralian was upset, just as he was. Yet his words, his decree, made Silas fume all the more.

“You would have me sit here in tears, when I could be out finding the killers?”

It had been two days since the watch had brought Illyana’s bloodstained body to the house. His sister, murdered in the streets of Aolvnir. She had a dalliance with a human by name of Frederico, something short-lived and passionate. She had kept it secret from her father, but had trusted Silas with the information. Apparently this Frederico had enemies of his own, and they had murdered the young couple as they walked through the streets at night.

“Silas, I will see that Illyana is avenged. I can make this happen. but you are young –”

“I am nearly fifty years old!” Silas shouted.

“And still a youth in our family, or have you forgotten from whence you came?”  His father’s retort stung. Silas knew the underlying meaning. His father had always commented on the amount of time Silas spent with his human friends, instead of the other elves within Aolvnir. And now Illyana’s love for a man had caused her death. He watched as his father walked over and placed a hand upon his shoulder.

“Please, Silas. I have lost one child dear to me. I do not wish to lose the other.”

Silas gently moved from his father’s touch.

“Father, you lost me years ago, not that you would notice.” 

No further words were spoken as Silas turned and walked from the room.

* * *

Silas did not spend that night searching for his sister’s murderers. Instead, he found himself rebelling against his father in a different way, associating with his friend Martin Shale. Martin had a terrible curiosity, and always seemed to find danger where it lurked in Aolvnir.

Tonight was no exception: the pair were perched behind a rocky outcropping that led down to the lakeside, spying on a group of four men. They had been here for nearly an hour, and the men below now prepared to leave.

“One of them should have the lens. If we can get it, I know someone who will pay a good sum of gold for it.” Martin leaned forward and squinted in the moonlight. His eyesight paled beside the elven eyes of Silas.

“One of the thinner men is holding a long case,” Silas announced. “I don’t like this, Martin. I swear, one of the men is a guardsman, and I believe another wears the insignia of the Duke.” 

“Maybe, but this is a thousand gold crowns we’re talking about. One score, and we can live like kings!” 

Silas watched his friend for a moment without speaking. Martin had mentioned this job to him before, but he had ignored it. Smaller thefts were tolerable; filching a purse or roaming through someone’s house while they were away was actually exciting. But this was stealing from a city official, an act that could be trumped up to treason if the Dragoons caught them. Yet, his mind had changed tonight. The city watch had said they had no information regarding his sister’s murder, but he doubted if they had asked the right questions. Witnesses may give more information if coins crossed their palms, coins that this job could provide. It was a dirty business, but Silas felt obligated to pursue it. _For Illyana,_ he kept telling himself. _For Illyana._

“One condition, Martin: Two-fifths go to me, two-fifths to you, and one-fifth goes to the Church of Hedrada.” 

“The church? Are you mad? You’re welcome to give them part of your share, but -”

“One-fifth, Martin. Either that or I walk.”

Martin seemed ready to argue the point, but a voice called out from below them. The guardsman had apparently heard voices and was calling for a lantern. Thinking quickly, Silas grabbed a flask and splashed himself with wine. Within moments, the glare from a hooded lantern shone on the pair.

“Explain yourselves! What are you doing here?”   

Silas began to speak in a slurred voice, but Martin quickly intervened with a story of them drinking by the lakeside. He was not as skilled a liar as Silas, but his story seemed convincing enough. The guard approached close enough to smell them, and then returned to his group with a look of disgust. Silas and Martin watched as the four continued up the path back to the city proper.

“Fair enough,” Martin grumbled. “One-fifth to yer church.” 

* * * 

The pair watched from between two darkened houses as the guardsman walked from the thin man’s house. Two black cases stood on end on the stoop, as he fished through his pockets for a key.

“We should do this quickly before he gets inside,” Silas said. Martin agreed and they formed a plan. Within seconds, Silas strolled up to the house, still smelling of cheap wine. The man had retrieved his key, and now the door to his house stood open. He turned and nearly jumped when he saw Silas walking up.

“Excuse me, sir…” Silas continued the act, exaggerating his words.

“Can I help you, sir?” the man asked. Silas got up close to him and mumbled an incomprehensible string of words.  “Pardon me? Wait, weren’t you back…?”

The man’s words were interrupted as Martin bowled into the two of them and snatched the cases, running off into the night. The victimized man cursed and swore, calling out for the guard as he struggled to get to his feet. He looked at Silas and pointed a finger, then ran down the street calling for the guards. Silas considered looking through the man’s open house, but decided against it. He had already taken too many risks this night.

Within an hour, Martin had brought the cases to a quiet flat where Silas stayed most nights. He had a room at his father’s considerable estate, but he chafed at the rules placed upon him there. This house was comforting to him. 

Examination of the cases had revealed one to have a long tube split in half, with a glass lens in each piece. It reminded Silas of a spyglass his father had mounted above the fireplace. The other case held an odd metal stand with three legs that presumably could attach to the tube. After a brief examination, Martin closed the cases and rose from the floor.

“I’ll see if my contact can meet me tomorrow to look at the goods. Then I’ll find you.” 

“I think the lenses should stay with me. Not that I don’t trust you, Martin…”

Martin grumbled.

“I trust you too, but I’m loathe to leave the prize here.” 

“Take one of the lenses with you, I’ll keep the other,” Silas said. “We’ll meet tomorrow and handle the deal.” Martin thought for a moment, and then agreed, grabbing one of the tubes from the case and gently placing it in a sack.

Silas lay on his bed, unable to sleep after Martin had left. How far would he go for his sister’s memory? How far?


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## Ruined (Sep 19, 2002)

Thanks, Horacio!  Somehow I knew you'd be the first to comment. =)

SSS-Druid, thank you as well. I would never, ever want to distract you from your work on SL.  Just think of me as placating the masses while your wonderful story hour takes a hiatus. 

Question: Is the dialogue color bothering you?  I like it, but don't want it to appear too gaudy.


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## Nightfall (Sep 20, 2002)

Not to bad Ruined. I don't mind the coloration in dialogue. Not entirely sure of the color..but it's not too bad. 

So far I like it!


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## Horacio (Sep 20, 2002)

I like dialogue in color 

And I love the story!


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## madriel (Sep 22, 2002)

Great story!


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## Ruined (Sep 22, 2002)

Tréan -  5th of Enkilot, yr. 150 A.V.

The trio rode silently on horseback through the opening of Irontooth Pass. They passed from under the shadow of Rockvale, the last hold of Durrover they would see as they passed into lands controlled by Lageni. Twenty-four years ago, Calastian forces had taken control of Irontooth pass, the main route of land travel into Durrover. 

The journey through the northern reaches of Durrover had been reassuring. Many of the skirmishes with Lageni occurred in the mountain passes of Keldar between the highlanders and Lageni raiders. At Helena’s request, their first stop was at the hold of her family. Helena’s father, the thain Garrond, was a blustery man who grumbled continuously about ‘those Lageni heathens’. He was none-too-thrilled to learn that his daughter intended to ride through Lageni lands. Tréan had witnessed a series of loud arguments between the two which finally ended in a family honor guard that escorted them all the way to Rockvale. The thain would have gladly sent the guard with them all of the way, but it would have doomed their journey.

Helena, to her credit, had handled her father’s decision with wisdom and grace. Tréan had witnessed a hint of the thain’s temper in Helena, but she kept it restrained at most times. Tréan regarded her now, noting the ease in which she handled the horse beneath her. Helena had traded her robes of blue and white for a suit of light mail enameled with the symbols of the Redeemer and their Order. Her dark brown hair was tied in a heavy braid that hung down past her shoulders.

Mitran rode on the other side of Helena, displaying the same ease in which Helena handled her horse. He seemed very young and small beside the priestess. It had to be that he wasn’t wearing armor. Instead he wore a simple white tabard over blue robes, traveling garb for most young acolytes. He was all of thirteen years, wide-eyed and eager to travel through new lands.

“There’s the outpost, up ahead,” Mitran remarked. 

“You should speak with them this time,” Helena said, looking at Tréan. Tréan nodded and nudged her mare forward to meet the approaching soldiers. After a few quick questions, she was brought forward to speak with the captain of the border guard. She was taken inside the small outpost while the others waited. Captain Vagon was a homely man with a large warty nose who looked at her with fierce cunning.

“Hmm, I was unaware of any plague in our lands,” he said, eyeing the symbol enameled on her breastplate. “What is your purpose in Lageni?” 

“We seek only to travel through to Calastia and beyond. We journey to Quelsk to celebrate Divinities Day.” 

“Hmm. And when do you plan to return?” 

“After the celebration ends, we shall return here unless our services are needed along the way.” 

Vagon asked a series of exacting questions: what cities they would stop at; who they reported to in their homeland; whether they intended to spy on Lageni. He noted all of their names, which Tréan gave freely. She had no delusions that he despised her and her companions, and that her religious duties are the only reason they were given passage. Eventually the questions ended, and Vagon escorted her out.

“Perhaps when you return, you will find things much different here, Durrovian.” 

Tréan smiled at his thinly veiled threat. 

“Perhaps we will.” 

* * *

Their path carried them beyond the outpost and garrison which held the end of Irontooth Pass. The looming walls of the Kelder Mountains had given way to smaller rocky hills. Soon the path would open to the great fields of wheat Lageni was renowned for.

Tréan and Helena had ridden ahead of Mitran, engaging in conversations that would have made the young boy blush. Helena regaled Tréan with tales of her family and the troublesome romantic exploits of her many brothers. Tréan was surprised to learn that she had caught the eye of two of Helena’s brothers. Helena had threatened them both with being struck down as eunuchs should they try to romance the lass. The two shared a conspiratorial laugh, knowing that their goddess did not frown upon such pairings.

A sudden movement caught Tréan’s eye, overhead and behind of Helena. A large winged shape plummeted out of the sky directly towards the pair. Tréan called out and readied her spear, but Helena was caught unaware. The huge birdlike creature - a hippogriff, if Tréan recalled her lessons - slammed into Helena with outstretched claws, knocking her from her saddle.

Tréan spared a glance at Mitran, and found him still on horseback, wheeling out of range of another hippogriff while pelting it with arrows. Satisfied that he could hold for a few minutes, she quickly dismounted and ran to Helena’s aid before the first beast could return. Tréan feared the worst for her friend, but found her struggling to rise. Helena’s face was slashed horribly, and runnels of blood flowed down her cheeks.

“I’ll live,” Helena said weakly, “just spare me a moment.” Tréan rose with spear in hand, and she could hear her friend chanting a healing prayer to Madriel.

The first hippogriff was soaring at her again, issuing an angry cry. She held her ground, almost daring it to strike her. As it neared, she struck out with her spear, feeling it gouge the beast’s flank. She drew back just in time to avoid the deadly talons as the beast moved past.

The wounded hippogriff flapped its wings twice, and then landed on the ground not far from her and Helena. She prepared to fight the beast alone, but was reassured when Helena rose to stand beside her, silvered spear in hand. Her face was still bloodied, but she seemed resolute. Tréan felt a surge of confidence pour through her.

Something fell at their feet, interrupting their concentration on the enemy before them. At first they thought it an attack from the other hippogriff, but Tréan quickly realized that it was a bow. Mitran’s bow. Helena cried out as they both looked up. 

Mitran was in the grasp of the second hippogriff, being carried away in the sky.


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## Ruined (Sep 22, 2002)

Thanks for the good words all. Great to see the Scarred Lands regulars (and Horacio, the Story Hour Regular), here on the forum.

And I hope you do like it, madriel.  We're gonna be talking about you a lot in this campaign.   

The players have begun to lurk on this forum. Trean's player has a good description written up of her. I'll see if I can convince her to log in and post it.


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## jenna3 (Sep 22, 2002)

*Description of Trean*

This is looking really good, Ruined. Personally, I like the dialog colors. Well, I know a request when I read one.  The following is a rather long-winded description of Trean mixed with a bit of history. 

Tréan of Madriel
I’ll begin with Tréan’s stats: She is 4’10” and 87 lbs with long, golden blonde hair, blue eyes, fair skin and slightly pointed ears. Enough of that boring stuff. When Tréan is in the temples, of course, she wears her priestly robes as she goes about her duties. Tréan was born in the Temple of Madriel in Angelsgate, Durrover. Her mother was an elf and a dedicant of the temple, her father a soldier of opposing forces and a human. Tréan was raised by the temple and has become a Priestess of Madriel, the Redeemer, First Angel of Mercy. 

While many acolytes of Madriel take up healing and gardening as their main arts, these were never enough for Tréan. Due to her not unusual circumstances of conception, Tréan’s focus turned in a different direction. She started her work early with the orphans of War that were numerous in the area and found this work very satisfying. As she grew older, however, she found herself yearning to take a more active role. 

After long years practicing the healing arts and seeing the suffering of so many, she chose to join the Order of the Morning Sky. This has given her the opportunity to travel outside of Durrover, answering the please of the sick. She has assisted in containing plagues, taking down the offensive minions of Undead, and spreading the message of Madriel, the Redeemer to all. No matter her posting now, she is always wearing her two sacred symbols: the Spear with the Peacock feathers for her work with Madriel, and her medallion of the Order. 

When Tréan is not in the temple, she dresses with far less flair. She has always favored leather trousers over the sometimes-encumbering dresses that other women wear. Her leather boots match very nicely with them. She prefers to dress most often in the colors of yellow, gold, blue and green, with the occasional burst of red. She rarely carries many of her belongings with her except for her healing kit and some basic tools of self-defense. Barring high heat, she usually completes her outfit with a sky blue cloak to go with the sacred medallions around her neck. There is no mistaking the profession of this half-elf.

When Tréan is traveling through hostile lands or expecting trouble, she wears her scale mail armor. The heavy coat and leggings are a bit cumbersome, but that is acceptable in the interest of safety. A small buckler completes the look with her long-spear at her side. Even with her armor, Tréan prefers to wear her sky blue cloak. Many misunderstand the work of her Order and she prefers not to frighten them unnecessarily by riding through their lands so blatantly outfitted for a fight. She finds that the reminder of the First Angel of Mercy helps to reassure those who see her that she is working against suffering.

Hope you like it.

Jenna


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## Horacio (Sep 22, 2002)

I like it!

It's good to have players that help with the story hour


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## Nightfall (Sep 22, 2002)

Very nicely done!  I certainly am finding this MUCH to my liking!


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## jenna3 (Sep 23, 2002)

*Thanks for the feedback*

Thanks for the feedback, it's good to know y'all like it. This is actually my first time on the Story Hour or even on EN World, so all feedback is appreciated.

TTFN--Jenna


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## Silas (Sep 23, 2002)

Hey all, I will be also posting here a bit  to give you guys a little more info in Silas.  Im at work this very instant but you can expect more later


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## Nightfall (Sep 24, 2002)

Silas said:
			
		

> *Hey all, I will be also posting here a bit  to give you guys a little more info in Silas.  Im at work this very instant but you can expect more later  *




Don't you mean MY campaign...?


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## Ruined (Sep 24, 2002)

Heh heh. No, I don't think so, Nightfall. Sorry about the confusion, but I didn't even think that our elven protagonist would be confused with Sir Silas from your game. Not to worry, they will become very distinctive as the two games grow...


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## Nightfall (Sep 24, 2002)

Sokay. I was a tad confused there. I mean they are both SPELLED the same...


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## Horacio (Sep 24, 2002)

It semms there is an overcrowding of Silas in Scared Lands


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## Nightfall (Sep 24, 2002)

Not intentional I assure you!  At least there's not "Drizzt" characters.


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## Horacio (Sep 24, 2002)

Maybe Silas is the Scarred Lands equivalent to John


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## Silas (Sep 24, 2002)

dag nab...figures I would pick a name that someone in a fake fantasy world already had, I always have the worst luck for that...

but Ruined is right...as time goes the two will be very different I assure you...especially if the one in your campaign has a "Sir" in front of his name hehe.


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## Ruined (Sep 24, 2002)

A few slight changes made to Silas' first session above, clarifying his family name and that of his sister. For reference:

Silas Loralian - One of our protagonists
Illyana Loralian - Silas' sister (deceased)
Brigham Loralian - Their father

I intend to have the next section of Silas' (mis)adventures up today. And soon, you'll meet the other two members of our intrepid group.


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## Ruined (Sep 24, 2002)

Silas – 22nd of Taner, yr. 144 AV

Silas gently blew across the parchment before him, drying the fresh ink. After a few minutes, he lifted it from the table for inspection. He brought it beside a similar document to compare the stamp at the bottom. _It will have to do. _

A few special touches to make the writ appear worn and it should be complete. This was a lesson Martin had taught him. Penmanship was only half of the work of a good forgery; making it look real was in many cases more important. This document needed to look as if it had been carried on the road for a few months. It needed to look as worn as Silas felt. His eyes played over some of the script for one last time.

_"… the capture of one Martin Shale, known brigand and cutpurse most foul. Per this writ, he shall be remanded into custody of local authorities and any possessions shall be given to the bearer of this writ." _

***

The watch captain squinted at the words on the writ, trying to disguise his lack of skill with the written word. His scrutiny would have made a lesser man sweat, but Silas took it in stride and played his role. Morian was another new city to him, but he hoped it would be the last in this endeavor. His coins were quickly dwindling in number.

“So, you’re a… bounty hunter?” The captain screwed up his face as if he had tasted something bitter with the last words.

“Yes,” Silas said, lying with conviction. “I intend to find this Shale before he flees town. Your assistance would be appreciated.” 

The captain looked over the document again for a few moments, and then set it upon his desk.

“What kind of assistance?” 

“Once I locate him, I would need a few men. I can take him down, but since I’ll be turning him over to you, it will work better this way.” Silas stared holes in the captain’s eyes, waiting for his answer.  “I suppose I could take this to a Magistrate, someone who I can work with…”

“No, no,” the captain interrupted. Silas could see that the captain plainly didn’t want him going to his superiors. The captain pondered for a moment, then rolled the parchment and tied it off.

“Do your searching. Should you find your man, then return here. I will take this,” he said waving the parchment, “and see about getting you some assistance.” 

It wasn’t exactly what Silas wanted, but it was better than nothing. Now he had to trust that his forgery would pass under someone else’s careful eye. He still had time to find Shale on his own. The guards would be a good backup plan, should he need them. Silas rose from his seat.

“Fair enough.” 

The captain regarded him, once again with that sour look on his face.

“Good hunting.” 

***

The market ward of Morian was not much larger than the one in Aolvnir, but a good deal more impressive. New Venir traded extensively with Shelzar, and it could be seen in the exotic silks and spices that certain merchants offered. Silas wandered about the market, looking for one particular item – Martin Shale.

Martin’s betrayal was not completely unexpected. Silas knew deep down that was the reason he had demanded to keep half of the merchandise that night. The next day when he went to the arranged meeting place, he found a group of Dragoons waiting for an elf of his description. He had barely escaped from their clutches, but he knew that he would have a hard time staying hidden in Aolvnir. 

He had asked around and learned that Martin had made his sale and left town on his profits. Silas had the distinct feeling that he had sold his name along with the merchandise for an extra reward. Silas would never let this slight go; especially not from someone he had considered a friend. And the timing with Illyana’s death made matters all the worse. Chasing Martin across Lageni and New Venir had proven a welcome distraction.

It wasn’t long before he spotted his prey. Martin hadn’t taken precautions to disguise his appearance. He still wore his hair long and blonde with his high hairline. His clothes were of a similar color and variety with what he wore in Aolvnir. If Silas didn’t know of the haste in which he had fled other cities, he would believe Martin arrogant in his carelessness. 

Silas allowed distance between himself and Martin before he followed. He didn’t want to confront him in the open marketplace. If he could follow him to his current quarters, that would be ideal. Martin stopped at a booth and sorted through some small knives and daggers. Silas found a nearby silk merchant, and tried to ignore the man’s unctuous bartering as he waited and watched.

“Hello Silas.” An unfamiliar voice greeted him from behind. Someone had walked upon him without his notice, although he could still see Martin ahead of him. Slowly he turned to his right and looked up at the calm face of a half-orc male. He was close enough to have put a blade in Silas, but he did not feel any such weapon. Irritated that someone had interrupted his tracking, he turned back to watch Martin.

“I don’t believe we’ve met.” 

“No, we haven’t. But I know of you and your friend, Shale.” 

“He’s not quite what I would call a friend. Not anymore.” 

A bit of humor crept into the half-orc’s voice.

“That’s what I heard. And that’s why I’d like to talk with you.” 

“Well I’m a bit busy at the moment…”

“Shale’s not leaving any time soon. And besides, I can tell you where he’s sleeping at night.” 

Without looking, Silas could sense that the half-orc had stepped away. _Damn._ This intrigued him, but he didn’t want to let Martin slip through his grasp. He looked at Shale, and then glanced back at the figure moving through the market. Silas grumbled and followed the stranger through the streets of Morian.


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## Nightfall (Sep 24, 2002)

Well Sir is a bit of a misnomer on my part concerning our Silas, but even so, I do think there is a GREAT deal of difference between your Silas and the one in Hollowfaust.


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## Duncan Haldane (Sep 25, 2002)

theRuinedOne said:
			
		

> *Silas - 5th of Corer,  yr. 144 AV
> ...
> For Serana, he kept telling himself. For Serana.
> *




Hi,
Great story so far, but I'm confused - who is Serana?  Is Serana meant to be Ilyana?

thanks

Duncan


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## Silas (Sep 25, 2002)

That would be my bad...I was a slack player and got my info to the great Ruined one a little late(Due to me forwarding the email with the info to myself instead of my DM and not noticing for a while hehe)


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## Ruined (Sep 25, 2002)

Sorry about that Duncan. You and Silas had the right of it. I had went ahead and replaced the name, but there weren't any Find and Replace tools available. Should have looked over it better.

It's fixed now. May Illyana rest in peace.

And hey, glad you've joined us.


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## Ruined (Sep 27, 2002)

There should be at least one update this weekend. I'll be visiting family and such, but that usually provides free time to work on things.

Also, the other two characters will be playing through their intro sessions, so we'll be campaigning shortly. Sweet. =)


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## Ruined (Oct 1, 2002)

Tréan -  5th of Enkilot, yr. 150 A.V.

Tréan’s attention quickly returned to the hippogriff standing before them. She despaired for Mitran, but being killed by this enemy would serve him no good purpose. She lowered her spear, jabbing as the creature’s talons arced forward. As she did this, Helena stepped to the other side of the creature. The creature could sense its predicament, moving it’s eagle-like head back and forth between the two women.

The hippogriff launched itself towards Tréan, scoring her arm with one of its sharp talons. She grunted and stepped back, her spear plunging into the beast’s wing. The hippogriff cried out from her assault, and once again from Helena, whose silvered spear had punctured the creature’s breast. Both women withdrew from the hippogriff to ready a new attack, but the beast collapsed, its breath ragged and labored. Tréan considered ending its existence, but foremost in her mind was Mitran. 

Scouring the horizon, she and Helena spotted the shape of what they hoped to be Mitran and the hippogriff descending onto a high section of rocks. She looked at Helena, whose face was still smeared with blood from the earlier assault.

"Can you travel?" she asked. Helena gave a solemn nod, wiping her face with her hand.

The two quickly gathered their two horses and prepared to ride. They considered leaving Mitran’s horse behind to save time, but the animal looked ready to bolt from the wounded hippogriff at any time. They tethered the horse behind them and soon were off to where they had last seen the shape in the sky.

They dismounted at the base of a large hill. It reminded Tréan more of gigantic boulders dropped from the sky than actual mountains. Knowing that the titans had freely roamed the land merely one hundred and fifty years before, this was all too possible. Thoughts of such primordial power caused her to shudder. Helena seemed to have similar thoughts.

"Hippogriffs. Creatures wrought by Golthagga, the Shaper." 

It felt blasphemous to even speak the names of the Titans. They were all sundered and imprisoned by the Gods, yet they could not be slain. This left that small, nagging fear that one day one would awaken and return, and the destruction would be wrought anew.

The two women scanned the top of the hill, but they saw no signs of the beast or their companion. After Helena invoked a blessing of Madriel, they began to ascend the rocks slow and cautiously. Tréan could feel the urgency to save Mitran, but the last thing she wanted was to alert the remaining hippogriff and have it harry them while they were climbing in armor. That was a sure path to death. Soon enough the two clerics of Madriel clambered over the flattened top of the rock and spotted their quarry.

About twenty yards across the rock rested a makeshift nest large enough for the two hippogriffs. Tréan caught her breath when she saw Mitran’s boots extending out of the top of the nest. Watching over the nest was the remaining hippogriff, which spotted the two females and issued a warning cry. Tréan and Helena were quick to action, launching smaller javelins at the beast. One struck the beast, but the others clattered against rocks as it soared into the air.

"I’ll go for Mitran!" Helena said as she ran across the stone. 

Tréan studied the hippogriff as it spiralled and dove at her. She braced her spear against the rock beneath her, but the speed of the beast’s attack was too quick. The bulk of the beast crashed into her, sending her sliding back towards the edge. She scrambled to keep from falling off, scraping her hands in the process. The bird dove for her again, and she rolled away just in time. Fortune favored her spear this time, and she pierced the neck of the creature. She kept hold of the spear as the beast wrenched itself free and watched it plummet to the ground below.

Tréan rose to her feet and quickly moved over to Helena and Mitran. Helena held his head in her lap, but Tréan noted that he was breathing, resting in a deep sleep. Helena had no doubt used the gifts of Madriel to heal him, foregoing her own wounds. The trio remained silent as they rested atop the fallen boulders.

* * *

Much of the remaining travel went without problem. True to Helena’s plan, they had not stopped at any of the major cities while within Lageni’s borders. A small village named Dandsburg was their only break from travel until Calastia. They had only intended to stay for a few hours, but a problematic childbirth begged their assistance. Tréan smiled at Mitran’s discomfort through the ordeal; he still had much to learn about the ways of Madriel.

A few days beyond had taken them from the lands of Lageni and into the Calastian city of Pahrae. Helena had gone to trade the horses for fresh mounts, allowing the other two to wander the city. Mitran had wandered and taken a particular interest in the military academies that resided in Pahrae. Tréan spent much of her time at the markets, looking at the wares offered by this new city. Soon enough, the horses were handled and they were on their way on the path to Zathiske.

As they crossed the heartland of the Calastian Hegemony, they were occasionally stopped by military patrols. They seemed interested in their actions, but begrudgingly allowed them passage once apparent that they were an envoy of Madriel. They crossed the border into Ankila and approached the walled city of Sussephra. The name of the city rang in Tréan’s mind. She had heard it between Helena and Maester Tairgral, but had not recalled it to be a city. Now as they approached, she wondered if there was any significance to it.

"We’ll be visiting the temple here," Helena remarked as they ventured into the city. Sussephra was well cared for, with sturdy cobbled streets and clear fountains resting between ancient buildings. They rode towards the heart of the city. Tréan didn’t know of an established temple of Madriel within Ankila. She soon realized her mistake when she saw them approach a columned building bearing the symbols of Hedrada, the Lawgiver. She was confused, but kept her silence.

They were greeted by an acolyte of temple nearly the age of Mitran. After a small exchange, he left to retrieve one of the temple elders. Within minutes, an older man who had long since lost any hair walked forwards to meet with them. He was clothed in very simple robes, but Tréan noted that the staff he walked with had a balanced set of scales at its top.

"Good fortunes to the favored of Madriel. I am Judge Underwood." He waited for Helena and Tréan to introduce themselves, but his attentions were fixed upon their companion.

"And you must be young master Mitran. Good fortunes to you. We have anticipated your arrival."


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## Horacio (Oct 2, 2002)

I like a lot the Scarred Lands background drops you let fall in your update (like speaking about the Titans). I love your story!


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## Nightfall (Oct 2, 2002)

Have to say Ruined, you're doing a terrific job!  Definately high quality work.


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## Ruined (Oct 2, 2002)

Thanks guys. The game is showing a lot of promise. It's my attempt to turn it up a notch and run my best campaign ever. The players are very capable and enthusiastic, and I know they'll challenge my skills. And honestly, it's been fun to write so far.

I ran the intro session with the third member of the party two days ago, so I'll start recounting his tale soon. I might wait until I finish the first two tales.


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## Ruined (Oct 3, 2002)

Silas – 22nd of Taner, yr. 144 AV

The Rusted Plow was a cozy establishment a few streets over from the marketplace of Morian. A rustic wagon wheel held five lit lanterns, providing most of the light for the room. Silas spotted the half-orc sliding into a booth on the right of the room and snuffing a lit candle with his fingertips. Silas acknowledged the barkeep, ordered a glass of mead and moved over to sit at the darkened booth.

“My name is Alderman,” the half-orc said calmly.

“Why are you approaching me, and what do you want with Shale?” Silas stared at the half-breed before him, pausing occasionally for a sip of mead. Alderman gave a quiet laugh.

“Direct and to the point. You’re not the only one that Martin Shale has spat upon. You seek vengeance for his slight. We want the same thing.” 

“Who is ‘we’? And if I’m going to do deal with him, why are you even approaching me,” Silas asked.

“Never you mind about us. You can learn that if you succeed. And why? He’s lost you three times so far. We want to see him dealt with before he flees to another town.” 

The half-orc was cannier than he originally thought. He obviously represented some shadowy den of thieves. Silas was familiar with their type, although he and Shale had never chosen to find and join the one in Aolvnir. It was odd that those in Morian would be aware of their dealings back home. He would try to piece that together later. His primary concern now was to determine what this Alderman wanted and what it would require from him in the long run. 

“Shale will be dealt with one way or another. So what are you offering and what is the price?” 

“I’ll give you the location of where he’s sleeping here in Morian. You deal with him and then talk to me afterwards. You can find me here.” 

Silas considered not accepting the offer, wondering how badly Alderman and his employers needed him to do this. But Alderman had effectively challenged him, noting his previous failures to catch up with Shale. And there was something else he was holding back, some scrap of information that was larger than the whole conflict between himself and Shale. Silas could sense it. It was that feeling that drew him in.

Alderman handed him a small scrap of parchment with a street and a description scrawled upon it.

“Fine. I’ll find you here, then.” Silas rose from the booth and left the Rusted Plow without glancing back.

***

“You will have our assistance. Once you locate your man, we can send a patrol with you to take him into custody.”  The watch captain seemed a little more at ease, now that he had confirmed the writ. The signs of scrutiny that had been present before were now gone. Silas was relieved; this business would soon be done and over with.

“Good. We will take him tonight.” 

“Tonight?” the captain blustered. “You just arrived…”

“And I have found Shale and I know where he stays the night. I will capture him tonight and end this business.” 

The watch captain obviously had thought it would take weeks before he had located his quarry. This was not Silas’ chosen profession, but he had become quite adept at it. And of course, the information from Alderman helped. The captain pulled a piece of parchment from the end of his tidy desk.

“I can spare two men as long as you don’t take too long.” 

“Fair enough. I’ll return at eight bells.” 

Silas laughed at the unnerving effect he had on the captain as he left the guard post.


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## Ruined (Oct 3, 2002)

Sorry for the brief update. Running the final intro session tonight, so I'm planning away and finalizing details. Enter the Druid!


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## papa_laz (Oct 5, 2002)

I must say I am quite impressed by this story. Despite the overall lack of action I have been quite sucked in.


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## Ruined (Oct 5, 2002)

Trean - 9th of Belot, yr. 150 AV

The Grand Temple of Hedrada was an ancient structure, filled with sturdy marble columns and wooden benches for the followers. Tréan and Helena were led to a spiral stair and up to the higher floors of the temple. Tréan could not help but compare this solemn structure to the temples of Madriel where she had spent so much time. The joy and happiness that seemed to pervade the Temple of the Sun was missing here. The devout did not seem unhappy, but very rigid in their practices. She had never realized how different such followings could be.

