# Concerning Celene: Scyld's Story Hour (updated 2/27)



## ScyldSceafing (Mar 25, 2003)

"Come on in here, Tankar," the gruff voice of the Forge Tender barked. Tankar twitched, startled by the impatience in his mentor's voice. "Tankar! Get in here!"

Tankar rose and, composing himself, strode as confidently as possible into the Tender's office. "Sir?" he offered, quietly. "How can I be of service?"

"Close the door, there's a good lad. We need to talk."

So it came out, from mentor to acolyte, and so began Tankar's journey away from the everyday: There was a human by the name of Eladkot. He had turned up word of a dwarven holy place, one that was not referenced in the standard texts. Obviously, the church of Moradin couldn't let him investigate alone. Equally obviously, they couldn't let anyone go with him whose absence would be noticed.

Tankar, then, was chosen for his invisibility. "Now, just follow him around. Listen to what he says. Get the names of people he talks about. And in the name of the All-Father, if there's anything to this, don't let a bunch of humans get there before we do. Got it, Tankar?"

"Yes. I have it."

_They can send me on this task, but they can't raise me above acolyte,_ he thought to himself. _Well, I must go. It is duty. But I don't have to like it._

_Maybe I won't even tell them my name._


*-*-*


Eladkot showed up for the first day of his first expedition full of nervous energy and bonhomie. The fact that he had barely slept the night before slowed him for a few minutes after awaking, but his excitement soon burned the fatigue away like a summer dawn scouring the mist from a hilltop glade.

_Anything is possible today,_ he thought. _Keep your eyes open, keep looking for answers, and anything's possible today._

The raspy, sardonic voice of the head of the stables broke his reverie. "Look, _junior_ proctor, I don't have a requisition for any horses," he said. _Jerzes, that's his name_, Eladkot thought. _Whew. Has he been drinking already?_

"Listen - Jarzes, right?" Eladkot began. "You've been here a while. You understand that papers get lost, cross-marked, sent to the wrong department ... that's clearly what hap --"

"What I know is that without papers you ain't getting horses. Nor no mules either, so just save yer breath. And don't think you can cozy up to me an' get what you want, or threaten me and get it neither. I know these horses like my kin. And you ain't gettin' 'em for any fool errand that you got from the stars or somethin'. Nuh-uh."

"I just think that--"

"You should think about gettin' some good shoes afore you go - 'cause yer gonna be walkin'."

Just a few heartbeats ago, Eladkot would have laughed at the idea of being afraid of Jarzes. But now, the horseman's bloodshot eyes were mere inches away, and Eladkot, junior proctor of libram and pen (untenured), felt he could taste the alcoholic haze that leaked from the man's whistling nostrils. Taking a step back, he made a desultory farewell and left.


*-*-*


"Junior Proctor, I wish you to meet -- what was your name again, Master Dwarf?"

Every fiber of Tankar's being cried out that he was being piteously misused. He, who had been raised to the Mysteries of the Forge almost since birth, being sent - still as an acolyte! - out into the mountains as guide and footman to this ... this _human_. His posture betrayed some of this feeling - a certain tightness around the mouth, perhaps, and a special fastidiousness in his sacramental braidings spoke of faithful but bitter submission. And now, to sit here, meeting this human. Supposed to act happy about it. Supposed to act friendly.

He'd go. He didn't have to provide cheer.

"My name, honored Fellow of the Institute, is not truly important," he answered, gravely. He felt a bit guilty at putting on more of a dwarvish accent than was typical, but the idea struck him and it was too late now. "I'm the dwarf. You may call me ... dwarf is fine."

_See what they do with that,_ he thought with some delight. His face, of course, betrayed nothing.

"Oh. Ah. Mr. ... Dwarf, then," stammered the slim, nondescript human with the Fellow. "I am Eladkot, junior proctor at the Institute. I've got some information that concerns an ancient --"

"I've been briefed," Tankar interrupted, affecting some gruffness. It really was hard to be angry with this human. He was so ...

"Wonderful!" Eladkot exclaimed, his face breaking into a smile of honest relief. _Not the word I was looking for,_ Tankar thought. _By the Forge, he was afraid I was going to turn him down. Doesn't he know I'm under orders?_


*-*-*


The first three days of the trip were uneventful, even pleasant. Westward and slightly south they travelled, toward Eladkot's conjectured site for the Hidden Valley Ranch - a most unlikely name, Tankar thought. And this mess about it being a holy site - how could that be? He was trained in the Hidden mysteries, even as an acolyte. How could there be a holy site, lost barely five generations ago, the name of which was not even mentioned in the standard texts?

_Chasing shadow rats,_ he thought. _We're chasing shadow rats._


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## ScyldSceafing (Mar 25, 2003)

*OOC: Introductions all 'round*

This story hour follows a group which began with a 'Gamers Seeking Gamers' post here on the ENWorld boards. Since that first email (from Eladkot's player), we've built a weekly group of five PCs. Everybody started at 0 xp.

The PCs are:

*Eladkot -* a skinny, bookish lad trying to make the tough transition from junior faculty to tenured professor of magical studies in the rough-and-tumble (sic) world of City of Greyhawk academics. Eladkot's player is the man whose email started the group - for that we all owe him a little debt of gratitude, although it's likely the man will take payment in the form of a drinkable malt of hops and grain. _Male human, Rog1/Wiz1._

*Tankar Lostson -* known throughout the first session as 'the dwarf' because his player didn't know if the game was actually going to come off, and was a bit unprepared. Since then, Tankar has actually revealed his name following a little confidence-building exercise he and Eladkot went through involving orc slavers, a priest of Hextor, and an ambush. He's an orphan who was raised in the care of the priests of Moradin, and has followed that path to this point in his life. _Male dwarf, Clr2 of Moradin._

*Wyn A'rienh -* As daughter of the youngest sister of the Queen of Celene, one might have expected Wyn to be subtle, conniving, suspicious and enthralled by Fae mystery. She isn't. Wyn's mother has found life in and around the court to be one of petty jealousy and thwarted hope for nearly every woman she's known, including the Queen - so she set Wyn on another path. When Wyn showed interest in martial studies, her mother used her position to insure her tutors were skilled and scrupulous. _Female elf, Ftr2._

*Foop Bodkins -* Foop was the apprentice to an entertaining and fairly well-known alchemist who sold his wares as a sort of travelling road-show. Recently, though, Foop returned from a reagent-gathering sojurn to find his master missing and an unfamilar rune scribed on a scrap of parchment. _Male gnome, Rog1/Wiz1._

*Kerrick -* Kerrick was also apprenticed, but he to a transmuter. He is quite gifted but a bit impulsive. He was taken by orc slavers in the foothills of the Lortmil Mountains, and then rescued by the party. Since he had no idea where he was, and the group seemed to be having some fun, he stayed with them. _Male human, Wiz1._

Hope everyone enjoys the low-level follies as our heroes stumble into the maw of ancient forces. Sounds like fun, doesn't it?


