31 July 2007

Historia Antiquitatis - Part III

Whoa! Things are entirely getting too lively around here. Time for another ancient history lesson.

Today's topic is the Age of Wisdom, brought to you - as usual - by that eminent, and long dead, High Elven sage, Ceorlinus Rectinarius.

Enjoy.

* * * * *

Aetatis Sapientiae

When he had finished with each of his vile creations, Ūru sent them into the world, and they gave their service and their loyalty to the Powers of the Dark. But while they had not free will, the fell beasts of the Dark were unruly, even disobedient; and so Bardan took them under his careful overlordship, for he feared that if his siblings, who were ever untrustworthy and jealous of his rule, were to gain their allegiance, with so mighty a following, they might one day challenge him for mastery of the Uruqu.

Thus, aided by his Seven Servants, Bardan undertook to instruct the new beasts in the knowledge and wisdom of Ūru. The mightiest of his servants, Gargarik, undertook the instruction of the Giants, while Penchriss, called The Wily, was given dominion over serpents. Mordakris, greatest of hunters, gained lordship over wolves and other seeking beasts, and Xanthanis, the Venomous One, was made king of spiders. Korkrynn, the Far-Seeing, blood enemy of Gemmo, Lady of Winds, became Mistress of Raptors, and was as queen to all fell creatures of the skies; and Borduru, the swiftest and most despised of Bardan’s servants, was given dominion over the vermin of Anuru.

Last came Achamkris, eldest and wisest of Bardan’s followers; and she was given lordship over the Dragons; for of all Bardan's creations, these were the wisest and most wilful of creatures. And Achamkriss was pleased with her overlordship; and she hoped that her charges might become even more powerful in time. And to this end, she struck a bargain with Gargarik, so that each aided the other; and so the dragons grew in strength and power, becoming mighty beyond all belief; and the giants grew in wisdom and lore, and those who could, learned the Art Magic from the dragons.


Still Acahmkris was not done; and in the guise of one of the Kindred, she he espied upon the Haradi, and stole from them the secret of speech, and gave it unto the Dragons; and thus the Dragons alone retained the words and potency of the Elder Tongue, in which the Art Magic was first born upon Anuru. And so too were the Dragons the first of Bardan’s foul creations to gain the power of the spoken word.

And this was a momentous decision, with far-reaching consequences. The Dragons taught the Giants to speak, and so the word spread among the fell creatures, and those who had wit to learn it, did so, and Bardan's forces grew mighty, and built great empires of evil. But where the speech of the Haradi was soft and musical, and suited even to the tongues of Dragons (for the Dragons had perforce taken the form of the Haradi to learn it), none other of Bardan's foul brood could mouth the Elven words; and so the speech of the evil creatures was harsh and foul. And each race of evil bent the word to its own uses; and so in time the foul races were estranged.

Under the tutelage of Acahmkris, the Dragons prospered and grew in lore and might, and they lived long years, and came thereafter to be the most powerful, and wisest, and longest-lived of all the mortal beings upon Anuru. Fell minions of the Dark quailed before them, and even the mightiest of the Avatars feared to contend with the Lords and Princes of Dragonkind. But the seeds of the deed of Achamkris were their own punishment and reward; and certain of the Dragons could not bear the corruption of the speech they had learned from the Haradi. And so they separated from their kin, who remained with their brothers, the Children of Bardan; and these exiles betook themselves to the distant places of Anuru, to find a new path. And in time, they found it among the Kindred; but that is a later tale.

Still, despite all of their might, the Dragons were outdone by the Children of Bræa, for they did not possess immortality of spirit; nor could they learn the Free Will that was the gift of Bræa; for that was hers and hers alone to give, a secret even the wily Acahmkris could not wrest from the Brahiri.

The creation and instruction of the fell creatures took Bardan an Age of Anuru, and during this time the Children of Bræa flourished and spread across the earth. The Haradi were slow to grow in numbers, but wise in the ways of tree and forest, and so formed families that became great domains and even kingdoms; and the woods and the hills were their domain. They contemplated the stars and were taught the mysteries of Heaven and of Earth by Hara and by Bræa; and they became mighty in lore and power.


The Esudi were the most fecund of beings, and courageous in exploration, and they spread rapidly across Anuru, founding cities and tilling the land, as they were taught by Esu and by Bræa; and while not nearly so long-lived as the Haradi, they were the most adventurous, and their empires grew and flourished; and ever the red sword shone among them.

The Lagudi, less fecund, but strong and wise in the lore of working stone and metal, found the high hills and cold mountains to their liking, and learned the arts of mining and of the forge from Lagu and from Bræa; and they crafted wondrous things in their soaring halls beneath the stone; and they remained ever the most observant and careful in their devotions to the Powers.

But the Nosadi, although secretive in person among themselves, were yet gregarious with others, and so sought out no lands of their own, but lived in harmony among their brethren; and they were taught, by Nosa and Bræa alike, to be quick of thought, eye and hand. And although, from time to time, they fell out with their brethren, yet they were hardy in time of trial, and feared no being, either in Heaven or upon the Earth.