They were led into a room dominated by a long table of polished mahogany. A handsome man awaited them here, clothed in robes very similar to those worn by Judge Underwood. He was clearly decades younger than Underwood, but he possessed a presence much stronger than the other priest. Tréan could not help but appreciate his curly black hair and piercing green eyes.

“Greetings, miladies. I am Lawgiver Doran. I regret to say that Underwood and I are the only two to properly welcome you. The Sage has taken ill of late, and the Prospero has just left on journey to Quelsk for the same festival you’ll be attending.” He extended his hand to the chairs before him. “Please, be seated.” 

Tréan took a seat across from Judge Underwood. She noted with humor that Helena was as taken with Doran as she was. Compassion and love were strong virtues within Madriel’s priesthood. Many outsiders mistakenly thought of them as stuffy, prudish women, which was far from the truth.

“We thank you for bringing young Mitran to us. It is our hope that his stay here will benefit his cause.” 

“His cause…?”  Tréan interrupted. She knew events were going on that she did not understand, but the only way she could learn the truth was to ask. Helena placed a hand upon hers, reassuring her.

“My apologies. Tréan is still unaware of the true reason for Mitran’s presence here.” She smoothed over her dress before continuing.  “You know that I am the daughter of one of the thains of Durrover. Mitran is also born of an influential family in Durrover. His last name is Ambray.” 

“The family of the King?” Tréan asked.

“Yes. He is the eldest son of Jeddrad’s deceased brother Belgard.” Helena said. Tréan knew a little of the politics of her homeland. Jeddrad III was the King of the Lowlands and King of the Mountain in Durrover. He had ruled for many years, and as of yet had not produced an heir.

Tréan felt her cheeks flush. This young man who had nearly died at the hands of the hippogriffs, he was a potential heir to the less-than-stable throne of Durrover. The Lageni would have paid dearly to get their hands on someone of his bloodline. Only their reputation as the Order of the Morning Sky had prevented further scrutiny from Lageni soldiers.

“But why here?” 

“Perhaps I can answer that,” said Doran. “We received the plea from the Ambray family months ago. They sought to have a member of their family taught the ways of battlefield tactics; strategies that are not typically employed in your lands. Also, they wanted the youth educated in histories of just rulers. Our great libraries and scholars here are suited for the task.” 

Judge Underwood spoke.  “With Lord Hedrada’s guidance, we were able to discern the truth of their request. They are grooming a future leader. While we do obey the laws of the Hegemony that surrounds us, this course of action is noble and we have pledged our aid. Was it not Hedrada who first suggested that the Gods rebel against the depravities of the Titans?” 

They were all silent for a moment, and then Helena spoke again.

“I do apologize for the deception, Tréan. Maester Taigral suggested telling you the truth, but I wished to bear the weight of this alone.” Tréan smiled.

“I understand, sister. It was for the best - I was more convincing this way. And what of the festival?” 

“We will still go. It was always in our plans to represent the Redeemer at Divinities Day. This other business was just… convenient.” Helena smiled. Doran rose from his seat at the large table.

“Well, Mitran is getting settled into his new lodgings. In the meantime, please let me show you ladies around the wonderful city of Sussephra.”   

***

Sussephra was a pleasant excursion, but soon it saw Helena and Tréan’s departure towards the country of Zathiske. The parting from Mitran had been a difficult one for Tréan. She had grown to enjoy his presence over their journey, and secretly she worried about the fate that he would eventually face. How much of this was his choice and how much the legacy of his family?

Helena had apologized for the secrecy of their journey more than once, and finally Tréan had asked for silence. The initial shock of the truth was over, and she had reflected upon the reasons behind it all. She was naive to think that the priesthood of Madriel would not interfere in politics of war torn Durrover. Worship of Madriel was predominant there; to allow Lageni to overtake the lands would diminish or possibly remove all traces of their temples, replacing them with temples to Chardun. The Hegemony had done this before.

Their travels over the next two weeks were free of marauders, titanspawn or otherwise. Heavy rains followed them into the country of Zathiske and on towards the city of Quelsk. The harsh weather abated a day away from the city of Quelsk, which welcomed them with open arms. The festivals would begin on the morrow, the first day of Chardot.


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## Ruined (Oct 5, 2002)

Thanks, papa laz. Glad to see you're enjoying the tale so far. My games aren't as combat heavy as some of the stories you'll find here, but they still have all manner of dire conflicts. Of course, you haven't met Gerad yet. Now that I've finished Tréan's intro, we'll move on to his story.


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## Dherys Thal (Oct 6, 2002)

*Wow, highlight this one.*

Outstanding job on this story hour.  I routinely read 6-8 of them - and try to avoid adding more to that list - but this one is just terrific.  Kudos.  I'm forced to frequent yet another extended tale...where did my self-discipline go?


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## Snoweel (Oct 7, 2002)

Absolutely brilliant, tRO.

For high fantasy, I really dig the Scarred Lands setting, and your gaming style suits my tastes.

Not having a lot of spare time, and feeling daunted by the overwhelming length of some of the established Story Hours, I'm glad I found yours before it got into the 5-6 pages mark.

I'll DEFINITELY be reading this thread.


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## madriel (Oct 7, 2002)

Interesting stuff, Ruined.  I look forward to more.


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## Horacio (Oct 7, 2002)

Great chapter 1.
Because it was chapter 1, wasn't it? 
I mean, you're going to continue, aren't you?


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## jenna3 (Oct 7, 2002)

Fear not, Horacio. I think I can safely say that Ruined will be continuing. The other two intros are finished now, so there is much more to post. We should be starting the game in full swing this week, so look forward to more from our fearless leader. 

TTFN--Jenna
aka Tréan


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## Ruined (Oct 9, 2002)

Silas – 22nd of Taner, yr. 144 AV

The row between the houses was mostly sod and vines, making it easy for Silas to slip through without a sound. The guards were at the front of the house – he could hear them continue to knock on the main door. Silas had a feeling that his friend Martin might not even answer the door. A sound ahead of him proved his suspicions correct.

He slid around the corner into a small yard behind the house. Moving out from the door was Martin Shale, trying to step quietly. Although silent, both rogues saw one another.

“Hello, Martin. Long time…”

Martin wasted no time for parley. His hand drew a large dagger from his belt, and tried to plunge it into Silas’ breast. Silas stepped to the side, grasped Martin’s arm, and used his momentum to throw him to the ground. The dagger sank into the earth with a light thud, as Martin reached for it once more. He tried to rise and attack the elf, but Silas dropped and placed a knee roughly into Martin’s midsection.

“Back here!” Silas yelled, calling out to the guards. He reached over and grabbed the dagger that Martin had failed to retrieve and placed it at Martin’s throat. “You chose the wrong friend to double-cross.”

Martin said nothing, and soon the guards were taking him away, hands manacled. Silas agreed to follow up with them soon and make sure Martin was properly indebted to the city. As they walked away, he entered the house, searching for any property to recompense him for the original betrayal. Martin did not possess much, most of his coins gone in his hasty flight from Aolvnir. Silas could not find the lens either, probably hidden or sold back in their home city. For a pair of enterprising thieves, Silas and Martin seemed to be relatively poor.

Silas was about to give up hope when he noticed a small bundle hidden inside an unused fireplace. He unwrapped it and found a small leather pouch that sparked a memory in his mind. Inside were several polished hooks and picks, Martin’s thieving tools. They were far more useful than the simple needles that Silas had trained with. The items made the victory a touch sweeter.

***

Silas found Alderman that night at the Rusted Plow, just as the half-orc said he would. The time was an hour before midnight, and the Plow had many more patrons. Silas was wary of the more menacing individuals, but his travels from Lageni and into New Venir had hardened him.

“Good to see you caught Shale without problems. Good work,” Alderman said. “Oh and I’ve been told that the forged papers were quality work.” 

Silas tried to ignore the off-handed compliment.

“You said you had other information for me.” 

Alderman looked at Silas, and bit his lip. He seemed to argue with himself, weighing a decision. Alderman reached into his tunic and retrieved a small black disc, a bit larger than a Calastian coin. He slid it across the table to Silas.

It was polished and slightly cold to the touch. The disc weighed very little. It could have been carved from an exotic wood, or quite possibly bone. One side was painted a flat black, while the other held a white crescent moon atop a black background.

“What’s this?” 

“You may not have seen it before, but one of these was left at the spot where your sister was killed. They are markers.” 

Silas’ hands trembled slightly at the mention of Illyana’s murder. He had tried to suppress thoughts of her while focusing on Martin. But now Martin was dealt with, and the emotions came flooding back. He tried to speak, but found himself unable.

“A group of assassins. They are called the Cult of the Ancients. Some of their agents leave these to mark a kill.” 

“Why tell me this?” Silas said after composing himself. He didn’t like the quavering sound of his own voice.

“You should know. You’re capable enough to have found this out on your own. We feel you should be better prepared before confronting these assassins.” 

“Who are _we_?” This is the second time he had asked Alderman about his employers.

“A group called the Scaled. We have business in several cities, including your home.” Alderman leveled his eyes at Silas, watching for his reaction.

It seemed to make more sense now. Silas had heard of the Scaled before, a fanciful tale of a guild of thieves that operated across Ghelspad, dodging the law and stealing from the rich. It was the stuff of legends, and not widely believed. Yet, Alderman had known who he was and possessed a great deal of information about his actions in Aolvnir. He found himself believing without many questions.

“We’re not offering you to join, Silas. You’re not the type we look for. But we have no love for this Cult. You want revenge, and we can help. We can give you training and information to better your chances.” 

Silas waited for the inevitable catch to the offer.

“All we ask in return are certain considerations when you do your work.” 

It was an open-ended deal. Silas didn’t like it, but all he could think of was his sister’s bloodied body, killed because she was enamored with the wrong man. It only took seconds for his decision.

“I’m in.” 

***

23rd of Belot, Yr. 150 A.V.

Many things had changed for Silas, but his quest against the Cult of the Ancients remained strong. Years had passed in which he trained with the Scaled. They helped to hone the rudimentary skills that Martin had taught him, and they taught new methods. He learned to move through the city streets, following the nearly invisible trail of a fleeing culprit. The rooftops were his domain, offering angles from which he could make deadly shots with bow and arrow.

The various assassins he confronted had tested his skills at combat. So far, he had brought down seven cultists, alongside other criminals for which bounties were offered. Base thievery had never offered much to Silas, but hefty bounties for wanted men had proven suitable to his tastes. Many looked down upon a man of his career as bounty hunter, but he cared not. It was an exciting job at times, and it was a means to an end for Silas.

Divinities Day approached, and the city of Quelsk was bolstering itself for a massive celebration. The clerics proclaimed it to be one hundred and fifty years since the end of the Divine War, a good reason to celebrate. Silas had a feeling it would be a celebration to remember. 

He looked down at the tattoo he had given himself on his chest. The name _Illyana_ engraved in elven script. There were many things that would be remembered.


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## Ruined (Oct 9, 2002)

Thanks for the kind words, all. This is a rewarding experience, so far.

To answer Horacio's question about Chapter One, what I've posted is about one-half of the prelude. I ran a solo introductory session for each player, each lasting around three hours. We set up various scenes for the character, allowing the player to get to know the setting and both of us to famliarize ourselves with the character.

So far, you have met two of the four characters:

Tréan of Madriel - Cleric 3 ,  and
Silas Loralian - Rogue 1 / Urban Ranger 2

(the Urban Ranger is a variant from MotW)

Next up, I'll recount the stories of Gerad Caedmon and Surielle Moonshade.  Good stuff, I promise you.


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## Ruined (Oct 11, 2002)

Just finished with the first big group session, and it was a lot of fun. Now I really have to get the story rolling with those two other intro sessions. So much to tell...


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## Snoweel (Oct 11, 2002)

We're waiting...

BTW, not only well DM'ed, but well written.

And I really am waiting. Quit procrastinating - I don't care about your job(s) or your family, give me more.


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## Ruined (Oct 12, 2002)

Gerad – 2nd of Madrot, yr. 143 AV

Men say that the first instance of bloodshed is telling: it is the mark by which a warrior will define himself. No matter how many battles are fought, that encounter will stay with him just like the caress of their first lover. For Gerad Caedmon, who had been trained for this day since an early age, the first conflict was but a taste of many that would follow: cold, effective brutality. 

Dawn greeted the advancing force with a darkened sky overcast with clouds. A small army five lances strong approached the top of the hill. The warriors were armored the same, a small sea of men with shield, breastplate and armored skirt. Gerad led his lance forward, his four brothers marching in a tight square behind him.

The army halted, following the foremost unit. Gerad and his lance stopped, looking forward at strict attention. Feelings of nervousness and anticipation clutched his breast, but he would not let it distract him. This was his destiny, and he would meet it with resolve. The lance commanders were called forth for planning before the assault. Gerad jogged forward, leaving his brothers standing at attention.

The army commander cut a striking figure in the few rays of escaped sunlight, gazing down on the village before them. Gerad looked upon Dmitri Arcus with admiration and a touch of awe. He had led them here, and he would carry them forward to victory. From this vantage point Gerad could see the village of Krasburgh open before them. It was a small farming stead, flanked on many sides by green rows of corn. The army could not be seen from the city where they stood, concealed by the massive hill.

“Krasburgh is known to be a loyal village to the country of Ankila, and to the Calastian Hegemony.” Dmitri said, breaking the morning silence.  “Yet in their time of need, they did not turn to us, the strength of the Hegemony. Instead they recruited mercenaries to deal with a supposed titanspawn threat. When the mercenaries, _Polemides’ Skirmishers_, demanded their payment, they found Krasburgh unable to pay. As most companies would, the Blood Axes claimed the town as their own until the debt was felt to be settled.” 

“Calastia does not abide by claims of our citizenry or property. Krasburgh may be at fault, but we *will* remove this company.” 

Dmitri was a true father to Gerad and his brothers. He had taught them the proper way to wield a spear and how best to use their shields. In those rare instances when Gerad had broken the rules, it was Dmitri who had punished him. The two had spent many a night debating military tactics, with Gerad asking question upon question. Dmitri turned and knelt, moving a few rocks and roots to form a crude map of the village.

“We will fall upon Krasburgh like a scorpion. Two lances will form a pincer on this side, and two will strike from this side. A scorpion though, will strike first with its stinger.” He looked up from the makeshift map, and met Gerad’s eyes.

“Gerad, your lance has the best runners. You will be the scorpion’s tail. Take your men and run behind the hills until you find the rear of Krasburgh. You will strike first and draw attention, while we will await your assault. When you begin, we will close in and crush this mercenary scum.” 

Gerad saluted his commander, slamming his fist over his heart, and left immediately. He returned to his brothers, who waited at crisp attention. Barrikk, Levi, Leon, Pazzi. They varied in appearance and size, but he had watched them grow over the years. He had no fears going into battle with them by his side.

Others would (and had) said that these five were not truly brothers. They were Janissaries, each given or sold into the Hegemony by their parents years ago. Gerad had no memories of his birth parents, nor did he want to. The Hegemony had provided for him and sculpted him into the man he was now. He had known these four as long as he could remember, and those who would speak against it were envious of their brotherhood.

“We move to take the rear of the village.” 

And they began to run, behind and across hills, unseen by any in the village. They kept a steady pace, running with spear in one hand and shield in the other. The moved through fields of corn grown to waist height. A few villagers noticed them as they neared, but they were farmers, and the sight of soldiers confused them. By the time they could think to move and warn the village, the lance would already be there. 

No words were spoken as the five moved to the edge of the fields and onto the wheel-rutted dirt path leading up to the village. Their pace did not slow. Gerad spotted a crudely erected outpost at the edge of the buildings, large enough to hold two men in comfort. Standing outside of the dwelling were two men in ill-matched armor, no doubt taken from fallen enemies. Gerad signaled with two fingers and pointed in the direction of the outpost. He could sense Levi and Pazzi break and run to circle the small building.

The mercenaries were unaware as danger fell upon them. Gerad’s first strike was true, his spear piercing through the man’s chain shirt and into his shoulder. The man cried out in surprise and drew his sword from his scabbard. He was slow, fattened by excesses. Gerad struck again, but the spear did not find its mark. Gerad lifted his shield, easily blocking the mercenary’s slash. Once again, he struck a fierce blow, and this one pierced into the man’s neck, raining blood as he slid to the ground. The man grasped his neck, trying to staunch the wound, but Gerad was quick to finish the kill. He would trouble this town no more.

A horn sounded in the distance. The army would be advancing on the town, searching out these Skirmishers. Gerad turned to look at his brothers, Barrikk and Leon. Their foe had fallen also. He still clutched a spear exuding from his ribcage. Leon had dropped his shield, and was clutching his blood-soaked face. To his credit, he was not moaning in pain as a lesser man would have done. When he removed his hands, Gerad saw that his left eye was a ruined socket. It saddened him, but there was a task to be done.

“Can you still fight?” 

Leon nodded, and knelt to retrieve his shield and spear. The other two moved out of the outpost with grim faces. Gerad noted blood splattered on their shields and skirts, but they were healthy.

“Forward into the village.” 

Their next skirmish came against five mercenaries moving down the street to the south end of the village. They were better prepared, no doubt alarmed by the cry of the men Gerad’s lance had fought, but they also had a look of fear in their eyes. They knew that the Hegemony was descending upon this village.

The two groups crashed into another, swords and axes meeting shield and spears. Gerad took a wound to his side, but he fought forward, stabbing the man until he did not move. He saw Barrikk, the largest of their lance, punch one of the mercenaries after his spear had been broken. Gerad assisted Leon in finishing his enemy, and quickly their enemies lay before them. With cold determination, Gerad moved among the enemy, stabbing through their breast, ensuring that they were dead.

When victory was called out among the town and there were no enemies left to fight, Gerad moved to attend Dmitri. A soft, overfed man was pushed forward to stand before their commander. From the apologies that streamed forward, Gerad guessed that he was the mayor of Krasburgh.

“…we humble ourselves before the Hegemony. We were afraid that help would not arrive, and so we indebted ourselves to these madmen. They have no honor, and have taught us a painful lesson we will not soon forget. Thank you for coming to our aid, oh thank you.” 

Dmitri listened to the man’s thanks, and then turned to Gerad. 

“Tell the men to take what they need from the village. You have earned it.” 

Dmitri turned back to the mayor, as if daring him to speak against the matter. Wisdom prevailed and the mayor remained silent.

“Let Krasburgh remember her lack of faith in her country, and bear this with what dignity you have remaining. It was your fault this happened, and you and I will speak on this at length.” 

Gerad left his commander, feeling little pity for the mayor of Krasburgh.


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## jonrog1 (Oct 14, 2002)

I'm just about to start DM'ing a Scarred Lands campaign.   Consider several of your best ideas officially _yoinked_!

Nicely done.


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## Dinkeldog (Oct 14, 2002)

It's your story hour, so don't change on my account, but the color you've chosen for your dialogue renders the whole thing unreadable for me.  I think it's one of my migraine-related vision sensibilities, like tight patterns of parallel lines.

Good luck, though.  I've heard good things about it.  Just feeling jealous because I miss out.


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## Silas (Oct 14, 2002)

D-dog...try and copy/paste what you want to read to MS Word or whatever...can change the text there and read it.  On my laptop the text is hard as hell to read but on my desktop I love it


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## Ruined (Oct 14, 2002)

Hmm. Well it was neat to play with for a short while, but I might switch it back to standard colors. I'd rather make it more accessible for the masses than to 'look cool'.

I have a compiled version of the up-to-date story hour (sans color tags) in Word, if you want to catch up in the meantime. Just email me or respond to the thread and I'll send it on.


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## Dinkeldog (Oct 14, 2002)

Send it on, please!  I'd've e-mailed, but you have that disabled--as you do private messages.


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## Ruined (Oct 16, 2002)

I sent the file on yesterday Dinkeldog. Hope it found you. This post has the colors removed. I'm gonna look at it and debate (it is easier to post this way).

This section, the introduction to young Surielle, is a bit different from your typical game beginning. It does set up things for her, as you'll see in following chapters. It was fun to run something this different, as you'll see.

---------------------------------------------------------

Surielle – 19th of Madrer, yr. 141 AV

“I don’t smell food. Why haven’t you cooked yet?”

Surielle looked with surprise at her father as he walked into the kitchen unannounced. She immediately felt a twinge of guilt for not having cooked yet. She had been taking her time tending to her brother Tomlin, but it was still mid-afternoon.

“I’m sorry father, but it is early. I’ll start on it now.”

He grumbled and walked by her, leaving the aroma of whiskey trailing behind. It wasn’t so out of the ordinary for him to smell that way - they grew the grain that was malted to make some of the best whiskey in Fernmag - but she could tell that he had been sampling the mix. It was the look in his eyes that told her the truth. 

She hoped that the whiskey was the cause for his recent string of bad moods. Karn Hammond had never been one for violence, but his ire had been directed at Surielle for over a month now. The birth of her brother Tomlin had been a bright spot for them all; a child they did not think would be born. In the months afterwards, her father’s moods had seemed to darken, and now he found fault with everything she did.

Later that evening, Surielle worked to clean the kitchen while her parents spent time with Tomlin. Mother had returned late as usual, her work in Fernmag keeping her out longer now as she resumed her work. Father overlooked the fields and organized the farmhands that worked for them while mother tended the arrangements with those who fermented and bottled the whiskey in Fernmag. She was respected in town for her uncanny book sense. Surielle would not follow in her footsteps, her mind more on nature and the healing arts.

Sounds of an argument spilled from the other room, accompanied by the cries of Tomlin. This happened often in their household. Surielle had grown numb to it, but she hated when her father upset her brother like this.

“… damnable Ban Urmadna… those Denev-worshippers...”

Surielle knew he spoke of her. She had heard those words, the Ban Urmadna, from him before, yet she knew not what they meant. Her mother had been silent on the issue, but Surielle was determined to learn the truth. A few questions asked among the elders of the city had given her the answer. When she found it, the truth had almost been too much to deal with.

In Fernmag, and much of Darakeene, the Ban Urmadna was an age-old rite for families with difficulties bearing a child. Another woman could be brought into the house to help the father conceive a child if the wife was barren. Had her parents done this? Was she born of another woman? It seemed a lie without substance, but the more she pondered it, the more Surielle could see it. Her mother had flaxen hair, while hers was a dark shade of reddish-brown. She bore other features that seemed to pull more from her father, but in truth she did not resemble either. Tomlin, on the other hand, bore a striking resemblance to Surielle’s mother, with large blue eyes and wispy blonde hair.

She had confronted her mother one morning with this information and the truth came about. When younger, her mother could not get with child, and so they had found an outsider, a woman from the Keltai tribe to the north. They had brought her into the house, and soon enough, her belly swelled with child. Surielle could see the jealousy still in her mother’s eyes at mention of this. Her birth mother’s name was Amara; that was all she would tell her. She forbade her to visit or even approach the Keltai. The memory remained, though.

The door to the kitchen flew open and her father stormed forward, eyes focused on her. He ripped the dish cloth from her hands and pointed to the outside door.

“Get out. You are no longer welcome here, you ungrateful witch!”

Surielle stepped back in surprise. What had brought this on?

“You want me to… leave?"  She turned to her mother. “Mother?”

Her mother held downcast eyes and would say nothing. She turned to her raging father, and then asked her mother again.

“Just go, Surielle,” her mother said. “Go, for now.”

Surielle’s heart sank as she reeled in confusion.

“But…”

She was whisked away as her father roughly grabbed her wrist and pulled her out onto the back stoop. She fell forward onto the grass, the tears now flowing freely from her eyes.

“Never come here again!” her father roared. The next sound was of the door being closed behind her, and muted arguments from inside the house.

Surielle lay there for moments, confused, grief-stricken, and frightened. She was only fourteen. How would she survive?

The weakness faded, replaced with newfound determination. She would find a way. This would work itself out somehow. She rose from the ground, and moved through the yard. She considered a walk into the city, but it was foolish to walk in the night with the chance that titanspawn could steal her away. She was old enough to know that the tales of vangarauk and hill giants roaming Darakeene were not merely lies to scare children. Glancing about the field, she spied the barn where father kept the horses. That would have to do.

***

The sound of braying horses roused Surielle from her fitful sleep. The night had not been a horrible dream – she was still here in the loft of the barn. She pulled a few pieces of straw from her hair, smoothed her dress the best she could, and descended to the floor of the barn. The horses were still stabled, so it was likely that her father had not left the house yet.

After looking about for signs of her parents and finding none, Surielle skirted across the yard to the side of their house. Her timing was almost ill-fated, for as soon as she reached the corner, the door swung open and her father exited the house. She held her breath, and fortunately he did not see his daughter. As he moved with purpose out towards the barn, she slipped behind him and silently entered the house.

She heard the sounds of her brother Tomlin gurgling happily in his room. She didn’t want to lose her family, but most of all she would miss him. She had practically raised the child after mom had finished nursing him. Tomlin would probably never know her, with her being forced to leave now.

She slipped past her parent’s room, catching a glimpse of her mother prettying herself with a hand mirror. Surielle ducked into her room, and pushed the door to behind her. Minutes passed and soon she heard her mother leave the house with Tomlin, heading to town. Sparing no time, she found a sheet, and quietly placed a few blankets and clothes inside of it. Satisfied with what she had, she left her room and stopped in the kitchen. She grabbed a few loaves of bread she had baked herself. She would not starve that easily.

Surielle gave her mother time to move up the road towards Fernmag, and then followed after her. She wanted the chance to speak to her mother away from her father. Perhaps she could reason with her, and some arrangement could be made to get her back in the house.

She followed her mother, keeping to the trees lining the rock-strewn road. Soon the trees were replaced by worn buildings that had stood since the end of the Divine War. Many of the buildings had been abandoned for years, but the rising popularity of whiskeys produced here had brought new business and livelihood to a diminishing town.

Her mother took a different path than normal this morning. Surielle thought it odd, but mayhap she was finding someone to watch after Tomlin, who was bundled in her arms. Trying to appear casual, Surielle followed until her mother walked up to a building that seemed more an office than a residence. She waited at the door for a moment, then it opened and she was ushered inside by an unseen person.

Surielle’s curiosity overcame her need to talk to her mother, and within moments she found herself leaning up to a window in the rear of this building. Her balance was not what it should have been, and she fell forwards onto the sill with a bit of noise. Or maybe it was the sight she saw: her mother in a passionate embrace with a man she did not recognize - a man that was not her father. 

She landed roughly against the building and slid down. The clamor did not go unnoticed, and soon the man was looking out the window, looking for the cause of the sound. By that time, Surielle had fled into the streets. She ran at a hectic pace, caring not in the direction which her feet took her.

Her father hated her for what she was. Her mother… who knew what her mother was doing behind their backs. Surielle had no one to turn to, and nowhere to go.

_Never go to the Keltai village north of the city. They are not good people._

The words echoed in her mind, spoken by a woman who no longer seemed fit to judge others. A woman who was not truly her mother…


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## Ruined (Oct 17, 2002)

Another one for the masses. I might have to enlist in an editor as this goes on. I look at the length of the sections, and it seems so wordy... 

-------------------------------------------------------------

Gerad – 2nd of Madrot, yr. 143 AV

Gerad instructed his brothers and the men of the other lances to the current fate of Krasburgh. Some had asked him to come along for the _fun_, but he had passed. Opportunities for theft and possibly rape did not attract him, even if they were standard reward to soldiers. Leaving them to their pursuits, he found himself in a country tavern, pondering the day’s conflict over a drink.

Some of the others soldiers had overrun the tavern, emptying the remaining stores that the Skirmishers had not stolen. It was meager offerings, but the men appreciated a chance to relax. Gerad kept a table to himself. He would have welcomed his brothers to sit down, but the other soldiers chose not to. They knew that Gerad was a Janissary, born to service. There was some distinction between the Janissaries and those men who had chosen to enlist in the Hegemony. It was hard to define, but it was there nonetheless.

One of the louder men from the second lance approached Gerad and gave him a hearty slap on the back. His name was Gallish. Gerad could smell the musky sweat surrounding the young man.

“Not out enjoying yourself with the ladies, Gerad?  Some of them are very happy to see a real man instead of those mercenaries.”  

Gallish shared a laugh with a few of men from his lance. Gerad gave him no response, savoring the sharp taste of the Darakeene whiskey. Hopefully, this ignorant braggart would simply leave him be.

“Oh, my pardons, Gerad. I guess you Janissaries don’t go for that.” Gallish paused for a moment. Perhaps he was reconsidering the dangerous road he traveled. “Is it true, what they say? I hear that they ‘unman’ you as boys?”

Gallish’s smile withered as Gerad rose from his chair.

***

Gerad – 10th of Enkilot, yr. 147 AV

Gerad turned his head slightly, surveying the men surrounding him without breaking attention. Ten lances in crescent formation was an impressive sight to behold. His eyes stopped for a second on Gallish, now the leader of the second lance. His misshapen nose distinguished him among the similarly armored soldiers. It brought back vague memories of Gerad’s first battle, so many years before.

Standing before the amassed unit was Commander Vagren, their superior for the past year. Dmitri had been elevated to field and oversee larger units for Calastia. It was a promotion long overdue, but it did not change the fact that Gerad and his brethren missed him. Vagren was a skilled tactician, but he seemed to lack the sheer determination that Dmitri possessed.

Vagren was introducing them to an experienced unit of Charduni that would be overseeing a series of engagements. Gerad did not stare, but this was his first time seeing the race of dark-skinned dwarves. Their skin ranged from grey to black in color, and for most it was contrasted by wild tufts of red, orange, or yellow hair. They only stood four feet in height, but Gerad was not fooled; their stocky forms belied great strength.

One of the charduni walked forward to stand beside Commander Vagren and address the army. His skin was darkened iron, accented by orangish-blonde hair and eyebrows. Rising from his back was a thick staff that held a round mallet at its end. Gerad noted with interest that the mallet was decorated with hair and drawings that made it resemble its owner.

“I am Davrok Warstone, field lieutenant. We root out titanspawn threats that encroach into peaceful territories such as Ankila. There is such a threat here that will require your aid.”

His voice sounded as rough as his skin looked. His presence captivated the men’s attention, much moreso than Vagren.

“Slitheren, the foul rat-men, have been found less than two day’s ride from this position. We will not allow them a foothold in Ankilan territory as they have in other countries. We will instruct you men in the ways of fighting under the earth, and the tactics of these cowardly foes.”

Warstone covered a few more details, then let the men at ease so they could meet the charduni who would travel with them. Gerad walked forward to greet Warstone, and found his handshake to be tremendously strong. Standing closer to him, Gerad noted that his skin truly did look like rock. When asked, Gerad introduced himself.

“Gerad Cademon. I’ve heard your name mentioned. They call you the Scourge, do they not?”

“They do.”  It was not a monicker that Gerad liked, but battle had proven it an apt name. No enemies walked away from his fury.

“It is a good thing. When men quake in fear at your name, then you know you are truly blessed by Chardun.”

***

The largest rat-man that Gerad had seen so far lunged out of the darkness at his group. Many of the slitheren had only reached his chest in height, yet this one was nearly seven feet tall. His brothers raised a cry at their new enemy, and Tahni, damn his hide, dropped the lantern. It did not shatter, but instead rolled along the cavern floor, playing light across the walls and the combatants. Tahni would be punished if they survived this day. Levi would never have made such a mistake.

The rat-man smashed Gerad in the chest with a ball mace, but his armor soaked most of the fearsome blow. Gerad had quickly learned to despise fighting in these caves - there was not enough room to effectively wield the spears he carried. Instead he fought with shield and short sword, as were his brothers.