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## ScyldSceafing (Mar 25, 2003)

*A young elf's first assignment*

Done well, swordfighting in the elven style results in a sort of brutal, sinuous worship of power; positions and movements learned as a child are incorporated seamlessly and without thought, and the result is a destruction of those very forms, replaced instead by a singular expression of beauty, confidence and danger.

Done poorly, it looks something like this:

The Master stands, poised, his thin, wooden training blade loosed and held - but held loosely - near his hip. The Student, her expression creased with concentration, runs at him. As she approaches, she raises her sword high with her right hand. The sword swings in a wide oval as she runs, then slashes down diagonally as she reaches him.

He parries it lazily, offering a grunted, "You showed it again" as she follows up with another blow - parried - and a chop at the legs - blocked. She steps back, then lunges back in. A twist of his wrist flips the sword from her grasp, and she slumps dejectedly as his wooden blade ticks her under the chin.

Sighing, he abruptly drops into a cross-legged sitting posture on the floor. "Sit," he says, and she does.

"Wyn," he says, still sighing, looking about the room for suggestions on how to start. "Your father, ehh, he would want you to work harder on the--"

"I'm not my father, you know."

"Yes. I know. But you've got ability with more than just the bow. You want to be one of those archers who dies the first time they get overrun? It happens more than we like to talk about. And your father ...

Ji'tun laughed, and the look on his face became that of someone she wished she knew more completely. "I remember how your father fought, there at the end of the Hateful Wars. One time, we were trapped in a little side-room by some orcs, just the three of us - your father, Telmo, and me. He just laughed and sang a drinking song at them! And as he sang he danced to the song, with his feet and his body and his sword. Oh, so many orcs marched into his blade it became like an anthem ..."

On and on. All her life Wyn had heard stories like this. On and on, all her life, all for a man she'd never met and would never meet. Her father danced his beautiful dance until the blood pouring off of his flashing blade had finally made him slip. 

"I've got to go to the range," she said, when Ji'tun's reminisences made a brief pause. Then, siezed by a vague guilt: "Festival's coming up. You know. Have to get ready for the contest."

Ji'tun's beatific expression vanished, replaced by his usual carefully neutral inquisitive stare. "Ah," he said. "Yes. Absolutely. So then - same time in two days?"

"Sure."

"Wonderful. Just put the practice sword and the tabard in the equipment room. Oh - and take mine, please. Thank you."

While she was putting the equipment away, Wyn's turbulent thoughts were interrupted by another voice in the dojo: Ly'al, of the royal guard. "Wyn here?" she heard him ask Ji'tun. "Yes," her master replied, then the conversation continued, more quietly.

_It's not really eavesdropping if they're talking about me, right?_ Wyn thought as she moved to hear more clearly. _I mean, I can hardly avoid hearing what they're saying._

"... know she's upset at being turned down for that Ministry trip."

"Yes. She was fierce that day. She didn't say anything, but I heard about it later."

"Right. Well. Her mother must be part dwarf. The woman is stubborn. She wants her daughter--"

"Shh. Here. Come out here."

Wyn strained, but only bits and pieces wiggled through.

"... put her on a ranging."

"Not b ... available."

"... safer than ... and the goblins - they're ..."

"... counsel her to listen and learn. Good. It's good."

Realizing they were coming back into the dojo, Wyn dropped the final sword into place and banged the cabinet door shut.

"Ah, Wyn. Yes." Ji'tun gestured at the guardsman. "You know Ly'al, yes?"

Pulling herself into what she hoped was a powerful stance, Wyn said, "Yes. Of course. Hello, sir."

"Wyn. No need to call me sir. I just wanted to tell you I got you a post."

"On the next Ministry trip?"

"Well ... we'll see how this goes. I've asked for you to be placed on the list for a ranging."

So. There it was. A ranging. They wanted her to prove herself. A ranging. Fine.

"That's ... kind of you. I should report ...?"

"Report to the guards stand first thing tomorrow. I'm not having the Queen's niece running around in the woods with three other saplings wearing armor made for a fat boy. Then I'll walk you over. I hope that's acceptable?"

"It is, sir. And thank you."


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## CoopersPale (Mar 28, 2003)

Hi  ScyldSceafing,

I like it 

You have a great writing style!

Who came up with the name "Foop" anyway?
That's just funny.

How many sessions of this campaign have you played?

cheers

Coop


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## ScyldSceafing (Mar 28, 2003)

Ah, well, thank you.

Foop's player came up with the name Foop. He actually now says it as a cheer when he does something good. I can foresee the day when the chorus of "Foop!" from star-struck onlookers prompts the commentator to pause and point out, "They're not booing - they're saying 'Fooooooop!'"

And I think we've had about five weekly sessions so far. And this is about the first 1/8 of the first one.

I plan to finish this session by the end of the day Sunday. So there will be several posts this weekend.


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## ScyldSceafing (Mar 28, 2003)

*Afoul of the slavers*

In retrospect, it is hard to blame either Eladkot or The Dwarf for falling afoul of the slavers. Neither had much experience in the world. And up to that point it had just seemed so ... easy.

The journey began with a boat trip down the Velverdyva. The Rhennee boat captain had orders to make certain the two weren't bothered, and he took it literally. Despite sharing a small cabin, the two exchanged fewer than 20 words in the four-day trip from Dyvers to Verbobonc, all of those from Eladkot. The human wondered, at times, if perhaps the dwarf couldn't speak; but of course he heard the priest's prayers in the mornings, so the thought was idle, and he put it away.