And in time, each race of Bræa's children was settled in peace and prosperity; and all were content to live under the light of Bræadan; and their mother watched them from afar. But far from the light, in the shadowed places of the Earth, who brother Bardan wrought in watchful silence, and strove towards the destruction of all that she, and the Anari, had worked to build.

* * * * *

That's all for tonight, folks. Next time we'll get into the really high-calories stuff: the origin of the Elves, and the ancient houses of Harad.

I can hardly wait!

29 July 2007

How the DM sees the Party

A few posts ago, I introduced the PCs. But they say a picture is worth a thousand words.

Every player sees their PC a different way – and so does the DM. After you’ve been playing together a while, you start to get this image in your mind’s eye, and it can be a little hard to purge.

Anyway, here’s a little graphic I did up a few months ago, using images cobbled together off the internet, as a mnemonic for the Party. Responses to this were as follows:

Breygon: “I’m a Half-elf, not an Indian. Native American. Aboriginal person. Whatever.”

Lyra: “I’m, like, WAY hotter than that.”

Bjorn: “Where’s my armour? I didn’t trade it for beer, did I?”

Joraz: “Green balloon pants? What’s THAT about?”

Gwen: “Woo-HOO! Lookit mah boo-TAY!”

Harroaharg, aka Greywind the Half-Celestial Winter Wolf (who is Breygon’s animal companion), didn’t register any complaints. Of course, he’s an NPC, so he works for me…and I guess he wants to keep on working.

Some good DID come of putting this collage out there, though – it got the players all indignant and prompted them to send me pics of what their PCs REALLY look like.

Maybe I’ll post those ones some time in the future. But these images will always hold a special place in my heart.

P.S. Don’t worry, Joraz – Haugulf Hardfist, Fist of the Allfather at the Grand Temple in Bymill, won’t bury you in the green balloon pants. It’s against his religion.

P.P.S. “Can’t touch this!” Hah!

Tales of the Wyrm - Third Rune

I promised you bad Elvish poetry, and let it never be said that I don't deliver. Don't get your hopes up; Tolkein I ain't.

With that tantalizing introduction, it's time for another story from the Varata Lohikäärmeta.

Gather 'round the fire; fill your horn; and let the Tale carry you away.

* * * * *

Rune the Third:
Ausum Æyllianus Bræagond
(The Deed of Bræagond Æyllian)

...as told by Corrobustus Oakheart


Fair Ælyndarka, child of wood,
right weary of the courtly life
Called to her brother Bræagond,
and bade him to attend her.
In mottled grey, with bow in hand
she sang farewell to towers tall,
To hunt in glades of forest bright,
where Hara willed to send her.
From Astrapratum, Meadow-Star,
they rode through night and dayspans three,
Unto the foot of mountain-fells,
in search of sport to cheer them;
Right fleet they rode, yet in their haste,
they moved with fair-folk’s craft and stealth,
And though passed many a countryman,
not one perchanced to hear them.

On third-day’s eve, they reached a grove
where hare and hart were gathering
Concealed they their hard-blown mounts,
and watched in silence wondering;
The moonlight shone on mirrored mere,
and starlight showered twinkling
When through the great wood-wall there burst
a baleful horror sundering.
Tree-tall it stood, thrice height of elf,
a darkling giant it seemed to them,
With stone in place of bone and flesh,
and fists of iron gleamed at them.
Deep eyes of night descried their holt,
and ‘round the mere it ran at them
In thundering stride that cracked the night,
while pale moonglow beamed at them.

Bræagond hesitated then
(though younger, wiser still he was)
But Ælyndarka, full of fire,
and proud of power, sprang from him,
With orbs like sparks on summer’s eve,
the giant eyed her fragile form,
And mighty as a mountain’s fall,
burst through the nets she spun at him.
While Bræagond watched, his eyes aghast,
the demon fell upon his kin
Her arm, and staff of power, were brast,
and swooning, Ælyndarka fell.
At this, his sister’s deadly plight,
his caution vanished in a trice;
So stepped he forward, glaive in hand,
and clairioning his woodsman’s call.

Bright blade aloft, he stayed its charge,
and scarred the creature’s granite brow;
But though his blows rang swift and hard,
it fell upon him, bellowing.
And step by step he back was forced,
and felt his hand-strokes weakening;
His heart-strings nigh to sundering,
in waxing dawnlight yellowing.
‘Till at the last his ground he stood,
astride his blood-kin’s fallen form
As sunrise touched the broken wood,
the stone-fell stood untiring
Its fistblows thundered, swift and hard;
the Lamp upon his face was wan;
His eyes were closed, and thus he fell,
to the black earth expiring.

And then his call was answerèd;
twin oak-hearts shambled from the glade;
Twin elders of the forest-hall,
who twice the height of stone-beast stood.
Gnarled fists and fingers dealt the blows
that shattered all to stone and sand
And drove the demon from their land,
to fall ‘neath bough in hallowed wood.
When Ælyndarka woke again,
the Lamp was passing to the west
And all her heart was torn with pain;
eyes red with tear-stained sorrowing,
For on the sward her brother lay,
white cold in death, his spirit fled;
Yet victory touched his smiling lips,
their parted crimson borrowing.