Gerad knew the others were pinned behind him, so the only way they could help was to move this beast. He roared and lowered his head, slamming his shield into the oversized rat-man. The rat-man squealed, foaming spittle flying from its mouth, as Gerad pushed it backwards until they met with a cavern wall. The slitheren fought, trying to bite over the shield, but Gerad kept it pinned as his brothers ran forward to assist.

This slitheren was immensely strong, probably bred for strength by the smaller fiends. Gerad would not have kept him there for long, but Leon and Pazzi had arrived and stabbed the beast from each side, while Tahni retrieved the fallen lantern. It took a number of hits that would have easily slain the smaller slitheren, but in the end it fell in a bloody heap of fur. Gerad spat upon the dead beast as the others ensured it would not rise again.

This would have been a good time for the strength of Barrikk, but he had been an early casualty of this mission. The cowardly slitheren had attacked from the shadows, shooting crossbow bolts into his larger brother. Gerad feared that they were poisoned, for Barrikk fell to delirium too quickly. When it was apparent that Barrikk couldn’t continue, Gerad had ended his life. Better a quick death than agonizing pain drawn out over the days. Also, Warstone had warned that the rat-men kept slaves. Gerad would rather he and his brothers all die than have them enslaved by these monsters.

After cuffing Tahni for the unacceptable act of cowardice, Gerad signaled for the lance to move through another tunnel. It wound to their left and soon opened into another cavern, where another battle raged. Gerad could barely see their ally, who was surrounded by six of the rat-men. A war scepter struck out, and one of the slitheren was thrown against a wall with a sickening crunch. Gerad wasted no time in decisions, signaling to his brothers to move and assist the charduni.

Quickly Gerad found that Warstone was the oppressed Charduni within the ring of rat-men. He was bloodied, but still fighting fiercely against overwhelming odds. Gerad’s men waded into the battle, flashing swords against their foes. After a few moments, the slitheren were dead at their feet. Warstone bled from many spots where slitheren swords had slipped past his black armor. Warstone stopped and uttered a short prayer in his language, a deep rumbling that made Gerad think of stone sliding across stone. As he watched, a number of Warstone’s wounds, including a gash on his forehead, stopped bleeding and sealed without a single scar. His magic was impressive. Warstone’s eyes opened and regarded Gerad with a slight smile.

“Good timing, Scourge. I believe this campaign is nearly at and end.”  He glanced around at Gerad’s men, no doubt noticing that one was missing. Then Warstone’s eyes widened, and he quickly jabbed a finger past Gerad’s shoulder. “Behind you!”

Gerad spun, as did his brothers. Standing at the edge of another tunnel was a smaller slitheren. This one had stark white fur and its eyes seemed to glint with reddish light. It bore no weapons, but Gerad quickly noted that its hands moved with a crackling black energy. He started to step forward, but halted as a painful burning sensation struck his chest and crept down his arm. He closed his eyes and fought to overcome the pain. When it had passed, he looked down, expecting to find his body charred and armor melted, but there were no burns. The only mark of the magic was a sinuous form on his left forearm. It resembled a tattoo like the mercenaries wore, but he could not discern what picture this was.

He would ponder this later. Shrugging off the haze, he ran behind his men into the next cavern. Inside they found a number of soldiers, one of the other lances, all blackened and scorched along the ground. The men looked around, but there was no sign of the slitheren who had marked him. Gerad’s eyes caught a small flicker of movement from an opening to his right. He ran forward to a tunnel that went upwards like a small chimney. He started to climb, but quickly determined that his breastplate would prevent such travel. His hands moved to unbuckle the armor, but Warstone’s restraining hand stopped him.

“The coward is gone. Let us tend to the wounded and see if the others have survived.”

Grudgingly, Gerad agreed. He wanted to capture this witch-rat and find what it had done to him. And then he wanted to kill it. Brutally.


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## Graf (Oct 17, 2002)

Cool. Sorta Martinesque with betrayals, lost kings, tough family relations, secretive organizaions and politics-is-war type stuff.

How these people become a party I can not imagine.


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## Tuerny (Oct 17, 2002)

You have a very nice story hour....  

It is almost intimidating to start my own Scarred Lands one due to how good your is.   


alas.....


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## madriel (Oct 17, 2002)

Your players all came up with great backgrounds.  They're a very motley group so far.  I look forward to seeing how they make the party work.


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## Gaius (Oct 18, 2002)

More.

Gaius


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## Snoweel (Oct 19, 2002)

Excellent tRO. Great characters.

I'm getting an urge to buy the Campaign Setting.


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## papa_laz (Oct 27, 2002)

And the rest?


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## Ruined (Oct 28, 2002)

My apologies for ten days with no posts. The boards being down at the start was a bit disheartening, and I've gotten caught up in a few RL things.  Soon, though. We've played a few sessions, and it's been interesting.


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## Ruined (Oct 28, 2002)

*As promised*

Surielle – 19th of Madrer, yr. 141 AV

Surielle was amazed that she could find the Keltai village in the midst of the great downpour. Through all of the events in Fernmag, she had failed to note the darkening storm clouds. Now, as she slowly walked into the circle of tarps and small buildings, Surielle was soaked to the bone.

It was early in the afternoon, yet the village bustled with life, many people gathering together to converse and find excuse to stay out of the heavy rains. Surielle advanced forward to stand under a tarp, feeling unsure of how to find her birth mother. Gazes lingered on her as she approached, her clothing and saturated bundle of bed sheets raising unspoken questions.

“How can we help you, lass?” a man asked. He looked to be near her father’s age. Another larger gentleman walked with him, appraising Surielle with a glance.

“ I’m looking for my mother.”

“Your mother, here? You’re a city girl. Why would your mother travel with us Keltai?”

“ Her name is Amara. She is Keltai. I need to find her.”

The two men shared a glance. Was it concern in their eyes? The other villagers had stopped their conversations to pay attention to this misplaced girl. The larger man spoke to her.

“Wait here and stay out of the rain, child. Let us speak among the elders.”

Hope flooded through Surielle. These men knew her mother, and they would bring them together. The events of the day and the night before seemed to melt away with the promise of a new beginning.

Conversations started up again around her. These people were different than the people of Fernmag she was accustomed to. The women wore low-cut bodices and skirts that revealed much of their legs when they turned. Some of the women had blonde hair similar to her adopted parents, but a good number had deep red hair similar in shade to her own. She caught herself wondering if Amara had red hair.

The men returned with a resolute look in their eyes. The smaller of the men spoke first.

“Young miss, we have no one named Amara here in our village.”

“But…” she began.

“You should return to those who raised you and stop chasing fantasies.”

She felt the tears threaten to pour forth, but she held them in. There had to be someone here who knew her mother. This was her last place left to turn.

“Please. There has to be someone here…”

“You cannot stay here, child. You had best return to the city before nightfall.”

She looked around at the villagers who had once again grown silent. Everything seemed to close in on her. And then she noticed a small woman push herself between the two men. This woman was not a red-haired beauty like she hoped, but instead a woman who had seen at least sixty years.

“Out of my way, brutes. You’re upsetting the girl!”

The men started to protest, but they would not speak out against this woman. She stepped forward, and gently lifted Surielle’s chin, examining her.

“We may not have what she seeks, but she still might be of use.” The old woman smiled and took a step back from Surielle.  “I have some questions for you, so that I can see how much you know.”

Surielle was nervous at this new predicament, but she nodded her head in acknowledgement.

“What use would I have for the milk from an Amalthean ram?”

She paused under the woman’s all-seeing gaze, thinking on the question. Quickly, she realized the sly trick that the woman played.

“Rams do not produce milk; ewes do. I have heard that the milk of an Amalthean ewe has special healing properties.”  The woman seemed pleased.

“That it does. If I sought to protect my house, would I plant sage or mandrake outside?”

Surielle pondered once more. Mandrake was a poison to most; she guessed that it also was a bane when planted. She answered sage, but the woman shook her head.

“No. Sage is bad luck for a house. Mandrake will keep the evil spirits at bay.” The woman thought for a moment, while murmurs drifted through the crowd of onlookers. “A man here has a sickness that makes it painful for him to breathe. How would you tend to him?”

“I would put him in a small room and steam water for him to breathe. Once that clears his chest, then you check to see if he has a flu or something more serious. Goldenseal may help.”  She had seen the local doctor treat a man in similar fashion. He had sickened from smoking too much piperoot, but the treatment had healed him.  The woman seemed pleased with her answer.

“One final test, girl.” The old woman removed a cord from her neck and handed it to Surielle. At the bottom was a pink bloom that was some type of orchid. She lifted it to her nose, but it held no scent she could discern.

“What is that, and why do I wear it?”

Her mind raced, but she had never seen this plant before. She cursed her lack of knowledge and this woman for testing her in such a manner. “I do not know,” she said finally, handing the plant back.

“It is lady’s slipper,” the old woman said, and Surielle’s mind began to race. She had heard of lady’s slipper before, but it was usually white or yellow. She interrupted the woman while she had the chance.

“…And you use it to protect yourself from hexes and the evil eye.”

The woman smiled, and Surielle knew she had answered correctly. She leaned forward and took Surielle’s hand in her own. 

“My name is Agnes, child. Welcome to our village.”

Agnes turned and faced the two men, who each wore a perplexed look on their face. 

“This child will stay with me and learn my ways. Do you oppose me?”  The men looked at each other for support and found none. They said little and parted as Agnes led Surielle further into the waterlogged village.


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## Snoweel (Oct 29, 2002)

You're such a tease, tRO.


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## Ruined (Oct 29, 2002)

I'm a tease?  Heh, wait until you see the next post. 

btw, thanks to everyone for the recent posts of praise. I just noted that Graf called my story hour 'Martinesque'.  I'm gonna bask in that one for a while, for I love George R.R. Martin's 'Song of Fire and Ice'.  If I can bring even a hint of the talent he possesses to my campaign, I will be extremely pleased.

And now, back to Gerad...


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## Ruined (Oct 29, 2002)

Gerad – 20th of Vanger, yr. 148 AV

Nearly two years had passed, and two things were unchanged in Gerad’s life: the tattoo still remained on his forearm, and Warstone still led their forces. Gerad appreciated having the charduni nearby, but the tattoo concerned him. No amount of scrubbing or peeling away of flesh would remove it, and he had tried plenty of both. Warstone had searched his tomes for information to no avail. They had thought to show it to a higher priest of Chardun, but Warstone cautioned him - if their magicks could not remove it, they may deem him tainted.  It would be far better to die an honorable death on a battlefield, than tortured by Calastian inquisitors.

Gerad looked down at the wrist guard that concealed the tattoo and frowned. This was one of the days when it tingled and seemed to writhe on his skin. It was a symbol of evil, and a question unanswered. 

Warstone’s words were prophetic. Their forces were currently being accompanied by Inquisitor Sinclair, a determined individual from the Heteronomy of Virduk. Gerad hoped that his stay would be only for this current mission, and not end up a permanent appointment as the charduni had.

They marched down a road flanked by marshy lands. Layers of winter frost crept along the edge of the bogs, freezing plants into crystalline shapes. Ahead lay the village of Larkspur, where Sinclair warned of titanspawn cultists. Rumors had circulated of dark rituals within the area, and the Hegemony had dispatched Sinclair and a few of his retainers to investigate. Inquisitors within the Hegemony were rightly feared, because they rarely traveled without military accompaniment.

As they neared the village, Sinclair called out orders from atop his mount.

"Divide up and scour the town. Bring forward any suspicious individuals."

The men obeyed with precision, breaking into lances, and moving about the huts. The people of Larkspur had recently begun to move about in the morning air, and many were frightened by the presence of the soldiers. Gerad and his brothers approached and surrounded one woman, forcing her back against the wall of a small shack.

"Where are the cultists?"  Gerad demanded.

The woman was terribly frightened, and unable to answer. Tahni leaned forward with spear in hand, although Gerad knew he would not harm her. Tears ran down the woman’s cheek.

"Just tell us. We seek only the cultists."

"No… we were warned…" The woman collapsed in a heap. Disgusted, Gerad advised his brothers to leave her. They moved along, watching the other lances ousting people from their houses. His lance did the same, barging into a household and interrogating the family within.

It began to form a disturbing pattern in Gerad’s mind. The people of Larkspur were all scared, but it wasn’t just fear of the invading army. They had been cowed into silence by whatever had taken over their village. He felt shame at intimidating these people, as these were the people of Ankila that he had sworn to protect.

A cry from the street drew their attention and pulled them from a house. Soldiers dragged forth a beaten and bloody individual wearing tattered green robes. He was thrown forward at the feet of Inquisitor Sinclair, who looked down with disdain. Sinclair made sure that spears were trained on this man, and then he leaned down to look at him.

"Where are your allies?"  Sinclair asked with an even voice. The man spat blood at Sinclair’s feet and was rewarded by a spear stabbed into his calf. Calmly, Sinclair asked again.

"It is I, alone."  The man answered. Sinclair straightened, looking at the troops and the few villagers who watched from doorways.

"Erect a pyre. We will burn this lover of titanspawn."

The business was done quickly. Unused lumber was taken from one of the outlying houses and a pyre was erected. The cultist was bound to the pillar and all were brought forward to witness the act. He cried out a curse against the village and the army, but in the end, he burned as any man would. Gerad watched on, glad to see this justice done. Warstone stood beside him in silence. 

Sinclair watched the pyre until the man’s body went limp and the smoke drifted into the grey sky. Satisfied, he turned and addressed the forces.

"This cultist lied when he said he worked alone. His agents are scattered through Larkspur, sewing their evils." His lips curled into a sneer with the last word. "I decree this village to be tainted. Raze the village and burn all within. This town will be cleansed."

It was overwhelming to Gerad. There may have been another agent within the village, but to think that they were all tainted with evil? He could not tolerate this injustice, and found himself stepping forward.

"Wait!" he said, drawing silence from everyone nearby. The inquisitor had started to walk away, but slowly turned to regard him.

"These people," Gerad continued, "they’ve been living in fear from this man you burned. They are not wicked, and do not deserve death."  Sinclair met his gaze, and considered his words.

"What would you have us do, soldier?"

Gerad pondered for a moment. He now knew that the man before him was evil, although a different sort of evil than the cultist they had burned. He cared nothing for these people, and would kill them all unless Gerad could make a sound argument. Gerad began to speak, missing the subtle nod that Sinclair made to someone nearby.

"Maybe you could -"

Gerad’s words were cut short as a massive force slammed into his backside with a thick crunch. He was driven forward and to the ground. It was the charduni war scepter. He knew Warstone had done this. Stubborn, he pushed up to his hands and knees to try and make a stand. Once again he was struck and this time the force was too much. Gerad dropped, with his face half-submerged into a partially frozen puddle of mud. Vague and distant, he could hear voices nearby.

"Leave his body here. Let him burn with those he sympathized with."

Everything faded to darkness.


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## Snoweel (Oct 29, 2002)

I was wondering when Gerad would break with Calastia.

Got any character stats to tide us over, tRO?


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## jenna3 (Oct 29, 2002)

And now it all begins to make sense. I still don't trust him...

TTFN--Jenna (aka Tréan)


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## Nightfall (Oct 29, 2002)

*smirks* Trust is hard to come by in the Scarred Lands. Especially in a land such as Zathike(sp).


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## Ruined (Nov 23, 2002)

SURPISE!!  *sigh*  

Almost a full month, and I haven't posted. My apologies to those still interested in the story. We have been playing, however, and there have been a few ups and downs. Overall the story is congealing and we're having fun.

My time has been divided by a few projects, and when I had to choose between writing the Story Hour and actually preparing for the game, well the choice was obvious.

I'm back on track however, and I intend to catch the story up at least a session or two, lest I get buried further. We have just played our fourth gaming session, so I'm not too far in debt yet.

But first, I must finish the story of Surielle, our young druidess...  When last we saw her, she had been accepted into the Keltai village of Varanis to be instructed by the woman known as Agnes. Years have passed...


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## Ruined (Nov 23, 2002)

Surielle - 25th of Vangalot, yr. 144 AV

Three years had passed for Surielle, and she had blossomed, not only as a practicing Druid of Denev, but also as a woman. She bit back tears as she looked upon the Keltai village that had become more of a home than she ever had known. She was leaving upon the morning, but there was a difference from when she left Fernmag: she was leaving as a beloved member of the community and she would be missed.

The summer night's air was charged with energy. It was Denday, the one day of the month dedicated to Denev by the 'Divine calendar'. The Keltai felt differently, revering the earth mother every day out of the month, but they were never ones to pass up a chance to revel and celebrate in the name of their Titaness. As such, the village of Varanis was lit up with bonfires and alive with the dancing of men, women, and children.

Agnes had planned it this way: she had brought her instructions to a close, although Surielle knew that there was so much more that the elder could teach her. Surielle now wore an amulet with a red background and a golden scythe engraved upon it. An amulet identical to the one her mother Amara had worn when she left the village. Agnes had known Amara, and had told Surielle that she was strong in the druidic faith.

In the morning, Surielle would venture to the east to seek a group of druids called the Sisterhood of the Scythe. Agnes assured her that they could not only enhance her learning, but also they could assist her in finding her mother. Surielle hated to leave Varanis, but the desire to follow this quest burned within her breast.

"Care to dance, Surielle?"  She was startled from her daydream by a man twice her age, extending his hand. It was Karn, the male 'elder' of the town, a handsome man with black hair that swept down past his shoulders. She smiled and accepted, grasping his hand.

He pulled her forward into a throng of Keltai, whisking her about with skill and surprising grace. She could sense others watching, as she was the guest of honor at this revel. Everyone knew she left on the morn, and many more would take their turns dancing with her. Karn held an interesting position: his female counterpart was Agnes' sister Nester, who was almost thirty years, his senior. Their decisions governed Varanis, and the odd pairing was the subject of many jokes behind doors. In all her dealings with Karn, she found him to be a capable leader and a gentleman.

"You will be quickly missed, little runaway," he said with a smile after their dance was finished. Many of the older men called her the runaway, recalling her entrance to the village.

"I am sad to go," she said," but it is my calling." He nodded in agreement, and his smile saddened a bit. He leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss upon her brow.

"You will find her, Surielle. I have no doubt. You walk in the grace of the earth mother."

She gave Karn a fierce hug before someone else could sweep her away for a dance. And she prayed that he was right.

* * *

2nd of Chander, yr. 144 AV

She wound her path across the broken land of Darakeene. The land was marked by numerous hills and long ravines that split the grassy soil. She took care while traveling, heeding Agnes' advice to be wary of titanspawn. The creatures were a true threat in the wilds, and even though she possessed a hint of power, she had no delusions that she could weather an assault.

As she neared a line of trees, she decided that it was a suitable time to follow another suggestion of Agnes'. She had the power to call an animal to be her companion, a bond strengthened by her druidic magic. She was nervous at the prospect, but she had grown lonely after leaving Varanis. A friend would be welcome.

After moving deeper into the forest, she pulled forth a number of twigs tied with holly leaves and spread them in a circle around where she stood. She seated herself at the base of a tree and began to meditate, invoking the words taught to her. This spell was untested - she believed it would work, but Agnes had told her to do it farther from the village. The majority of animals near Varanis were the adventurous squirrels that stole food when the villagers weren't looking. Surielle wondered with humor if she would call a squirrel anyhow. The magic didn't seem to discern which animal would come, only that one would. It could be a squirrel or an owl or anything else that made its home nearby.

She continued her meditation and chanting for an untold number of minutes. The sound of leaves rustling on the ground announced the arrival of something, hopefully the one she would choose as her companion. She opened her eyes, expecting something small and harmless.

Standing fifteen feet ahead of her was a white and grey furred wolf. It was easily as large as she was.

She felt the hairs on her arms rise, and for a second she was unsure of her power. Had this wolf happened upon her, hungry, or was this what Denev had brought to her? Clear blue eyes regarded her intently. Surielle slowly rose to her feet and smoothed her dress. She had to follow through with the spell and hope that she wasn't mistaken.

"I seek your friendship."  She held her hands forward, with palms open.

She could immediately see into the thoughts of the wolf, knowing that it was a female. Foremost were a number of questions, mostly of who she was and how the wolf was able to understand her speech.

"Will you travel with me?"

Thoughts of travel through the wild, and deeper images of a litter of wolf cubs imposed themselves on Surielle's vision. Images followed of the cubs slaughtered, killed by other wolves. Finally there were images of bloody combat, a feeling of mourning, and of a journey to distance herself from that place.

"I seek my mother," Surielle added, chancing a reaction. The wolf sniffed deeply of the air, judging Surielle. After a minute, she could sense the wolf's acceptance of the offer, seeing an image of the two of them walking as equals.

"What is your name?"  The wolf struggled for a moment, and rapid images flickered across Surielle's vision. She puzzled through this for a moment, realizing that the wolf was known as the Taste-of-Frozen-Snow-From-Spring's-First-Thaw. Surielle said this over in her head a few times.

"May I call you Snowmelt?"  She wasn't sure, but the wolf seemed to smile, and moved forward to allow her to stroke her ears. Yes, apparently Snowmelt would be a fine name.


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## Snoweel (Nov 24, 2002)

I dunno... I think Snoweel would've been a better name...

Once again well done, tRO.


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## jenna3 (Jan 6, 2003)

You're teasing again, Ruined. Come on baby, let's have some more story before the players start posting fanatical and exaggerated accounts from a wishful point of view.  

If you need some help writing it, let us know. 

TTFN--Jenna
aka Tréan


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## Nightfall (Jan 6, 2003)

He's not the only one...


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## Ruined (Jan 6, 2003)

Yeah, I've been a slacker over the past month or two, both with scheduling games and writing story excerpts. My apologies. But the games resume this week, and hopefully the stories will follow shortly thereafter.

Plus I'm getting a new toy to assist in writing - a much-sought-after laptop. Let the writing begin!


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## Surielle Moonshade (Jan 7, 2003)

*The Toy*

The Toy (laptop) arrives Friday and theRuinedOne has promised all that he will fill in the gaps.  

Otherwise, I'm with Jenna:  We are going to start making up wishful accounts that *DON'T* include vicious possessed alligators, corrupt city guards, shifty allies and above all, stinky cities.  =)

Surielle Moonshade


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## Spf 3000 (Jan 16, 2003)

I think that Surielle and Trean already said everything that needs to be said, as the last surviving player from the game Id like to show up and give the thread a little nudge as well. If not then Ill tell the story the way Gerad sees it, and noone will like what he has to say!

*bump*

Spf 3000 aka Gerad Caedmon


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## Ruined (Jan 28, 2003)

Okay, even if this is just a drop in the proverbial bucket, it's written and I want to get it posted. Surielle's intro is almost done, and then we can get on with the actual adventure.

--------------------------------------------

Surielle - 5th of Chander, yr. 144 A.V.

Surielle, accompanied by her new friend Snowmelt, moved forward following the final directions from Agnes. Ahead lay a circular grove of trees, sequoias so thick that Surielle would need two sisters if she hoped to wrap arms around the trunk. Night approached, but she had felt the presence of the place, and pushed on with eagerness. 

Snowmelt must have sensed something as well. As they moved, she would dart ahead and quickly move back with excitement. Surielle tried to reach out and calm her, but Snowmelt would not slow down. The silence had an eerie quality to it, probably the source of Snowmelt’s irritation. Surielle felt it as well – the unnatural silence and the sensation that they were being watched. Sensing there was nothing to be done, she sighed and moved forward.

The skyline opened as they moved into the grove, revealing the moon in all of her glory. The pair moved forward, marveling at the cultivated trees and plants. Even in the moonlight, Surielle could tell that caring hands had worked the land with considerable skill.

She was pulled from her investigation by a slight groaning from a nearby tree. She watched with amazement as an older man in ivory robes simply stepped out of the tree as if it were a doorway and not a massive column of wood. Surielle stood there, her mouth agape, but no words issued forth. Snowmelt also remained quiet, stopping to look at the man in silence. He smiled at the two of them with obvious compassion.

“Child, you have come to us. We welcome you.”

“How did you…?” Surielle began to ask, then remembered the red-and-gold amulet that clasped her cloak together. 

“The hour grows late. Please follow me, and I will introduce you to the Sisterhood.”


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## Ruined (Jan 29, 2003)

Surielle - 12th of Belot, yr. 150 A.V.

“Surielle, Brianna. I believe the grove lies ahead. Be on guard.”  Maximillian, the elder druid who had greeted Surielle six years before, now led them towards their goal. Unknown forces had corrupted a grove near Quelsk, far to the South of her home in Darakeene. No word had been received from the site in several months, and the last acolytes sent to investigate had not returned.

Surielle now stood firm as a Sister of the Scythe. Years of training and experience had taught her a great amount about the world and the faith she followed. It had been a good time for her, although her mother had never returned to the Sisterhood. She heard a variety of tales regarding Amara, and received many compliments that they shared a great resemblance to one another.

As her tutelage neared its end, she decided to follow the path her mother walked and do her best to determine her fate. Maximillian was content to let her leave, but when it was determined that the grove near Quelsk had fallen, he requested that she accompany his small group. As he pointed out, safety lies in numbers, and it was believed that Amara had also taken that route.

Snowmelt steadily followed beside Surielle. The wolf was older, but still moved about with grace and speed. Snowmelt’s grey-and-white coat had thinned during the approach of summer’s heat. Surielle had made a good number of friends within the Sisterhood, but Snowmelt was easily the closest companion she had. It was the same among many of the other druids. Even Brianna kept Glory, a proud hawk, as her closest confidante. Snowmelt sniffed at the light wind and issued a growl as they moved deeper into the forest.

“Yes, I sense it too,” Maximillian said. He paused for a second, listening to the woods around them. Surielle watched as he cast a spell, some form of protection. She followed suit, invoking a spell of _barkskin_. As she finished, she saw Brianna had cast something upon Glory. Maximillian made a few more preparations, and then motioned for them to move forward.

Into the perimeter of the grove, Surielle could see that much of the flora looked like it had been ripped and chewed upon. Some trees were completely uprooted, while others had been stripped of bark and limbs. And now she could see the culprits.

Two men stood at the center of the clearing, wearing tattered robes of brown and black. Roaming near them was a small pack of hyenas, each gaunt with hunger. But the one adversary that drew her attention stood behind the robed men – an enormously fat being that radiated a palpable evil. Surielle had heard of these creatures, corpulent servants of the titan Gaurak known as fatlings. The malevolent fatling was first to sense their approach and barked a command in an inhuman voice.

Several of the emaciated hyenas charged towards Surielle and Snowmelt. Her wolf leapt upon one, avoiding the bite from their powerful jaws. As three ran towards Surielle, she invoked her power of _animal defiance_. The hyenas tried to halt their progress, tumbling over one another. Quickly they stood and ran from her display of willpower.

Maximillian had moved forward to battle with the massive fatling. The creature’s hands were locked with Maximillian’s as it tried to pull him closer. Surielle gasped as she saw it try to envelope the druid into its fold of fat. If Maximillian perished, there would be no way she and Brianna could combat this. She turned and saw Brianna wielding her scythe against one of the cultists. The remaining cultist was avoiding the swoop of Glory while moving to flank Brianna. Surielle called forth a _flame scythe_ and moved to interpose herself.

The cultist turned to meet her, snarling. She could see that his cheeks were drawn in and his flesh a sallow color. Gaurak was a titan known for his great hunger, and his servants seemed to emulate him through starvation. The cultist lashed out with his staff, stinging her shoulder. She returned with the flaming scythe, missing him with her first few swings. As they fought, she heard a roar and witnessed Maximillian transform himself into a gigantic black bear, towering over the fatling.

She continued to fight against the cultist as he pressed her back. He took a moment to invoke a spell, and she caught him with her flaming blade. His robes caught aflame and he cried out, ruining the spell. He tried to pat out the flames, but Surielle was driven, striking him again and again until he fell. Brianna and Glory had dispatched the other cultist, and Snowmelt had slain the hyena she fought.

They turned to the fatling and Maximillian, gripped in deadly combat. There was a low rumbling coming from the area, and Surielle could feel the ground heaving beneath her. A loud shout came from the two, which sounded like a mix between Maximillian’s voice and the bear’s growl. She watched in despair as the two combatants sunk down into the ground, still locked together. Brianna seemed confused as they descended. Within moments, Maximillian and the fatling were completely enveloped and the ground returned to an unbroken state.

“No!”  Surielle cried out as they scrambled forward. The rumbling had slowed, and there were no signs of the elder druid or the titanic servant. The other bodies remained as testament to the recent battle. Their enemies were gone, but it was a costly victory. After the dust had settled, and there was no sign of Maximillian or the fatling, Brianna turned to Surielle.

“Well, it falls to us then. We have vanquished the cultists. Now we must sanctify the grove once more.”  It seemed more of a question than statement, but Surielle nodded in agreement. This was their calling - Denev’s wounds must be tended.


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## Ruined (Feb 18, 2003)

1st of Chardot, ‘Divinities Day’ yr. 150 A.V.

The first day of summer in Ghelspad is celebrated in some cities as Divinities’ Day. Quelsk, the southmost harbor city of Zathiske, is renowned for this festival, attracting travelers from across the Calastian Hegemony and beyond. Primarily a festival commemorating the actions of the gods Chardun and Corean, the festival typically has representatives of all faiths present. The merchants of Quelsk thrive in the week surrounding Divinities’ Day, while most other residents take this time to relax from their normal duties.

Silas had no intentions to relax on this holy day. The city’s gates would open to allow in all types of visitors, including thieves, cutthroats, and assassins – all suitable prey for Silas. The early morning found him and an associate named Lorehn inside the city magistrate’s office. Arrayed before them on a table were numerous papers detailing names, descriptions, and an occasional sketch of known criminals and miscreants.

“Here’s the one I wanted to show you. Nedrick Fourfingers,” Lorehn said, pointing a finger at one piece of parchment. Silas scanned the paper. Fourfingers was wanted in the cities of Calas and Sussephra for thievery and suspected murder. There was no sketch, but it had a base description of the man. Most notable was that he had the small finger removed from each hand.

“He’s one of the ones you like.” Lorehn leveled his gaze at Silas. It was unspoken, but Silas knew the meaning. Fourfingers was most likely a member of the Cult of the Ancients. Lorehn was Silas’ contact within the Scaled, and occasionally he would point out bounties that matched Silas’ criteria. Silas studied the information about Fourfingers before moving on to other papers. He passed a few that he had read before, until he came to one concerning treason. Lorehn, noting the bounty in Silas’ hands, leaned over to whisper near Silas’ ear.

“Oh right. That one’s not for you. Consider him protected.”  Silas nodded, curious as to why this one was being watched by the Scaled. Soldiers didn’t usually fall in their ranks. He read the name again, committing it to memory. Gerad Caedmon.

“Don’t you two every take a day off?” the Magistrate asked. “By Chardun’s chains, it’s Divinities Day.”  Silas looked at the aging human and grinned.

“Today? It’s our busiest time of year, old man.”


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## Ruined (Feb 18, 2003)

1st of Chardot, ‘Divinities Day’ yr. 150 A.V., continued

Tréan smiled at the small groups of children as they began to gather near their tent. It was not even an hour past dawn and the city was filling with passerby, all eager to begin their celebrations. Tréan had been awake for many hours, working by torchlight with Helena to get things prepared for the coming day. Watching many of the other priests and merchants about, the early-morning rise seemed traditional.

As she worked in the back of the large blue and white tent, Tréan watched Helena tending to a young woman presenting an injured arm. Healing was one of the main sphere of Madriel’s power, and Helena had cautioned that many would come seeking succor from them. Helena was making good use of poultices and herbs to effect healing this morning. Both women had the capability to heal with magic, but those abilities only stretched so far. Miracles of faith should be saved for the truly needy.

