# The Yesteryear Saga



## D'nemy (Sep 23, 2007)

Hey folks. This is the story of a new campaign I started last week using rules from the new RPG Metal, Magic and Lore . Check out their website when you have a chance. The game's got some of the best rules I've seen in a long time. 

Stay tuned for new chapters. The plan is to post a new one each week. 

Enjoy! 

Chapter 1

“A Long Winter Ends”

Galad sipped his warm ale. His lithe, almost bony, fingers, cracked and calloused from months of endless labor, greedily grasped his mug. Even in the confines of the packed tavern, the chill in the air caused wisps of visible steam to dance over the mug’s rim. Similar wisps escaped his nostrils with each breath.

It was morning as usual in the town of Westgate. Though the chill was not quite as biting, it was still cold enough to cause the Wood Elf to shiver under his layered bundles. He kept his eyes on his mug. He endeavored to ignore the curious sidelong looks from the tavern’s crowd. 

All Men. Stupid, slow, lumpy, odorous, lazy Men. Their lives short as a flicker, and yet they are everywhere. The entire known world was overwhelmed by them. 

“Like roaches.” Galad heard himself muttering. He quickly looked up to take in the crowd, spanning its mass for signs that someone overheard him. None had. He took another sip of his rapidly cooling ale.

Not that he wished to condemn his hosts outright. They have provided him shelter from an unusually long and bitterly cold winter. In return, he earned his keep by using his natural talents with the bow and spear to hunt up enough game to feed this little pocket of Westgate when provisions ran scarce. Word of his prowess spread and before long other inns and taverns came calling. In exchange for a fair amount of brass and silver, Galad agreed to aid anyone in need of his services.

Even Lord Hauser, Founder and Overlord of Westgate, learned of the Wood Elf’s presence and decreed, while all others were to remain within the walls of the city for their own protection until the winter broke, Galad was allowed outside the walls to hunt. 

Galad, too, was skilled in the use of medicinal herbs, and when fevers broke out amongst the young and infirm, or threatened the horses and dwindling number of livestock, Galad agreed, for a fair sum, to aid the exhausted husbandry and apothecaries.   

Yes, Galad Breakwind, the scarred-faced, taciturn, mysterious foreigner had become quite a hero of sorts in Westgate. He was known by all from corner to corner of this small city at the western edge of Fjorn Pass that weaved through the otherwise unassailable Avaral Mountains. The city’s wealth depended entirely on merchant bands and other transients utilizing the Pass from either direction. 	

He arrived in the city just days before the first of the biting winds blew down from the mountains followed closely by endless sheets of falling snow. 

Galad buried the memories of his homeland, a vast forest some many days travel south of Westgate. He was no longer welcomed there and was forced into exile. Still, he missed the shelter of the forest canopy. The thin streams of light that would filter down from the mesh of branches. 

He took another draught of his ale. He nearly downed what was left. The memories of his former life faded. He gently placed his mug back down on the table and took another gander at the tavern’s crowd. 

Westgate was a well established and essential way station and the Hauser family had profited substantially from the steady stream of travelers. 

And Galad had shared handsomely in those profits by virtue of his talents. 

Yes, Men may be an obnoxious, arrogant and borderline uncivilized lot, but at least, in the case of the denizens of Westgate, they were wealthy. 

And winter was showing the first signs of ending. The air, though still far from soothing, was gradually warming each day. Spring was lurching into being and soon Galad knew he could leave this hamlet for finer surroundings. A place where his sack of brass and silver could be put to much better use. 

With that comforting thought swimming in Galad’s head, he finished off his ale and tapped his table to get the passing wench’s attention.

******


Young Marrick Hauser was forced from his slumber by an urgent knocking at his door. 

He drew his fur covers back, letting the cold air that seeped through the thick stone walls of his chambers to help jolt his awake. It worked and he instantly sat up. 

“Yes?” He said with a voice cracked with fatigue.

“Begging your pardon, sir.” Answered a familiar voice muffled by the thick iron reinforced wooden door. “But your father requests your audience immediately.”

“Come in, Warwick.” Hauser said, kicking his feet to the floor. He allowed them a moment to graze over the tips of the thick black rug before standing. 

“Begging your pardon, sir.” Answered Warwick. “But I cannot. Your door, sir. It is locked from your side.” 

Marrick smirked. He wrapped himself in his plush wool housecoat that hung from one of the posts of his bed and moved to the door, unhinging the latch and pulling it open. 

Warwick, his personal servant, a boy of barely twelve, bowed deeply. His cropped lager-hued hair stared back at the young noble. 

“There’s no need for that.” Said Marrick, a bit annoyed at Warwick’s formalities. “Come in, already.” 

The boy straightened and entered. Marrick closed the door behind him. 

“Sorry, sir.” He said. “A thousand pardons.” 