When Ælyndarka came at last
to Astrapratum, bearing him,
She bound her hair in verdant bands,
and keened in mourning dolorous.
They buried him upon the Hill
above the meadows of his home,
And on his tomb they set a stone:
“Hight Bræagond, the Valorous.”
A hundred summers passed in fire;
a hundred, and a hundred more,
‘Till elder brother fell in war,
and Ælyndarka gained the crown.
It never graced her gracious brow;
‘twas set on Bræagond’s snowy bier,
and broken glaive became her rod,
through growing years of great renown.


* * * * *

Who, you ask, is "Corrobustus Oakheart"?

Time will tell. Maybe.

House Rules (I) - Spellcasters

One of the things that has always made me crazy about the D&D magic rules is the notion that a wizard or cleric has to get up in the morning and load his head with spells. I've read no end of articles and gaming books, from First Edition onwards, explaining why the game was designed this way, and I've never found a reason that didn't sound like post-facto justification for "we just decided to do it this way".

It drove me so nuts, in fact, that back in the Second Edition days I had a number of "custom classes" that gave spellcasters the option of simply casting whatever spells they knew, up to a certain internal energy limit per day (I even called them Sorcerers, although this was a nod to the Eddings' and The Belgariad). This led to calculations of "mana points" and all sorts of other annoying special rules, but at least it got us past the notion that a wizard's noggin' was like a meaty version of a rifle magazine.

Then came Third Edition, and woo-hoo! Sorcerers and Bards! (Good bards, not crazy, impossible-to-qualify-for multiclass fighter-thief bards). But wizards, clerics, paladins and rangers...same old, same old; up at dawn to spend an hour nodding over the spellbook, praying to the Almighty Whatnot, or contemplating the natural beauty of a dandelion while the rest of the party stands guard, makes breakfast, packs the tents, and looks at its watch.

Sigh.

Fortunately, the fix was easier for Third Edition than for the older versions. The answer? No more obligatory memorization/prayer. You got the power? You know the spell? You can cast it, baby, and the DM exerts his control over what spells you can cast by ensuring that the knowledge necessary to cast them is not widely available (e.g., for wizards, the hottest spells can be hard to find, and for clerics, dieties tend to be a little careful about granting the most powerful spells, handing them out only to the most devout and observant of their servants). And wizards are still differentiated from sorcerers, because while sorcerers have more individual power (they can cast more spells per day), wizards have more individual knowledge (they have more spells they can cast).

This led to the special house rules for spellcasters outlined below. Enjoy.

* * * * *

Special Rules for Spellcasters

The number of spells that can be cast each day by an arcane or divine spellcaster is a reflection of his or her experience and individual power.

Wizards are knowledge-based spellcasters; for them, magic is a science that must be studied in order to improve in ability. A wizard’s power is grounded in the number of spells that he knows rather than the number of spells he can cast. Wizards are taught certain spells at first level, and thereafter must find new spells, and add them to their repertoire, in order to be able to cast them. A Wizard may advance in level and gain the ability to cast new or more spells, and there is no limit to the number of spells they can know; but unless they can find (or invent) new spells, they are stuck with the ones they already know. This knowledge is kept in the Wizard’s head, and can be lost if the Wizard suffers temporary (or permanent) intelligence or wisdom damage. Wizards, therefore, keep spellbooks in order to guard against mental damage causing loss of spell knowledge. Also, to have something to trade with other wizards in order to be able to gain new spells.

A wizard, therefore, can use a spell slot of a given level to cast any spell that he knows, or any spell he knows of any lower level (e.g., a 5th-level wizard could use one of his 3rd-level spell slots to cast Fireball, or any second or first-level spell or cantrip that he knows). No “memorization” is required; the wizard need only get reasonably restful sleep for a minimum of one-quarter of a day in order to regain his energy and ability to focus on the manipulating arcane energy.

Wizards can only learn spells from written sources, like a spellbook or a scroll. When learning from a spellbook, the wizard must make Spellcraft check against the Wizard who wrote the spellbook, as follows:

Wizard

d20+CL+Spellcraft+(Knowledge(Arcana)/5)+Int Bonus

Vs.

Book/Scroll

10+Writer’s CL+Writer’s Int or Cha bonus+spell level

If he succeeds in this check, he can understand the spellbook. If he does not, he cannot understand it. He can make another attempt any time his Spellcraft skill level or his intelligence increases. It is also not uncommon for a Wizard to magically enhance his or her intelligence before attempting to learn a new spell in this fashion.

When a wizard learns a spell from a scroll, the scroll is discharged harmlessly. The wizard can write the new spell into his spellbook at his leisure.

Sorcerers are energy-based spellcasters; for them, magic flows from their inner being, and is shaped and molded by them into results. A sorcerer’s power is grounded in how many spells he can cast, rather than how many he knows. Because a sorcerer’s focus is on inner energy rather than knowledge, he cannot retain as many spells in his mind. Unlike wizards, all of whom are taught to be what they are, sorcerers often emerge spontaneously, when their innate power bursts forth, usually in response to some physical or emotional crisis. Such “rogue sorcerers” begin their careers knowing only a few spells (usually very basic, raw power spells like Burning Hands or Jump), and progress only by fits and starts unless they are identified for what they are, and receive more formal instruction, usually from another sorcerer. This is how most sorcerers from uncivilized, barbarian or remote lands progress.