“Pardon me, miss,” called an accented voice from the side of the tent. Tréan spun to find a man bedecked in luxurious clothing. Silken red pantaloons and a vest embroidered with spun gold made him clearly stand out from the crowd. Curled mustachios framed a mouth bearing an unflappable smile. His eyes seemed to twinkle at Tréan.

“I am the Prospero, servant of Hedrada. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, miss…”

“Tréan.” She extended her hand to him, which he savored with a kiss. “We were told you would be here.”

“Yes, I have heard of your visit in Sussephra. Ah, Helena.”

Helena walked up to meet with the Prospero, and he was every bit as flirtatious with her as he had been with Tréan. Surprisingly enough, he was a likeable fellow. Tréan had met others that tended to size her up when talking, and their presence generally unnerved her. The Prospero was possessed of true charisma. It served him well as representative of Hedrada’s influence over wealth and success. The Prospero and Helena spoke like old acquaintances, catching up on past times.

“Alas, miladies, I must attend to my duties as a priest. The Satrap should be speaking at noon, and I must be ready. I do want you to know that should you need anything while in Quelsk, merely come to me. This is my ‘summer home’, so to speak.”  With a disarming grin, he smiled and moved off to other pursuits. Tréan turned and regarded Helena with an incredulous look.

“I know, he seems like a fop. And to a degree, he is.” She smiled. “Honestly, you’d be hard-pressed to find a better ally.”

“He mentioned our visit to Sussephra,” Tréan said under her breath.

“That’s no surprise. He helped to arrange it.”


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## jenna3 (Feb 19, 2003)

Woohoo! Good job, tRO. I suppose Surrielle and I can back off the butt-kicking now....

TTFN--Jenna
aka Tréan


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## Ruined (Mar 8, 2003)

Another couple of updates today:

1st of Chardot, ‘Divinities Day’ yr. 150 A.V., continued

Surielle knew it was the first day of summer without need of the fancy Ledean calendars. She and Brianna had noted the horseshoe of Destrios taking position in the sky the night before, marking the coming of Chardot and summer. The last day of the month was known as Denday to the populace at large, a single day to revere Denev. Surielle thought it sad that others did not carry the Mother in their hearts every day as she did.

The grove was in much better condition than when the druids had first found it. It still required work, but they had uprooted smaller trees that were beyond care and healed the flora that they could save. They had performed exhausting rituals to cleanse the taint left behind by the titanic cultists.

Sadly, Maximillian had not returned from the spot where he and the fatling sank into the ground. Neither had the fatling, for that matter. Both druidesses accepted his sacrifice with resignation. He had done what was best for the land and for them, and they would not question the outcome.

“We’re going to need more seeds and some tools to complete our tasks here,” Brianna said.

“Are you sure I must be the one to go?”  Surielle asked, knowing the answer. She had little desire to venture into the city of Quelsk, especially when it was thick with people.

“Yes, Surielle, please. I will try to cleanse the ponds while you are gone, and then we can work on the larger tasks at hand.”  She smiled, and it proved infectious to Surielle. Surielle turned to Snowmelt, who was rolling in the grasses nearby.

“I suppose you won’t do well in the city either?”   The wolf looked at her quizically, then resumed her playful activities. Surielle laughed to herself and prepared to venture into the urban environment.


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## Ruined (Mar 8, 2003)

1st of Chardot, ‘Divinities Day’ yr. 150 A.V., continued

“As you all know, this is Divinities Day: one of the largest celebrations held in our fair city of Quelsk. And the watch will be out in force, trying to maintain order in our streets.”  Marus paused to allow the obligatory jokes to pass among the room. None of the Cresting Waves bore any love for the guardsmen of Quelsk. Some would say that the two were enemies.

“There will be visitors from across the country, even from as far as Vesh. These are people who could become our allies, as long as we don’t make asses of ourselves.”  Once again, a pause to let the words sink in. “We seek to free our country from the Calastian Hegemony, but as I’ve said before, we must have our wits about us.”

“There are other factions who think violence is the sole way to achieve this. They will look to make moves during this festival, hoping to catch the Calastian dogs unaware. If you think you will have trouble restraining such urges, I suggest you leave now and find them. If anyone has any questions, bring them to me. Otherwise, enjoy the festival.”

Gerad smiled after listening to the speech. It was good to see someone who held respect amongst his men. It took Gerad back to days serving under Dmitri, the closest thing he knew to a father. Those days were long gone, and were he to meet Dmitri now, it would likely be as enemies.

Two years ago, Gerad had awakened in a smoke-filed hut, tired and wracked with pain. The charduni Warstone’s blow had bit deep, but had failed to kill him. He soon learned that a few of the villagers had hid and seen his stand against the Inquisitor. Once the army had moved on, they had healed him as best they could. Considered dead and a traitor, Gerad had found his way to the country of Zathiske, where resentment boiled against the Calastian soldiers that occupied their cities. Gerad did a great amount of soul-searching before committing himself to the cause of the Cresting Waves. The men around him were good friends, but he doubted they would ever be brothers like Barrikk and Pazzi. Sighing deeply, Gerad stepped upon the walkway to talk with Marus.

“So, Gerad. What are your plans for the festival?” Marus asked as he approached.

“I haven’t thought of anything,” he answered truthfully. “Practice. Maybe find work as a bodyguard for someone.”  Gerad felt uncomfortable. While he had easily meshed in with the Cresting Waves, teaching the men formations and proper tactics, he had never pursued a social life.

“You should get out some and enjoy yourself. They have holidays like this so that hard laborers like yourself can relax.” Marus gauged Gerad’s silence, looking for something in his eyes. After a moment, he lowered his voice and spoke again.

“Should you desire a task of great import, I can arrange it.”

“I will not be attending the celebrations past today. I must journey north, but the journey need not be alone. If you wish…”   Marus’ words were cut off as one of the men near the front of the warehouse cried out.

“Dragons!”

He did not refer to the creatures of myth; instead these were the Calastian soldiers that patrolled the Zathiskan territories. Gerad could see a number of men flooding into the building, each wearing black cloaks with the prominent dragon displayed. As they moved into the warehouse, one of the guards yelled out, “Kill all of these rebel scum!”

Without hesitation, Gerad leapt from the walkway and snared a spear from a barrel where they were kept. He quickly advanced to assist a fellow who was barely holding a Dragon’s sword from his face. With the man occupied, it took little for Gerad to plunge the spear deep into his breast. The guardsman gurgled and died, but more move to take his place as Gerad wrested the spear from the fallen man’s armor.

“Everyone scatter! We should not fight here and now!”  Marus’ words barely reached over the clang of sharpened steel.

As Gerad parries the blows from a guardsman, he is aware of the violence in the periphery around him. The Cresting Waves are not trained for prolonged conflict as a whole. Against equal numbers of Black Dragons, Gerad knew they would not last. He was thankful to see Marus leading a small number of the Cresting Waves out via the back entrance.

The guard facing Gerad scored a blow, slashing his sword along Gerad’s leg through his armored skirt. Grunting from the pain, Gerad spun the spear and cracked the blunt end against the Guardsman’s face. The guard took a step back to reconsider, but Gerad quickly followed up, driving his spear into the man’s throat.

“Waves, to me! Form a wedge!”

Gerad was relieved to see that some of his training went to good use as a number of his fellows moved to stand beside him in formation. He bellowed out a command to charge, and they plowed forward into the unprepared ranks of armored soldiers. One or two of the men fell to blows from the Black Dragons, but the majority of men escaped from the abattoir behind them with Gerad in the lead. There were only a few more guardsmen outside, but Gerad knew that more could be arriving within moments.

“Scatter! We will fight another day, Waves!”

Many of the men did as they were told, moving off into side streets and alleyways. After taking down another armored guardsman, Gerad headed down the street to the back of the warehouse. There were more bodies of fallen friends and guards alike. He quickly scanned the corpses, but none were Marus. A blood smear on a nearby wall caught his eye, and he moved to follow it. Near an intersection to a main street, he found Marus on hands and knees, blood seeping from his side. Gerad quickly knelt beside the man.

“Marus, we must get you to safety.”

It took Marus a few moments to realize it was Gerad come to save him. “I am wounded …need priest.”  After a fit of rough coughs, he continued. “Go to main square… find a healer.”

Gerad took a few moments to lift Marus and move him to a smaller alleyway. He positioned a few abandoned crates to cover him from casual sight. As he prepared to leave, Marus called his name once more. He extended a bloodied hand to give Gerad a golden disc roughly the size of his hand. The disc bore the markings of the city and a few symbols he was unfamiliar with.

“Use this, should they need convincing…”

“I will return for you, Marus.”  Gerad said, saluting with his fist above his heart. And then he moved off in search of a healer.


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## Ruined (Mar 12, 2003)

1st of Chardot, ‘Divinities Day’ yr. 150 A.V., continued

Tréan noted the dark-clothed woman speaking with Helena at the front of the tent. The women were amicable in their conversation, bearing smiles and speaking in pleasant tones, but underneath there was tension. She could feel it from Helena, and it seemed to be mirrored in the other woman. Setting down the ewer in her hands, Tréan tried to remain inconspicuous as she neared the two women.

As she moved closer, she deduced why the women might be ill at ease. The unknown woman was cooling herself with a black fan that bore a silver circle – the symbol of Belsameth. The Slayer. The Goddess of Death and Darkness. And Madriel’s twin sister. There was an unspoken rivalry between the two religious orders that approached but never quite erupted into violence.

Helena noticed Tréan’s approach, and turned to introduce the woman before them.

“Ah Tréan, this is Tessa, one of the visiting priestesses of Belsameth.”

The woman turned and smiled at Tréan, extending her hand in greeting. 

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, young lady.

Tessa was years older than Helena, but still retained a dark beauty. The woman’s gaze lingered, making Tréan distinctly uncomfortable. After a moment, she smiled and resumed conversation with Helena.

“They say that Satrap Olem will make his public appearance near noon today.” Tessa motioned to a decorated building with a large balcony overlooking the market square. The Satrap was the provincial governor of Zathiske, ruling on behalf of Virduk, King of Calastia. His address would commence the major festivities of the day, and would be witnessed by all who could fill the square.

Helena and Tessa spoke for a while longer, allowing Tréan to escape and work with those who wished to pay homage to Madriel. Every so often, she could feel the Belsameth priestess’ eyes upon her, but their gazes never met again. Within an hour, the two women had resumed their work tending to the masses. 

“Excuse me, ladies,” called a steady voice. They both looked up to see a strong, clean-shaven man. His hair was cut close in the Ankilan style. Were it not for the lack of uniform, Tréan would have guessed him a soldier.

“Yes, child?” Helena asked.

“I have a friend who is gravely wounded.” He paused, looking for the right words. “I believe he is dying. I seek your help.”

Tréan glanced around, but the man was alone. She did note that his forearm had the stain of blood upon it. 

“Is he here?” she asked.

“No, but he is within the city.”

The two women shared a look of concern before Helena responded.

“If you bring him to us…”

“Please,” he interrupted. “I should not move him, and I fear that his time is short. If this will help…,” he said, rummaging through his belt pouch. Tréan guessed he would hand them coins to sway them, but was surprised when he brought forth a golden disc bearing regal symbols. Helena held it and examined it for a moment before turning back to Tréan.

“Tréan, I will watch over things here. Please go with this man and see what can be done.”

Tréan studied the man, wondering what messy situation he had come from. She could not decide what to make of him, but she could tell that he was sincerely concerned about his friend. There was not the time nor need for her armor, but she did retrieve her spear. If this man was leading her into danger, she would at least be partially prepared.

***

A few stalls over from the blue-and-white tent of the Madriel-worshippers, Silas watched the events with interest. He had been making a donation to the Hedradan faith when he spotted a man who bore a striking resemblance to one of the bounties. Getting a better look, he knew it was the one that Lorehn had said was protected: Gerad Caedmon.

Silas pretended to sift through items at a silk vendor while watching Gerad with keen eyes. The crowd noise prevented him from hearing anything, but he did note the golden seal that Gerad presented and the change in the priestesses’ demeanor. When he left with one of the females, Silas decided to follow. He may not turn this one in for profit, but he was interested in why he was being protected.

With practiced ease, Silas moved through the crowds after his quarry.

***

Surielle kept to herself as she moved through the unkempt streets of Quelsk. Instincts had taken her away from the crowded walkways and into less sanitary back streets. This helped to remind her why she stayed away from cities: the smells were horrific and there was such a lack of flora. How could people willingly choose to live like this?

A wooden crate fell into the walkway ten paces ahead of her, startling her out of her thoughts. Sounds of wet coughing emanated from the alley. Surielle took a few steps until she could see the source of the coughs – a man slumped over on his side. Without hesitation, Surielle knelt to the man’s side. He had a large seeping wound to his side, and Surielle could visibly see his organs within. He would not live long without her help.

“North…” the fallen man began. ”Must get North.”  Surielle attempted to quiet the man, and cast _cure moderate wounds_. His wounds began to knit together and she could see a flicker of life return to his eyes. His bloody hand grasped the folds of her shirt with surprising strength.

“I have to get North. I…” he stopped to grunt, as if suddenly experiencing the pain of his existing wounds. Once his eyes opened, he seemed to take in Surielle’s appearance for the first time. “You. You could take it.”

Surielle wasn’t sure she wanted to get any more involved with this man. She started to rise, but he reached out and clasped his hand around her red and gold amulet. He changed the pitch of his voice, speaking in a language Surielle could not place. It quickly dawned upon her – _magic_.

She felt transfixed as he rattled on in the foreign tongue. On he droned, and not once did his words seem to falter. Finally, he finished into a fit of coughing, releasing his grip on her Sisterhood amulet. She involuntarily took a few steps back from this strange man.

“Go North. Find Kelkarrin, the mage.”

“Who? I don’t…”

The crack of a crossbow sounded behind Surielle, and she watched with horror as a bolt buried deep into the wounded man’s chest. She cried out and spun to face a group of men clad in the black armor of the Calastian Hegemony. One younger man stood at the forefront of the group, his head free of the plumed helms worn by his fellow soldiers. In his hands rested an empty crossbow.

“Leave no witnesses. Make sure Marus dies. And kill the wench as well.”


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## Ruined (Mar 24, 2003)

1st of Chardot, ‘Divinities Day’ yr. 150 A.V., continued

Surielle responded quicker to the lead guardsman’s command than his subordinates did, and within moments she was wielding a _flame scythe_ in her hands.* She held two of the men at bay, waving the flaming weapon before her. One of the bolder guards rushed her, but earned only a scorching blow to his hand and forearm. As Surielle fought to protect the wounded man, two more figures entered the alley.

Tréan and Gerad moved into view of this confrontation. Gerad spotted Marus’ body on the ground, and immediately rushed to fight against the Dragons. Marus was the closest thing to a mentor he had now, and he would be damned if he’d let these guards slaughter him.

Tréan advanced cautiously, shocked by the scene before her. She knew very little about this man, Gerad, who brought her here. She could see his wounded friend on the other side of the fray, but the way was completely blocked by what appeared to be city guardsmen. What kind of men must Gerad and his friend be if the city guards were after them? Then again, city guards sometimes had their own code of right and wrong. Confused and reluctant to attack those who had not yet shown any intent to harm her, Tréan offered up a prayer for guidance to the Redeemer. 

Three of the guards moved to meet Gerad, drawing swords against his spear. Their approach was clumsy, and one paid the final price as Gerad ran him through. The remaining two drew blood from Gerad, but the wounds were shallow. 

The guard lieutenant, whose name was Blake, surveyed the scene before him and decided to back away. His men weren’t faring well against the spearmen at one end, and the female helping Marus had just set one of his men aflame with her conjured scythe. The leader of the Cresting Waves was dead, which was satisfying in itself.

Blake backed down the alleyway, unaware of the elf that waited near the edge of the battle. Silas knew of Blake, and had once received rough treatment at the hands of his men. He saw opportunity and took his shot. Luck sided with Blake, as the unseen arrow clattered off the stone wall near his head. The guardsman whirled, taking a moment to spot his attacker. As Silas drew another arrow, Blake whipped a dagger from his hand that buried into Silas’ thigh. Blake continued to back away from the archer, wary of his shots. 

Silas connected once, sending the arrow clean through the man’s calf. The lieutenant limped out of sight around a corner as the last shot clattered against a shop wall. Silas considered pursuing the guardsman, but decided instead to help Gerad. If he was _protected_, assisting him may earn him favor from the Scaled.

Tréan watched the fight spread out before her, feeling the pressure of making a decision. The female with the flaming scythe was holding her own, but the guards weren’t trying to subdue her - they were trying to kill her. Tréan could at least prevent that.

Tréan lowered her spear and moved near Gerad’s position. One of the guards stabbed towards Gerad’s chest, but Tréan caught his chain sleeve with the spear. He tried to shake the spear loose, but had his sword knocked from his hands for the effort. Tréan had no desire to kill these guardsmen. At least if they were unarmed perhaps they would not have to die.

Another crossbow fired, the bolt coming close to Surielle’s head. It would not be long before the crossbow found its mark. She maneuvered to keep the sword-wielding guard from her, stepping to the man with the crossbow. She ran her scythe across the archer, and the flames engulfed his crossbow and quiver. The man ran from her, desperately trying to strip off the burning items.

Gerad noted the healer’s skill with a spear. She skillfully disarmed one of the guards, making him an easy target. Gerad moved in and finished him off with a quick plunge of his spear. Tréan continued to disarm the opponents with Gerad coming up behind to finish them off. The bloodshed was certainly not what Tréan had in mind, but this was no time to argue ethics; there were lives on the line.

Between the three of them (and what appeared to be arrows coming out of a side alley), the battlefield was finally shrinking. As Tréan and Gerad continued to advance, Surielle took another slice off the flaming guard in front of her and watched him fall. This left only one more threat from the guards: a man with a burned hand pointing a cross bow directly at her. As Surielle prepared her flaming scythe for one last slash, a grey fletched arrow came out of the alley and buried itself deep in the man’s neck.

As the crossbowman fell, an elf stepped out of the side-alley to join the three battle-weary strangers. “North,” the group heard a whispered, rattling moan from the fallen man. Surielle and Tréan both knelt over Marus and tried to assess his condition. With a nod of recognition for each other’s skills, a look passed between them as they both realized it was too late.

The healers passed on the disappointing news. As the disparate group started to introduce themselves, Silas spoke up, “One of them got away. We should get away from here before he brings reinforcements.”  Realizing the wisdom behind his words, the group hurried off, leaving the bodies behind. Gerad paused, making a silent promise to his fallen commander.

_You will be avenged, Marus._

* Surielle’s version of _Flame Blade_ is a flaming scythe, taught by the Sisterhood of the Scythe.


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## Ruined (Mar 24, 2003)

This proved more difficult to write, as I'm not used to switching viewpoints so frequently within a chapter. Thanks to Jenna3 for editing and writing the above scene.


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## jenna3 (Mar 24, 2003)

It was my pleasure, Ruined. Ask anytime. In many of my other games we encourage our players to write up summaries from their character's point of view. That can be an immense help when trying to post the story.

TTFN--Jenna


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## megamania (Mar 25, 2003)

neat idea having players write a short "memory" of each day to be given in/referenced.

Story is good also


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## Ruined (Mar 25, 2003)

Glad you like it, Megamania. And since I seem to be on a roll...

***

1st of Chardot, ‘Divinities Day’ yr. 150 A.V., continued

The four newly made friends maneuvered through the streets at a hurried pace towards a tavern Silas frequented. It was easy to blend in with the crowds, as the city streets were overflowing with people heading towards the marketplace and the heart of the Divinities Day festival. Few, if any, appeared to notice the bloodstained clothing of Gerad and Surielle.

The Sunken Vessel tavern earned its namesake from pieces of three vessels that had been dredged up from the depths of the Blossoming Sea. All were reputedly smugglers and pirate vessels sundered by the formidable Calastian navy. The beams that supported the tavern interior were decorated with nets and other maritime memorabilia. Only a few patrons sat within the Sunken Vessel’s plank-board walls. Silas whispered for the remaining trio to grab a seat while he advanced to talk with the barkeep.

“So, who was that man and why did they kill him?”  Surielle asked pointedly at Gerad. He paused for a moment, unsure of how much to entrust to these two women.

“His name was Marus. He led one of the resistance groups here in Quelsk, the Cresting Waves.”

“And you were a member of these _Waves_?”  Tréan asked. Gerad nodded solemnly.

“Don’t think ill of us. We’re not murderers. We just want to throw off the yoke of those Calastian dogs.”

“Don’t worry, dear. We saw that those guardsmen were trying to kill your friend and the young druid,” Tréan said with a nod to Surielle. “We were right to stop them, even if I don’t approve of the bloodshed.”

Gerad started to defend his effective methods, but they were interrupted by the elf’s return to the table. He looked down directly at Gerad and spoke in a lowered voice.

“One of your brothers-in-arms is apparently in the back. They are tending his wounds.”

Gerad leapt immediately to his feet and walked towards the back room. The barkeep met him, and extracted a promise of no violence before allowing him in the back room. Moving past the threshold, he found his friend Leon lying upon a bed. A young female, probably a barmaid, was tending his blood-soaked bandages.

Gerad had quickly adopted Leon as a close friend based upon his name. He still missed his brothers dearly, and the camaraderie he found in the Cresting Waves was sorely needed. Seeing him injured like this hurt Gerad. 

Leon acknowledged Gerad and the two talked for a short while, as the barmaid returned to the front room. Gerad let him know of Marus’ passing, and the two vowed to continue his works. When Leon asked what Gerad intended to do, he wasn’t very sure.

“I think I may be heading north.”

They let the matter stand at that, and after a careful hug, Gerad left Leon to rest. Returning to the front, Gerad noted that the two females were missing. When he questioned Silas, the elf nodded to another door. After a moment, the two ladies exited in much more casual attire, clean of bloodstains. A deal had been struck with the barmaid, and clothing had been purchased.

The four gathered together to plan what their next move would be. Fate had cast them together for the moment, and perhaps they could assist one another through these trials. Fate seemed to have other plans in mind, however. A young lad burst into the doors of the Sunken Vessel, short of breath.

“It’s horrible, I tell you. The Satrap…  The Satrap has been assassinated.”


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## Ruined (Mar 26, 2003)

1st of Chardot, ‘Divinities Day’ yr. 150 A.V., continued

A quick series of questions were launched at the messenger regarding the Satrap’s assassination, but he provided few details. The Satrap was killed before his address to the Quelsk market, and the assailant was unknown. More questions lingered in the group’s mind, but the youth was more interested in spreading the news to other audiences. Silas stopped the boy outside of the tavern, and palmed him a gold piece for a new task. He gave him instructions to find Lorehn and direct him to the Sunken Vessel. Perhaps the Scaled would know more of the dire events of the day.

The four looked at each other with grave uncertainty. What they had encountered was unpleasant, but the murder of the provincial governor of Zathiske was a good deal worse. And each had that sinking feeling that the two events were connected.

Silas, for better or worse, was now involved in their plight. Blake, the guard lieutenant, had identified him, and guard patrols could be searching for all four of them at that very moment. He told them of an inn where they would be safe for the night – the Sleepy Leaf. He did not tell them that it was a safe house frequently used by the Scaled, because they didn’t need to know.

A quick plan was discussed. Silas would speak to some of his contacts within the city to get more information regarding the death of the Satrap and any word on the streets regarding the four of them. He would also grab a few supplies should they decide to leave town. Gerad would accompany Surielle and Tréan to the Sleepy Leaf to obtain lodgings, but first Tréan wanted to go by the market to speak with her mentor, Helena. Silas knew it was a dangerous gambit, but she needed to send word of her plight.

Silas watched the group leave, and pondered the situation. His instincts cried out to leave them to their fate. Whatever Gerad was involved in may be worthwhile to the Scaled, but Silas realized it could be more than he could handle. If he didn’t distance himself now, he could quickly end up with a bounty on his head much like those he pursued. Yet, he respected the three who had just left. They all had integrity, something Silas found little of these days in his dealings with bounties and the Scaled. 

Lorehn arrived within the hour and casually sat at the table where Silas rested. He waited for Silas to speak.

“I’ve found your man, Gerad.”  Lorehn’s demeanor darkened, no doubt angry that Silas had gone against his advice.

“Don’t worry,” Silas continued, “I didn’t inform anyone but you. But I didn’t need to. I followed him out of the marketplace. He jumped right into a fight with the Dragons, killed a few.”

Silas watched, trying to read the emotions on Lorehn’s face.

“So where is he now?” Lorehn asked, glancing around the room.

“Not here. I’ve sent him to a safe location with a few of his companions. The information is yours, but I want to get deeper involved.”

“Are you so sure about that, Silas? You’ve taken great pains to stay out of _our_ business before. Why now?”

“This plot intrigues me, that’s all. And I bet that you’ll pay well for my assistance.”

That and his cold smile was enough to convince Lorehn. Their whispered conversation continued for upwards of a half-hour. Lorehn revealed pertinent details about Gerad’s history and why certain parties were interested in him. In exchange, Silas told Lorehn of the Sleepy Leaf and the two females that accompanied Gerad. Lorehn offered Silas a fee to follow and insinuate himself within their group, reporting their progress when time allowed.

As Lorehn stood to leave, Silas asked a calculated question:

“The Satrap’s death. Was it the Cult of the Ancients?”

Lorehn looked at him with heavy eyes.

“It’s too early to know. Rest assured, several of our agents will be looking into this. Satrap Olem was a friend of ours.”

Silas nodded, and the two parted ways.


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## Ruined (Mar 27, 2003)

1st of Chardot, ‘Divinities Day’ yr. 150 A.V., continued

The streets of the market were choked with people, many confused by the rampant rumors surrounding the Satrap’s death. Already, Tréan could hear whispered theories ranging from malevolent titanspawn to opposing countries such as Vesh and her homeland of Durrover. The only certainty was that no one was sure what exactly had happened. She pushed these thoughts aside, intent on finding Helena and warning her of what had happened.

Gerad’s cautioning hand slowed her as they approached the blue and white tent.

“The Dragons are there,” he said, peering above the crowds, “speaking with the other priestess.”

Tréan’s heart sank as she heard this. Had that guardsman led more men directly to their tent after the conflict? Reflecting on it, the robes she and Helena wore were rather distinctive.

“We cannot go there now,” Tréan said. “Perhaps we can move closer and wait them out." Her companions were silent, but they moved with her. Tréan kept trying to catch glimpses of Helena through the crowd, but the majority of the crowd-goers were taller than her, making it difficult. 

Just as she began to give up hope, a path seemed to open between her and the tent and there she saw Helena, with two guardsmen nearby. Their eyes met, and the look in Helena’s eyes and the slight shake of her head told her everything: she would be in danger if she came to the tent. Tréan felt a tear form in her eye as she stopped her companions and turned away.

“We must leave now.” Gerad grunted in approval, and Tréan led them away from the Madriel tent. In her haste to pull the hood of Gerad’s cloak around her head, she did not watch the path before them, and bumped into a familiar figure.

The Prospero.

“Well, Miss Tréan,” he said, looking directly at her. “It seems others have taken an interest in you.”

“Prospero, I…” she began.

“Not here, not now.” He glanced up at Surielle and Gerad, noting each of them. “Perhaps you would care to join me for a repast in my tent?”

She numbly nodded in agreement, and within minutes the three were ushered into an expansive closed tent of gold and white. Tréan was surprised by the austere interior, compared to the extravagance of their host. The Prospero flaunted rings and fancy clothes, but the interior was rather plain and devoid of any decorations.

After speaking to one of the acolytes, the Prospero pulled the tent flap closed and seated himself on a cushion. Hesitantly, Surielle and Tréan lowered themselves to sit. Gerad stood at military stance, much to the Prospero’s disapproval.

“We are safe to talk here. I suggest you tell me where you’ve been, Tréan, and how your friends are tied into this.”  The grave tone of his voice told Tréan that he would accept nothing less than the complete truth.

And so she gave it to him. She rattled out the details of her meeting with Gerad, the conflict with Surielle and the guards, the background of Marus and the Cresting Waves, and Silas, the enigmatic archer who had intervened to assist them. The Prospero stopped her occasionally to ask for greater details, but he seemed to accept her story without doubt.

The Prospero began to speak as she finished, but he paused, hearing something outside of the tent. Raising a cautionary hand, he stepped outside of the tent, and slid quickly back into his flamboyant personality. Tréan picked up some of the conversation and realized that he was speaking with guardsmen. They were asking what he had seen earlier, and clearly requesting his assistance for dealing the assassin. Tréan marveled at the Prospero’s skill with words; he deferred to the guards, giving them their due respect, but completely controlled the conversation. And more importantly, he never seemed to lie. After the guards left, the Prospero returned to the tent.

“The guards search for you, Tréan. They have not spoken of the battle you spoke of, but…” he paused, searching for the proper words. “They believe you to be the assassin, as preposterous as it sounds.”

“What?”

“More than one guard saw a female in Madrielite robes fleeing the scene. I do not believe you capable of such an act, and I consider myself a good judge of character.”

The Prospero moved about the tent, twirling his moustaches, deep in thought. Tréan shared worried glances with Gerad and Surielle. Events were quickly spiraling out of control.

“Normally I would recommend you follow the law and throw yourselves upon the mercy of the courts. But you and I know that there would be no justice served as such. I suggest you flee the city, perhaps even Zathiske, until matters can be resolved here.”

“They will think us guilty if we run,” Gerad said.

“True. But with the crowds and the celebrations here, they will quickly look to produce an assassin, truthful or not.”

“But what of Helena?” Tréan asked.

“I will do all I can for my old friend. You should concern yourselves with making it out of Quelsk. Should you find yourselves in Ankila, you know where you should go.”

“We will,” Tréan said as they collectively rose from their seats. “Thank you.”

“May good fortune bless you all.”


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## Ruined (Mar 30, 2003)

An interesting development in this update...

***

1st of Chardot, ‘Divinities Day’ yr. 150 A.V., continued

The four heroes met in the common room of the Sleepy Leaf Inn, a comfortable establishment hosting a variety of hanging broadleaf plants. Patrons were slowly filling up the room, many seeking the comforts of a warm meal and alcohol to distract them from the chaotic events of the morning. Gerad was concerned about their plight, but his appetite never suffered during conflict. He was taught to thrive in this environment.

“I want to leave the city. Soon,” Surielle stated.

“That man, the Prospero,” Gerad said, trying to keep his voice as low as possible, “his words made sense. We should leave soon. But where do we go?”

“North,” Surielle said firmly. “With this being a port city, it’s our only real route of escape.”

“There’s always the seas,” Silas added. “I could arrange passage on a ship for us.”

“No,” Tréan countered. “Today’s chaos could give us cover to escape via the docks, but we’d be traveling through Calastian waters. We’ll have better chances on the land. That, and your friend wanted you to go North.”  She nodded to Gerad.

“But I don’t know what purpose Marus had in mind. He was telling me when the Dragons fell upon us. He never got the chance…”  Marus’ passing was still fresh in Gerad’s mind. Was he doomed to lose everyone who meant something to him?

“Did he tell you anything before…?”  he asked Surielle.

“No.” Surielle said, looking downwards at the table.

“I agree with Tréan. We should leave North through the gates as soon as possible.” Gerad said.

“First thing in the morning, then?” Silas asked. “The guards will be checking everyone tonight, looking for the assassins. Tomorrow will still be chaotic, but I suspect their vigilance will wane.”

Everyone looked at each other and nodded, their decision made. After their plates were taken away, the two females excused themselves, leaving only Gerad and Silas to watch over the busy commons room. Their conversation was mostly comprised of insignificant talk, no different from the other patrons. Gerad did learn that Silas had worked in Quelsk for over five years, working on a variety of odd jobs. He seemed somewhat evasive on the matter, but Gerad attributed most of that to racial differences.