Leaving Verbobonc was more like a stroll than any dramatic undertaking. After two days on the road, the companions had settled into a peaceable but extremely quiet routine. Eladkot occasionally spoke about his theories on Hidden Valley Ranch, or less often about people he knew in Greyhawk; The Dwarf grunted assent or amusement, as appropriate, but offered little else. _Would it kill him to tell me his name?_ Eladkot thought more than once. _It's been two days now._ But the human never asked directly, and the dwarf never offered, and so they walked on, west and southwest, through verdant farmlands and tiny hamlets, toward the hills and mountains looming before them. Their passage was not much noticed by those around them. 

So on they hiked, their bodies growing stronger and leaner as they went - through the northern edge of the Kron Hills and onto the path suggested to them by a local woodsman. It seemed he was available for hire - but who needs help walking? On their eighth day out of Verbobonc - the day Eladkot successfully set a snare and caught a mountain hare for dinner - the pair settled down to sleep in a sheltered camp site off the path.

They awoke when jostled by something hard. The butt of a spear, it turns out. The butt of a spear, held by an orc. Around them were several orcs - a few had weapons on them, while the others turned out their packs and looked for valuables. The largest stood to the side, arguing with a human who spoke the rough and degraded tongue of orc kind.

It was the human who broke the news. "Sorry about all this," he said, wincing slightly. "The boys are a bit difficult about security sometimes. It seems there's some goblins marauding through these hills. You need to come with us."

"Come with you?" Eladkot asked, his anger growing now that the spear-haft was absent from his ribs. "What is this? Tell them to leave our equipment alone!"

With a curt word in their tongue, the human got the attention of the orcs. They answered angrily, and the human replied in kind. After a brief exchange of obvious animus, the orcs repacked the equipment and left it where it lay.

"There you go. A show of good will, I suppose," the human said, smiling in the moonlight. "I'm sorry. I've started poorly with you gentlemen. My name is Bjorn, and I'm a trader around these parts. These orcs are ... well, they're familiar to me, if they're not friends. At least I know them a bit.

"This doesn't have to go this way. Just come with us, sleep the night through, and we'll all go our ways in the morning. It's the goblins they're worried about."

"Goblins? Surely these can handle goblins?"

"Ah, but the goblins have great numbers, and are increasingly cunning."

With that, he gestured to the orcs, who took the pair in hand. The largest orc - the one who had argued with Bjorn - approached with manacles.

"Wait!" Eladkot said, and The Dwarf jostled with his minders. "You didn't say anything about being bound!"

"Oh. Sorry," Bjorn said. "Grak is adamant about that. He thinks you're agents for the goblins. He wants you to have a hard time fighting." Seeing their obvious disbelief, Bjorn smiled. "Look, I'm telling you the truth. And what choice to you have, really?"

A quick count showed six orcs in the area, and this Bjorn. With a tiny shake of his head, The Dwarf counseled patience to Eladkot, who said, "Very well. We'll go with you. We have your word that you'll loose us?"

"Oh yes," Bjorn replied. "You have my word."

A quick, quiet march further into the mountains led to the orc camp. As they arrived, Bjorn whistled and several more orcs stumbled out of their small, rough shelters to the fire-pit. A long, low lean-to held ... prisoners?

"Ah. Yes," Bjorn said, laughing. "Well, it seems we've had a misunderstanding. You shan't be freed - not now, and not ever. You are mine, lads, until we get where we're going. Then, after a little commerce, you'll be someone else's."

The orcs were already dragging them over to the chain-lines that held the other prisoners - a sturdy but slightly elderly man and two young women.

"We set out tomorrow morning," Bjorn said, his face still glowing with amusement at his little ruse. "I'd get some sleep if I were you."


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## ScyldSceafing (Apr 2, 2003)

*And into the wild*

Clad in lovingly crafted leather armor decorated in a motif of twining green leaves, armed with a fresh bowstring and straight, shining steel, Wyn marched over toward the mustering bower to meet her companions for her first ranging. The three elves she met there were a bit ... unexpected.

"So who's the new girl?" the shortest one said as she walked through the archway. "You comin' with us?"

"I ... I'm Wyn. Yes. I'm-"

"Like your armor, _Wyn_," he said, drawing a small guffaw from the largest elf. The third, a young one whose face showed the scars of a battle with spotted fever, didn't laugh, but he smiled a bit. A moment of silence followed ... stretched ...

"It's new," she offered, hopeful.

"Yep," said the largest one. "I'm Laucion. Don't b'lieve we've met." He stood and extended his hand, palm-up, showing a healing cut on his thumb.

"Pleasure to meet you-"

"Look. Let's get something straight here. I'm leading this here rangin', right?"

"R-right."

"And you got new armor."

"Yes."

"So maybe you listen to me a little. I ain't part of no diplomatic corps, but I know a thing or two. And one of the things I know is that I want you to get back to your mama in one piece, new girl. Understand?"

_This is the worst of it, Wyn. They're testing you,_ she thought. All she said was, "Yes. I understand."

*-*-*

If Laucion did little to make her comfortable in the mustering bower, he did less in the field. In their practice at targets, Wyn showed she was the match of any of them - their better, truth be known - but still the ranging leader squinted hard at any suggestion she could hold her own.

What made it worse was the sneaking suspicion he was right. Her first attempt at tracking was a disaster - she not only lost the signs of the owlbear, but she also so muddled the trail that even Laucion couldn't straighten it out. And she learned quickly that it didn't take a master bladesman like Ji'tun to humble her. The first night, Laucion worked with her until full dark, hitting her again and again with the flat of his sword, daring her to call it off. She drifted off into meditation thinking about the relation between pain and wisdom, and hoping her abundance of the former would produce some of the latter.

Still, her mother's most common words kept her trying: _You're never beat if you're alive and learning, Wyn. Alive and learning. Stay that way._ She was alive, and she was learning. Learning to sleep on the ground. Learning to gobble hot food with her hands. Learning the words to some songs she hadn't heard from any minstrels.

After a few days, Wyn settled into the rhythm of the thing, and she realized that a great portion of ranging was boring. Reports from recent rangings had only talked of a few problems on the boundaries of Celene - some well-organized but seemingly non-aggressive goblins in the Lortmils, an odd concentration of ankhegs just south of the Kron Hills, and a few incidents of orcish predation on peaceful folk. Nothing organized and no incidents of note. Boring.

Ten days into the ranging - with the group west of the Kron Hills in the lower Lortmils and just about to turn for home - that all changed.