Alternatively, if an innate sorcerer is caught early on, he can be formally instructed and taught new, selected spells by his master, albeit from a limited repertoire. This is how most sorcerers from civilized, advanced lands progress.

Sorcerers cannot learn spells from a “non-charged” source like a wizard’s spellbook; they can only mentally absorb the arcane symbology and casting method by discharging a “charged” source. This is usually a scroll, although a charged magical item could be used as well. When attempting to learn a new spell by absorption from such an item (e.g. a ring, rod, staff or wand), the sorcerer must make a Spellcraft check against the Caster Level of the item, as follows:

Sorcerer
d20+CL+Spellcraft+(Knowledge(Arcana)/5)+Cha Bonus

Vs.

Item
10+Maker’s CL+Maker’s Int or Cha bonus+spell level

If the sorcerer fails the check, the item expends the number of charges necessary to activate the spell, and the spell takes effect against the cast (50%) or someone or something nearby (50%). All penalties and saves apply. If the sorcerer passes the check, the item expends the number of charges necessary to activate the spell, but it discharges harmlessly, and the sorcerer has learned a new spell. It is not uncommon for a sorcerer to magically enhance his or her charisma before attempting to learn a new spell in this fashion.

Because sorcerers have an upper limit on the number of spells they know, they have the option of “forgetting” a known spell in order to be able to gain a new one. The sorcerer must deliberately concentrate for a full minute to “blank his mind” and “lose the spell”. He must make a save, modified only by his Charisma bonuses (with a +2 bonus for every five points in Spellcraft), against DC (10+spell level) to forget the right spell; if he fails, he will forget a random spell. Once he has forgotten the old spell, he can attempt to learn the new one. If he forgets to “forget” an old spell before attempting to learn a new one, the learning attempt will automatically fail (with consequences if the sorcerer was learning from a charged magic item), and he will take 3d4 points of Wisdom damage (Will save for half).

Clerics gain their spellcasting ability through divine strength accorded by their diety, his Servants and his Avatars, in response to two things: appropriate reverence and observance of rites and rituals (e.g. prayers, meditation, sacrificing chickens and whatnot); and living from day-to-day in accordance with the dictates of the diety. Clerics do not memorize spells; they petition their diety directly at the time of casting to shape the divine power into the form needed to achieve the desired effect. Accordingly, Clerics automatically “know” all of the spells on their authorized lists, and simply “ask” their diety at time of casting to let that particular spell effect come into being.

A cleric’s power is limited by two factors. First, not all deities permit their clerics to cast all spells. Good deities, for example, forbid the use of divine magic to cause harm or disease, and might forbid necromantic effects and the animation or creation of undead. A diety of the waters (for example, Thanos or Vara) or the Woodlands (e.g., Larranel) might forbid the use of wide-area fire-based spells like Flame Strike, while a cleric of Korkrynn, Lady of Raptors, might not have access to earth-based spells like Stonetell, Stoneshape or Stone to Flesh (although a cleric of Korkrynn with the Air Domain could Turn earth creatures). Most good Powers also oppose the creation or animation of Undead.

Second, a cleric’s power may be limited directly by his diety in response to impiety. Even if a diety can’t watch everyone all the time, all of the major Powers have an array of Servants, Avatars and greater Minions at their beck and call, who monitor the performance of their worshippers – particularly their priests and paladins. Some deities are more strict about observances than others, but in all cases, any priest or paladin who acts against the dictates of his religion will be punished – and the most common punishment, and the first resorted to, is withholding of special spells. A cleric who has been especially backsliding, for example, might be permitted only spells that cure, bless, neutralize poison or disease, or create or purify food, drink or water – a direct sign of his diety’s displeasure, and a pretty clear message that it’s time to get back to basics.

Bards cast and learn spells like wizards; their magical abilities come from knowledge of music and poetry and all of the magic contained in the sung or spoken word. This knowledge is written and handed down using Ogham, a special, quasi-magical written language known only to bards (it has no spoken words – it is purely a code that may be used with any language, although it is most commonly used with the Elven tongue). As such, it doesn’t evolve like other languages do, and has remained remarkably stable for millennia. Moreover, since bardic knowledge is intended to be protected and transmitted between the generations, bards tend to write clearly and eloquently, with a view to their work being legible and comprehensible for centuries to come. As a result there is no need for a bard to make any sort of check when perusing the written works of another bard – including for the purposes of learning how to case new bardic spells.

Rangers and Paladins acquire and cast spells like clerics, petitioning them directly from their deities. Both classes tend to have a specific diety, as a cleric would. Paladins of any race may worship Chamdran (females only) or Iarwain (males only). Human paladins generally look to Jurdish, Dwarves to Zoraz, and Elves to Hara himself. Rangers tend to revere woodland dieties: either Hara or his servant Larranel (Corellon), or one of the avatars of the woodlands: Shanyreet (autumn, winter, trees), Csaeleyan (spring, summer, flowers), or Istravenya (combat, fey and the wildwood). Occasionally a more chaotic ranger will choose a wilder diety, like Karg or Khallach.