“Now, what is this about my father?” 

“Lord Hauser was most insistent. You are to meet him the in Great Hall immediately.” 

“What could it be now?” Muttered Marrick. “Another lecture about how I am falling behind? How I am not keeping pace with my brothers? Another reminder of how much of a disappointment I am? Always a pleasant way to begin the day.”

“I could not say, sir.” Warwick said with some hesitation, as if unsure as to whether he should have said anything at all.

The young noble sighed. 

“Well, then. I suppose you should help me get dressed.” 

“Yes, sir.” Clipped Warwick. “As I said, he was most insistent. Even urgent.” 

******


An hour later Marrick stood before his father in the Great Hall, cleaned and dressed in fineries appropriate to his station. His father greeted him with the usual formal embrace.

“My son.” He said, his voice echoing off the corners of the massive room. Lord Hauser was not quite old, but he was far from young. His face was smooth and clean shaven. His short, cropped hair was dyed black to hide its natural silvering. He was clearly a man fretful about his mien falling victim to the ravishes of time.  

“Thank you for answering my call so promptly.” He continued. “One of our subjects is in dire need of our help.” 

“Our subjects?” Inquired Marrick, a bit taken aback. His father never included him in official court business before. 

It was then that the young noble noticed a lady standing by one of the columns. She wore a heavy cloak over a beautifully embroidered dress. Her long auburn hair was bound by chains of silver and gold inlaid with tiny round jewels. She stepped forward. 

On her right arm perched a falcon. 

“My name is Venya.” She said, bowing to Marrick. Marrick returned the greeting.

“Lady Venya.” Answered Marrick. “How may we be of service?”

“My husband leads a merchant band.” She said. “They left before the first snows. They were heading through the Fjorn Pass to Gran Journ, where they were to spend the winter selling their wares to the wealthy patronage of that fair city. They were to return after the first thaw. I was to remain here. It was the usual arrangement. I am not known to travel well. Typically my husband sends letters, telling me of the fortune he is making, but I received none this winter. Understandable, what with the endless snows and unbearable cold.”

She stopped. The falcon adjusted its grip on her arm. Marrick noticed that the bird’s feathers were ragged. Patches were missing altogether and it looked emaciated. 

“I did not worry too much.” She continued. “Until this morning, when outside my window, I found this falcon. You see, it belongs to my husband. He has known it most of his life. The two are inseparable. It would not leave him unless…”

Her head bowed. A tremor went through her as she fought down her growing dread. The falcon spread its wings irritably. 

Lord Hauser cleared his throat and placed a hand on his son’s shoulder.

“You must take the Fjorn Pass, my son.” He said. “Take it across the mountains and discover what happened to her husband and the rest of the merchant band. Travel all the way to Gran Journ, if you must, but do not return until you know their fate.”

“And if he is dead?” Marrick asked, surprised a bit by his own candor. He fought to maintain a stoic visage, but his heart raced at the chance to travel outside Westgate. He had done so little up to this moment. 

Lady Venya stiffened. 

“Then at least I will know.” She said.

“I have every faith in you, my son.” Lord Hauser proclaimed with a great flourish. 

“What of my brothers?” Marrick heard himself asking, in spite of himself. He secretly cursed himself the very instant for even mentioning it. 

“I appoint you to the task, Marrick.” Hauser answered with a hint of a scowl. He was not one to be questioned. “I know you will not disappoint me.”

“I will need assistance. The pass is still treacherous.”

“Of course.” Lord Hauser agreed. “Warwick will travel with you and, if I may suggest, seek out that alien. The elf. Galad. He is a skilled hunter and tracker. He should prove useful as your scout. Offer him whatever he wishes, within reason.” 

“Very good, Father.” Marrick nodded. He turned to the Lady Venya. “My lady, I will find your husband and do everything within my power to return him safely to you.”

“I thank you.” She answered with a slight bow. The falcon spread out its wings and walked down her arm to her shoulder. Lady Venya took a small piece of dried meat from a pouch on her belt and gently placed it in the bird’s gaping beak. It nearly swallowed the meal whole.

******


Within the hour, young Lord Marrick was riding down the streets of Westgate toward The Bitter Inn, the reported watering hole of the famed Wood Elf. He was flanked by two guards encased in full	plate armor topped off with a bascinet helm. Their miens were masked by a face plate. With one hand, they held the reins of their mounts. The other hand grasped an intimidating pole-ax. 

Marrick wore a light chain shirt under his richly adorned tunic and cloak. He legs were sheathed in comfortable riding pants and he wore simple leather boots. A sword and scabbard hung at his belt. 

Warwick rode a horse length in front, calling out to the crowd.

“Make way! Make way!” He hollered. “Lord Marrick Hauser comes! Make way! Make way!” 

The townsfolk obeyed, clearing a path for the entourage to pass. 