A few unsavory-looking men at a nearby table caught Gerad’s eye. He locked gazes with one who was staring until the man’s gaze retreated to his mug of ale.

“You know those two?”  he asked Silas. The elf did not turn to look at the men, but he nodded.

“One of them works with people I know.”

“Did you ask them to come here?” Gerad asked. 

“No.”

The situation was making Gerad uncomfortable. What kind of chances was Silas taking, being openly seen by people who knew him? The other possibility was that Silas had asked these men to be there. Before he could find the right question to ask Silas, he was saved by Tréan’s return to the table.

“Gerad, could you please let us into your room?”  The supplies that Silas had acquired for them were locked in the room he and Silas shared. Gerad stood from the table, relieved to be pulled away.

“I’m going to go check on a few things,” Silas said as they left. “I’ll be back before morning.”

Gerad nodded and followed Tréan upstairs and to the ladies’ room. They had a cramped room across the hall from the one he and Silas would share. Inside, she and Surielle seemed hesitant to talk. He decided to break the silence.

“I think we need to leave here right now. No waiting, no resting for the night.”

“We feel the same way,” Tréan said. “We’ve spoken about our predicament. I will be accompanying Surielle to the North. We’d like you to come along.” She had singled him out.

“And Silas?”

There was more uncomfortable silence.

Tréan’s voice was quiet. “We don’t trust Silas. His arrival at the fight; the way he’s directing our moves. Something about him just doesn’t feel right.”

“I can always contact him once we’ve left the city,” Surielle said, placing her hand on Gerad’s arm. “I think he could be a useful ally once we get him away from this poisonous city.”

Gerad nodded. “Well, I can’t say that I trust him either. There are two scoundrels that knew Silas at a table downstairs. We should be careful, or they may notice our flight.”

The trio agreed to their course of action, and took what was needed of the supplies in his room. A pouch of coins was left on the bed in repayment to Silas. They kept to the corners and left the Sleepy Leaf without incident. Soon they would leave Quelsk and Silas behind as well.


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## Graf (Mar 31, 2003)

glad to see you updating again....

the ditching of sillias is pretty awesome. my group always diffentiates between pcs and npcs. good for the players but weird for the story.

Two things I'm curious about: the moon is usually ascribed to belsameth and not madriel, was that a diliberate change?
And Chardun and Corean aren't usually presented as brothers, except in the we're-all-gods kinda way. Or are you working on something special?


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## Ruined (Mar 31, 2003)

Hey Graf, thanks for reading! It had been a while, but the campaign was still going strong.

I'm going to have to do some research on the questions you posed. It's quite possible that both could be typos. I don't have Divine & the Defeated or the Campaign Setting book handy, but I will check them. Please do keep me on my toes. I will take liberties with certain characters, locales and plots (as you'll see). But if not, I like to stay close to canon. Initial thoughts are:

There are two moons that inhabit the Scarred Lands sky. One is fairly regular, much like our standard moon phases. This is the moon I was referring to. The other is wildly erratic, and considered a bad omen. They call this one Belsameth's moon. I'm not sure if the normal one is attributed to Madriel or not, as she is generally associated with the Sun. I'll check.

I can't remember the lineage of Corean and Chardun, but I want to say that they share the same father (Thulkas?). Maybe not. The whole Titan-siring bit was confusing to follow. The reason I grouped them together is indeed because of Divinities Day, a festival celebrating them both. It's listed in the Ghelspad Setting book under Zathiske.

As far as the Silas incident goes, well...  it was interesting and made sense from a story point of view. As far as running it in game, I was pulling hairs out.


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## Ruined (Mar 31, 2003)

The pouch had a nice heft to it. Silas could feel the coins slide around inside, but he took care not to make any noise with it. Only novices announced when they had just been paid.

“So, no word on the Satrap’s assassin as of yet?”

Lorehn picked up a brass bauble, examining it closely. “No, nothing yet. You shouldn’t concern yourself with it.”

Silas stopped and narrowed his eyes at Lorehn. “If there’s one thing I do concern myself with, it's assassins. I’m sorely tempted to abandon this Gerad fellow, as I have a feeling more will happen here should I leave.” Lorehn chuckled.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Mer’encir,” Lorehn said, using Silas’ surname. “Whoever did the Satrap in could care less whether or not you leave town.”

“I’ve taken down…”

“…seven cultists. Yes, I know that. Silas, they killed the Satrap, the highest-ranking politico in Quelsk. The only ones above that would have to be visiting high priests or King Virduk himself. The killers will scatter like water bugs now that this deed is done.”

Lorehn paused, setting the bauble down as another patron walked close by. Once he was out of earshot, Lorehn continued. 

“So are you going to take this job for us?” Silas grudgingly nodded his head in agreement. “Good. Well since you’re traveling north, I’ve got something you might be interested in: our friend Nedrick Four-Fingers was seen leaving the North gate this afternoon. If your group moves at a hurried pace, you may overtake him on the road.”

Silas smirked at the man, wondering if he would have relayed this information had he refused the new job.

***

Silas returned to the Sleepy Leaf after his meeting with Lorehn. He could still manage a few hours of rest before they left at first light. He glanced in the common room and noted the two rogues that had been seated there earlier. One met his glance and nodded, rubbing his eyebrow with a forefinger. _Clear sailing - no one had come looking for him or his friends._

He moved past the front desk and up the stairs to where the rooms were kept. He fished a key out of his pocket, and opened the door. The hallway light filtered into the room, illuminating beds that remained untouched. Gerad’s pack and weapons were gone. Silas’ insides began to churn.

Across the hall, he received no response from within the women’s room. Checking closer, there was not a sound from inside, nor was there lamplight from underneath the door. His shared room bore no signs of a struggle, and soon he noted the small pouch of coins partially stuffed underneath his pillow.

He said not a word as he locked the door and returned downstairs. He shot a fiery glance at the men at the table before turning to the innkeep. His demeanor instantly calmed as he spoke to one of the few elves he knew in Quelsk.

“My friends that I sat with earlier – they have left. Did they by chance say where they were going?”  As he spoke, he slid a pair of golden coins to the innkeep.

“Ah, they were deliberate as they left, Silas. They looked dressed to leave town, if I had to guess.”

He nodded his thanks to the innkeeper. After throwing a subtly rude gesture to the watching rogues, he walked out into the nighttime streets.


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## Ruined (Apr 1, 2003)

Back to the questions:

Corean and Chardun are not brothers, not even half-siblings. They may hate each other like brothers, but that's beside the point. I'll make the correction.

The name of the stable moon is a bit more confusing. I recall the reason I called it Madriel's moon. It has to do with the town of Three Moons, where they venerate the battle where Madriel, Belsameth, and their fallen brother made a stand against some of the titans. Three moons, three siblings. One is Belsameth, etc.  They need a name for the normal moon to distinguish it from Belsameth's chaotic satellite...  If anyone knows this, please let me know.


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## Ruined (Apr 3, 2003)

2nd of Chardot, yr. 150 A.V. 

Nearly an hour after midnight, the trio of Surielle, Tréan, and Gerad entered the grove north of Quelsk. Accompanying them was Snowmelt, who had been briefly introduced to the other two. Surielle sensed that her wolf was wary of the others, as well as the change in clothing that she now wore. Still, it was reassuring to have her companion waiting for her as they exited the city.

Brianna was quick to meet them as they approached, the light from Tréan’s spell illuminating a good distance in the darkened wood. Never quick to judge, Brianna greeted them all, presuming that the others were Surielle’s newfound friends. The look on Surielle’s face must have conveyed her fears, as Brianna took her hand and sat beside her.

“What’s wrong, Surielle? What has happened?”

Surielle relayed the story exactly as the others knew it, save for one pertinent detail she added.

“When Marus spoke to me, he told me to seek out a mage named Kelkarrin to the north.”

“He did?” Gerad asked. “You didn’t speak of this before.”

“No. Regardless of what happened, I did not know who to trust in that city. Here, things are different.”  Surielle absently stroked the amulet, wondering what exactly Marus had done to it. She would keep that secret as long as she had to, just in case situations changed.

They relayed the rest of the battle and their dealings with Silas and the Prospero. It was a lot for Brianna to take in, but she seemed relieved that Surielle had returned unharmed.

“So, what will you do?”  Brianna asked.

Surielle pondered for a second, then replied with determination. “In the morning, we shall decide our course.”

***

A few final chores were handled in the early light of dawn. Surielle noted with interest that Brianna was spending a great deal of time with Gerad. She had put him to work with the tools Surielle had brought, uprooting damaged tree trunks. He was covered in sweat, but he seemed at ease now that someone had given him a task to perform. And Brianna had seemed quite happy assisting and watching him.

Surielle and Tréan had each done a number of small tasks after their morning devotions. Surielle wanted to leave as little work remaining as she could for Brianna. She hadn’t convinced herself firmly that she should be involved in this quest. There were many pressing tasks she could pursue, such as trying to free Maximillian from his earthen tomb, or continuing her journey to find her mother. That was far more important than…

… a dying man’s wishes.

Surielle sighed and continued to work. She was knee-deep in a small lake that bordered one side of the grove. She could see Tréan and Gerad each working the land, helping her and Brianna. The two were driven in this quest, and like it or not, she was drawn into it as well. She didn’t want to abandon the search for her mother, but it was probably futile now that Maximillian was gone. No, she would not give up on her mother. She would postpone her search, and focus on what was likely the greater good.

She heard an audible gasp from Tréan, who was close by. Surielle followed her gaze back to the water that she was standing knee-deep in. She expected to find some creature rising from the surface, but the water was placid save for her reflection. But something was odd about the reflection…

She watched as the image of herself looked to the sky. Behind her was a wooded path of trees, and in the sky was the sun in a position different from where it should have been reflected. There were subtle differences in her as well – her outfit was different than the spun green thread she currently wore, and her hair was hanging loose…

_You look just like your mother,_ Agnes had said on more than one occasion.

Was this a vision of her mother? She felt a tear well up in her eye, begging for freedom. Although all were silent, she knew that her companions were seeing this as well. She wiped her eyes and focused on the image, searching for more information.

The setting of the sun indicated that she was walking north. The message from this divine sending was apparent to her. 

_The two paths you consider are one and the same._

Surielle stepped from the lake once the image had faded. Trean, Brianna and Gerad approached, but none seemed sure of what to say. Unable to meet their eyes, she looked at the ground and spoke.

“I will go north to seek this mage with you.”


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## Ruined (Apr 9, 2003)

4th of Chardot, yr. 150 A.V. 

The humidity was choking as they moved along their northern path. If the heat was sweltering only a few days into summer, what would the remaining months bring? Gerad was born and bred to work in this heat, but he savored the thought that their quest may carry them up into the cooler portions of Ghelspad.

“How do we intend to find this mage?”  he asked to the women that followed behind him.

“If he is a mage of any worth, he should be known to someone. We can ask in Zamon.”  Tréan held the rear of the group, walking with her spear in hand. They had discussed Zamon as their next likely stop. Known as the ‘Jewel of Zathiske’, it was possible they could seek aid there. With their current path, they should reach the city in a matter of days. 

The group traveled within sight the Broadreach river, part of the reason behind the humid day. Were they not sought after by Calastian forces, they would have walked the river’s edge, but wisdom and the tracking capabilities of Surielle allowed them to carve a path near the Broadreach. Already they had spotted smaller river patrols and one large, single-mast Calastian vessel sailing north up the river.

Gerad found that the path ahead of him ended in a small cliff that dropped down thirty feet to the shore of the river. Their path occasionally dead-ended at such places, although Surielle could usually take them around without revealing themselves to those who might travel the river.

He turned to tell Tréan and Surielle, but his words were cut short as the dirt beneath his feet gave way, sliding him down towards the river below. There was a frightened yelp beside him, as Snowmelt also slid down the treacherous slope. He came to a stop at the bottom, suffering only minor scrapes to his hands and elbows.

“Are you all right?” Surielle called from above. Gerad wondered if she meant him or the wolf.

“Yeah, I believe so.”  He rose to his feet and brushed dirt off of his legs. As he stood, a symbol caught his eye. On one of the larger sandy rocks about ten paces away was a stylized carving that resembled nothing so much as a large fang. The carving appeared shallow, but had been washed with a rusty color Gerad suspected to be blood.

Before he could tell the women about his find, he heard a startled cry from above. Immediately he looked to see what trouble had found them, but he saw that Surielle was pointing back behind him. Grasping his spear he whirled to see three black-skinned crocodiles advancing out of the water towards him and Snowmelt.

And their eyes were glowing a baleful red.


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## Ruined (Apr 9, 2003)

4th of Chardot, yr. 150 A.V., continued 

A crocodile lashed out at Gerad with powerful jaws, but missed as he took a step backwards. Snowmelt was not so lucky as one of the beasts ripped into her flank. Surielle saw this and slid down the embankment without concern for her safety. Tréan was quick to follow.

Gerad stabbed at the crocodile before him, but felt its scaly hide protect it from the spear point. The beast regarded him with its malevolent red gaze before lashing at him again.

Once Surielle gained her footing, she called upon her connection to Denev and invoked _animal defiance_ to frighten the unnatural crocodiles. Her supernaturally enhanced countenance worked, and two of the creatures turned to slither back into the river.

The remaining crocodile desired a meal before it retreated. It leapt forward with frightening speed, turning its head sideways. The jaws clamped down on Gerad’s legs, and before he could resist, the crocodile was dragging him back into the water.

Tréan was quick to move up, stabbing at the beast with her spear in an attempt to free Gerad. Even though her strike was true, the crocodile would not let go. Blood stained the waters as it thrashed with Gerad locked in its jaws.

Contented that Snowmelt would survive the wounds, Surielle chanted a prayer to Denev and cast _hold animal_ on the remaining crocodile. 

Tréan and Gerad both realized the dangerous change as the tainted crocodile stopped thrashing and began to sink below the surface of the water. Tréan tried to help Gerad free himself, but her strength was nowhere near what he needed. Taking a different tactic, she laid her hand on his shoulder and imbued him with _bull’s strength_. Newfound strength flowed into Gerad’s arms, and he easily wrenched the crocodile’s jaws loose from his bloody legs.

Tréan helped Gerad limp to the shore and began to examine his wounds. Surielle interrupted with a quick piece of wisdom.

“We should move from here. Those that I scared away may return at any time.”  

They agreed upon this and moved north upstream from the site of the battle. Tréan used magic and her skills as a healer to alleviate Gerad’s wounds. Surielle worked on her wolf companion, using spells to knit together the tears on her haunch. 

Before they continued north, Gerad mentioned out the fang carved into the rock. It was unfamiliar to Tréan, but Surielle recognized it with chilling certainty.

“It’s the symbol of Gaurak the Glutton. His worshippers were the ones who nearly destroyed the grove we left a few days behind.”

“Was this before or after they damaged your grove?” Tréan asked.

“I believe we destroyed them all at the grove, so I would guess this was before. But there’s no way to be truly certain. The symbol could be what caused the crocodiles to attack.”

“And to have those red eyes. We should destroy the symbol.”

The work was done swiftly. Gerad and Surielle moved back downstream to the rock face. Gerad hacked away with his short sword until the symbol was unrecognizable. The crocodiles started to skulk back, but Surielle was quick to send them back into the sea as she had before. Once the carving was dealt with, they regrouped and continued north to Zamon.


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## Ruined (Apr 14, 2003)

5th of Chardot, yr. 150 A.V. 

The journey upstream continued for the duration of another day without sight of Zamon, a city that lay farther north. Tréan wondered how many miles they had covered so far, and how many more lay ahead of them. Gerad had pushed them at a continual pace. He seemed very accustomed to long marches, mentioning that he had been forced to move on for days on end before being allowed to sleep. Gerad's demonstrated ease on this journey irritated Tréan, who had traveled to Quelsk mostly on horseback.

It was nearing dusk and soon they would stop and set up another cold camp. There was no proof that soldiers were searching for them along the river, but there was no reason to chance it. At least they had not encountered any more hazards like the tainted crocodiles. Tréan hoped that Surielle was correct and that was the last of the servants of Gaurak they would face during their journey.

As their path opened up to the river once more, Tréan’s keen eyesight noted a mystery along the horizon. At first she thought it to be a lingering trick of the sun, as she was facing the western shore. There was a violet radiance that could be seen above the hills. After getting a better look, she stopped her companions and pointed it out.

“What is it?” Surielle said, with obvious concern.

“I don’t know,” Tréan answered, “but it doesn’t look pleasant.”  

They were not able to get a better vantage point from the land they traversed. After a few minutes, they carried on, each trying to push thoughts of the odd light out of their mind.

Once they had settled for camp, Gerad recanted a few memories. “When I was younger and in training, my instructors mentioned a place like that. A tower to the west with ghostly light; they called it the Last Watchtower. It may seem like a tale of boogey-men, but they didn’t present it that way. It was more of a fact – one of the reasons why the Calastian Hegemony never expanded further west. They say the place is rife with undead.”

Tréan felt her insides grow cold at the mention of her Order’s enemies.

“It’s at the site of some great battle from times past, perhaps the Divine War. Forces who try to travel through are met by soldiers raised from these battles. What makes it worse is that when a living soldier is slain, he rises again to fight for the tower. How can you stop that?”

“Between that, the Festering Fields and the Sweltering Plains, the land is uninhabitable. I had the feeling that they had accepted the tower as a necessary evil. Calastia controls everything to its east, and apparently that’s good enough for them.”

It may not have been a tale intended to scare, as Gerad had said, but it still made Tréan feel uneasy. The Order of the Morning Sky was dedicated to destroying such undead. How could they allow such a bastion of evil to stand tall? Her order must know of it, yet still it remained. 

If the details Gerad had were true, could such a place even be destroyed?


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## Ruined (Apr 17, 2003)

6th of Chardot, yr. 150 A.V. 

Zamon, the ‘jewel of Zathiske’, rose from the shores of the Broadreach like a lotus in bloom. Tall spires marked the heart of the city, while numerous smaller buildings curled out to form the city’s outer border. A heavily populated collection of docks stretched out onto the river, handling traffic from Quelsk and the Blossoming Sea. Regardless of its splendors, Surielle felt more comfortable waiting on the outside with Tréan and Snowmelt.

Gerad returned to the group after a few hours of chasing rumors within Zamon. “I was careful asking around, but none have heard of our mysterious Kelkarrin. I checked with a few scholars in the library, and traders who worked in the lands to the North.”

“What should we do?” Surielle asked. No one seemed to have a sure answer.

“I have paid a scribe to check through some tomes and see if there is any information to be had. I can check back with him later this afternoon, if you would like to accompany me.”

Surielle had no desire to enter Zamon, with the memories of her last city adventure still fresh in her mind. Tréan spared her from the task.

“I’ll go with you Gerad,” the priestess said. “We can check a few more places, and then if we find nothing, we can continue north.

***

“I’m sorry, sir. The Academy Library has closed for the day. I’m sure you can speak with Monsieur Tabereau on the morrow.”

Tréan could see the cords of Gerad’s neck stand out as he clenched his jaws. He may have been a military man, but he displayed little patience for bureaucracy. Tréan laid a hand upon his arm and stepped forward.

“We thank you for your kindness, sir. We shall call upon him in the morning.”

The keeper of the library nodded and quietly closed the door before them. They had asked to look through the library on their own, but that was met with quick denial. Unfortunately, Tréan suspected it had colored the keeper’s opinion of them. The best she could do was keep Gerad from causing a scene that would be remembered once they were gone.

“Well, we can’t use the library,” Gerad said, glancing down the streets around them. “We could try the taverns.”

“Sorry, love. I don’t drink,” Tréan said.

Gerad grinned. “I wasn’t looking to lose myself in a mug of ale. Patrons and barkeeps know a lot of people. Someone may have heard of Kelkarrin.”

“More importantly, someone may have seen Silas. That’s more of his element.”

She wasn’t thrilled to ask just anyone about Kelkarrin, but Gerad did have a point regarding their shady friend from Quelsk. If he had reached Zamon first, he might have inquired about them. Tréan nodded her assent, and the pair moved further into Zamon.

The Blazoned Arms satisfied whatever criteria Gerad kept. The place was decidedly busy with many patrons coming in for food and ale after a day of work. Gerad guided Tréan to the sole empty table in a darkened corner. There was only one chair remaining at the table, which Gerad let her have. She watched as he walked over to another table where two men sat. She tensed as a few words were exchanged between him and the two dockhands. Tréan could make out that they weren’t eager to give him their extra chair, but Gerad took it anyway, doubting that they would stop him. Neither moved to save the chair, but both fixed their eyes on her and Gerad.

“We can order a drink from the barmaid, and then once we’re settled, I’ll ask the barkeep about our friends.”

Tréan nodded, then gasped when one of the men from the other table slid up with his own chair. He pushed his grimy face in front of hers, completely ignoring Gerad.

“Hello there, lady. You’re far too beautiful to be stuck here in this corner –” 

“Leave.” Gerad said flatly. It wasn’t a request.

“I’ve got this boat,” he continued. “And you’d look wonderful laying there with nothing but my –”

“I said leave!”  Gerad grasped the man’s shoulder and shoved him away from the table, sending him and the chair crashing to the floor. Tréan leapt from her chair, and noticed the smaller of the two dockhands slinking up behind Gerad. She called out to warn Gerad, but he was focused on the larger man who was standing up from the wreckage of his chair. Gerad winced in pain from the other man’s blow, which Tréan thought to be a punch. As she moved to confront this man, she noted the blood-soaked dagger in his hands.

Tréan lashed out at the dockhand with the blunt end of her spear, but missed. He smiled at her, casually tossing the dagger between his hands. She could see Gerad wailing on the other man from the corner of her eye. She needed to handle this man on her own. He feinted forward with one hand, and then slashed out with the other, drawing a bloody gash along her hip.

“A shame to kill such a pretty young woman,” he said, ogling her body one last time. He lunged forward with the blade, aiming straight for her heart. A muscular arm halted his progress and slammed him to the floor. At first Tréan thought it was Gerad, but instead it belonged an unfamiliar rough-faced man

Tréan’s unexpected savior towered over the man. “You shouldn’t hurt ladies…” 

The dockhand skittered a few steps backwards, then rose to his feet with dagger still in hand. His eyes weighed his chances against the man Tréan now believed to be a half-orc. He was completely unaware of Gerad, who quickly wrapped his arms around the man’s neck.

“And you should never have stabbed me!”  Gerad’s muscles bulged as he snapped the man’s neck. Tréan stared in horror as the man fell lifeless to the floor. So much bloodshed went directly against her ways. Gerad’s face was bloodied from the fistfight, but the other man was motionless on the floor. Had Gerad killed him as well?

She rushed forward to Gerad, who was now frowning and holding the wound on his back. One quick glance and Tréan knew he had been stabbed in the kidneys. Without her help, he would die within a night.

“We must leave now!” she said, clenching her teeth.  Gerad nodded to her, and then to the half-orc behind them. Grasping his arm, Tréan led her wounded friend out of the Blazoned Arms.  “… We need to have a talk about your way with others.”


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## Ruined (Nov 14, 2003)

*A Recap*

No apologies. I'm continuing the story because I truly enjoy it, and I want it chronicled. The game has moved forward considerably. The last post was somewhere around session five (not counting the pre-sessions for each character). The game is currently at session twenty-seven. So yeah, there's a lot of work ahead of me. But I've got a number of posts written in advance, which is at least a start.

Here's a recap, for those interested in starting anew, or the few, the faithful, who need reminders of what has happened.

Four characters are drawn together into a deadly conspiracy in the city of Quelsk:

Gerad, former jannisary slave-warrior to the Calastian Empire. Turned against his masters, and was believed to be killed. Later he is found working among rebels in Quelsk who wish to throw off the yoke of their Calastian governors.
Surielle, druid of Denev, the earth mother. She walks her own path in search of a mother she never knew. Surielle fought alongside other druids to reclaim a grove outside of Quelsk. Now Surielle has been drawn into the schemes of others.
Trean, priestess of Madriel, the healing angel. After accompanying an heir to a distant throne to priests in the city of Sussephra, Trean journeyed to Quelsk for the Divinities Day festival. Hers is the face the guards saw when the Satrap was assassinated, but Trean was nowhere near the event.
Silas, elven bounty hunter. Driven by vengeance to stop assassins of the Cult of the Ancients, Silas has taken to hunting bounties in the city of Quelsk. A mark for Gerad draws his attention, but the local guild wants him protected. When Silas spots Gerad in the market, he too is drawn into the web.
The characters meet in a conflict as local guardsmen slay Marus, leader of the resistance group Gerad belongs to. The guards also threaten Surielle, who tried to heal Marus after wandering upon the scene. After dispatching most of the guards, the group follows Silas to hide from guards. Surielle explains how Marus begged a dying favor of her, to seek a mage named Kelkarrin to the North. 

After much discussion, the group decides to leave on the northern roads as soon as possible. While Silas goes to attain supplies, the remaining trio decides to leave him behind. He is too shady for their liking, and trust is one thing they must have in one another. They leave by the northern gates, returning to Brianna, Surielle's fellow druid and Snowmelt, Surielle's wolf companion.

Soon they travel north along the Broadreach River. They encounter altered crocodiles in what appears to be a trap left by druids of Gaurak. Surielle explains how she and her allies had fought them before in the grove they just left. The path continues north to Zamon, the 'jewel of Zathiske'. Gerad seeks information inside about Kelkarrin, but finds nothing of interest. Trean accompanies him next, and they are lucky to escape from a brutal bar fight. Meanwhile,  Surielle awaits in the woods outside of Zamon…


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## Ruined (Nov 14, 2003)

6th of Chardot, yr. 150 A.V. 

Surielle held the red and gold amulet in her hands as she concentrated. Her eyes opened slowly, allowing her to focus on the woven pattern of magic. Thin threads of aether wrapped across the amulet, bound together at the center by a solid knot. She was no wizard, but she understood enough of the craft to ascertain the nature of the enchantment – it was a message, held until Surielle found the right person. Kelkarrin. 

A low growl startled Surielle from her study. She was seated off from the main campsite in a place where she could meditate properly. Snowmelt had not strayed far, always keeping within the periphery of her senses. Surielle could see nothing out of the ordinary, but her ears picked up sounds of movement from the direction of the campsite. It was too early for Trean and Gerad to have returned… 

“Go!” she whispered to Snowmelt. The wolf turned and regarded her with a slight whimper. “Run!” The urgency of her tone drove Snowmelt from the campsite. Within moments, Surielle could hear the sound of other dogs barking, following the sound or scent of Snowmelt. She surveyed the woods around her until she found what she needed. Taking a few strides forward, she moved into a dense thicket overgrown with thorns and brambles. The wicked barbs retreated at her approach, allowing her to move without interference. 

Surielle stood and stretched her arms, invoking a spell she had not used in ages. She felt herself become one with the land as her tree shape took form. With the creaks and groans of trees swaying in the wind, her arms elongated into thin branches, as her flesh and clothing transformed into wood. Within moments, she had become part of the thicket. 

Moments later, a large figure warily entered the clearing where she was rooted. She could see a large man with braided blonde hair reaching down his back. He wore animal furs and held an axe that looked large enough to fell her tree form in one blow. Two of the hounds she had heard baying padded beside him, taking time to sniff through the items in their campsite. The man turned his head in her direction, seeming to sense something in the thicket. He took a few tentative steps in her direction, but turned back when more barking erupted from the clearing. 

Surielle recognized one of the calls. Snowmelt was barking from an unseen location, and the other hounds answered and gave pursuit. The hunter, anticipating the chase, followed after his hounds. Surielle feared for Snowmelt, but there was little she could do at the moment. She stood and waited in hopes that her friends would return soon.


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## Carnifex (Nov 14, 2003)

Didn't realise you had a SH kicking around on here, theRuinedOne! I'll have to free up time to read it now, damn you


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## Ruined (Nov 14, 2003)

Yeah. It's taken some resuscitation, as this thing has been dead for soooo long. But I've got copious notes and two tech editors at my beck and call, so I should have a good amount posted soon.

[and I'll be commenting on your SH soon. I just haven't appeared in the SH yet, so I've been waiting...  =)]


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## Carnifex (Nov 14, 2003)

theRuinedOne said:
			
		

> Yeah. It's taken some resuscitation, as this thing has been dead for soooo long. But I've got copious notes and two tech editors at my beck and call, so I should have a good amount posted soon.
> 
> [and I'll be commenting on your SH soon. I just haven't appeared in the SH yet, so I've been waiting...  =)]




Soon now, soon!  But I know all about resuscitating dead SH's, I've had to do it a few times myself


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## Ruined (Nov 16, 2003)

6th of Chardot, yr. 150 A.V., continued 

When Gerad and Tréan returned, they found Surielle picking through the remains of their campsite in an attempt to clean up. Gerad could see the concern in her eyes.

“What happened here?”  He approached the druid, relieved to see that she was unwounded.

“A bounty hunter found the campsite. I hid and Snowmelt led them away.”

“Them?”  Tréan asked.

“He had a pack of hounds with him. Probably tracking our scent.”

“We should strike camp, then,” Gerad said, looking at the tent and supplies that had been torn through by the hounds. “Any idea where he is now?”  

Surielle shook her head. Dusk was approaching. They could return to Zamon, but given the conditions he and Tréan had left under, it did not seem a wise choice. Also, the city was a reasonable step for the bounty hunter to pursue. The group still wanted to seek passage along the river, but staying inside Zamon was out of the question.

They packed the remnants of their camp and struck north. Gerad could see that Surielle was fearful for her wolf companion. He too had grown to care for the wolf in the days since they left Quelsk. It seemed odd moving without her.

As night fell, the trio made their way towards the city. They took a path that led down to the river’s edge, where the docks of the city strutted out to meet it. Various vessels were berthed there, ranging from small fishers to heftier galleys that seemed out of place on the quiet river. 

Eventually they settled on a secluded spot underneath one of the higher piers. As they prepared for a cold camp, Snowmelt returned to the group, brightening everyone’s mood considerably. In the morning, Gerad and Tréan would return to the city and arrange for passage on one of the ships traveling further inland. Then they would be free of Zathiske and closer to their destination.


7th of Chardot, yr. 150 A.V. 

The next excursion into Zamon lacked any threat of violence, and for that Tréan was pleased. She and Gerad walked along the docks while Surielle stayed out by the river’s edge. Tréan hoped that the druidess would one day move beyond her discomfort within city walls.

They inspected many craft along the wharf, from tiny fishing boats to flat-bottomed trade ships. To their dismay, most of the vessels only kept to the route south on the Broadreach River. Those who would trade farther north mostly did so by land routes from here. The Broadreach did continue north, but many of the captains they spoke with considered it difficult to navigate, or less profitable, more the case. Gerad and Tréan spoke in hushed tones about offering coin to a reputable vessel for travel farther upstream, but they lacked both coins and sailors who inspired trust.

As they neared the end of the wharf and their options, Gerad pointed out a distinctly different vessel to Tréan. She knew it to be of elven origin. It was a sleek vessel, with masts that curved back to the rear of the craft instead of the standard ones that reached for the skies. It was small compared to the neighboring vessels, but its elaborate construction hinted at a bold strength.

“It does stand out a bit, don’t you think dear?” she asked as she scanned the vessel for crew. Gerad had a hand up shading his eyes to aid his inspection of the craft. 

“True. But who would suspect one this obvious?” 

“Well, I don’t suppose it would hurt to ask,” Tréan responded. 

The pair walked up to the ship, searching for a gangplank that did not exist. After a few moments of fruitless search, a voice called out to them from the deck.

“Ahoy! How can I be of service?”