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## ScyldSceafing (Apr 2, 2003)

*Slave's Progress*

All day the orcs had pushed them forward, their legs in light irons, their necks chained together by the coffle. Eladkot had stared at the older man's bald spot for so long he felt he'd see it in his sleep. It was worse for The Dwarf - he was shorter than any of the others except for the little girl, and she was at the end of the coffle. His position in the middle meant his neck-ring pulled up constantly, making him walk with his chin in the air and thereby rendering him prone to stumbling over the slightest obstruction. They were fed, but the food was tasteless and cold. They were told not to talk. They were told not to look around.

_And it's worse for the women,_ Eladkot thought. His reverie was broken by the orcs arguing. As usual, Bjorn settled it.

"But the path is washed out!" Grak said. "We're going to have to pick through there single-file!"

"And what of it?" Bjorn countered. "This is our way. I don't know another, do you?"

"Well-"

"Look. Move out. Sooner we start, sooner we finish."

It didn't take a woodsman to see what the orcs were complaining about. The trail they were following was pounded flat some time before out of the shale and shattered stones which piled up against the hill-face proper. Apparently heavy rains had washed portions of it out - it would be impossible to go more than single file. A false step at the wrong point would mean a slide down a sharp incline composed entirely of fragmented rocks.

"This should be fun," Eladkot muttered.

"Shut it," one of the guards said. Slowly, gingerly, the group worked its way along the path.

After about 100 feet of this struggle, the path turned sharply to the right, following the contour of the hill. For several feet on either side of this turn, the path disintegrated entirely, becoming just a general slope of rock. One of the lead orcs nearly fell, and they began helping each other across it. Eladkot, looking ahead, realized that the orcs had divided themselves in a way that could be most useful.

_Right. Useful,_ he thought. _Useful if there was anyone else here who wasn't chained up._


*-*-*


Cassa, working point, appeared suddenly out of the trees.

"Laucion," he said, panting slightly. "It's orcs. About 8 of 'em. And they got prisoners, looks like."


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## Wyn A'rienh (Apr 5, 2003)

*tiptoes in and looks around*

*spots Scyld*

*salutes him....then moons him and runs away, giggling*


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## ScyldSceafing (Apr 9, 2003)

*Fighting the slavers*

Three of the first volley of arrows from Laucion's ranging found a home in one particular orc near the end of the line. At the moment that he squealed briefly, grunted and fell, fully half the orc guards were past the washout and around the turn in the path. The prisoners were stopped, measuring the prospect of crossing the washout while in legirons. One orc was screaming at them to move. Bjorn was behind them, in the midst of the seven orcs who followed the prisoners - what he thought of as his 'rearguard.'

Eladkot took one look over his shoulder, saw the orcs whirling and looking for battle, and _pushed._ Bunched up and bound as they were, the six prisoners tumbled head over foot down the shale incline. Once at the bottom, some 40 feet from the orcs, they lay there a moment, trying to feel if anything was broken.

The young girl, Lala, had taken a nasty knock on the head and was unconscious. The Dwarf quickly determined that she was not seriously injured, at least not yet; not compared to what awaited her if this battle went poorly.

For battle it was, suddenly. Another rain of arrows came from the treeline, and another orc fell. The remaining orcs were hurriedly readying their weapons, shouting for help and screaming instructions at each other. Two attempted to fire blindly into the trees; three others pulled greataxes out and began moving toward the trees, dodging and weaving.

The shouting had gained the attention of the orcs who had crossed the washout, Eladkot could see, but returning hurriedly cost them. One fell, tumbling down the incline. Suddenly Eladkot realized he wasn't as unarmed as he thought - his hands were free, as were all the prisoners'.

"Rocks!" he shouted. "Use the rocks!"

*-*-*

For Wyn, it was all happening too quickly. All the time spent training hadn't prepared her for the rush of blood she felt as the orcs began screaming instructions and charging at her position. She couldn't think; she couldn't move; she couldn't speak.

She could shoot, though.

After the second volley, Laucion and Cassa leapt out of hiding, drawing their swords and rushing up to meet the axe-wielders. _Those crossbowmen will pick them apart,_ she thought fearfully, and then realized that the human with the orcs - the one who was not bound - was gesturing and speaking, although she could not hear the words. She did see him covered briefly in a reddish glow.

_Mother, I love you_ flitted through her mind before she could shrug off the thought. She wouldn't think about dying. No. Not now. Not yet. Instead, she drew her bow and took aim at the human on the hill, waiting to see if he would try to flee or stay to fight.

He did neither, instead opting to speak and gesture again - the last mistake he ever made. Wyn's arrow hit him in the side, and he staggered back against the cliff-face, his dark robes suddenly darker with his blood. T'lyl put one in his thigh, and Wyn's next found the man's throat. He clutched at the shaft, blood pouring between his fingers, took one small step forward, and then collapsed onto the path, dying.

*-*-*

_Serves you right, you craven b------,_ the Dwarf thought. _Die and get your pay, slaver._

But he had little time for revenge. Surviving would be enough. Ridiculously, another orc had fallen trying to hurry past the washout, and now those two orcs were closing in on the slaves, battleaxes drawn. _They mean to kill us just for fun now,_ the Dwarf thought.

The prisoners' rock-throwing was causing the pair some grief, true - both were bleeding from wounds to the head - but for a moment the Dwarf wondered about the wisdom of Eladkot's leadership. _Maybe if we'd just laid still, they wouldn't have..._

The Dwarf's moment of secret cowardice was interrupted by a scream near the trees.

*-*-*

Laucion's battle-cry was a fearsome thing, and he plunged into melee with abandon. He parried the first axe-blow aimed at him easily and answered with a whirling, two-handed riposte that cut just below the orc's ribs. The orc made an oddly gentle sound of surprise - "Oh ..." - and fell immediately.

The second orc arrived a moment later. The ground, suddenly slick with blood, gave Laucion no aid, and as he struck a killing blow, the orc's final axe-strike took him in the shoulder. He screamed in shock and pain, his right hand still holding the sword which was buried hilt-deep in the second orc. The two enemies fell to the ground, their blood mingling, their bodies tangled and languid as lovers on a hot afternoon.

"No!" shouted Wyn and T'lyl in unison.