Marrick smiled at the people. The children pointed and clapped as the handsome noble passed. He flattered them with a nod and a wave. 

“This way, sir.” Warwick said, with a point of his finger. He guided his mount to the right, down a significantly narrower street. 

The air was heavy with the scents of ale mixed with stewing meats and herbs, and although it was still bitterly cold, the rich, savory aromas managed to warm things somehow. 

As the retinue passed, the townspeople were forced back up onto the stoops of the various shops, taverns and inns that made up this crook of Westgate. 

Marrick caught the stare of a shapely, amber-haired wench as she stood with an equally amorous barmaid before the entrance of a tavern. Marrick smiled as he passed.

She returned the smile and whispered something to her companion. The two giggled. Marrick made note of the tavern’s sign. The Smarmy Smith. He promised himself to return very soon.

At the end of the narrow street, Warwick brought his steed to a stop and dismounted. He looked up at his master.

“We are here, sir.” Warwick announced.

From the façade it was an unassuming place. The writing on the warped wooden sign was almost worn completely away. The few stragglers that entered and exited the establishment were of the rougher sort, but they were refined and civilized enough to bow when they saw the young noble, protected as he was by his impassive, armored guards.

 Laborers and stablehands by the looks of them, Marrick thought. Good, honest people. 

“Very good, Warwick.” Marrick said looking at the entrance of the tavern. 

“I will tether your steed, sir and have the guards remain at the door. Should anything run amiss…”

“Of course, Warwick. I will let you know.”

“Yes, m’lord.” 

With Warwick’s aid, Marrick dismounted. He instantly strode into the tavern. 

He was met with the overwhelming damp odor of sweat and stale brew. His eyes watered and he fought down an urge to wretch. 

The entire mass of the tavern’s patronage at once stood. Wooden chairs scraped against the floor boards almost in unison. When Marrick’s eyes cleared, he saw a forest of men bowing for him.

“That is quite alright.” Marrick said. “Please, do not let me interrupt your… carousing. I am here on business.” 

A wave of chuckles went through the crowd. They all returned to their tables. Marrick overheard one of them say “You see, I told you they were good blokes!” 

A frail, balding, beak-nosed bartender approached Marrick. He bowed.

“M’lord. How may The Bitter End be of service to likes of one your station?” 

“I do not wish to be a bother.” Marrick said. “I seek a Wood Elf.” 

“Galad.” The bartender answered with a hint of a frown. “Yes. He is here.” 

The keep led Marrick through the crowd to Galad’s table. Four steins stood empty on the table top. A fifth was in the grasp of the elf as he chugged down the last few drops of ale. He slammed the stein down and let out a lengthy, basso belch. 

Marrick was taken aback for a moment by the elf’s appearance. His face was deeply scarred by what appeared to be old blade wounds. His bloodshot eyes were almost yellow and his skin was the color of fresh laid brick. This Galad was unlike anything he had ever seen before. 

When the Wood Elf realized he had company he puckered his lips and let out a strained sigh.

“Good sirs.” He said at last. “Apologies if I am being a nuisance. In some corners of the world, a bellow of that kind denotes high praise for the establishment’s offerings.” 

“Well, it doesn’t here.” Barked the bartender. He turned to the noble. “He’s all yours, m’lord” 

Marrick watched the barkeep return to his work and looked back at Galad. With a hint of a smile he sat down.

“You’re unlike any Wood Elf I know.” He said.

“Oh? Is that so, my prince?” Slurred Galad. “And pray tell, exactly how many Wood Elves do you know?” 

Marrick silently glanced over the empty steins. 

“That would be none?” Inquired Galad.

“Well, I have heard stories.” Countered the noble. 

Galad laughed. 

“Don’t believe everything that spills out of a troubadour’s mouth. They are professional liars. Highly skilled at their craft.” 

“Quite.” Marrick clipped. “Which, I suppose, brings me to my business with you.”

Galad tilted his head back and stared down his nose at Marrick. 

“I am set to travel through the Fjorn Pass. A merchant band has gone missing and I mean to discover the cause and, if it is within my power, return the members of the band to safety. I am in need of a scout. I understand you are highly skilled at the craft of hunting and tracking and…”

“One hundred silver.” Interrupted Galad. “All up front.” 

“One hundred silver?” Said Marrick, not masking his resentment. “That is more than the my father’s garrison receives in a year!” 

“And that is my fee.” Retorted Galad, shrugging his shoulders. “If it is too rich for your purse, then seek out less costly aid, but understand there is none better in Westgate than I. I saved much of this town over the winter months.”

“So I have heard.” 

“It’s true, my prince.” The Wood Elf said with an arrogant sigh. “And I’ll be able to save you from perishing on the pass. No one else will. Of that, I’m certain.” 