Tréan looked up and found the speaker. She had not seen him working the deck because he was up among the rigging. A slender elven male scaled down the ropes to get a better view of the pair. Tréan spoke first, finding herself curious about the crew. Where would an elven ship such as this hail from?

“We’d like to talk to the captain of this vessel.”

“Sorry. Valanduros is about the city.” He leapt from the rigging, landing on the deck without nary a sound. “You can talk to me, however. I’m Mikkal, first mate of the Whispering Dragon.”  

“We seek passage North up the Broadreach. Do you think you could accommodate us?”

Forward, direct, and without any sense of guile. That was Gerad’s way, as Tréan had come to learn. It was preferable to the silken tongue of Silas, but sometimes she wished he would learn to hold some secrets close.

Mikkal leaned forward, looking at both in turn. Tréan felt herself blush at the scrutiny, something she rarely did. “The course of the Dragon is known only to her captain. But if you speak with him, he may find common purpose with you.”

They answered a few brief questions about destination and cargo, and were advised to come back at noon with the remainder of their party. Either the captain would offer them passage, or he would not, but Mikkal suggested they be ready to leave if his answer was yes. Excited with the possibility of travel, Tréan and Gerad returned to meet with Surielle.

***

When the group returned hours later, another elf leapt from the side of the Whispering Dragon to meet them. Tréan could see subtle signs in his face that made him appear older than Mikkal, something she did not expect in truth. Her own elven heritage made her appear ageless compared to the humans around her. She imagined that most other elves would look eternal, and yet she could discern the tests of time on Valdanduros’ face.

He was affable, greeting them all with ease and charm. He even knelt to slide his fingers through the fur on Snowmelt’s back, quickly putting her (and Surielle) at ease. 

“Mikkal tells me you seek passage north up the Broadreach.”  He left the statement as an open question. Tréan answered quickly before Gerad could speak.

“Yes. We wish to go north, perhaps as far as Three Moons.”  They had agreed upon this. None of the trio knew exactly where they were to head, save for north. Three Moons was a smaller river city within the Heteronomy of Virduk, which would take them out of Zathiske completely. “Unfortunately, we have little in the way of coin to offer you…”

Valanduros’ gaze swept across them all, forming judgements known only to him.

“Answer me this.” He pulled close to all of them. “Should I or my ship fear what it is you run from?”

Tréan looked at Surielle with wide eyes. Was it that obvious that they were in flight from some evil? As if in answer, Surielle turned her eyes to Gerad. Tréan looked as well, and nodded to him. Valanduros would know the truth.

“We run from the Calastians, friend. We have done no wrong, and yet they would see us dead. The faster we travel north and out of their lands, the better for us all.”

“I have not been to Three Moons in years,” Valanduros responded after a few moments. “I would be honored if you would travel with Mikkal and I, and share stories to ease the nights.”  He called up to Mikkal to lower a gangplank for the group. “I do hope our days won’t be consumed teaching you all how to work aboard a ship.”


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## Ruined (Nov 17, 2003)

8th of Chardot, yr. 150 A.V. 

The Whispering Dragon was a marvelous vessel. It held multiple sails that curled out, one each for port and starboard sides, while a larger sail rose along the middle like a fin. Tréan found it difficult to believe that only two elves could pilot the ship, but seeing them in action made her a believer. Having the extra passengers on board seemed to help more than it hindered. 

Mikkal had taken time to show her the workings of the Dragon. Much of it made perfect sense to her, not due to any ingrained heritage, but from time she had spent with the Order in Vesh. She had traveled by sea before, and could remember the titles and duties of the various crewmembers. Those who survived, that is… 

“We’ll be dropping anchor shortly, Tréan. Be ready.” It was Volanduros who spoke, rousing her from her grim reverie. He had briefly stepped away from the wheel and rudder where he spent most of his time. 

“Aye, sir,” she said, embracing the nautical terms he and Mikkal preferred. 

Volanduros had been extremely quiet on the first day of their travels. They had set sail from Zamon early in the afternoon and then sailed on until nightfall. The first night had been talk of sailing and duties. No further questions were asked of the group’s predicament; Tréan believed they would be addressed tonight. 

Volanduros had also asked for no coin for the voyage, which weighed heavily on Tréan. Her faith pushed her to perform good deeds for her fellow man. But what pushed these two enigmatic elves. Was it something he or Mikkal had seen or felt in their first meetings? It was a refreshing surprise to experience the generosity of strangers, even if it put her ill at ease. 

She could see Gerad over by the starboard railing, coiling a long hempen rope. He had lost himself in as many chores as he could find, using it to avoid uncomfortable periods of talk. She wondered briefly where his path would take him, once they had escaped the Calastian Empire. Tréan and Surielle had somewhere to return to, but all he had was a land, his former home, to flee. It saddened her, but she never noticed such worries cross his face. 

A series of splashes from the river below her drew her attention, quickly followed by a great pain in her right thigh. She cried out, staring down at a chained spear, actually a harpoon, that had pierced through her leg. Blood was quickly running down to the deck, her own blood, which she was unused to seeing. 

Gritting her teeth, she started to react, but was dragged over the railing as the chain went taught. She tumbled forward, catching a glimpse of the horrors she hoped never to see again. 

_Pisceans._


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## ledded (Nov 17, 2003)

Niiiiiiice.  A good read.


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## Ruined (Nov 18, 2003)

Thanks for the good word, ledded! 

The next segment, featuring the combat with the pisceans, is already written and should be posted on Wednesday. I'm trying to get a good chunk of these written ahead of time and keep to some kind of schedule.


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## Ruined (Nov 19, 2003)

8th of Chardot, yr. 150 A.V., continued 

Gerad heard Tréan’s scream, and saw that she had disappeared from the port railing. He had just looked at her moments before. Without hesitation, he ran to the other side. There was no sign of Tréan, but there was a mass of water and spume not far from the ship. 

“Overboard!” he cried out, and dove into the water. 

Surielle turned and watched Gerad leap from the boat. Her jaw dropped, trying to quickly assess what had happened. She looked back to Volanduros, who was also staring towards the front of the ship. In the torch gleam, she saw another figure: scaly and serpentine. It rose from the side of the ship, impossibly tall, with a length of spear in its grasp. 

“Volanduros. Look out!” 

From her warning, the elf narrowly dodged as the creature lunged at him with its spear. He looked at his enemy with disgust and then leapt from the wheel down to the main deck, leaving Surielle standing there. As he went, he called out to Mikkal: “Pisceans!” 

Tréan, always the practical one, knew she was lost. She had not worn all of her armor, as she was on a ship, but she wore enough to slow down any attempts to swim. She could make it under normal circumstances, but her leg was pierced clean through, and still she was being dragged down. 

She looked down the length of chain and gasped out a bubble of air at the piscean before her. It was reeling in the chain, and she swore she could see its teeth revealed in a wicked smile. 

Suddenly the water exploded beside her, and Gerad was there. He looked at the enemy below, then turned back to the harpoon and fountain of blood. He gripped one end of it and looked at Tréan. She nodded and grasped the other end. Together they snapped the shaft of the harpoon and pulled it free from her leg. Tréan thought she could almost hear the roar from the piscean below. 

Back aboard the Whispering Dragon, Surielle followed her instincts and went against every warning uttered by sailors. She said a devotion to Denev and caused her flame scythe to appear in her hands. She could see the piscean before her, its mottled black scales reflected in the firelight. The captain could run, but she and Snowmelt would not falter so easily. The piscean lashed out with its spear in a wide arc, ripping her forearm. Surielle could feel a sting there, much like saltwater on a cut. She dearly hoped it was not poisoned, for the sake of her companions. 

She stepped forward, close to the edge where the piscean waited, and slashed the scythe through the creature. The flames sizzled across its body, causing steam to rise from its cracking scales. The beast roared out in agony and drew back from her. Snowmelt moved up beside Surielle, growling in anticipation of the piscean’s return. 

Tréan and Gerad surfaced, immediately turning to look at the ship. Gerad saw two pisceans extending from the water upon long, serpentine tails, and some hint of flames on the deck. 

“We can’t out-swim this one,” he said as he spat water from his mouth. Tréan knew he meant to swim back down and fight the piscean alone. She placed a hand on his shoulder, cautioning him to wait for a moment. 

“May you fight with the strength of Her sun.” A fiery radiance briefly played over his form, and then dissipated as the bull’s strength took effect. Gerad drew his sword from his belt, took a deep breath, and dove back under. 

“You will not fight it alone, Gerad,” Tréan said, and began moving her hands in a different pattern. Wounded and fighting to stay afloat, Trean persevered and reached for the glorious touch of her deity. 

The tide had turned for Surielle and Snowmelt as the piscean landed punishing blows with its huge spear. She cursed the narrow design of the ship, which gave her precious little room to maneuver. The piscean coiled forward, still extending its torso above the Whispering Dragon. As it neared for another assault, Volanduros appeared from nowhere, hacking into its side with a sword of his own. 

“I could use some help!” 

“So can Mikkal! He fights one alone!” 

Surielle looked beyond Valanduros to see Mikkal, who was using the web-like rigging to avoid the strikes of yet another piscean. And Gerad and Tréan were nowhere to be seen. 

Gerad chided himself as he swam forward with sword in hand. These creatures were deadly and far more adept at underwater combat than a simple infantry soldier. All he hoped for was to buy Tréan some time to return to the ship and then he could worry about himself. He spotted the piscean advancing quickly from deep below. He dove down to meet it, feeling ill-prepared to fight in this environment. They traded blows, each scoring a wound that trailed dark blood in the murky waters. The creature was cunning, as it tried to wrap its coils around Gerad to drown him. He kicked away with his newfound strength, and landed another blow with his sword. Gerad’s lungs were starting to burn as he fought. 

Both Gerad and the piscean were surprised to see a glowing spear manifest in the waters with them. He knew this was Tréan’s working. The foolish woman had not left the combat when she could. The piscean struck him twice more, but Gerad knew that he now held the advantage. He pressed, digging in deep with the sword and scoring it across the pisceans torso. It shuddered and then pushed away, hurtling deep into the dark waters below, trailing a cloud of ichor. 

Surielle, Snowmelt, and Valanduros proved too much for the advancing piscean. When it moved aggressively towards one, the remaining two would close in and strike true. Valanduros took the final blow, burying his sword deep into the creature’s neck. Surielle wasted no time when she saw its death and moved to assist Mikkal. 

She feared she was too late as he dropped from the rigging, but Mikkal landed upon his feet. His breaches were slick with blood, but still he fought on against the marauding piscean. As it moved with intent toward him, Surielle dove forward, scarring the flames of her scythe across its face. The piscean roared at the druid and gouged her firmly with the spear. 

Surielle’s head swam, and beyond the immediate conflict, she could hear Valanduros yelling to drop anchor. Who was he yelling at? She and Mikkal were busy, and everyone else was gone. The piscean reached forward, grasping her by her neck with a clammy hand. All of a sudden, Surielle’s senses returned to her, and she plunged the flaming scythe directly into its chest. Its body sizzled and jerked, but she would not let go with the weapon. Finally, the piscean released its grip from her and slid quietly back into the river waters. 

“What of my friends?” she asked as Valanduros moved up beside her. 

“I’m sorry. They went overboard in the fray.” 

She nodded, tears forming in her eyes. She stepped over to the railing, searching for something to say to her friends, when she noticed movement in the waters below. 

“They’re close by! They’re in the water, and they’re alive!” 

She also noticed a few sinister forms behind the Whispering Dragon a ways off. More pisceans, no doubt. 

In quick order, Mikkal helped to pull Tréan and Gerad from the Broadreach while Valanduros unfurled the sails. As soon as they were aboard, the anchor was pulled and the ship began sailing north yet again. The pisceans were left behind, and the party sailed ahead in quiet horror.


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## Ruined (Nov 21, 2003)

10th of Chardot, yr. 150 A.V. 

The Hunting Owl tavern boasted the best meals, liveliest entertainment, and softest beds in all of the Heteronomy of Virduk. Surielle hoped that the claims were false, or the entirety of the country would be a quite unpleasant place to stay.

She knew she was bitter. Now that they had achieved their goal and traveled north out of Zathiske, the task of finding an unknown wizard seemed beyond reach. None had heard of Kelkarrin, or any wizards of renown in these lands. She was sure they would have heard some fantastic rumors spread by the villagers, yet the locals had remained as quiet as the red-and-gold amulet suspended from her neck

After a brief shoring in the ports of Calas, the Whispering Dragon had journeyed to Three Moons as promised. It was a sad farewell to Valanduros and Mikkal, with Tréan taking it the hardest. Surielle hadn’t asked, but Tréan seemed to truly take comfort in the presence of other elves. There was some unspoken issue with her heritage, but it had never come up in conversation.

“I am lost as to our next course,” Tréan said. “I’m concerned for Helena, and I don’t know where we should turn from here.”  Surielle nodded to show that she felt the same.

Gerad returned from the bar with an odd look on his face. Surielle stiffened; she had heard the horror stories of the previous bar fight from Tréan. She hoped that he wasn’t about to start another.

“Ladies, do you see that young gentleman by the bar?” 

Both women looked. A thin young man dressed in ill-fitting pantaloons and a gaudy vest watched them from the bar. Surielle recognized him as the bard who was performing when they first entered the Hunting Owl. He was quite bad at his craft, reading his long-winded poems that didn’t follow any rhyming form she could recognize. *

“Yes, the bard.”  Surielle said, glumly looking in the bottom of her cup for more mead.

“Right,” Gerad continued. “His name is Barrett. It’s hard to believe, but he claims to know a tale about Kelkarrin.”

Both of the women straightened immediately.

“Are you sure? He wasn’t lying to get a coin?”  Gerad shrugged, unwilling to put faith in the man’s words. Quickly they offered him to come sit with them at their table. Barrett was quite nervous and fidgety, as much from the attractive women as he was from the threat of a paid performance.

“You said you had heard a tale of Kelkarrin?”

“Yes. Something old I had heard my father recite when I was a child. I don’t usually perform it, as I’m trying to achieve a different…” Gerad motioned him on, apparently having heard the lengthy story before. Barrett blushed, and then spoke again.

“It takes place in Oakdale, a smaller village over to the east just outside of the Hornsaw. I tried to perform it there, but those who listened told me it was a tall tale, that they’ve never heard of a Kelkarrin.” 

“We would love to hear your tale,” Surielle said, consciously batting her eyelashes and leaning in close to him. The effect was instantaneous. Barrett nervously nodded and looked around the room. He cleared his throat and began to recite the tale of old.

*The Grand Mage Kelkarrin*

We start with a tale of Oakdale,
Far too close to danger’s maw,
The village had its share of troubles,
It lay south of the deadly Hornsaw.

A town of humans and halflings,
From Three Moons and Calas’ dell,
And one citzen of note,
the mage Kelkarrin as well,

Grand Mage Kelkarrin, Oakdale remembers thee.​
The council was proud of their patron,
A distinguished magister true,
Yet his time was spent in his tower,
And not at the parties they threw,

Few saw him leave the tower,
His home seemed more of a cage,
The townsfolk simply nodded to themselves,
Who can fathom the ways of a mage?

The Grand Mage Kelkarrin, Oakdale remembers thee.​
The evils of the Blood Monsoon
Poisoned the waters of poor Oakdale
And the Council turned to Kelkarrin,
In hopes that magic would prevail,

Kelkarrin would not aid the village,
For it was not the path he would choose,
The Council was not pleased by this,
But there was little that they could do,

Aloof Mage Kelkarrin, Oakdale remembers thee.​
Oakdale survived the monsoon,
After numbers were lost to the drought.
The city now started to prosper,
Until the Wasting Sickness came about.

Once again they sought Kelkarrin,
Still a recluse, aloof and alone,
Yet no assistance would he offer,
And Oakdale was left to its own,

Selfish Mage Kelkarrin, Oakdale remembers thee.​
Years passed and Oakdale lived on,
Through several of winter’s first thaw,
Until a messenger came bearing wounds
And news from the deadly Hornsaw

The gorgons were massing their borders,
Unitaurs and goblins behind,
Sure to destroy all of Oakdale,
The halflings and all of their kind,

Some thought to turn to Kelkarrin,
But the Council said not to waste breath.
The past had taught them their lesson,
He would not save them from death.

The militia stood ready and firm,
As titanspawn approached by the hour,
And all hope was lost for Oakdale,
Until one man emerged from his tower,

“I would not assist you before,
When you could prevail on your own,
Yet this threat is beyond your power,
And I will not let them destroy our home.”

With that he called down great fires,
And lightning and rains that burned,
He sundered the ground before him,
And quickly the tide was turned.

Grand Mage Kelkarrin, Oakdale remembers thee.​
Kelkarrin was grim and silent,
As the magnificent slaughter was done,
Oakdale praised their protector,
But on the next day Kelkarrin was gone,

His tower disappeared overnight,
And not a soul could follow his trail,
No one knows what happened to Kelkarrin,
But he never returned to Oakdale.

Grand Mage Kelkarrin, Oakdale has forgotten thee.​

The group sat stunned by his performance. While Barrett was unsure of himself in the earlier poems, this tale was recited with growing conviction and strength. Indeed, when his tale was done, the entire bar was silent, having been drawn in by his words.

Surielle let go of a breath she had been holding and smiled. It still seemed a needle in a haystack the size of Ghelspad, but she had the growing sense that they were nearing their destination, guided by the hands of fate.


* the Bard was actually doing verse in his new experimental form – something very close to iambic pentameter. Not a crowd favorite at the time.


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## Ruined (Nov 26, 2003)

11th of Chardot, yr. 150 A.V. 

“So you’ll be leaving us this day?” 

Tréan looked up at Madame Sonja, the aging priestess of Madriel. The woman had been kind enough to allow the three companions to stay in her house for the night. She had plenty of room, as her children had moved on and she herself was a widow. In turn, they had helped as they could with chores around the house. 

“Yes, ma’am.” Tréan was packing the satchel she had acquired in Quelsk. It was a symbol of her flight from her former life, and one she would gladly rid herself of. 

“A shame,” Sonja said thoughtfully. “I was enjoying the company.” 

Tréan felt the same way. It was comforting to be in a calm town like this, with people she felt she could trust. But who knew how far behind the various soldiers, assassins and bounty hunters were? Surielle, Gerad and she had arranged to travel to Oakdale with petitioners that had come to the church in Three Moons. Sonja had told them that some of the faithful would travel every week to worship at this particular temple. A temple should probably be established in Oakdale, but Sonja joked that it kept her spirits lively to see so many parishioners. 

“I would not want to pry, Tréan, but you seem troubled. How long has it been since you’ve spoken with another priestess?” 

“A good while.” Tréan said, and slowly sat upon the bed. 

Her willpower and resolve shattered that easily. She told Sonja everything from the assassination of the Satrap to their flight along the Broadreach River. Tréan stressed that she and her friends had no part in the murder of the Satrap, no matter what rumors rose from the South. It was a relief to confide in Sonja. Trean knew the healing power of the Alcunari, a different yet effective kind of confession employed by the church of Madriel. 

Sonja was silent for a minute, absorbing Tréan’s words. 

“At times, I wish my calling was simpler, such as what you have here,” Tréan said. 

“Simpler?” Sonja chuckled. “Think of where Three Moons lies, child. This is one of the closest villages to Glivid-Autel.” 

Tréan sat back. The name of the renegade city of necromancers was reviled among the Order of the Morning Sky. Stories always emerged of victims stolen from within the Hornsaw Forest and taken for eternal servitude in that foul city. Among the people of Ghelspad, many thought the horrors to be tales meant to scare children, but those who served Madriel knew the truth. Glivid-Autel was an abomination. 

“I must watch everything that transpires in this countryside and report it to my superiors. It is not nearly as simple as you would believe.” 

“I meant no offense…” 

Sonja’s hand was quick to move and comfort Tréan. 

“Of course not dear, and none was taken. I just want you to know that your burden may seem too heavy at times, but the calling is just. No matter how much it pains you at the time. We serve the people, and they must rely on us. 

“Thank you,” Tréan said. She thought for a moment, then turned to question Sonja. “How did you know that I held so many secrets? I know I’m no accomplished liar, but I can ill afford to appear so obvious to others…” 

Sonja smiled. “Your friend Surielle told me. She was worried for your conscience.”


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## Ruined (Nov 26, 2003)

Here's the view the characters saw as they traveled forth to the village of Oakdale. It's wine country there, and I wanted to show how beautiful the view could be.

(the original image can be found courtesy of National Geographic Picture of the Day archive here.


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## jenna3 (Dec 2, 2003)

*Looking Good!*

This is looking very good, Ruined. Keep up the quick work!
(I tried to post this about a week ago, but my account wasn't working at the time.  )

TTFN--Jenna (aka Trean)


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## Carnifex (Dec 3, 2003)

theRuinedOne said:
			
		

> Here's the view the characters saw as they traveled forth to the village of Oakdale. It's wine country there, and I wanted to show how beautiful the view could be.




Wow! I didn't know the people of the Scarred Lands had already discovered tarmac!


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## Ruined (Dec 3, 2003)

12th of Chardot, yr. 150 A.V. 

Rising above a countryside of cultivated vineyards was the quiet hamlet of Oakdale. An occasional tree broke the horizon, but most of the terrain had been converted to arable land. Numerous villagers worked through the rows of plants in search of succulent grapes for the day’s haul. 

Gerad sighed to himself as they neared Oakdale. They were following a forgotten tale in search of a man who was last seen sixty years ago. Normally, he would never have followed such a fool’s errand, but he would honor the dying request of his friend Marus. Men worthy of respect were hard to come by in Gerad’s current lifestyle – he would not forget one easily. 

They broke from the group of parishioners, wishing them well as they ventured into the city. Up the road, the first building they neared was a large stable. A manure-stained man rested against the outer wall, studying the group as they approached. His face seemed to droop when he saw that they had no horses to stable. 

“Greetings to ya,” the man said as he stood, wiping his hands on his grimy breeches. 

“Greetings, sir. Where could we find a good inn for the night?” Tréan asked. 

The man sucked air through his teeth and wrinkled his nose, apparently deep in thought. His eyes played across the three humans and the wolf, sizing them up. 

“Well, ya could try the Hilltop Inn. It’s dead center of the town. Good enough folk there. Ya folks staying for a while?” 

“We might be,” said Gerad. 

“That should do ya. Name’s Tobus Blackwater.” 

“Good to meet you,” Gerad said, reluctantly extending his hand to the man. Gerad was careful not to reveal their names; there had been many conversations about maintaining secrecy on the remainder of their quest. The last thing he needed was another lecture from Tréan. 

“If’n ya need horses or anything, just come find me.” 

Again he punctuated his sentences with that sucking sound. Gerad wondered if the women found Blackwater as distasteful as he did. 

“We’ll be sure to do that,” Gerad said. And then they were on their way. 

Following Blackwater’s directions, the group ventured into the heart of Oakdale to the Hilltop Inn and found it to be a comfortable respite from the summer heat. The proprietors, Erich and Artur Thimbledown, were halfling brothers who served up wonderful foodstuffs while constantly bickering with one another. The meals were plentiful, and the ale flowed freely. As Gerad feared, however, no one seemed to know of a mage named Kelkarrin. He felt fortunate that the brothers remembered Barrett, the young bard that had told them the tale.

“Bah!” Artur Thimbledown said. “I remember that boy. He was the worst minstrel we ever heard.” 

“Couldn’t even rhyme,” Erich chimed in from down the bar. Artur frowned at his brother’s interruption. 

“The one good tale he _could_ tell was full of lies and untruths about our beloved town.” 

“So the parts about the wizard – ” Gerad started. 

“Hogwash and claptrap, I tell you. Yes, Oakdale has weathered raids from the Hornsaw and the like, but we never had no wizard to come help us.” 

“Didn’t need one, either!” said Erich. 

“Shut your hole and get back to the stoves!” Artur yelled. 

Gerad politely stepped back from the bar, allowing the brothers to continue their argument. He returned to the table and informed Surielle and Tréan of the news. Even the antics of the Thimbledown brothers couldn’t lift their spirits now. They eventually decided that more could be learned after a good night’s rest. 

As the group retired to their cozy rooms upstairs, an unobtrusive patron slid down from a barstool and made his way into the night.


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## Ruined (Dec 3, 2003)

Carnifex said:
			
		

> Wow! I didn't know the people of the Scarred Lands had already discovered tarmac!




Heh, yeah. Well, I love some of the pics on Nat'l Geo. So what if they're a bit more modern?  It's not like I have people lining up to draw pics for my games or anything.


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## Carnifex (Dec 3, 2003)

theRuinedOne said:
			
		

> Heh, yeah. Well, I love some of the pics on Nat'l Geo. So what if they're a bit more modern?  It's not like I have people lining up to draw pics for my games or anything.




 

Heheheh... Cazamir vs. Behemoth...    

Anyways, nothing wrong with using pics from Nat Geo, I've just now got this image in my head of knights complaining that badly maintained motorways are meaning they have to keep on changing their steed's horseshoes


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## Ruined (Dec 5, 2003)

12th of Chardot, yr. 150 A.V., continued 

Two hours past midnight, the Hilltop Inn settled into stillness. The Thimbledown brothers had swept up and sent the patrons to their beds. Even Oren, the town lush, had taken his leave. Lanterns were doused. Mugs were washed and stacked. And nothing disturbed the serene silence. 

Undisturbed did not mean unoccupied. 

A small figure emerged from a hidden recess along the back wall and moved up the stairs with nary a creak. The figure’s steps were quick and purposeful in a path that had been long-practiced. The stairs turned and opened into a vacant hallway. Scented oil lamps spilled light down the hall, revealing eight doors, four to each side. The figure moved to the closest lamp and climbed on a small stool beneath, grateful the inn was run by other halflings. Liam reached up and turned the key. The wick dropped and the flame guttered out, dimming the hall. 

Liam gently leaned up against one door, placing an ear to the wood. Steady sounds of breathing issued from the room, occasionally punctuated with rasping snores. Satisfied, he moved to the door across the hall and knelt down to face the lock. Small hands worked with deft precision to open the lock without a sound. 

The door opened, throwing only a soft illumination into the room. Liam glanced in, noting the two sleeping females and the wolf. _I would have to choose the room with the overgrown dog, he thought._ He pulled the door almost closed, allowing only a sliver of light into the room. 

The room itself revealed something of the occupants. Behind a rocking chair in the corner stood a long spear and a curved scimitar. Two backpacks lay open near the chair, revealing travel-stained clothing. Liam methodically sorted through the backpacks, but took nothing from them. 

Liam moved up to the bed where the human female slept. A glimmer had caught his eye as he inspected the room. He moved slowly, so as not to wake her or especially the dog that slept at her feet. There was a faint gleam of red and gold at her breast that caught the light from the door. Gently he pulled the sheet back to get a better look. If only he found human women more attractive, then this would be more entertaining than frightening. 

“I HAVE LEARNED WHAT I NEED!” a voice boomed in his head. He tensed, fearing that the sleepers would surely hear this mental outburst. ”YOU MAY LEAVE NOW.” As the voice faded in his mind, he opened one eye, looking for signs of movement from the dog or the females. 

_Damnable mage, using me for a focus. Some people have no respect for the arts._ 

Satisfied that the sleepers were unaware of his entrance, and given the orders from his master, Liam retraced his steps back to the door. He closed the door behind him, and soon had left the comforts of the Hilltop Inn.


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## Surielle Moonshade (Dec 7, 2003)

*Good Stuff!*

This is a great read.  I'm glad you picked it back up again.  Keep up the excellent work!


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## Ruined (Dec 9, 2003)

13th of Chardot, yr. 150 A.V. 

“The door was unlocked, I tell you,” Tréan said as she drizzled honey onto a crusty heel of bread. The trio was seated at the same table they had the night before. Breakfast had been laid out before them, a luxurious meal of black bread, poached eggs, and pork sausages. 

“You’re sure you just didn’t forget to lock it?” Gerad asked. Tréan set down the piece of bread and looked at Gerad as if he had foregone his armor to wear a flowery dress.

“Darling, in all of the times we’ve spent on our travels, have I ever let my guard down?” Gerad chose not to respond. “We locked that door last night.” 

“Anything missing?” Gerad mumbled as he stuffed another sausage into his mouth. 

“No,” Surielle said. “That’s what makes it so disturbing.” 

“Well, if Snowmelt didn’t hear anything, then I wouldn’t worry too much. She’d eat anyone alive that tried to attack you.” Gerad slyly glanced at the patrons before flipping a sausage to the wolf. 

The group continued to eat in silence, pondering their course of action for the day. Surielle had suggested inquiring with the vintners around town, the older the better. Long-lived residents may know more about their legendary wizard than the younger villagers. They looked up as a halfling approached their table. 

“Good morning, folks,” he said, smiling. “How have you found Oakdale so far?” 

“It’s been pleasant so far. We just arrived last night.” Tréan replied. 

“Good to hear. My name is Liam.” Casual introductions, first names only, were spread around the table. Liam pulled up an offered chair and sat at one end of the table. 

“So what brings you to our quaint little town?” 

“Simple travelers with an interest in history. We thought we’d tour your town and inquire about tales of the past.” Another lie. She hated to tell so many, but it was necessary. 

“Truly so?” Liam asked. He had helped himself to a bowl of almonds the serving girl had brought with their food and cracked them open with relish. “Well, you might be in luck. My employer is well versed in the history of Oakdale. In fact, he’d probably be willing to talk to you should you have the time.” 

“And what is your employer’s name, dear?” 

“Ah, names are never that important, now are they?” Liam looked up from the table and smiled. 

Tréan was about to answer that indeed they were when she caught sight of the shape Liam had formed on the table. It was the letter ‘K’ formed out of cracked almond shells. She met eyes with Surielle, who also was looking at the letter. Could he be an agent of Kelkarrin? 

“No dear. I suppose they are not.” 

“So you will join us, then? Excellent. Just find me over by the bar when you’ve finished breaking your fast,” said Liam as he brushed aside the shells. 

He hopped from the chair and sauntered over to the bar, quickly engaging in conversation with Erich Thimbledown. 

“You think he knows Kelkarrin?” Gerad asked. He too had noted the letter Liam had drawn. 

“It’s the best lead we have had so far.” 

“But can we trust him?” Surielle asked. 

“Doubtful,” Tréan said, “but it hasn’t stopped us thus far.”

***

Their halfling guide led them out of the city to the East. It was another scorching day, with no sign of rain anytime soon. They could see the vineyards begin to stretch out before them, but Liam turned off of the main road before they got too far. He carried them up a Northern path that seemed well tended but seldom traveled. 

Tréan watched Liam with caution. She didn’t fear violence from the halfling, but her senses were sharpened for any sign of ambush or treachery. They engaged in simple conversation as they walked, never touching upon the serious topics that burned in all their minds. 

As they crested a hill that placed them beyond sight of the village, Liam slowed to a stop. The grass-covered area was away from the wealth of vineyards and farmlands. Liam searched the ground for something while the others waited patiently. 

“Here is the part you might have problems with,” Liam said. He smiled at the trio and took three steps forward. He reached out into the air and grasped something. He twisted his hand and pulled, revealing a _door_. Tréan could hear gasps from those beside her. Her own eyes wanted to slide away from the door and look elsewhere, as if they were being coerced. 

“Yes, an invisible tower, just like in ‘tales of the past’,” Liam said, subtly reminding Trean of her earlier falsehood. “As you’ve probably guessed by now, Kelkarrin values his privacy. Come on, follow me.” And with that, he stepped into the doorway and disappeared. 

“Should we?” Tréan asked. Surielle kept her eyes fixed on the doorway as she responded. 

“I think this is what we’ve been after all along.”