NOTES

1) These special rules obviate both Spontaneous Casting (clerics), and the Spell Mastery feat (wizards). There is no replacement for Spontaneous Casting; Spell Mastery gives a Wizard an additional number of spell levels that can be cast per day, equal to his or her Intelligence bonus, divided as he/she sees fit (e.g. a Wizard with 17 Int would gain 3 additional levels per day and could cast 3 x 1st level, or 1 x 2nd and 1 x 1st level additional spells). These additional spell levels can also be used to "boost" spells for metamagic feats.

2) Nobody needs "alone time" any more, so long as they get a full night's sleep (1/4 of the day span) or, for Elves, "reverie" (1/8 of the day span and an additional 1/8 of simple rest). Ability to cast spells the is proportional to the fraction of sleep obtained the night before (e.g. 4 hours of uninterrupted sleep means a caster could only cast 1/2 his normal spells per level the following day).

3) Divine Spell Limitations: only the most powerful of deities can grant the most powerful of spells. The limitations are outlined in the chart heading this post.
* * * * *
Clear as mud, eh? Well, it's been working for the past year, so we're going to hang onto it for now. Different DMs, different rules.


28 July 2007

Synopsis I - The Road to Bornhavn

Well, what would a good battle be, without some sort of epilogue as a wrap-up?

The synopses are a bad habit I got into early on in the campaign. I had originally intended them to be a means of ensuring everyone in the Party was on the same page, historically speaking - but they quickly branched out, and I began imputing thoughts, feelings and motives to the PCs, which is most decidedly not a kosher thing for a DM to be doing. From there, I started to incorporate dreams and visions, in effect telling everybody what was going on in one PCs head, and recounted thoughts internal to NPCs and even villains - all sorts of info that the PCs couldn't, in game terms, actually know.

Logorrhea. It's a curse.

Anyway, the dreaded "synopsis" has taken on truly horrific dimensions, as readers will come to see further along. But as is the case with Chinese Black Magic, it had humble beginngs.

That's how it always starts - very small.

* * * * *

Synopsis I – The Road to Bornhavn

And what a long, strange road it had been.

Fresh from battling a platoon of stone statues deep under the ancient druidic mound, the party slept soundly the second night of their journey. They rose late on the morning of the third day out from Fort Ryker, groaning and grunting at the pain of their scrapes and bruises. Those with knowledge of healing took their time, and everyone felt a little better for the rest. Travel was initially easy, the road clear and straight before them - a good thing since everyone was still feeling rather bashed about.

As the party continued along the Nordvej towards Bornhavn, somber silence reigned. Heavy coniferous forests crowded closer to the road, which grew progressively more difficult to travel as the land sloped upwards into the low hills. To the East, low beams of sunlight glinted off the snowcapped peaks of Ryker's Range, and the wind from the mountains whistled through the valley of the Stjerneflade, bringing with it notice that winter in these parts would likely prove unpleasant. The river itself grew more active, its fast-moving waters throwing spray even onto the road surface, and blanketing the valley in a thick mist that lasted most of the morning.

As they rode, the warriors contemplated their recent victory. Gwendilyn, delighted at having once again made off with twice her own weight in coin, looked forward to finding unattended valuables lying about the approaching town, and fantasized about the fabled delights of the bustling markets of Ellohyin and Bitterberg, about which she had heard from fellow Halflings, and the storied and ferocious rivalry of the various factions within latter city's secretive Fingerman's Guild. She passed the time counting the coins they had "liberated" from the crypt, polishing the tarnished ones, and separating out the gold "for safekeeping".


Qaramyn took a brief break from studying the arcane writings in his spellbook (many of which, with his new-won experience, had only recently become comprehensible) to sketch a map of the location of the mound, wondering about the collapsed sewer grate, muttering under his breath about having "missed something". Nursing his scabbed-over knuckles and ignoring the motion of his mount, Joraz immersed himself in contemplative reverie, reviewing the battle through the inner eye of his training, content with his performance, but determined to do better next time. He also took a moment to study and polish up the elaborate, heavy golden necklace with its twelve cairngorm-cut garnets that he had recovered from the crushed rubble of the enormous stone statue, wondering whether there might not be value in it beyond the immediate evidence of his eyes. Cautious by nature, however, he decided that, for the time being, he would refrain from putting it around is neck.

Alric, meanwhile, largely recovered from his exertions, rode happily at the head of the column, enjoying the golden dance of light reflecting from the scales of his archaic but well-made habergeon, trying to ignore the smell of brimstone that emanated from it. He pondered the origins of the enormous sword slung across his back and the heavy bronze helmet with its massive rack of deer antlers wedged down around his ears. As he rode, he used his dagger to pry the rock chips out of his club. After the battle with the statues, he was thinking of naming it.