*-*-*

Whistling rock after rock at the advancing orcs, Eladkot felt a sort of fierce joy surge through him. The first was almost upon him, and he had an idea. _All we've got are rocks and chains,_ he thought. _So let's use 'em._

The closest orc tried to grab at the coffle, apparently intending to drag the chain of slaves away from the fight. Eladkot used that moment to push the man in front of him into the orc, then pile forward. The orc seemed surprised to be resisted, oddly, and the three set to grappling.

Just as the second orc arrived at the slaves, the fierce elf - the one whose battle-cry had briefly shamed the Dwarf - was cut down. The Dwarf and the women reacted violently - tugging the small girl a couple of feet, they snatched at the orc, surrounding him. As he aimed an axe-blow at one of the women - who dodged it - the Dwarf kicked his legs out from under him.

The human women had suffered much at the hands of these orcs. Now, one of the orcs was injured, disarmed and prone in front of them. After a few seconds, The Dwarf had to look away, even while holding the slaver pinned. Screaming wordlessly in their rage, the women pounded down, rocks in hand. Blood began to rise into the air like mist.

*-*-*

A few orcs from the vanguard saw the human women howling and killing, saw the elves shooting and slaying, and decided that there was no one left to report them if they simply ran away. So they did.

*-*-*

"Ho there," the serious-looking elf girl said, eyeing the corpses of the orcs. Her voice was accented with the sing-song cadence of native Elvish. Eladkot made his way down the line, unlocking his fellow slaves, while the Dwarf tended briefly to the little girl. "We ... we have lost one. Or perhaps not. Do any of you have healing magics? I'm afraid he cannot swallow."

"I can," the Dwarf said. "Much as I hate to touch an elf, I think he's earned it." _Can't have them thinking I was scared, of course. There's the image to uphold,_ he thought. He rapidly made his way to the fierce elf, who lie very near death. A few prayers and the blessing of Moradin coursed through him, though; within minutes he was up, moving painfully, thanking them.

"I'm Laucion. This here's Cassa, and T'lyl, and Wyn," he said, coughing and wincing slightly.

"Eladkot at your service, sir. And thank you for the help. Don't know what we'd have done without you."

"You'd have been sold at market in the Pomarj. Shipped off somewhere. That's what would've happened."

"Ah. Well then. Thanks are ..."

The elf girl Wyn stepped up and interrupted, and Laucion seemed thankful to get to sit down. "Enough, human. I know you are thankful. Now let's get ready to go. We've got a few days' travel to Enstad."

"Enstad? Our destination is north of here, not south. And we-"

"You're coming with us. What happens after that is up to you. I can't leave people who can't take care of themselves-"

"We can-"

" -- out here with these orcs looking for slaves. So let's go." The other victims seemed to feel the idea was acceptable. After a rest, the group set out south, skirting the hills, using hidden paths that the elves pointed out. It was slow travel, and quiet.

As dusk crept in, the group set up camp, and Laucion came to his healer. "Master dwarf. I understand I owe you thanks, and so I give it. Might I have your name?"

_In for iron, out for gold,_ thought the Dwarf. "Tankar, acolyte of Moradin. Uh, at your service."

Nodding, Laucion gestured at his shoulder. "I thank you for your name, Tankar of Moradin. And your faith." Smiling teasingly, he said, "I am glad you consented to touch me."


_Next: We meet a gnome with a lot on his mind, and wonder what in the world we've done._


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## ScyldSceafing (Apr 9, 2003)

*OOC: So there's that*

This brings us to the end of the first session, at long last.

Please note that I'm taking some license with the depiction of the combat - for example, several of the orcs are slain off-camera in this. Tankar and especially Eladkot were pretty impressive in the fight, using rocks, chains and grappling to deal with an enemy that probably would have slain them out of hand in a straight fight.

Wyn, on the other hand, stayed out of harm's way, opting to stay in cover and fire off arrows. Hey, it's what she's best at. The three PCs that attended the first session are now third level: Tankar is Clr3, Wyn Ftr2/Rgr1, and Eladkot Rog1/Wiz2. And Wyn's lost her shyness about breaking out the sword.

The fun's just beginning, though. Ahead, we've got a lost elven city, bunches of undead, and a run-in with a goblin raiding team on a training mission that ends a bit unexpectedly.


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## Wyn A'rienh (Apr 10, 2003)

> Wyn, on the other hand, stayed out of harm's way, opting to stay in cover and fire off arrows.




Better safe than sorry, that's what I always say.

*nods*




> And Wyn's lost her shyness about breaking out the sword.




I'll show you shy.  

rawr.


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## Wyn A'rienh (Apr 18, 2003)

*Are you ever coming back?*

*pokes the DM*

Did I scare ya off?


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## Kerrick Allpowerful (Apr 19, 2003)

...tap tap tap...

is this thing on?


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## Wyn A'rienh (Apr 21, 2003)

Well, well!  Kerrick the All Powerful!  *grins*  Fancy finding you here.

*whispers*

I think that since we seem to have been abandoned by our dm, we should just take over and post whatever we want.  What do you think?

How about in the second session, you and I encountered a whole mess of nasty undead and killed all of them just by wishing them dead.  Er.  I guess they're already dead, huh?  *scratches her head* How do you kill something that's already dead?  

Oh, I have so much to learn....


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## Stockdale (May 6, 2003)

Telephone for Mr. Scyld. 

Telephone for Mr. Scyld?

Mr. Scyld?


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## ScyldSceafing (May 7, 2003)

*Yeah, yeah, yeah*

Well. What a lovely opportunity to meet the players. Wyn and Kerrick, well, they're listed above. Stockdale is Eladkot.

A change in my work schedule has blown my previous writing time all to hootenanny. That, and I'm super-extra-mega lazy.

I'll get everyone to Covenant hopefully before I head off for vacation next week. Mmmm ... vacation ...


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## ScyldSceafing (May 20, 2003)

*That's Mr. Bodkins to you*

After a hand-span of fruitless searching, Foop decided that returning without the burr-root was the best decision he had left. _There's no guarantee I'll find any burr-root, anyway,_ he reasoned. _And if I let this bloodwort wilt any more, it won't be worth keeping._ So, with his pouch full of three varieties of heartstar and the rapidly-wilting bloodwort in his fist, he set out for camp. As he walked, he examined the bloodwort and thought about impermanence.