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## ledded (Dec 9, 2003)

theRuinedOne said:
			
		

> <snip>
> “Should we?” Tréan asked. Surielle kept her eyes fixed on the doorway as she responded.
> 
> “I think this is what we’ve been after all along.”



Urk.  Sounds like 'famous last words'


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## Ruined (Dec 10, 2003)

Surielle Moonshade said:
			
		

> This is a great read.  I'm glad you picked it back up again.  Keep up the excellent work!




Good to see you here, Surielle. =)  I'm catching up, mostly thanks to your and the other players' encouragement.




			
				ledded said:
			
		

> Urk.  Sounds like 'famous last words'




Heh heh. Yeah, at this point they didn't have much compunctions about entering the invisible tower. Of course, Liam was being played by a friend of mine (who is quite charismatic), so that may have helped.  =)

New update either late today or tomorrow.


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## Surielle Moonshade (Dec 18, 2003)

*Next installment?*

I am _dying _ in anticipation of the next installment.  When?  Please?

Surielle Moonshade


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## Ruined (Dec 22, 2003)

I'm trimming the next update as I post this. It's a sizeable piece of dialogue. Once I run it by my editors, I should have it posted this afternoon (EST).


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## Ruined (Dec 23, 2003)

13th of Chardot, yr. 150 A.V., continued 

Among the companions, the feeling in the room was a mixture of hope and fear. Surielle could read it on her friends’ faces. She felt the same – after all of the travels and the dread of pursuit, here was an opportunity for answers and perhaps release from their troubles. It would all depend on what kind of man Kelkarrin was. 

Liam had led them into the magically obscured tower, revealing a rather plain and utilitarian structure inside. Surielle had expected talking paintings and animate gargoyles, but they had found the interior to be quite mundane. Liam had scoffed at such questions – wasn’t an invisible tower enough of a wonder? 

The group now sat at a table that could seat twelve guests. Another had joined them – a painfully thin man named Nieman. He was introduced as an apprentice to Kelkarrin. It was obvious to Surielle that he held little concern for her group and noticeable contempt for Liam. She found herself wondering about the history of their association. 

As Surielle watched, a white ferret with pinkish eyes emerged over Nieman’s left shoulder and glared at her group, its scrutiny matching that of its owner. Snowmelt, who had been sitting quietly behind her, now moved up to the table and sniffed in the ferret’s direction. As she turned to warn off her wolf, a door opened at the far end of the room, revealing a robed man marked by a black and silver beard. He walked with an air of authority – this tower surely belonged to him. 

“So, you’ve been searching for me. I _truly_ hope it is for a good reason.” 

Surielle and the others were caught off guard by his entrance. Tréan was the first to respond. 

“We’ve been tasked with finding you. We find ourselves in great need, and our troubled path has led us here.” 

“Who are you?” he asked. Introductions were quickly given around the room. “And who sent you to find me?” 

“If I may approach…?” Surielle was already standing. She could feel the amulet growing cold upon her breast. The wizard watched her intently, but did not answer her request. She took a tentative step towards him, then another. As she moved, the cold from the red-and-gold amulet grew in intensity. She hoped the effect was the missive that she had discerned in the woods that day, and not some dangerous magic meant for the wizard. She was five paces away from the wizard now. And then the voice began. 

*“Tishragh ek ain tendo. Gorest Kelkarrin amn fuut tay credendos quey…” *

All eyes were upon Surielle as the amulet recited the dying words of Marus, Gerad’s mentor in Quelsk. The memories of his bloodstained hands grasping her arms and begging this favor returned fresh into her mind. Still she could not understand the language that he dictated to her. Kelkarrin had stepped towards her, his gaze intent upon the amulet. She hoped that he could make sense of the stream of words before they were gone. Within moments, the last of the words had emanated from the amulet. Surielle could begin to feel the cold lessen upon her skin as the echoes died down. 

“Was that Ancient Ledean?” Gerad asked. She knew he had spent time within the Ledean training schools in his youth. Perhaps he knew some of the language. 

“I believe so,” Nieman answered, suddenly interested in both the message and purpose of their group. 

Kelkarrin waved his fingers at the group, and walked from the chamber lost in thought. Surielle turned to look at those remaining in the room. Tréan and Gerad had looks of surprise, unaware that she carried a message for the wizard. Nieman was talking to himself, trying to piece out words from the missive. Yet Liam had the greatest look of concern, his halfling features having paled. 

“Was that voice…? Was it Marus?” he asked, looking up at her. She nodded slowly. 

“You knew Marus?” Gerad answered. “He was my mentor in Quelsk.” 

“Yes. He actually brought me to Kelkarrin so that I could study the arts. He was also an apprentice under Kelkarrin.” 

Surielle watched as the two began to compare notes, dreading the question that would come. From the door where Kelkarrin had left, Marus’ words drifted toward her distantly, as if the mage had summoned them from the abyss. 

“So why did Marus not come himself?” Liam asked. No one answered at first, both looking at her. Surielle had borne the message for him, and so she would speak of his passing. 

“He was grievously wounded when I found him. His request and this message were the last words he spoke.” 

Gerad took charge of the conversation from there, recounting how he knew Marus and how his death had come about. Kelkarrin returned to the room, but did not interrupt the tale. His face saddened at the news of his student’s death. 

“I have transcribed his message,” Kelkarrin said to break the silence following Gerad’s tale. “He spoke of a grave discovery, one he felt that I should know of. The missive was meant for mine ears alone, but you have traveled far for his words. You should know what it is he said.” 

There were no protests. Kelkarrin read from a piece of foolscap upon which he had hastily scrawled the words. 

“This should be known to you, Kelkarrin. A piece of the Globe of Aggamar has been found. It was dredged up by fishing boats in the Blossoming Sea, and now resides in Calastian hands. I had planned to seek your guidance on this, but alas, I cannot.” 

“What is the Globe of Aggamar?” Tréan asked. 

“The name is familiar, but I cannot recall. I have many tomes here which I can research and hopefully gleam more information.” 

“It was something Marus was willing to die for,” Gerad said. 

“Yes,” Kelkarrin replied, “and I shall not take this lightly. If you wish to remain as my guests for a few days, I hope to shed more light on this matter. We can also speak of recompense for your journey.” 

“Your hospitality is kind,” Surielle began and then hesitated. “You should know that our steps have been followed to Oakdale.” The old man looked up at her with displeasure. 

“I have taken great efforts, as you can see, to conceal my presence in this town. Who follows you?” 

She told the story of their flight from Quelsk with occasional help from the others. The three inhabitants of the tower listened intently. Kelkarrin's initial apprehension towards the party seemed to melt away as she told of their harrowing journey. When she finished, Kelkarrin turned to Liam. 

“You had best cover their tracks into the village.” 

“I’ll go have a talk with my snitch, Blackwater, on the morrow,” Liam said. 

“We met him, when we first came into the city.” Tréan said. Liam grumbled. 

“Then I should do this soon. Today, perhaps?” 

“I’ll go with you,” Gerad offered. “Perhaps we can speak more of our dear departed friend.”


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## Surielle Moonshade (Dec 31, 2003)

Very cool story so far.  I can't wait for the next part.   

Keep up the excellent work!  =)

Surielle


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## jenna3 (Jan 5, 2004)

I just found the last few installments. This is looking really good. Keep it up!


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## Ruined (Jan 5, 2004)

Here's a bit more for you:

13th of Chardot, yr. 150 A.V. 

“And then we took their weapon cache to teach them a lesson. Let me say that Marus was less than pleased.” 

Gerad and Liam shared a laugh as they walked towards the stables. 

“What did he do to you?” Gerad shrugged. 

“What he should have done. We all had to pull mandatory watch and patrols for the next few weeks. Myself, I expected lashings. We deserved it.” 

“Some of the men would have left after that,” Liam offered.

“I’m sure Marus felt the same,” Gerad said. “The resistance movements in Quelsk draw from all sorts. Rabble looking for fights, vagabonds looking for something other than work to do. They don’t endure punishment well as a rule.” 

The pair stopped a few yards from the side of the barn. The doors were opened, but they saw no sign of Blackwater. 

“So how do you want to do this?” Gerad asked. Liam bit at his lip and looked up at the man beside him. 

“You convince him to step out back. Then we’ll have a talk with him.” 

Gerad nodded and watched as the halfling quietly slipped off around the barn. He still had trouble believing that Marus was a spellcaster like the old wizard and Liam. In truth, Liam didn’t seem much like a wizard to Gerad. He was far more personable than Kelkarrin or Nieman. 

The stench of manure struck his nostrils as he entered the barn. Blackwater was there along with a young lad pitching hay into one of the stalls. At Gerad’s entrance, Blackwater looked up and smiled. He rose to his feet and walked forward, wiping his hands on his breeches. 

“Greetings again to ya,” Blackwater said. “What can I help you with today? A bit of horseflesh? Or perhaps some gossip?” As before, Tobus sucked air through his teeth with that annoying sound. 

“Umm,” Gerad hesitated. “Actually I was looking for a bit of information.” Blackwater’s smile deepened and he moved closer. The stench moved with him. “Perhaps we could speak out back,” Gerad said, motioning to the closed back doors. 

Blackwater nodded at his meaning, and led him out the back doors. Gerad glanced around as they stepped into the sunlight, but he saw no sign of Liam. Neither did Tobus, who happily closed the door to the stables behind them. 

“So, what is it that old Tobus Blackwater can help you with?” 

Gerad looked at the man, suddenly wondering what lies he would ply the man with. Liam was nowhere to be seen. He could ask him about the wizard. It would be interesting to see if the man who sold Liam secrets knew of his benefactor. 

Blackwater raised an eyebrow at Gerad, waiting for a reply. As Gerad watched, he heard a gentle thump, and Blackwater collapsed into a heap. Standing behind him was Liam, wielding a black sap in his hand. At once, Gerad was truly impressed with the skills of his newfound friend. 

*** 

While the boys were off playing with the town snitch, Surielle and Tréan were forging a path into the edge of the deadly Hornsaw Forest. Tréan had only heard tales of the Hornsaw, such as the beasts mentioned in Barrett’s tale, but Surielle knew better. Her path leading south from Darakeene had taken her, Brianna, and Maximillian through the tainted forest. She had seen the horrors left by spider-goblins, gorgons and asaathi. Were it not for the sorcerous skills of their mentor, she and Brianna would never have completed the journey.

Kelkarrin knew of a grove not far within the forest. He had casually mentioned it when Surielle asked about her mother. The name Amara had brought no recognition to his face, but there had been druids in the area before. As soon as he mentioned the grove, she was determined to see it for herself, with or without her companions. Each had their reasons for their journey, but Surielle’s foremost concern was locating the mother she never knew.

“It was interesting how Kelkarrin knew of my order. They’re not prevalent here, from what I’ve learned.”

“The Sisterhood of the Scythe?” Tréan asked. “Nor had I heard of them. Little surprise. You never call yourself a member of the Sisterhood.”

“You’re right,” Surielle said as she stepped over a fallen branch. “I’ve grown so accustomed to secrecy, I barely use my true name anymore.”

“All of us are that way, dear.” Tréan stopped, pulling her hand from the side of a tree. It was slick with a dark red stain. Surielle thought it to be blood, but Tréan quickly shook her head. “It’s sap – I think. I see what they mean about this forest being tainted. We’ve not gone far and everything is beginning to feel sick.”

Surielle was about to tell her that this was normal compared to the twisted life she had seen, when a crashing sound stopped both women where they stood. It was a tree groaning, creaking, and falling to the forest floor. Surielle looked to the skyline, but the tree was not falling upon them. The ground shook in its passing. Neither woman spoke. And then they heard thunderous footsteps moving in their direction. The two of them knelt down, with Snowmelt standing close to her master.

The steps slowed. Surielle heard sounds of foliage moving nearby. Snowmelt’s ears lay back and the wolf issued a quiet growl. As she moved forward to look, Surielle placed a reassuring hand on the wolf’s haunches. Beyond the trees in a small clearing stood an eight-foot tall terror. It was a unitaur – a man-shaped beast with white skin and a horn like the rhinos that lived out in the savannahs. Tales of these beasts were grim affairs, usually ending with a number of deaths before the savage creature could be brought low. The unitaur took a few ponderous steps, and then stopped with one eye looking in their direction. Neither Tréan, Snowmelt, nor she moved.

The unitaur snorted heavily and began to walk towards them. Surielle could hear Tréan begin the familiar cadence of a spell. She considered the same in those last few moments. And then Snowmelt darted from their spot by the trees. The unitaur roared in anger at the wolf. Snowmelt did not attack, however, but sprinted off in another direction, encouraging the unitaur to follow.

“NO!” Surielle screamed. Once again, her wolf had tempted fate to save her. As Tréan finished her spell, Surielle grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her down the path of broken branches the clumsy unitaur had left behind. Heedless of any danger, they followed the trail. Surielle heard fresh sounds of growls and roars, and what sounded like a painful yelp. Onward they went, Surielle running with Tréan by the hand.

As they reached the battle, both were unprepared for the sight. The unitaur lay on the ground in a wash of blood. Snowmelt was nowhere to be seen. Atop the unitaur was the largest lion Surielle had ever seen. Its shoulders stood as tall as Surielle did. The lion looked up from its kill, its mane covered with the unitaur’s blood. Surielle felt Tréan's hand grasp hers tightly. The massive lion regarded the women with cool black eyes. Surielle scanned the clearing, but there was no sign of her wolf. Had the lion killed it too in so short a time?

The lion growled at them, a throaty sound that shook Surielle’s gut. It took a step back away from the unitaur, and began to _change_. It shrank in size, with its tawny skin turning into smooth alabaster flesh. Where once had been the lion, now stood an elf in simple hide and furs. He casually wiped a smear of blood from his cheek.

“Why are you here?”

“We have been told there is a grove here,” Surielle began, her voice unsteady. “We…”

“Why are _you_ here?”  Surielle saw his eyes directly on her, and possibly her amulet. She cleared her throat in an attempt to regain her composure.

“I seek a druidess that once walked this path. Her name is Amara.”

The elf regarded the two of them in silence. As he deliberated, Snowmelt returned to the clearing, warily moving around the elf and the unitaur carcass.

“Please follow me into my grove. I will tell you of the last time I saw Amara.”


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## Ruined (Jan 9, 2004)

13th of Chardot, yr. 150 A.V., continued 

Gerad and Liam dragged Blackwater’s limp form from the stables into the wine fields. Gerad spotted workers in the fields that nodded their heads at his passing. Luckily Blackwater’s body was obscured by the rows of vines. They eventually stopped at a place far enough away from any stray workers. 

“I’d prefer to have it so he doesn’t see my face,” Liam said as he bound the unconscious man’s wrists. Gerad nodded. 

A few light kicks from Gerad’s boot brought Blackwater awake. He started once he realized that he lay in a field. 

“Wait… wha, what happened?” 

Gerad reached down and cuffed the man. It shocked him awake and set the pace for the questioning. 

“I have questions and you will answer. If you lie to me or scream out for help, I will kill you.” Gerad looked from Blackwater’s eyes down to his own sword. The man’s eyes could not help but follow. 

“What do you know about me and my visit here to Oakdale? “You do remember me and my lady friends?” The frightened man nodded. 

“Yes, you came into town with some lovelies.” 

“Forget them. Forget about us. Anyone comes asking about us, you tell them nothing. We were never here,” Gerad said, leveling the blade at his throat. “If you speak of us, I’ll paint those stables with your blood.” 

Blackwater paled considerably at the threat, then nodded anxiously. Gerad was satisfied, but Liam spoke after a moment. 

“He’s already told someone.” Blackwater tried to scramble around at the voice, not realizing that Liam was nearby. 

“How do you know?” Gerad asked, looking at the halfling. 

“A gut feeling. Somehow, he found someone to sell your information to.” As Liam talked, Blackwater’s face dropped in shock and protest. 

“Is this true?” Gerad demanded, returning the sword to Blackwater’s throat. 

“Well, I…” 

“Answer me!” 

“Yes, yes. There’s a bounty hunter called Thrain — A big Albadian. He paid well, and he was real convincing, much like yourself.” Blackwater managed a feeble smile.

“What did you tell him?” 

“He had asked for you before you came to town. I let him know you were here and where you were staying. That’s all, I swear by Hedrada’s law!” 

“Damn!” Gerad paced around, trying to decide what to do with Blackwater. If he was afraid of this bounty hunter, then he would likely speak of this conversation when pressed. The man was a liability, and he had already caused problems for Gerad and his companions. Perhaps he should just kill him. Liam must have sensed this. 

“Send him away, out of town,” he said in a low voice, moving where Blackwater could better see him. 

“We could just kill him and be done with it,” Gerad said, quickly playing along with Liam’s idea. 

“No, no, sirs. I can keep my silence, not a problem,” Blackwater said, trying to squirm away from Gerad’s sword. 

“You’ve caused us nothing but problems, Blackwater. We can’t trust you here.” 

“I do like the man,” Liam said, offering a smile to Blackwater. “If you could exact a promise from him and send him out of town, that might work.” 

Blackwater’s face brightened. 

“Oh yes sir! I can leave straight away, and never a word about you or your ladies.” 

Gerad knelt down before the man with his sword still at the ready. 

“I have you on your promise: not a word. If my friends or I ever see you again, remember my words.” Blackwater nodded slowly. Gerad lowered the blade and cut the bonds at his hands, then his feet. Without another word, Blackwater was off across the vineyard. 

“So did Marus teach you to be so brutal?” Liam asked as they watched the man run across the field. 

“No,” Gerad answered. “It was Calastia.”

***

The elven druid’s name was Solenus. He led Surielle and Tréan back to a small clearing deeper within the forest. A trio of trees dominated one end of the clearing, reaching together to form a crude canopy the druid used for shelter. Surielle noted that the life here was healthier than what they had seen elsewhere. 

“You tend her forests well here,” she said. 

“It is not nearly enough,” Solenus replied. “I have carved out a small place on the fringes of the Broadreach. Years have been spent to achieve this, and it is nothing compared to the taint which must be cleansed.” 

“Take heart,” Surielle said. “The burden is not yours to bear alone.” 

The elf looked at the women before him and sighed. “It is an easy thing to say, but I was there when the titaness fell…” 

Tréan and Surielle stopped and looked at Solenus with shock. He had been in the forest when Mormo had fallen at the hands of the gods! At Solenus’ request, the three sat on the forest floor and listened as he gave his tale. 

Solenus had lived in the Broadreach for many years before the coming of the Divine War. When Denev had asked for the assistance of her druidic servants, he and many others had answered the call, fighting primarily against the asaatthi that invaded on behalf of Mormo, Denev’s serpentine sister. The gods fought together against the Lady of Serpents, stopping her near the Broadreach. As she fell, she uttered a curse against her sister and her servants. Her poisonous ichor sunk deep into the grounds of the forest, blighting flora and twisting fauna. The battle for the forest, later to be called the Hornsaw, raged on for years after Mormo’s fall. Eventually the elves decided upon a course of action that would change them forever. Solenus and others enacted a ritual that transformed them into great trees so that they could bond with the land and attempt to heal it with Denev’s fading strength. In the century that he remained rooted to that spot, the druids endured much and actually helped the forest. But as Solenus has said before, it was not enough. 

“Your faith keeps you strong after all those years. If all of your people are as strong as you, I have no fear that the forest will be reclaimed in time,” Tréan said. Solenus managed a smile. 

“We hope as much, although the path is difficult.” 

Surielle had politely held her questions during the tale, but now she yearned for answers. “Solenus, you said you knew of my mother…” 

“Ah, my apologies. I have not spoken with anyone in months. Yes, I met Amara when I first took this post some sixteen years ago. You bear her resemblance greatly.” 

“There were a group of powerful servants of Denev that gathered here, your mother included. They had a quest deep within the heart of the Hornsaw where the foulest corruption lies. I had been asked to take the post of the previous guardian, Laremarche.” Solenus looked away from Surielle, growing silent. 

“And when they returned, what path did Amara take?” 

Solenus did not answer. She could feel the dread creep up her spine. 

“Solenus?” 

He finally turned to face Surielle. The look in his eyes told her exactly what she feared. 

“She did not return. In fact, only one did. I am sorry, Surielle.” 

Surielle was overwhelmed. The life she had pursued, in fact her entire reason for embracing the path of Denev, was an effort to find the mother she had never known. And she lay dead in the Hornsaw Forest? It was too much for her to grasp. Everything blurred, and before she could stop herself, she was sobbing in Tréan’s arms. Snowmelt, also sensing her grief, moved up and nuzzled at her side. A few minutes later, she regained her composure and asked one more question. 

“What of the one who survived? What did they say?” 

“She was wounded and terrified when she emerged from the Hornsaw. We did not speak of it, given her fragile state. I can endeavor to contact her and see if she will give you audience.” 

“Thank you Solenus,” Surielle said, wiping an errant tear from her cheek. 

“I will do what I can. Come to me on the morrow and we will speak more.”

***

Tréan, Surielle and Snowmelt took a different path out of the forest shown to them by Solenus. Surielle was very quiet on the trip, obviously wrestling with the choices she had made over the years. Tréan did not fault her. She too harbored a desire to know her own parents, but she had long pushed those thoughts from her mind. 

Would Surielle continue to travel with her and Gerad, or would she leave now that she knew of her mother’s fate? Tréan hated feeling selfish about this, but she wanted Surielle to stay. She had been a close friend and a fearless ally in their time together.

As they crested a hill outside of the forest, a familiar man moved into sight, heading in their direction. Tobus Blackwater. He had a large rucksack draped over one shoulder that caused him to stagger. As he moved closer, he saw the women and flashed a smile.

Then his smile cracked and he nearly dropped his rucksack. Tréan could clearly see the fear in his eyes. He turned and fled from the women, losing his footing a few yards away. Blackwater cried out as he fell, and then quickly scrambled to his feet and sprinted across the vineyards.

“I wonder what that’s all about?”  Surielle asked.

“I’m sure I can guess,” Tréan replied.

They laughed and continued back to Kelkarrin’s tower.


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## Ruined (Jan 22, 2004)

13th of Chardot, yr. 150 A.V., continued 

“Blackwater sold us out to a bounty hunter named Thrain. He sounds like the one you saw in Zamon.” Gerad looked at Surielle as he said this. He stood in the doorway of the room Tréan and Surielle were given in Kelkarrin’s tower. 

“We saw Blackwater on our way back to the tower,” Tréan said. “He looked quite frightened to see us.” Gerad shrugged. 

“He lived.” 

Tréan pursed her lips and frowned at Gerad. She was glad that he and Liam had not slain the stable hand, but she wished she did not have to worry about such things. Gerad paid no attention to her displeasure. 

“I doubt if he’ll find us in this tower, but he’s dogged our trail from Quelsk. He won’t stop unless we stop him.” 

“You mean to kill him?” Tréan asked. Surielle was the one to answer. 

“I think we need to.” 

Tréan looked at her with unmasked surprise. 

“As Gerad said, he will not stop until he’s either killed or captured us and has been paid his gold. Even if he were to take the peaceful route and capture us, he’ll take us to Quelsk or Calastia where a certain death sentence awaits.” 

“We need to strike first, before he lays a trap for us,” Gerad said. 

“I know,” Tréan sighed. “I just wish to avoid needless deaths.” 

“You showed no hesitation to kill the crocodiles before…” Surielle countered. 

“They were trying to kill us,” Tréan replied, seeing the looming argument, “and I they were creatures, not people. It just feels different to me.” 

“I know. That’s why you should look at it from my perspective. The hunter stalks us. We must rise up and slay him or forever run in fear. It is the law of the wild.” 

“Don’t worry, Tréan,” Gerad said, leaning further into the room, “if I have my way, _you_ won’t have to shed one drop of blood.” 


*** 
14th of Chardot, yr. 150 A.V. 

Surielle crouched down beside Gerad, who was peering into the stables through an empty knothole. “How is she doing?” 

“Fine, so far,” Gerad said without shifting from his spot. “There was a boy working inside, probably to stand in Blackwater’s place. They talked for a few minutes, and then he went running out the front. Nothing else.” 

Surielle glanced around the countryside, looking at the workers tending their fields. A few were close enough to see her and Gerad as they skulked, but there was little to be done about it. They had decided to let Tréan go in and inquire about the bounty hunter. Tréan had been less than thrilled about telling lies, but Surielle knew the priestess had a better way with people than either herself or Gerad. Surielle had asked about Liam; this was his town, so he could be the best to scout around, but Kelkarrin had other duties for him. It was just as well – this was their burden, not his. 

“All right, the boy has brought a man with him,” Gerad said, lowering himself to get a better vantage point. “He and Tréan are looking at horses. Nothing more.” 

At the same time, Surielle was looking out at the vineyards. 

“We may have a slight problem,” she said. Gerad turned to regard her. She pointed out to the fields behind them. “There’s an older man coming close. Not Thrain. He doesn’t look happy.” 

Gerad glanced back and groaned. “I think he owns land here. He saw Liam and me yesterday.” 

“What exactly did he see?” 

“Nothing!” Gerad protested. “We were careful.” 

Surielle shook her head. The man himself should be no threat to them, but he could alert the bounty hunter to their position. Or worse, he could summon the town guards. 

“Hey,” Gerad said, “where’s your wolf?” 

Surielle looked back to where Snowmelt had been moments ago. She was gone. 

*** 

Tréan was running out of questions to ask the owner of the stables. He had grumbled about Blackwater’s absence, but thankfully it had seemed commonplace. She had not found a plausible way to ask about Thrain, the bounty hunter who had dealt with Blackwater. Kellar, the youth working in his place, may have known more about Thrain, but his quickly formed infatuation with Tréan had caught her off guard. As she glanced over at where he stood, he flushed and looked back down at the stall where he worked. 

“This bay may suit you, milady. She’s not too tall, but quite sturdy.” The comment from the owner brought her back to the subject of horseflesh. Tréan looked over the horse for a few minutes while the owner headed back to the front. She had inquired about purchasing horses for her and her friends. She knew they might need them eventually, depending on how their meetings with Kelkarrin went. Where would they go next, now that this part of the journey was complete? 

She absently stroked the chin of the horse, wondering how her life had changed so drastically. Tréan glanced back to the stable owner, who was engaged in conversation with a large man. 

It was Thrain. 

The man stood a hand taller than Gerad and wore a thick, braided beard. His clothing was a hodgepodge of belts and furs. Her eyes met his, and she could see the realization forming behind them. He pushed the stable owner aside while drawing an axe with his free hand. 

“Come with me quiet, girl. I’d choose not to hurt you.” 

Tréan looked at the axe and had doubts to his sincerity. She took a few steps back and summoned a _shield of faith_ to protect herself. Seeing her cast a spell was all the bounty hunter needed. He advanced upon her and struck her head with the flat of his axe blade, completely avoiding her translucent shield. Tréan’s head swam from the blow, but she kept her footing. As she watched, Thrain pulled a matching axe from behind his shoulder, wielding one in each hand. _He has skill_. 

Tréan kept retreating from Thrain, hoping to stave him off long enough for her friends to arrive. As she conjured forth a spear of Madriel to fight for her, she saw the young boy, Kellar, rush toward Thrain. 

“Stop it!” the boy cried as he went to shove the towering man. Thrain callously backhanded the boy, sending him sprawling across the stable floor. 

“No!” Tréan cried, sending the ephemeral spear to stab at her enemy. The weapon struck true, but the bounty hunter paid it little heed as he closed in on her. 

*** 

Surielle could hear growling as she rushed toward the front of the stables. Snowmelt must have sensed something amiss and gone to investigate. Surielle loved her companion dearly, but wished that the wolf could talk and warn her when she went to do things like this. 

Around the corner, Surielle found Snowmelt in a standoff with four large, familiar dogs. Their owner was nowhere to be seen, thankfully. She feared for Snowmelt – she knew the wolf could handle one or maybe two such hounds, but four were too many. She would have to even the odds. 

“None shall oppose the will of Denev!” Surielle cried, spreading her arms wide. Three of the hounds yelped at her decree and fled from her presence. The remaining hound had launched at Snowmelt, and the two met in a vicious tangle of fur. Surielle watched but was hesitant to strike while the two were so close. She had to make sure Snowmelt survived, but she was torn, wondering if she could help her friends inside. 

*** 

The large Albadian harried Tréan, striking with both axes. Her summoned shield deflected some of the blows, but too many were getting through her defenses. Then, Gerad stepped in through the back doors of the barn and called out to the warrior. 

“You should be fighting someone your own size, hunter!” 

Thrain kept his focus on Tréan, yet took a step back. Once again, the spiritual weapon stabbed into his furs, but seemed to damage him little. 

“Her, I need to take alive. But you, Caedmon?” He looked back at Gerad with a smile. “All I need is your head.” 

The two wasted no more time. Gerad crossed the stables and rushed into Thrain, pushing him away from Tréan. The two moved a few steps back before disengaging and circling. Gerad brought his spear haft up in time to block a blow from an axe, allowing the other axe to slam into his breastplate. The blade cut deep, and Gerad to bit back a cry. 

Gerad would not be stopped so easily. He pushed the offensive, scoring hits against the bounty hunter with his spear. Some of the blows would have felled lesser men, but the man’s hide armor seemed to absorb the worst of the damage. Thrain did not flinch from his attacks, merely advancing upon Gerad and striking with deadly precision. 

“Tréan, get out of here!” Gerad yelled, hoping to get her to retreat. All he could hear from her direction was a continual series of chants and prayers. He tried to glance back at her, but such a move was a mistake. One of Thrain’s axes arced up and caught him along the neck and face, leaving a warm trail of pain in its wake. Gerad collapsed to his hands and knees, his vision darkening. 

He could hear Surielle’s voice, coming from the front of the stables. 

“Excuse me? Who do all of these dead dogs belong to?”


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## Ruined (Feb 2, 2004)

14th of Chardot, yr. 150 A.V., continued 

Surielle’s gambit worked too well. She had enraged the Albadian bounty hunter with her words. Apparently he loved his hounds as much as she loved Snowmelt. He turned, red-faced, and glared at her for an instant. Then, with a snarl, he charged. 

She had seen how easily Thrain had felled Gerad, so what chance did she stand? The hunter did not even look very wounded. With a desperate prayer to Denev, Surielle brought forth her flame scythe. 

Thrain rushed out of the stables and straight toward her, bearing an axe in each hand. His speed surprised her. She used the scythe to hold him at bay, but he showed little fear. The fact that only one hound remained, lying prone beneath Snowmelt’s jaws, gave credence to her earlier words. Had she spared Tréan’s life, only to throw hers away? 

She hadn’t expected such a sudden advance by Thrain, and in the process of blocking his swings she tripped over the animals. She concentrated to keep the scythe aflame, as the enraged bounty hunter moved in for the kill. 

*** 

Tréan knew she only had moments to act. Gerad lay in a quiet heap, covered in blood. Dying. A prayer to Madriel formed on her lips before she reached her fallen friend. Yes, her friend. They had been thrown together by fate, and Tréan was forced to rely on his methods of violence and brash attitude. But he had an honorable heart, and no matter how much she chided him, she cared for Gerad. 

The axe had smashed into his neck and cheek with grisly results. He was faintly breathing. Blood gushed out of his throat as Tréan placed her hands upon him. She cupped his cheek in one hand and covered the wound with the other, the devotion to Madriel still pouring from her lips. At once, the healing began, closing the wounds beneath her hand. Gerad’s breathing returned to normal, yet he did not stir from his restorative sleep. The spell completed, Tréan nervously looked to the front of the stables. There was no sign of Thrain or Surielle. 

“Madriel, please forgive me,” she said, smacking Gerad across the face. He startled awake and nearly lunged at her. He scanned the room, taking a second to wipe the blood from his face. 