On the buckseat of the wagon, Gambrik [the wagon commander] argued incessantly with Telvor [the wagon driver] in the manner characteristic of soldiers of long acquaintance, comparing the relative merits and disadvantages of various types of armour, weapons, liquor and women, while Telvor watched the road ahead, his bow close at hand. Finally, Pillar Howall, the pilot, spent the day as he had spent the night - fast asleep in his armour and travel-stained cloak, snoring in the bottom of the wagon between an anker of cider and a flitch of bacon, one arm wrapped around a well-used and fast-emptying wineskin.

Breygon rode well out in front of the column, scanning the road and woods ahead. He was concerned about the proximity of the forest and the potential for ambush, and begrudged the time they had lost mucking about underground. He was also worried about what might lie ahead. Despite their recent victory, he had few illusions about the ability of his tiny band either to stand up to a concerted attack or to follow orders in a crisis. His colleagues had already proven themselves ready to dash off and follow their own interests at a moment's notice, which had led to a near-disastrous two-front battle under the mound. Unconsciously gnawing at a knuckle, he played and replayed those few terrifying moments in his mind, trying to determine where, precisely, things had gone off the rails.


Despite his relatively long years, leadership was a novel situation for the warrior. Until only recently, he had been responsible for no one other than himself, and had tended, when confronted with unruly or unreliable colleagues, to simply haul stakes and move on. "Perhaps I'm being too hard on himself," he said in a low voice, then added wryly, "but I've always been a deep thinker." Then he remembered that he had completely forgotten about the body of the courier they had found early the day before, and the cryptic message written on the back of the Bornhavn economic development brochure found in the messenger’s scrip. And that worried him some more.

There was no shelter to be found when night fell on the third day. Over the course of the afternoon, the air had warmed somewhat as the sun broke through the clouds. Breygon noticed that the leaves had begun to turn, and that the conifers were slowly giving way to older, heavier deciduous forest. It felt a little more familiar to him, although he recognized that woods of this sort were home not only to his distant kin, but also to a vast array of unpleasant denizens, particularly so close to the mountains. Also during the afternoon, the river had dropped progressively into a deep trench as the land rose on both sides, until by dusk the party found itself camping on something of a mound near a small cliff some fifty feet over the water, where the river closed to its narrowest point, only about two hundred paces across, and boiled through the gap it had carved through the stone. The wind, too, had picked up, to the point where Gambrik and Telvor were forced to anchor the tents to nearby trees to prevent them being blown away. Supper was, as a result, a brief affair, and the still-tired warriors made their way to bed, with Gwendilyn, Joraz, Gambrik and Telvor holding the watches until dawn.

The wind dropped during the night, and when he emerged from his tent with the dawn to begin his stretching and meditation, Joraz found that the mist rising from the river had surrounded their hilltop camp like a collar, so that they seemed to be perched on a treed island. The fire had gone out, but the morning chill did not penetrate his calm, and soon he was contorting himself happily, leaping here and there, and poking and kicking at imaginary foes. He was still going through his gyrations when Breygon emerged, having passed another restless night. He, too, noticed that the fire had gone out, and decided to give Telvor a good dressing-down for forgetting such an elementary part of his duties.

Then Breygon noticed that Telvor was missing.

A short sprint took him to the flat stone that had been chosen as a guard point for its proximity to the road and the fact that the wagon blocked some of the wind. Telvor's quiver and bow lay abandoned on the ground, as did his tinderbox with its flint and steel, as though they had fallen from his pack rather than been cast aside. Kneeling, Breygon examined the packed earth, noting the varied tracks of his own people, and remarking as well a number of strange impressions - four? five? - that seemed at first glance to be the marks of unshod human feet, but that somehow were not. More feral, his mind whispered, and he felt a chill crawl up his spine. Casting quickly about, he followed the odd tracks - for it seemed that Telvor's boots were moving among them - towards the road, where he lost them on the packed, stone-salted surface. Up the road and back he searched, and found nothing. Telvor was gone. Returning to the stone, Breygon noticed something that had escaped his attention before: a light spray of blood-stains along the side of the wagon, already turning brown against the weathered wood. "Those are new," he muttered to himself.

Dammit! A dead courier, a misfought battle that should never have happened, and now one of his guardsmen was missing. And they were still two days' travel from Bornhavn.


The Crypt (III) - The Burial Vault

Well, as you can see, behind the secret door next to the dais was a staircase leading down. The trouble is, the PCs never found the secret door!

Trespassing in the tomb brought the usual response from its programmed guardians, and a long, drawn-out battle ensued. The Party eventually took out all of the animated statues, earning more than a few contusions in the process. The archers quickly found their arrows did very little damage against the statues' Hardness scores, so most of the damage was done by Breygon's longsword, Alric's greatclub, Joraz's mighty staff, and Qaramyn's magic missiles. The value of the flanking bonus and Gwen's sneak attack ability quickly became apparent.

Once the bad guys were gravel, Gwen went for the chests, and the fun began all over again. Up popped the big stone statue and the fight was on - only this time, pretty much everybody was wounded, and the wizard was out of spells. But by surrounding the monster on the dais to max-out the flanking bonuses, the Party was able to take it down without suffering any fatalities. They recovered the big sword, the pretty golden necklace, and the scabbard, and Gwen opened the chests without difficulty, crowing when the moolah came into view. Alric donned the armour, not minding the stench of brimstone (it was a welcome change from "smelling like a bear"), while Joraz pocketed the necklace.