“Very well, then.” Marrick said after a moment of contemplation. “I will pay you your price. We meet at dawn by the Eastern gate. I will have your fee with me.”

Marrick stood.

“You’re a wise man, my prince.” Galad said with a nod. 

“I am not a prince.” Marrick said bluntly. “I am the son of a knight.”

“Oh, well then.” Galad garbled. “Forgive me for addressing you above your status. I meant no offense. I would think you would take it as a compliment.” 

“Well, I do not.” Marrick said with a turn. 

Galad watched the young noble huff out of the tavern. He shook his head and smiled. 

Lord Marrick mounted his horse. He ordered Warwick to loose its reins. 

“We leave in the morning.” He said to his servant. “Have my traveling gear ready by false dawn.” 

“Of course, sir.” Warwick said.

The four horsemen rode back up the narrow street, Warwick barking at the masses to make way. When the group passed The Smarmy Smith, Marrick called for Warwick to stop. 

“Hold for one moment.” He ordered. “I have business here.” 

Minutes later, the four were galloping back to the palace. Sharing Lord Marrick’s saddle was the shapely, amber-haired wench who had earlier caught his fancy. 

She clung tightly to the noble’s waist, wearing a wide grin. She coyly giggled as they hurried toward the walls of the palace. 

The following morning Galad, Lord Marrick and Warwick were off. They headed East toward the Avaral Mountains and the Fjorn Pass. As promised, one hundred silver coins were turned over to the Wood Elf in compensation for the hunter’s impending services. 

Light, but viciously cold winds licked at the three as they made their way up the wide road that wound through the vast mountain range. They brought with them four horses. One for each of them and a forth to carry all their traveling gear.

Though the temperature had gradually improved over the past week, it was still extremely cold and with each hour of travel they moved further and further upward where the air grew thin and even more uninviting. 

Marrick wore a heavy bear-furred coat over his mail byrnie that was, itself, covering a quilt byrnie. His lower torso was protected by the finest hardened leather leggings and quilted pants. His head was adorned with a conical helm and nose guard, which was slid over a quilted cap and padded collar. A shield was hooked to his saddle. He was well armored, but still light enough for an extended trek. 

Galad donned a Wood Elfin cloak and quilt hauberk. His legs were protected by hardened leather shin guards. He wore no helmet. The whole ensemble was wrapped under an almost identical coat to the noble’s. 

Both brought along a bow with two full quivers each. Galad opted for his well crafted ornate Wood Elfin spear, while Marrick chose his long sword. 

Warwick wore only a heavy fur coat over light traveling clothes. A small sword hung at his side. 

They traveled for three lonely, silent days. Only the murmur of the winds and the slow trotting of the horses hooves provided any accompaniment to their journey. 

Half way through the fourth day, they were forced to stop when they saw up ahead a massive drift of snow blocking the entire width of the Pass. 

Galad was the first off his horse. He bound up to the base of the drift. It was nearly thirty feet tall and from end to end it completely barred their way. Galad noticed some stones sticking through the snows on the southern the side of the pass. He immediately moved over to them, grasped his spear and leapt up the bare outcroppings until he had nearly reached the drift’s crest.

Then he heard something that stopped him. Something scuttled inside the drift. Patches of snow were being displaced, pushed outward, sent to tumble down the side of the drift.

A small gloved hand poke through. It was no bigger than a Hilfolk’s. He readied his spear as the hand sunk back into the little hole it had created.

A moment later, a crossbow bolt fired from the hole. It hurtled past Galad’s face, and harmlessly broke upon the rock behind him.

Galad gripped his spear as a little goblin suddenly leapt from the snow at the point of the small hole and barreled its way toward the Wood Elf. It squealed a battle cry, holding aloft a small iron mace. 

The tip of Galad’s spear parried the goblin’s first blow. The two were locked in a melee.

At the base of the drift, Lord Marrick watched the fight with a detached admiration at the Wood Elf’s fighting prowess.

Warwick watched, too, from the safety of the horses some twenty paces away.

“Should you not help him, my lord?” Warwick asked sheepishly, his voice cracked with fear.

“He seems to be handling himself well enough.” Countered the noble. “You just tend to those horses. Shout if any of those things come too close.” 

Marrick had unloosed his shield from the saddle and unsheathed his sword. He held both at the ready, should any more of these beasts appear.

He surveyed the whole length of the drift, when he spotted several small holes dotting the snowy wall above him. 

He raised his shield just as five more bolts rained down on him. One managed to slam into his shield, piercing through the sheet of iron just above his arm. 

He immediately lowered his shield when he heard five more battle cries. 

Warwick let out a terrified shriek as he helpless watch the five goblins pop out of the drift and slide down its length. They held iron maces in their wicked little grasps. 

The last thing the boy saw before ducking behind his master’s horse was Lord Marrick fully surrounded.


----------