_We're like this,_ he thought. _Pretty and powerful but easily picked. Anyone more powerful can pick us, which doesn't even allow for fate. Fate picks you, you stay picked. Your life can change just like that. Anyone's life can. Not many see it coming, I bet you._ Briefly, the apprentice alchemist made a promise to himself to write down thoughts about the similarity between the potency of reagents and the mortality of intelligent beings. His thoughts then turned to more practical concerns - how much potency is lost from wilting? Is it a measurable difference? Does it increase over time? Does it vary from plant to plant?

Foop's studies with Nesta had taught him that potency is lost to wilting. But that wasn't _proven,_ really, was it? In his mind, he imagined a series of experiments using different samples and testing their potency over time. Yes, it might just be possible to make an accurate measure of the potency lost to time. And what alchemist wouldn't pay dearly for such a text? His cousin worked with one of the new presses the Kron Hills folks had made up. Books by the dozens! And all with his name!

The young gnome's reverie of riches and fame was cut short by his arrival at camp. Ordinarily, Foop could wander about the traveling medicine show without calling his imaginings to a halt; this, though - this demanded some attention. Why was the door to Nesta's wagon ("Miracles by Nesta - World's Greatest Alchemist," blazoned on the side) broken? And where were the horses that pulled it to this spot last night?

Foop stepped gingerly into the shattered cabin and found that Nesta had been picked. His master's clever voice was silent; his mobile eyebrows were stilled; his fragile, dextrous body had been _turned_ somehow, bent irrevocably. Foop's vision swam as he fought not to weep, or vomit, or scream. The bloodwort, wilted, fell to the floor, beside the body of his best friend and mentor.

x x x

Aching and weary, the former slaves and the elven rangers slipped into Enstad quietly. Near the outskirts of the city, they were met by outliers, who directed Laucion and the little human girl to the healers. The other slaves were looking for the first secure passage back toward their homes in the north, and that was arranged; Eladkot (and therefore Tankar) thought to do a little research while in the area. Wyn returned to the royal apartments as requested by her mother.

The pair were directed to an inn known as the Former Unicorn Rider. "Poracious keeps a good table, she does, and not too pricey neither," was the scouting report delivered by one of the outliers. "It isn't what it used to be, y'know, but what is ..." The Former Unicorn Rider turned out to be a graceful elven take on a rambling human inn, with two large halls - public and private - and 14 rooms on the second floor. Situated between the Inner and Outer Cities - as the elven and non-elven quarters of Enstad are called - it has a colorful history.

Which is to say it used to serve as a bordello. Now, though, it was just an inn. For Eladkot and Tankar, it quickly became home.

Their life in the inn acquired a pattern. Each day they'd break their fast in the common room, eating and talking with Poracious Luv. Tankar would drink a fair amount of ale and, fortified, head off for a morning of ritual work at the small forge dedicated to Moradin. Eladkot would chat with P.Luv and, in the late morning, make his way to the home of Xanthus Grubb, a half-elven enchanter whose knowledge of small magics was formidable (and whose willingness to teach them for short coin made him tractable).

They had barely a week of this pleasing rhythmic symmetry before returning to the The Rider to find it liveried in paper. Someone had placed handbills here and there throughout the common room, handbills blazoned with a symbol and a large-print question: Do You Know This Mark? The other newcomer to the place - besides the paper - was a young gnome who seemed a bit thirsty.

"They're mine," the gnome explained with little provocation, listing a bit to the side. Obviously, the gnome was well acquainted with Poracious' ale. "Mine. I made 'em. They're ... they're mine."

"Yours. I understand," Eladkot answered, looking amusedly at Tankar, who shrugged. "You're looking for someone who uses this symbol? Is this a wizard mark?"

"Right! Give the human a prize!" Foop drawled, grinning. "A mark! Or something. Wizard. Something. Killed ... killed my master."

Eladkot's look changed to one of concern. "Killed your master? How do you know?"

So the gnome told his story, start to finish. His apprenticing with Nesta. Learning the ways of alchemy. Travelling from town to town selling cures. And on and on, ending with that day a week ago when he couldn't find burr-root and couldn't beg forgiveness. "So I mean to find this wizard. Person. And ... you know. Avenge. Revenge. Get him. What have you."

"Well, I've never seen it before," Eladkot offered, and Tankar shrugged his ignorance. "Maybe I could take one to Xan ... to my tutor. Maybe he's seen it. Mind if I take one of these?"

"You ... good. Take. I'll ... I think I need to lie down," Foop said. Lurching off toward one of the smaller ground-floor rooms used by halflings and gnomes, he called over his shoulder, "Let me know. I'll ... I'm gonna get him. Let me know."


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## ScyldSceafing (Jul 11, 2003)

*Interstitial*

The first blow seemed vicious, delivered as it was – using a two-handed grip, whirling, Wyn set her blade swinging in a blurred arc from behind her right shoulder toward Ji’tun’s scalp. The sharp clang of metal on metal indicated that, again, Ji’tun had turned it. But this time, the vicious blow wasn’t the end of the sequence. Pivoting neatly away, Wyn leaned for just a moment on the blades, then whipped it away, spinning and ducking his thrust, to deliver a stinging blow with the flat of the blade to her master’s hip.

“Aie-ah!” she shouted as it struck. Then, fairly purring with satisfaction, she sat and laid her blade over her knees.

Ji’tun couldn’t have looked more surprised if she had turned into a mist and drifted out the window. “Good,” he stammered, joining his student on the mats. “Very good. Well. You _did_ learn a few things on that ranging, eh?”

“Yep,” she answered. “I learned that I better get good at this.”

*-*-*

“Hidden Valley Ranch? What kind of name is that?” Xanthus Grubb was affordable, true, but he was also vain, and his voice had a whining timbre when confronted by anything unknown. Eladkot wondered how long he could put up with the half-elf. _Ah well,_ he thought. _Guess it’s just a price I pay for learning._

“The actual name is _khalak ak-ludum_, of course,” was all he said, though. Not a trace of irritation showed in his voice. Eladkot had learned from worse teachers than this Grubb. He’d get what he needed. “The translation is the best I could do. The name is archaic Dwarvish, and it’s not a mode anyone I talked to at Grey College was familiar with.”

“Hmph. With you it’s always Grey College this and Grey College that. And now you want _my_ help. Well.”

_Again with the jealousy,_ Eladkot thought, his face carefully neutral. _Doesn’t this guy care about learning at all?_ Again, though, he bided his time. Silence has opened more mouths than any enchantment. _And I learned that at Grey College, you pinhead,_ he thought.