During all of this, Breygon walked past the secret door at least four times, and never noticed it (it's called a SPOT CHECK, people - put some skill points in it!). The patented Elven secret doorsense never tingled. So as a result, the Party never found the lower level of the dungeon, or the glories (and dangers) lurking therein.

But that's no reason to leave it all a mystery!

* * * * *

9. PIT TRAP

"As you turn the corner, there is a sudden snap, and the floor drops away. Far below, you can see cold water glistening in the torchlight."

- Spiked pit trap, 20’ deep, Reflex DC 20 / avoid, 2d6 falling damage, Reflex DC 20 / half, Search DC 18, Disable DC 18
- there is nothing in the pit except three feet of foul, brackish water.

10. UNDERCRYPT

"This low, dank chamber is 15’ wide x 25’ long, with an ogive-vaulted ceiling rising 15’ above your heads. Parts of the ceiling are crumbling and falling in; the place doesn’t look all that sturdy. The room contains five alcoves, each with heavily carved stone sarcophagus protruding into room. There is a heavy layer of mildew on the stonework, and you can hear the sound of dripping water."

- the gate is fixed in place, but the damp has severely corroded the iron bars; Hardness 8, 25 HP, Break DC 35
- if any of the sarcophagi are disturbed, the SHADOW will manifest and attack

STRONG SHADOW: Init +2, AC 15, HD 4d12 (36 HP), Atk Incorp Touch +3 melee, Dam 1d6 temp Str, 5’x5’/5’, Undead, Incorporeal (harmed only by incorporeal creatures, +1 or better weapons, or magic; 50% chance to ignore damage from corporeal source), pass through solid objects at will, attacks ignore armour, Create Spawn (killed by strength loss? rise in 1d4 rds), Hide8, IntDir5, Lis7, Spt6, Dodge (+1 to AC vs. one opponent)

SARCOPHAGUS 1: Skeleton, rich rotted robes, 2 silver armbands (v. 50 gp ea.)

SARCOPHAGUS 2: Skeleton, corroded bronze scale armour, rusty longsword, primitive gold ring with inset sapphire (v. 475 gp)

SARCOPHAGUS 3: Skeleton, once-rich rotted robes (female style), ornate gold and pearl girdle (v. 150 gp), short wand carved from black bone of some sort, and set with silver bands (Wand of Cure Light Wounds, 8 charges)

SARCOPHAGUS 4: Skeleton, rusted banded mail, rusted battle axe

SARCOPHAGUS 5: Skeleton, corroded bronze scale armour, corroded bronze helmet, 2 x MW Throwing Axes

ESCAPING FROM THE DUNGEON

This should not prove challenging. However, it would be dramatically appropriate for the effort involved in climbing out of the collapsed hole to cause the roof to cave in, burying the Crypt forever, and causing the carved ring of stones to fall inwards on itself.

RETURNING TO THE DUNGEON

Given the nature of the surrounding woodlands, prime real estate doesn't stay unoccupied for long. So if the party leaves the dungeon for more than a week and the entrance hole remains open, some Large Monstrous Spiders will move in and start breeding.


* * * * *

Just in case you were thinking about coming back, guys.



The Crypt (II) - The Barbarian King

So it was Breygon who found the "sweet spot" in the middle of the runestone ring, and ended up crashing through a couple of yards of wet dirt and crumbling masonry, crashing to the flagstones right about where that hand-drawn "X" is (near the #2 on the map). Gwen sprinted (insofar as Halflings can be said to "sprint") back to the campsite to fetch her colleagues and a rope. In a trice, the five intrepid adventurers found themselves standing in a...

...well, you can read the rest. That's why DMs write dungeon descriptions.

* * * * *

THE CRYPT (INSIDE): THE KING'S HALL

GENERAL

- Fairly good quality hewn stone construction; most of the stone is granite; heavily carved with abstract sigils and old, unrecognizable runes (Decipher Script 20: similar to bardic ogham, but still unreadable, although some of the words are familiar to the Northern dialects; they speak of “battles, and mighty kings, and the valiant dead”)
- Ceiling 8’ at walls, 12’ at columns, peaks at 15’
- Dais 4’ above floor (6-9’ to ceiling), bronze rails
- Large chunks of rubble from fallen ceiling and columns, particularly under hole in floor
- Heavy layer of dust on floor, disturbed near skeletons
- Four guttering torches (“Continual Flame”) burn against pillars torches in crypt, one in antechamber; light is very dim except within 10’ of torch
- Atmosphere cold and terrifying; eldritch shivers; Fort DC 10 or -1 on all atk rolls, skill checks and saves for duration of stay

2. THE KING'S HALL

You see armed and armoured warriors lining the walls, standing in niches 5’ deep and wide, and 8’ high. They are crude stone statues of warriors, bearing rusted swords and ancient axes, and are crumbling under the implacable assault of time.”

