# The Tale of Arminas -- Part 1



## master arminas (Jan 14, 2003)

I am Arminas tar Valantil.  Through many long years I have walked among my people, both in my original home world, and here upon the lands we settled in an attempt to find peace.  My life is far from finished, yet I find that many tales, legends, and myths of my journey have been fabricated, and the bard’s spin still more, many of those lies and falsehoods.  Here, in my chambers overlooking Lake Balatin, I see the autumn of my life slowly fading into winter, with the chill of the north’s long days merging slowly into a night from which I eventually shall not waken.  Thus, I choose to set correct the tales and mend the lies that have been spoken concerning my life.  Herein lies my story, read and learn so that you do not repeat the errors I have committed, and perhaps gain courage in the convictions which you and I share in common.

I was born the son of Barak tar Valantil, in the lands of the Theocracy of the Pale, upon the realm of Oerth.  The race of humanity to which I belong were the Suel, descendents of that ancient people who ruled half the known world in the ancient times, before the Invoked Devastation and the Rain of Colorless Fire.  Few of my race remains, scattered among the other humans of the world.  Only in the north of the Flaness and in the southern kingdom of Keoland do my people retain their strength.  Our land was named the Pale in honor of our race, which was light of skin, compared to the Baklunish, Flan, and Oeridian peoples.  Barak was a scion of one of the great houses of the Pale, a noble among our people, with large estates in the country to the north of Wintershaven, the capital.  The Palions, as we called ourselves, had for the most part rejected the magics of our ancestors, and over the many centuries become subjected to a theocratic regime, headed by the priests and bishops of the church of Hextor, a tyrannical god who ruled with an iron fist.  The power of the noble houses had been broken, and only our heritage remained within the lands of the Theocracy.

Barak was ranked as what you might consider a minor baron in the hierarchy of our people.  He was a farmer, who loved the land and brought forth each season food from its bounty.  Yet, he was a threat to the clergy, for he treated his people with kindness, and did not worship the god more than was required, and then in words only.  Thus, when I was yet a lad, seeing my tenth spring, I happened to be in the terraced fields along the Halevern, a glorified name for little more than a seasonal creek.  My teacher and mentor, an old armsman of my sire and grand-sire, named Gelerin tau Nestron, was instructing me in the many tasks which would eventually fall upon my shoulders.  The art of stewardship of my lands, the knowledge of the field’s bounty, the easy, assured air of leadership among the men working the fields and orchards which one day would be mine.  Little did I realize at the time that day would be the last of childhood, and the bitter end of many a dream.

From the high ridge overlooking the Halevern Terraces, amid the vines of sweet, dark grapes which we used along with honey to distill the thick intoxicating liquor for which our lands were justly famous, the two of us saw thick, black smoke rising from the direction of our manor home nigh upon three leagues distant.  Racing towards home, Armsman Gelerin and myself gathered workers from the fields, forming a brigade to fight, what we at the time thought, an accidental blaze.  When the two of us cleared the last high terrace besides the small lake formed by the spring that fed the Halevern, dammed to provide water for the House of Valantil, we were greeted by a sight that still disturbs my nightmares.  Bandits, scores of them, circled the burning manse, firing arrows into the thick roiling smoke and flickering tongues of flame.  My mother, both my younger sisters, and my best friend, Alariac, son of Gelerin’s son, lay upon the ground, sprouting black fletched shafts like hideous porcupines, still and lifeless, save the slowly congealing pools of blood which still spread from beneath their bodies.  My father, wounded sorely from a dozen cuts and gashes, with three cruel barbed war-arrows protruding from his chest and back, knelt on the ground, the broken haft of his sword, our families priceless heirloom which had survived the Suel Imperium and remained in our possession for nearly two millennia, still clutched in his hand, though the splintered blade, still glittering as bright as the moon in her full glory, rose from the back of one of the raiders on the ground by his side.  

Gelerin, I remember now, perhaps saved my life that day, for by grabbing me across the mouth and pulling me to the ground, we were neither seen nor heard by those blackguards who raided our home.  Too far distant to hear, I watched in panic as their leader, his face covered with a mask, drew back a bow, and sent a single shaft thru my fathers throat, his blood, my blood, mingling with the rest of my families upon the ground.  Little more of that day do I remember, save Gelerin leading me away, and the slaughter of those who depended upon House Valantil for their protection.  Keeping to the copses of light growth which interspaced the fields and terraces of our lands, my old teacher led me far away, traveling past when the sun had set and the moon had risen, her silver orb tinted red, as if the very heavens were showing sorrow at my loss.  

Late that night, in the arms of the old man who had suffered as much loss as I had myself, I heard his whispered words, among the last tears which I would shed for nearly five decades, words which I remember well to this day, words which would seal my fate for all time to come.  “Young master, I cannot protect you from that which destroyed your House,” which at the time I did not fully comprehend, but later would inflame my soul with a tremendous rage ‘til the day I extracted revenge, “and your name is one you must abandon, at least for the moment.  I am old, young master, and not many nights left do I have, but there are those in whose hands I can leave you.  They will shield you from discovery, and train you in the arts of war, for your former life is gone now, Lord tar Valantil.  Until the day you can regain your House, for you are all that is left now, and few indeed of the other great Houses of the Suel of the Pale remain.  Remain concealed, and one day you shall avenge your family, your name, and regain your lands.  You are Lord of the House, now, my dear sweet child, but you are also the last of the House.  To the monastery upon the Brekkan Hills shall I lead you, and there, you will grow strong and prove to all who see that you are truly tar Valantil, such as has not been seen since the sundering of the Imperium!”    