“Well,” Grubb said, after a lengthy silence. “I suppose maybe you’d better talk to Embek then.”

*-*-*

Meanwhile, Foop was working off a tempestuous hangover with a traditional gnomish remedy – vicious haggling. This Falthur’s Curios came highly recommended, but that didn’t mean he had to lay down and die. Just because they had some flunky write prices on little cards didn’t mean a thing.

“20 silver for two of these foxleaf?” he asked, his voice and face simulating shocked incredulity. “Are you serious? Do you get that many tourists here?”

The half-elven proprietor took a moment to look down his nose at Foop from his vantage point behind the counter. “Of course, a neophyte like yourself knows nothing of quality merchandise,” he said finally, holding out his hand to take back the jar of foxleaf. “It runs counter to your understanding of the world to actually pay your way. 20 silver is a bargain for this freshness.”

“A bargain?! I can’t even smell the _griso_ in this! I’ll give you eight.”

“Eight?” the proprietor said, getting into the spirit of the thing. He stood up and began to mime rending his clothing, saying, “Why not take this tunic? Just take it! You want everything for nothing, here! Take my clothes! Now pay 18 or get out. You know nothing.”

“18? Why, my master Nesta would have …”

“I’m sorry. Nesta? Did you say Nesta?”

“Yes, he was my …” Foop trailed off as the proprietor passed him, stalking toward the door. The man pulled the door shut, shot the bolt, and closed the neat white shutters over the front window.

“So you’re in the trade,” the proprietor said.

“Yes,” Foop answered, a bit uneasy.

“Falthur,” the man said, extending his hand. “A friend of Nesta’s is a friend of mine. How is the old fella?”

“Well, I’ve got some bad news for you …”  An hour later, Foop left. His packs were bulging with alchemical supplies, and more importantly, Falthur had told him who might know the mark he had found in his master’s wagon.

“Talk to Embek,” he said. “He knows all that sort of stuff. He’s really old, but still sharp as a thorn. And he’s a good old guy.”

*-*-*

It was odd for Wyn’s aunt Sassalyn to ask her over on short notice. Dinner would be nice, but it would have been nice to sit a bit after working with Ji’tun. Ah well. Wyn sponged herself clean, then dressed simply. Despite the short notice, she was glad of the opportunity to talk to her favorite aunt. Sassalyn always had good advice, and Wyn wasn’t sure what to make of her first ranging.

Sassalyn was quiet, though, through the appetizer of spring water and small, tart apples. Almost withdrawn. _I’ll leave her to her thoughts,_ Wyn thought. _Maybe she just wanted company. All in good time._ That advice became more difficult to heed, though, as the main course of butter-cooked mushrooms came and went, and the dessert of sweet beans in summerwine sat, half-eaten, before her. Wyn could not remember ever having such an uncomfortable evening with her aunt Sassalyn. This was like eating with Her Grace Aunt Yolande.

Wyn’s silent frustration was broken by her aunt’s self-conscious throat-clearing. “Wyn,” she began, seeming not to know how to proceed. _Oh dear, what could this be?_ Wyn wondered. “It’s … you met some people out there, didn’t you? Some people. Not elves.”

“I … we rescued some people from some orcs.”

“There was a human with them? And a dwarf?”

“Well, yes, I suppose there was. What’s this about, Aunt Sassalyn? Have you … have you _seen_ something?” Sassalyn’s skill as a diviner of truth and futurity was known, but she seldom mentioned it to Wyn.

“Yes. Yes I have,” her aunt answered. “And loathe as I am to give you advice, I must say this: You must seek those people out and cleave to them. Find your destiny with them, wherever it takes you. I have seen … it is most important that you do this. For all of us.”

“Sassalyn … I don’t know what to say.”

“Then don’t say anything. Please, Wyn, trust me. I don’t give this advice lightly. And I don’t think that you asking every question that is even now rushing through your head is a good idea.

“There’s something delicate about this. Something I don’t understand. I feel as if I’m clinging to a tiny, new-budded leaf, on a thin, willowy branch; and there is a wind, gentle now, but still the harbinger of a great storm. And so I tell you what I must, and ask you to hear me, and I should say no more. Just keeping ahold of this leaf is occupying all my time. And the storm is coming.

“Be well, Wyn. Remember I love you. Go now, child. Seek them out. Offer them your skills. They need them. Stay in touch.”

“Auntie, I …”

“Wyn, for the love I bear for you – go.”

Wyn went.

*-*-*

Wyn’s arrival at their dinner was a surprise, as neither Eladkot nor Tankar had seen the elf-girl since their slave-refugee caravan arrived in the capital. Now, here she was, without armor, gliding in and making herself at home. She just came in, sat down with the barest nod of greeting, and listened as Foop told how he had not only hoodwinked Falthur into ludicrous prices, but done it so smoothly that the alchemist now thought of him as a friend. After that, she seemed to assume that she was part of their plans.

And so, somehow, Eladkot’s visit to the home of the renowned sage Embek was encumbered not only by the presence of a suspicious, prying dwarf, but also a talkative gnome and a reserved, heavily armed elf-girl.

After, nothing was the same.


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## Kerrick Allpowerful (Jul 12, 2003)

ah soon, you all will meet the most interesting and humble character in this story.


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## ScyldSceafing (Jul 12, 2003)

*Meeting the gang*

Yes, Embek is quite interesting, isn't he? Heh. Heh-heh. 

Sorry.

To update, the group is now either fifth level or on the cusp of it, and now numbers _six_ characters. The group is now:

*Wyn A'rienh* - elf female Ftr 3/Rgr 1/Sor 1
*Eladkot* - human male Wiz 4/Rog 1
*Tankar Lostson* - dwarf male Clr 5
*Foop Bodkins* - gnome male Rog 3/Wiz 1/Ftr 1
*Kerrick "The All-Powerful"* - human male Wiz 4
*Platypus* - halfling male Drd 4

So there's _still_ two characters to meet. And I'm getting farther behind. At the current rate, the first three characters will be epic before I introduce the halfling. <sigh>


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## ScyldSceafing (Feb 25, 2004)

*Meeting the sage*

Meetings, no matter how momentous, still take place in the world we live in. Even people talking of eternity sit on chairs. And so it was that the Eladkot, Tankar, Wyn and Foop listened to a blind, ancient elf named Embek as he acted out his destiny, remembering a great leader from his childhood who fell, a leader whose name had vanished beneath the haze of a powerful dwoemer: *Kyrani.*

“_Khalak ak-ludum_ is properly translated _The Valley of the Flower_,” Embek responded immediately. “I hope you weren’t serious when you translated it Hidden Valley Ranch.