“Where is he?” 

“Outside. Surielle will need us, but first…” She worked her hands to a familiar spell. Tréan had suspicions about the bounty hunter’s armor. 

*** 

One axe bit into the ground next to Surielle’s head. She rolled to her left as the other fell, chopping into her shoulder, searing her with pain. Another hit like that could very well sever her arm. She pulled herself up from the ground and slashed out with the scythe, its reddish-yellow flames cutting through the furs on his legs. The bounty hunter snarled and took a step back, allowing her the briefest of moments to catch her breath. 

Their dance was an awkward one. Surielle gave ground, narrowly avoiding the lethal strikes of his axes. She connected once, twice with the scythe, blackening his arms, but he did not cease. The haft of the axe struck her jaw once, numbing her mouth and causing blood to run from her lips. She was tiring quickly, and knew it would only be a matter of time before he won. 

A figure ran up to Thrain, plowing into his side and knocking him away before he could deliver another blow. It was Gerad, covered in his own blood, breathing heavily. Surielle stared at him for a moment before turning back to the bounty hunter. This would be their final fight, she was sure of it. As they advanced upon Thrain, Tréan joined them with her spear in hand. Surielle noticed that both Tréan’s spearhead and Gerad’s sword held a sheen that reflected the sunlight as if they were polished. 

There was no witty banter between them – only aggression and the instinct to survive. The party fanned out and circled Thrain, with Gerad first to test the waters. His sword first blocked a swing from Thrain’s axe, then quickly turned and bit deep into Thrain’s belly. Surielle and Tréan both found luck as well, turning the tide against the hunter. He struck with fierce blows against them, but could not prevail. He did not turn to run, but stumbled against Gerad as the life faded from him. Gerad let him fall. 

Gerad wiped the blood from his eyes and looked at Surielle. He looked a mess, but she guessed that Tréan had kept him standing. “Shall I end it?” he asked, turning to Tréan. She looked down at the fallen man and turned away, saying nothing. 

“Be done with it.” Surielle said. 

*** 

The sheriff of Oakdale arrived soon after the battle had ended. He was apprehensive at first, but the stable owner was quick to confirm Tréan’s story. The man had attacked her without reason, and wounded the young stable hand as well. The owner even suggested that he might have slain Blackwater who had mysteriously vanished from town. Tréan knew the truth of the matter, but allowed the lie to pass. 

Surielle had done her best to reassure her. Thrain would have given them no mercy, save for herself. And he would have handed her to a government that believed her an assassin. The gallows would be sure to follow. Surielle’s words rang in her mind. “There are some men who are beyond mercy.” It all fell to what one believed in. And if she believed that notion, what would she allow herself to believe down the road?


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## ledded (Feb 2, 2004)

Nice update.  I like how this one it shaping up, keep up the good work.


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## Ruined (Feb 5, 2004)

14th of Chardot, yr. 150 A.V., continued 

At Kelkarrin’s prompt, Liam wove a spell of illusion in the meeting room within the tower. Gerad watched the halfling’s controlled movements and concentration with interest. Such things were beyond Gerad’s capacity, but he found himself surrounded by magic at all times now. Even his mentor, whom he had thought to be a simple ex-soldier, knew something of the arcane mysteries. Liam opened his hands wide, and a hazy bluish globe appeared and rotated above the long table. It looked more like ice than glass. 

Kelkarrin spoke. “I have learned what I can of the Globe of Aggamar. As I told you before, the name was familiar to me. It had drawn my attention years ago, but I thought it a fool’s errand. The item was mentioned in more than one source, but it was supposedly destroyed in the Divine War. Until I received the message from Marus,” he spared a glance from Gerad to Surielle, “I believed this to be true.” 

“I did have notes on the Globe. Marus may have studied them in his years of tutelage under me. It was an object of considerable power, created by the foremost servants of the titans. It was said to control the very air around it, able to freeze an army in its tracks. 

“The last battle with the Globe was thought to take place just West of Zathiske. Divine forces fought a pitched battle to keep titanspawn at bay. The Globe was said to have been destroyed, as were most of the combatants. A field of bone and a monument mark the scene to this day.” 

“The Last Watchtower.” 

Gerad’s heart sunk. He remembered all too well the sight of eerie light emanating from the Watchtower on their journey. 

“If what Marus said about the half-globe is correct, then one should expect that there is another half somewhere waiting to be found. The power of the globe should not be left in the hands of any army, regardless of their disposition. Such things should be locked away or destroyed, and kept out of the hands of divine beings and titanspawn alike.” No one disagreed with this line of thinking. Kelkarrin waved his hand to Liam, and the magical image of the globe melted away. 

“You should also know that before you arrived, I received missives from persons known to me in Calastia.” 

“Spies?” Tréan asked. Kelkarrin frowned. 

“Acquaintances. Those friends who think I should be aware of important events within the Hegemony. Their army is on the move.” 

“What?” Gerad asked, clearly alarmed. The Calastian army had its enemies for sure, but other than perennial sieges against Burok Torn, they had not massed for large-scale action in nearly sixty years. “Where do they march?” 

“To the North into Lageni. From what I’ve been told, their destination is uncertain. It could be a renewed effort against Burok Torn…” 

“Or Durrover,” Tréan interjected. She was obviously concerned about the fate of her homeland. 

“Yes. Or Durrover,” Kelkarrin admitted. “We do not know if these two instances are related, but war is something to be concerned over. For myself, I cannot rest while the threat of this artifact rests in the hands of the Calastian Empire.” 

“I will assist you however you may need it!” Gerad said quickly. 

Kelkarrin looked at him with reluctance. “Gerad, I appreciate your concern, but I’m not sure you could help with this.” 

“With respect, let me say that I am drawn to this task,” Gerad replied. “When Marus perished, the unit that I belonged to was scattered. There is no life for me left in Quelsk. This was Marus’ dying wish: to see that you received word of the Globe. I knew him, and he would not have stopped there. I would assist you in his place, be it guardian or just a strong arm.” 

“He is not alone,” Tréan said, interrupting a polite refusal from Kelkarrin. “If this globe is as dangerous as you say, then I am obligated to help in whatever manner I can.” 

“You can count me in, master,” Liam said, flashing a smile. 

“And I suppose you think I am obligated to accept your offer now?” He raised his eyebrows at the group, but there was no ready answer. His lips curled into a sly smile. “So be it. We will make preparations to travel within a few days.” 

Gerad turned to look at Surielle, who had remained silent in the meeting. “What say you, Surielle?” She did not meet his gaze. 

“I have to think on some things before I make any commitments. I’m sorry.” 

Their meeting came to a close, and the three companions left Kelkarrin to speak alone with his apprentices.


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## Horacio (Feb 5, 2004)

_Horacio is busy trying to read all the updates he missed the last months_


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## Thornir Alekeg (Feb 29, 2004)

Please sir, may I have some more?

An excellent story hour and I am really enjoying reading some other adventures in the Scarred Lands.  I may very well have some of these things happening in the background in my own campaign as flavor of my group happens into the right places.


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## Ruined (Mar 1, 2004)

Thank you, kind sir. I have a post nearly ready for posting, plus the few after that are in the works. February proved a tough month for me to orient myself with the game and story hour, but all looks good now. Look for something within the next day.


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## Ruined (Mar 3, 2004)

14th of Chardot, yr. 150 A.V., continued 

“So what will you do?” Tréan asked as she and Surielle walked through the woods north of Oakdale. 

“It really depends upon what Solenus has to tell me. If my mother is dead, then I will know peace and go with you on your quest. If the path I follow leads elsewhere…” Surielle left it unfinished. She didn’t want to say she would abandon the quest that Gerad and Tréan had sworn to, but she knew that if pushed to choose, she would follow her heart. Bounty hunters may continue to follow her for her part in the flight from Quelsk, but they would find her harder to track than her friends. Once she returned to the safer woods of Darakeene, the ire of Calastia would mean little to her. 

They moved into a clearing, following the path Snowmelt had forged ahead of them. Surielle had let her wolf roam free now that she knew what to expect in this edge of the Hornsaw. 

As the pair reached the end of the clearing, something grabbed Surielle’s foot and pulled her up into the sky. She let out a cry as she was suspended upside down beneath a tree. Someone had left a snare, and it had caught her easily. She struggled to look around the clearing for assailants while trying to think of a way to break free. Below her, Tréan had her spear drawn, ready for battle. But the clearing was deathly quiet. After a few tense moments, Tréan began to laugh. It was infectious, and Surielle had to catch her breath to tell Tréan to help her down from the trap. 

Once freed, Surielle helped Tréan to look around the clearing. She found spoor that marked a few dogs, most likely Thrain’s hounds. Underneath some brush, someone had stored three skins containing a sticky paste made for entanglement. It was harmless enough now, but it painted a scene of what could have been. Thrain alone was a tough adversary, but with snares and tanglefoot bags he and his hounds could have overpowered them all. The pair counted themselves lucky. 

Solenus awaited them with cups of a strong tea. He was not alone. A woman with golden braided hair stepped forward and introduced herself as Caitlin, another druidess of Denev. 

“The resemblance is remarkable…” she said, brushing aside strands of Surielle’s hair with a gentle hand. “You are the very image of Amara. I had thought Solenus to be exaggerating at first, but I should have known better.” 

“How did you know her?” Surielle asked. Tréan remained silent by her side. 

“She and I met in Zathiske, drawn together by common cause. Those were better days, when we were still young and lively, innocent of the horrors of the world. Of places like this,” she said, looking to the forest beyond where they stood. “Eventually we were called here to the Hornsaw.” 

“There were seven of us in total, all druids drawn from various parts of Ghelspad and beyond. The calling… I cannot describe it. It is one thing to walk the land, knowing that Denev’s presence surrounds you. But this? It was a yearning to come here for an unknown purpose. Amara and I spoke little of it. We were called, and we came.” 

“What happened to them?” Surielle asked. She did not wish to hear of her mother’s death, but she had to know the answers to her burning questions. 

“First you should know of our purpose. Solenus told me you have heard the tale of the Broadreach Elves’ sacrifice.” They both nodded. “Yes. The ritual, Atarnoth Gran, means Renewal in elven. It was drawn up to fight the encroaching corruption of the forest. The elves were the only ones to use it, because they knew it would last many years and the shorter-lived races would not endure. They shifted themselves into great trees, using their roots to spread healing magic into the poisoned land. Nothing could harm the trees while they stood over the years.” 

Surielle could see the horrors of that time etched in shadows on Solenus’ face. There was a knot forming in her stomach, pondering the fate of her birth mother. 

“What was done with the original Atarnoth Gran was beneficial, but it was not enough to turn the tide for the forest. Their slow-working magicks stemmed the tide of poison from Mormo’s fall, but it could not stop it. We believed that a shorter, more powerful ritual might work where the original failed. Duly prepared, our group ventured into the forest. There are rumors of a single tree in the heart of the Hornsaw called the Great Sapling. It is believed to be the heart of the forest, and its roots connect with all life within. We intended to reach the Sapling, enact the ritual, and hope that it would work.” 

“But you are here. What happened?” Tréan asked. Caitlin’s expression darkened at the question. 

“There were seven of us, aye, yet the ritual only required three of us. More would be better and all would have willingly joined in, but we were realistic. The horrors inside there…” She paused, seeming to relive that day in her mind. “Some of the dangers we passed as only servants of Denev could, bending flora to our will and rendering poisons inert. Others were more of a physical conflict. A monstrous beast, one of several, grabbed me and broke my form. Limbs were crushed, my back broken. I should have died.” 

“We had agreed that our most potent healing magicks should be conserved for the good of the whole. I was first to fall. I would have gladly perished to see the job done. Someone in the group healed me enough so that I could care for myself. I begged them go on, as more enemies approached. No one wished this, but it was for the good of the forest.” 

“I’ll wager that more perished as they moved further into the Hornsaw. No others emerged here. I’ve sensed a change in the forest over the years, so I believe they were successful.” 

Surielle was amazed. Her mother had sacrificed her life for the will of Denev to heal the land. Would she have had the courage to take such a quest? 

“You said your version of the ritual was shorter. The one Solenus was involved in was for nearly a hundred years.” 

“It was a tricky business, altering the ritual in such a way. We originally estimated thirty years. The more scholarly ones among us would know more, but I was the one left behind.” 

There was an uneasy silence in the grove. Surielle looked about, her gaze moving from Caitlin to Solenus to Tréan. 

“If I were to venture in after Amara, there is nothing I could do to free her?” 

“Doubtful. The Atarnoth Gran was designed to resist the interference of the greatest titanic servants,” Caitlin said. 

“And you would surely perish in the attempt,” Solenus added. Tréan laid a comforting hand against Surielle’s back. 

“We will do whatever is necessary for you. You know that.” 

“There is nothing I can do now,” Surielle stated. “We will do what is needed for the Globe, and then I will return to save her.”


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## Ruined (Mar 5, 2004)

15th of Chardot, yr. 150 A.V., continued 

The day wore long in Oakdale. Gerad had walked the town twice over, but felt uncomfortable in the midst of its people. The ladies and he were here visiting a man no one but they knew existed. Their purposes and discoveries could be shared with no one outside of their circle. Every action was masked with deceit. _Silas would have done well here,_ Gerad thought. 

Surielle and Tréan had returned from the north woods bearing grim looks. They told him of the effort the druids had taken years ago, and the possible fate of Surielle’s mother. Given this information, Gerad was very surprised to hear that Surielle intended to leave with them. They talked it over outside of Kelkarrin’s obscured tower, with Surielle presenting her thoughts: Either her mother was trapped in a ritual that she was not prepared to dispel, or she had perished in the attempt. Surielle was not ready to handle either outcome. The current task ahead of them was a worthy one, and she was glad to travel with them. 

The trio was admiring the playful antics of Snowmelt when a chilling cold wind whipped across them. To Gerad, it felt like he had been thrown naked into a frozen lake. Within seconds it had passed, but everyone seemed to feel the effect. Even Snowmelt stopped her caterwauling and whined at Surielle. 

“What was that?” Tréan asked. 

“Whew. That felt too cold for the middle of Summer.” He rubbed his arms, trying to soak in some warmth from the sun. The door to the tower opened, and Liam peered out. 

“Did everyone just feel something dreadfully cold?” They all nodded their assent. 

“You felt it inside?” Surielle asked. 

“Yes, we all did,” he replied. The door opened a bit wider, and they could see Kelkarrin towering over the halfling. There was a wild look of dread in his eyes. 

“Everyone, to the top of the tower. Follow me.” 

Spiral stairs led up past many floors that Gerad had not encountered. He couldn’t help but wonder how the top of the tower would be. Would the enchantment persist, making it look like they were standing on top of nothing but air? Gerad did not think his mind could handle the change. Fortunately, when Kelkarrin opened the trapdoor to the roof, there were visible flagstones and low, crenellated walls. 

Atop the tower, they gathered around a shallow pool of water five foot in diameter. Frost had rimed over the top, but it was quickly separating and melting in the sunlight. 

“We must know the source of that wind. This pool is enabled for scrying.” He moved over, stirring some of the ice pieces with his staff. “One of you should look. I have nearly spent myself on research today.” 

No one readily volunteered. Gerad truly hoped the old man didn’t mean him. He had not an inkling of how magic was done and cared not to involve himself in such matters. Mages were almost as bad as archers. Almost. 

“I will try, if you will show me the way,” Surielle said, stepping up to the pool. Following Kelkarrin’s guidance, she knelt on the flagstones before the pool and placed her hands on the stone lip. Kelkarrin did not ask for silence amongst the group, but everyone presumed it was necessary. 

“Relax your mind. Think of the world from on high, your sight soaring across the land. Follow the wind…” The mage guided her with practiced ease, focusing his vision upon the waters of the pool. Gerad found his eyes locked on the waters as well. The flakes of ice floated in the clear waters, drifting in patterns, and behind them he could see the reflection of the blue sky and drifting clouds. The clouds increased their pace, and when he looked to the sky Gerad found that the two images did not match. The image in the water blurred and shifted until it looked like it was the vision of an eagle soaring across the landscape. 

“Slower, slower,” Kelkarrin cautioned Surielle. “You go too fast and you won’t find what you’re looking for.” His direction must have worked, for the images of blurred landscapes began to slow. It continued for another minute, then stopped. The scene had changed from grassy meadows to land with an obvious dusting of snow. 

“Snowfall? It’s the middle of summer!” Gerad said. He spared a glance at Liam and Tréan, who were both stunned, seeing the same vision he did. 

“Where is this?” Liam asked. 

“To the East. Calastia, perhaps Lageni,” Kelkarrin responded. He leaned close to Surielle, speaking in calm low tones. “See if you can find the center of the snows. I know this is taxing you, but you have the power to do this.” 

Gerad could see the mixture of discomfort and determination on her face. Her eyes remained focused on the image in the pool. Snow-covered ground began to roll across the pool’s surface, making Gerad feel a bit dizzy. Eventually she stopped its progress as she found what she sought. 

An army. 

Gerad recognized the banners immediately. The red dragon across a black field adorned with crossed swords marked the Second Battalion, a sizeable infantry unit from Calastia. He said as much to the group. 

As the vision soared above the army, everyone could tell that they were positioned in a large circle that showed no signs of snow. The numbers looked staggering, but it was the circle that worried everyone. 

“They have at least one portion of the globe,” Kelkarrin said, dread evident in his voice, “And it looks as if they intend to use it.”


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## Ruined (Mar 11, 2004)

16th of Chardot, yr. 150 A.V. 

Sleep had not come easily for Gerad. His room was much more comfortable than the barracks he used to share, and the tower, while unfamiliar and mysterious by nature, was as comfortable and pleasantly appointed as the home of any lord. The visions he had seen in the scrying pool atop it were what had him rattled. Calastia marching to war bothered him on a base level. He had been trained for just such a purpose, but other than skirmishes and patrols, they had not seen action on a scale that large. The army they saw in the vision was meant for siege on another country, perhaps Durrover or Vesh. Gerad had studied enough history of Ledean times to know the consequences war brought, and like it or not, he still had people he cared about in the Calastian military machine. 

He had haunted the stairs of Kelkarrin’s tower, careful not to disturb anyone in his passing. Gerad had not been the only one up for the night, for he’d found Kelkarrin’s bedroom open and lit. They had spoken of the army and possible consequences of them having the globe, none of which were reassuring. During the conversation, Gerad had spotted an oddity in Kelkarrin’s room, a double-bladed sword. Normally Gerad would have scoffed at such an impractical weapon, yet he sensed that the old mage could do considerable damage with it. Kelkarrin wasn’t built like a warrior, but he had seen great battles – Gerad was sure of it. 

The night passed more easily after that, and Gerad found himself late for the meeting Kelkarrin had called them to. As he climbed the spiral stairs that encircled the tower, he stopped to look out of an exterior window at the wonderful view. The fields surrounding the tower were clear, bereft of the vineyards that sustained Oakdale, so the villagers rarely strayed near the hidden tower. A shambling form moving within the fields drew his gaze. He focused his gaze and realized it was Nieman, the taller of Kelkarrin’s apprentices. Nieman struggled with a large rucksack on his back as he walked away from the tower. Was he leaving? 

Gerad resumed his pace up the steps, taking two at a time, until he arrived at a wide room that supported by marble pillars. Kelkarrin and Liam stood in the center of the room, while Tréan, Surielle, and Snowmelt watched from the side. A ceremony involving the two wizards was in progress. Gerad moved to stand beside Tréan and watched in silence. 

“Liam Brightmeadow, I release you from service. Let us end the bondage of master and servant.” 

With that, both Kelkarrin and Liam pulled their left sleeves back, revealing intricate tattoos. Gerad stared at the designs, absently rubbing the armguard on his left arm. From this distance their tattoos did not appear identical to the one he kept hidden, the one given to him by that slitheren witch, but the similarities were frightening. As Gerad watched, the pair spoke in harmony, using words that meant nothing to his ears. There was a brief sensation of power, and the tattoos began to melt from their arms. After the ritual concluded, Kelkarrin smiled and clasped hands with Liam. 

"Where is Nieman?" Kelkarrin asked the group. Gerad decided to speak when no one else responded. 

"I saw him leaving the tower by himself. He carried a large bundle on his back." It was a long moment before Kelkarrin responded.

"That is disturbing. We have not severed the ties between us," Kelkarrin said, moving to open a shuttered window. 

_He means the tattoos,_ Gerad thought. "Beg your pardon, Kelkarrin, but I must ask: What is the significance of the tattoos you shared?" 

“Ah yes, I explained it to the others before you arrived.” Kelkarrin pulled back the right sleeve of his robe, revealing another tattoo composed of red and yellow swirls and black lines. It too was different from the one Gerad wore. “It is an Apprenticeship Bond. It protects master and apprentice from harm from one another’s magicks. You see, as youths are learning their skills, they have a propensity for accidents,” he shot a coy look back at Liam, “such as setting laboratories on fire.” 

“I warned you I was unable to control that evocation.” Liam retorted, his cheeks reddening. Kelkarrin smiled. 

“Alas, it seems that Nieman has left without ending our agreement.” Kelkarrin seemed to catch something in Gerad’s eyes as he spoke. “Why do you ask, Gerad?” 

Gerad hesitated for a moment, and then pulled the bracer from his wrist. Beneath was the serpentine form of the tattoo. There were differences in design and coloration, but the placement and overall form of the two were the same. “Chardun’s torment…” Kelkarrin cursed under his breath and stepped back. He brought his hand up and wove a spell. Gerad flinched, hoping the mage would not blast him from his tower. Gerad was untouched and he felt nothing odd from his tattoo. Kelkarrin paced the room, looking for unseen assailants. Satisfied, he returned to stand before Gerad. 

“How long have you had that, and where did you get it?” 

Gerad told the tale of how the white slitheren had marked him with the spell. He had tried to remove it with no success, so he had hidden it for years. It occasionally made him uncomfortable, but he noticed no ill effects. Surielle and Tréan each took turns examining it, as neither had seen the marking before. It was a reminder to all that there were still secrets among their tight knit group. 

“It is a perversion of the Binding, but similar enough in nature. Such spells can be used to look in upon the ‘apprentice’, if one is capable of scrying. The spell I work is consensual. It cannot be cast upon one without their blessing.” 

“I did not want this – you may be sure of that,” Gerad protested. The mage nodded. “Is there something you can do that can remove it?” 

Kelkarrin ran his fingers through his silvering beard. “I can try a few spells, but I have my doubts. The Binding I use can only be removed in the presence of both involved. Until I see Nieman again, I fear this will mark me. It is of little concern for me, but your marking may prove difficult to undo.” 

Conversation shifted to other topics, affording Gerad time to speak with Liam. He would not be traveling with their group. He was freed from Kelkarrin’s service, but he still had a task that Kelkarrin wanted done. The halfling would not speak of details, saying that the matter was ‘very hush-hush’. Gerad allowed the subject to pass, and both of them agreed that they would see each other again. 

They had discussed the matter and determined that the Last Watchtower was the best place to begin searching for any clues as to the Globe’s whereabouts, even though the trail was over a century cold. Once more recalling the strange, baleful lights he had seen atop the accursed tower, Gerad found himself oddly heartened to know that Kelkarrin would be joining them.


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## Surielle Moonshade (Mar 22, 2004)

More please!


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## Ruined (Mar 29, 2004)

Big two-parter here. The continuation will be posted in a few days.

17th of Chardot, yr. 150 A.V. 

Sweat beaded on the brow of an exhausted Surielle. The sun was just beginning to rise, sending fresh warmth across her skin as she knelt on the flagstones atop Kelkarrin's tower.  She had worked for much of the night, practicing with the scrying pool after a weary Tréan had shambled off to bed. Surielle knew it could take years to master such a skill, but she wanted to have enough proficiency for the mage's plan. The others quietly assembled and joined her at the pool.

Kelkarrin nodded at her, signaling that it was time to begin. Once more she peered into the waters, willing her vision away. The waters began to blur, pulling away from the tower and moving east. Despite a night of focusing on locales she knew and trying to see them through the pool, her attempts still failed more often than not. She redoubled her efforts now, bringing to mind someone close to her heart. The waters swirled, gaining colors until they displayed a forest scene. 

In the pool a vision of Brianna, peacefully sleeping on a bower of soft moss, begin to form. Surielle felt a pang of guilt spying on her friend while she slept, but this was what was needed. As her concentration lapsed, the pool began to fade back to water, but she forced aside distraction and brought back the image. 

"Is that good?" she asked through clenched teeth, not daring to look away from the wavy image. 

"It is perfect," Kelkarrin said in a reassuring tone. "Everyone gather near." And so they did. Surielle felt their presence, keeping her vision fixed upon Brianna. Kelkarrin spoke a sharp series of unfamiliar words, his voice resonating with power. The waters began to swirl and bubble, and Surielle grasped the side of the pool. A force wrenched her away from the tower and then stopped suddenly. She felt jarred, but the movement was not enough to throw her from her feet. 

They were now in a forested glade, nowhere in sight of Kelkarrin's tower or Oakdale. Before them lay a cold campsite, and the stirring form of Brianna, awakened by their sudden arrival. Above them, Brianna's hawk, Glory, cried out a warning. Brianna leapt to her feet with her scarlet hair falling into an unruly mess. The small robe she slept in hung open, leaving little to the imagination. Surielle caught Gerad trying hard to look elsewhere and smiled.

"What?" she stammered, caught between clutching her robes and preparing to fight. When her eyes fell upon Surielle, she exhaled loudly and eased her shoulders. 

"I'm sorry to rouse you, Bri," Surielle said, walking forward to embrace her friend. "We needed a focus to bring us this place, and I was able to find you in a scrying pool."

After brief introductions were made, Kelkarrin and Gerad took their leave, heading to Zamon to acquire a boat with which to cross the river. It allowed Surielle and Tréan time to talk with Brianna and catch up on events of the past few weeks. Brianna was amazed at the dangers they had encountered and of the grave news regarding the Globe and the Calastian army. She had spent most of her time cleansing and warding the grove near Quelsk. Sadly, she told Surielle that there was no further sign of Maximillian, who had last been seen sinking into the earth in an effort to stop the foul servant of Gaurak. It seemed his sacrifice was a final one, sending him on to the next cycle of rebirth. The grove was now healing properly, and Brianna had contacted another druid to assume her duties, so she could return to Darakeene. 

When asked, Brianna remembered seeing the spectral glow from the direction of the Last Watchtower, but she did not know the source. Her campsite was less than an hour north from where she had seen the luminescence. She asked what lay inside the Watchtower, but they had no good answers for her. They all agreed that it was undoubtedly evil. 

The men returned after a few hours, both sweating in the growing heat of the day. 

"We've acquired a boat large enough for the five of us," Kelkarrin said, wiping sweat from his brow. 

"Good then," Brianna said, rising to stand before him. "I didn't plan on staying behind." 

"Actually I was referring to the wolf. She's nearly as large as Tréan." 

Both Brianna's and Tréan's cheeks colored. 

"You came to my campsite, so obviously you needed me. You just do not realize it yet." Brianna turned and began to break her small camp. Surielle gave an apologetic look to her friends. She knew Brianna, and she wasn't about to be dissuaded from going with them.

***

Tréan was one of the last to disembark from the boat as they reached the western shore, taking great cares not to soak her armor. She had spent far too much time scouring her chain mail after the pisceans had dragged her under. It was not a task she wanted to repeat. Sparse clouds rolled across the sky, trying their best to obscure Madriel's glorious sun. 

As they crested a large hill, Tréan could see the disheartening field that surrounded the Last Watchtower. Bones protruded from the ground at odd angles, along with rust-coated weapons and armor. The battle must have had thousands of combatants, all now intermingled in unrest. So many years had past and no one had come to properly bury the dead. She could understand long-forgotten tombs under the earth not receiving attention from her order, but this field was mere hours from living settlements. 

From the cracked ground amid the battlefield rose a tall obelisk of grayish-black stone. Tréan found her eyes watering if she looked at the tower for too long. From this angle, she could see no doors or windows breaking the stone surface. Her eyes traveled up to the top of the tower, which was concealed in an unmoving patch of darkness. This place was anathema to everything that walked the lands of Scarn, breathed its air, and craved the light of day.

"Charming place," Gerad said, grasping his spear with both hands. "What should we be looking for?" 

Kelkarrin shielded his eyes from the sun as he examined the watchtower. 

"The field and tower is rife with necromantic energy, but I see nothing that brings the Globe to mind." He took a few steps toward the tower, stopping just short of a skeletal hand resting lazily on the desiccated soil. Tréan was ready to caution him against moving farther in. The last thing they needed was to accidentally awaken the dead that were rumored to roam at night. "No, we're looking for history. If we can determine what happened here when the globe was sundered, then we are better equipped to search for the missing half." 

"Do we go into the tower?" Brianna asked. 

"It is likely our best source of lore. Yet how do we enter?" Kelkarrin pondered. No one in the party was able to see an entrance. Thunder rumbled in the distance. 

"There may be an entrance at the top," Tréan hazarded. Kelkarrin nodded. 

"I can fly up with a few of you in tow." The mage scratched his beard absently as he looked at each of them. "Two of the women. Gerad I'm sure your arm would be useful, but I can only heft so much weight with the spell." 

"No worries, Kelkarrin. I will wait here, and search through the bone yard. There may be things of worth to us found here." 

"I will go," Surielle said. 

"As will I," Tréan added. "Gerad, darling. Please be wary of the dead. You yourself told us of how these bodies roam the night." 

Gerad looked at Brianna who would be staying with him. "We'll be careful. This is not a place where I wish to fight." 

They gathered in silence as Kelkarrin prepared his spell. Tréan had enhanced her vision to spot the restless dead, but there were no abominations to be seen in the bone yard. Charms were called forth to enhance their abilities and to mask their presence from the dead. Kelkarrin finished his spell and extended his hands out to her and Surielle. She immediately felt buoyant, as if she were floating on the surface of a lake. Kelkarrin gently pulled her and Surielle into the sky toward the top of the tower. 

They flew above the tower to inspect the top before landing, and Tréan could see the cloying, choking essence of death swirling throughout a sphere of darkness there. The darkness didn't cover the entire top of the tower; an outer ring about fifteen feet wide was untouched, leaving them a safe place to land. Kelkarrin pulled her and Surielle forward, aiming for the untouched space. 

Suddenly, burst of purplish energy pulsed from the tower, sending a wave outward that passed through all three of them. It was cold, but Tréan felt no illness accompanying it. However, it disrupted whatever spell Kelkarrin used to keep them aloft, and the three of them tumbled from the sky. 

*** 

Gerad slowly walked through the field of bones, focusing more on the refuse at his feet than on Brianna. He did not like the awkward feelings she brought out in him. It was a weakness that distracted him from his duties. She was very attractive, but he had been with women before. Why should this one make his heart quicken in his chest? 

"Be careful. That's a rusty blade." He pointed to an orange spear tip half-exposed under a mound of scrub grass. "A wound from such a blade could give a man lockjaw." _She's a healer - she would know that Gerad. Idiot. _

"Thank you," she said politely, flashing a smile beneath her reddish curls.   There was a loud noise from the top of the tower, and they both looked up to see a flash of purplish light.  

Gerad could no longer see his friends. 

The ground rumbled and lines of purple streaked down the sides of the tower and across the ground. One came perilously close to where he stood, but it did not hurt him. The ground pitched and heaved, throwing bones in all directions. Gerad tried to reach Brianna, but fell to his knees from the unsteady ground. 

"Brianna!" he called, but he could barely hear his own voice amid the rumbling. He pushed himself to his feet again, but there was no sight of her. "Brianna!" he called again. He took another tentative step, and the ground gave way beneath his feet. Gerad fell into darkness.


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