Thus, it came to pass, that Gelerin led me to the monks of Brekkan Hills, those of the Order of the Spirit’s Fire, to whom he gave me, and ordered me to obey, to take their vows, as well as my own secret and concealed ones, to learn the skills whereby one day I would discover those who had won my enmity, and extract from them the full measure and more of my hatred.  Never again did I see Gelerin among the living, but to this day, he remains foremost in my heart, for it was his spirit, his intractable and indomitable will, as much as that of my father, which were graven upon my soul and spirit and gave rise to the man, not the child, who would become known, and feared, as Arminas tar Valantil, last Lord of House tar Valantil, of the Suel of the Pale.

To Be Continued . . .


----------



## master arminas (Jan 21, 2003)

So it came to pass that in the summer of my sixteenth year, I found myself buried within the choking company of the monastery atop the crown of Brekkan Hill, learning new skills and hardening my body to match my heart.  Few there understood me, or my dark ambitions.  Only Master Tierion, the head of the monastery, and as the years passed, my primary instructor in the arts of logic, rhetoric, history, and weapons.  Only he, of all the brothers of the order, understood the unfathomable smoldering need within my heart, the call for vengeance upon those who slew my kith and kin.   Under his tutelage I soon excelled, surpassing those who entered the Order at the same time I did, and being accepted into the Order as a full initiate.  It seems now, from this reference point in time and space, that Tierion banked and stoked my inner fires, added to the desolation in which I found my soul abandoned; but at the time, he seemed my only true remaining friend.   It was Tierion who brought me completely and without reservation to the worship of Hextor, the god of tyranny, as well as of retribution.

 <o></o>

Slowly, over the years which I spent learning the skills and arts of my brothers-in-arms among the monastery, I found myself more and more alone.  My belief in, and worship of, Hextor was not highly regarded among my fellow initiates or among the monks who taught us.  Most of those who studied or lived in the monastery worshiped other deities, be they the older gods of the Flan, or those beings whom our Sueloise ancestors bade to stay their wrath through sacrifices and ritual flattery.  Associated with many of the Dukes of Hell, Hextor was one of the new, modern, deities brought to the Flaness by the Oeridains several score of centuries ago.  As such, he was opposed by many of his fellow gods, and most of the peoples of the world, but here, in the lands of the Pale, through a quirk of fate, he had become the Lord who replaced the Suel pantheon during the many long years in which our people, correctly or incorrectly, placed the blame for the collapse of the ancient Imperium.  As one of his worshipers, I found myself disassociated from many of my so-called brothers, colleagues, and fellows among the monks.

 <o></o>

Yet, late that summer, after I was fully initiated into the order and received my vestments and robes as an initiate monk, doom came riding upon swift hooves for those the monastery housed.  Over the past few years since I secluded myself from the world, the power of the church, and the theocrats, had grown immeasurably.   One fine early evening, with the sun low to the western horizon, a group of men approached the monastery along the High Road, connecting the mining township of Ogburg a few miles to the east with the capital of Wintershaven, nearly three hard days ride to the north and west.  This was not an uncommon occurrence, riders, wagons, and caravans oft passed beneath the walls of our monastery, but upon this eve, the riders drew upon our gates and rode into the courtyard.  Fourteen there were, all tall, powerful men, arrayed in finely wrought suits of strong chain hauberks, with helms atop their heads and heavy steel shields, bearing the iron fist of Hextor, squeezing the world and bound to it by chains of fire and gold, upon their faces.  Pennons flew overhead of three of the riders, one bearing the standard of the church, Hextor’s iron fist rendered upon a field of red, trimmed in sable, one bearing the standard of the Pale, a blue wyrm, with wings deepening to the shade of midnight, his belly lighter in color, encircling a golden crown over a crossed sword and rod, all upon a field of green, trimmed in a border of gold, and the last bearing the standard of Bishop Stannis, a golden rod clutched in an iron fist, upon a field of white, bordered in red.  Watching the entourage from where I was caring for the steeds that we maintained here at the monastery, I was struck by their poise and attitude.  Not even my father, in the days he still breathed, walked with the air of nobility and purpose that these young lords exhibited to all with eyes to see.  Yet, it was their leader, black beard dark on the pale face of the Suel, blue eyes as brilliant as winter ice along the river, his helm adorned with the six pointed black iron crown the church used to denote a warrior-priest, the purple raiment worn under his mail showing his rank as a Bishop.  As cold as ice, were those eyes, still, I remember warmth when they saw me, standing across the courtyard.  Warmth in those cold, dead eyes, and a slight smile, as he turned to be greeted by High Master Corden, the head of our order, and my friend, Master Tierion.  Little then, did I realize, how wrong I was, and what tragedy and disaster would arise from that misconception, for many of my people, not least of whom among them were numbered both myself, and His Grace, Stannis, Bishop of Hexter, Warlord of the Fist.


----------