“It was a holy site. It was *the* holy site when I was a little child. The dwarves had found it: a valley of basalt and what they called ‘living rock’ with a natural stone formation in the center. The formation was a lily, 20 feet across or so. And natural. No divinations ever indicated that the Flower was created by any other than a god.

“The lily was our symbol, the symbol of elvendom, at the time. The dwarven king, whose name was Duma the Wise, immediately saw an opportunity to draw the two great kingdoms together: The people of stone and the people of the lily. He sent word to the king at the time, and to his heir, a young yet storied leader named Kyrani.”

The blind elf’s empty gaze shifted toward Foop, who was investigating a rickety shelf piled to the point of collapse with scrolls. “Master gnome, I would ask you not to touch anything,” he said, imperiously. “Again.” Wyn, standing rather bored near the door, made an impatient cease-and-desist gesture toward Foop, who ignored her and continued his investigations, this time without touching anything.

“So. Kyrani was a prince, the chosen heir of elvendom. It was the custom at that time that we would alternate between leaders whose gifts included those of warfare and those whose gifts lay elsewhere. Kyrani was gifted in warfare.

“More than gifted, really. *Chosen.* He was one of the favored of Corellon, and his beauty and fearsomeness while in battle were the thing of legend. Glory wreathed him, and when he fought, he gave off a light that denied darkness any room to hide.”

Eladkot broke into the ancient one’s reverie. “But, respectfully, master Embek … I have read some references to this Kyrani in ancient texts,” he said haltingly. “I … if he was as you describe, he would not be a footnote on small texts written at the time, yes? He would be famous. We would … everyone would … know his name.”

“Ahm. Yes. That is odd,” Embek said, his eyes seeming to search for a clue in the ceiling of his study. “I have thought long on this in recent days because … well, because I did not remember. I didn’t remember this, this story about Kyrani until a few days ago.”

Waving a hand to calm the outburst of curious questions, Embek continued. “It was as if a curtain lifted, and a part of my memory came back to me. This is unusual. I am old but I have not lost my mnemomic faculty – far from it. Most of my life has been spent in the discipline of keeping that faculty sharpened to a razor’s edge. So for this to happen is unprecedented.

“But there it is. Memories of Kyrani and the events of so long ago have come flooding back, and I have scarcely spent a moment of meditation since. I’ve constructed what I think is a good understanding of the situation and written it here. Young Eladkot, please, tell me if you can read this.”

Eladkot took the offered scroll in hand, unrolled the opening section and glanced at it. _Draconic, rendered in elvish script,_ he thought. _Piece of cake. _ But what he said was, “I believe I could make something of this, yes, master Embek.”

The ancient one turned his lined face toward the wall and said quietly, “Good. I hope it helps. Now, if you don’t mind, I must meditate for a bit. The last several days have left me feeling like a sprout during Leaffall.”


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## ScyldSceafing (Feb 25, 2004)

*Revived!*

I finally started work on this Story Hour again. Still trying to decide between posting the whole thing in this style or, alternatively, doing a few summary posts to fast-forward to somewhere near the current point in the campaign (as the characters approach 10th/11th level). If anyone has any thoughts about that decision, feel free to post 'em or email me.

The current group (which calls themselves the Heroes of Covenant) is the folks listed above, but without Tankar. <sniffle> Kerrick has gotten a bit less brash, Foop has died twice, and Wyn has been named the heir to Queen Yolande, much to her surprise and chagrin. Politics has become a prominent feature, and the events the group finds themselves in are winding tighter and tighter ... this is the best campaign I've ever been part of, and I need to write it down so we can all remember it; letting other people look in on our fun is nice, too.

So. On we go.


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## ScyldSceafing (Feb 27, 2004)

*Unrolling the scroll*

A few feet outside Embek's domicile, Foop found he couldn't restrain his curiousity any longer. Fixing Eladkot with what he hoped was a winning smile, he said, "Wellllll? What's it say?"

Eladkot halted and pulled the document out, confident that no one else could read it. To his chagrin, everyone crowded around - even that warrior-elf-girl, Wyn - and seemed able to follow the text, which began:

*The Curious and Hidden History of the Valley of the Flower
With Special Attention Paid to the Matter of the Compact City of Covenant
And the Unfortunate End of Kyrani, Prince of Celene*​
*A monograph by Embek Syla-systanye, Enstad*​

*It is well known that, some 1,100 years ago, there was an elven prince named Kyrani, and that Kyrani met his end in some unfortunate incident. What is less known – in fact, has not been known at all until recent days – is what, exactly, brought about his end, and what was the situation surrounding these hidden events.

If one is to pursue the enigma known as Kyrani through time, the watchword will be frustration. Even some simple facts have eluded us: When did Kyrani perish? Why? Doing what? This mysterious figure has existed as a marginal notation on the pages of Celene’s history, half-attested. And even those scraps of information available have been largely ignored. For an age, the story of Kyrani has vanished, untold.

I now believe this neglect to be the product of a powerful and long-lived dwoemer (cf. “Hidden in Plain Sight: The Binding of Nature Spirits to Stabilize Dwoemers of Obfuscation” by Embek Syla-systanye, et al, for further discussion of how this is possible). In short, the story of Kyrani and the events surrounding his fall have, I believe, been hidden from view for more than 1,000 years purposefully. I will not discuss why in this paper, which is written as a history, since I have no wish for this to become a political document. Instead, I will cleave to the path of historian, researcher, and writer.

Over the last several weeks, recollections from the furthest extremity of my youth have flooded back – recollections that all involve the ending of Kyrani’s tale. It is one of power, and pride, and betrayal. It is a story that emerges as a cautionary tale. And it is a story that is playing itself out in unexpected ways even as I write this.*

"Gah!" Eladkot said, briskly rolling up the scroll and cutting off the impromptu reading party. "I need to sit down and read this." The Former Unicorn Rider beckoned, and the party moved quickly toward the welcoming glow of Poracious Luv's hearth.


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