- These are in fact medium-sized animated objects that will animate and attack as soon as someone places a foot upon the stairs up to the dais. They are in poor condition; some are missing chunks, even an arm, and most are not as hard as once they were.

Animated Object, (Yellow = Swordsman, Red = Axeman)
Corroded bronze scale, bronze helms, bronze shields, rusty Long Sword/Baxe
- Init +0, AC 14 (+4 scale), Hardness random (2d4), HD2d10, LSword/BAxe +2 melee, Dam 1d8+1, 5’x5’/5’, Move 10’, F+0, R+0, W-5, Str 12, Dex 10, Con-, Int-, Wis 1, Cha 1. Immune to mind-influencing effects, poison, disease, critical hits, subdual damage, ability damage, energy drain or death from massive damage. No treasure. CR 3 each.

There are 14 of these animated statues present.

3. FLOOR DRAIN


- badly corroded bronze grille; anyone stepping on it over 100 lbs will break through; Reflex save DC 14 to avoid fall; fall causes 1d6+1d4 damage (reflex save DC 15 for half)
- 3’ x 3’ dirt shaft 15’ down to 20’ x 20’ cylindrical sump full of foul water and bones; water is 8’ deep. Climb check DC 20 to climb back out on own. Nothing in sump.

4. GATE

- 10 steps up to bars; centre section of bars is hinged; light from a torch beyond
- Bars in antechamber of figured bronze; very ornate, spiked etc.
- locked (Open Lock DC 22); AC 18, hardness 9, HP 10, Bend DC 26
- Two more ANIMATED OBJECT warriors can be seen beyond gate

5. ANTECHAMBER

- 15’ x 15’, 8’ ceiling; walls heavily carved in old runes (similar to Bardic Ogham)
- 2 ANIMATED OBJECT warriors here, will attack if passed (see area #2 above)

6. SECRET DOOR

- Spot DC 26 (slight cracks in stonework around 4’ wide, 6’ high door)
- Search DC 22 (slightly raised stone eye in carved dragon, must be depressed)
- If door is touched, statue at area #7 will animate and attack anyone near door
- Door opens 2” inward, sticks; Strength check of 18 to force open (Hardness 9, HP 12)
- Air is dead and lifeless; thick dust on stairs, undisturbed for centuries
- 2 flights of 22 stairs downwards
- PIT TRAP halfway down

7. DAIS

- 8 steps up to 4’ off floor, corroded bronze railing; large stone throne

"Seated on the throne is an enormous, crumbling stone statue of an ancient barbarian warrior. The statue is carved of white dolomite, badly darkened by age, and is covered in a heavy layer of dust and cobwebs; a large metal and wooden shield, badly decayed, sits by its right side; a long, heavy sword, covered in rust, lays across its knees; and a simple coronet set with dark red gems sits askew on its brow. The statue looks like a mighty human warrior, but is the size of a giant – at least 10’ tall sitting down. He looks as if he has been waiting - for a very long time."

Huge Animated Statue – will atk if his sword, the chests, or the secret door at area #6 is touched.

[HUGE ANIMATED OBJECT: Init +3 (-1 Dex, +4 Stone of Improved Initiative), AC 14 (+4 natural), Hardness 7, HD8d10, Slam +9 melee / +1 Greatsword +10 melee, Trample (medium or smaller) +9 / Slam 2d6+7, +1 Greatsword 2d6+8, Trample 2d6+7 / 5’x5’/10’, Move 20’, F+2, R+1, W-3, Str 20, Dex 8, Con-, Int-, Wis 1, Cha 1. Immune to mind-influencing effects, poison, disease, critical hits, subdual damage, ability damage, energy drain or death from massive damage. Ignores first 7 points of damage; can’t be healed or repaired. CR 5. If taken below zero hit points, the statue automatically crumbles into gravel, and the sword will tumble free. The necklace can be found by searching the rubble of the statue (Search SC 16).

Treasure:

+1 Greatsword (ancient northern barbarian design; runes engraved on blade: “Ullyngrdr, Foecrusher, Giant’s Bane / Snorri made me for Wiglif Ygrd’s son”)

Gold chain necklace set with 12 cairngorm garnets. One of the garnets is enchanted, granting its bearer the Improved Initiative feat (but only if the bearer does not already have the feat. Weak transmutation, CL 7, Cat's Grace, 8000 gp).

8. TREASURE CHESTS

"Under a heavy layer of cobwebs and dust, three solid wooden chests are aligned against the wall behind the throne."

(each chest is wooden, 3’ wide, 3’ high, 2’ deep, and has seen better days)

Chest 1: Locked (rusty, Open Lock DC 22) – 1450 cp, 625 sp, 95 gp (all loose)

Chest 2: No lock, rich clothing, rotted to dust; some gold buttons

Chest 3: Locked, trapped (old poison needle: Search DC 20, Disable Device DC 16; Reflex Save 22 or 1d2 damage; poison Fort DC 13 or 1d3/1d3 Dex. Open Lock DC 14). Chest contains rags of cloth wrapped around archaic suit of gilded MW scale mail, very pretty, ancient pattern of individually engraved dragon scales (Hist/Lore DC 25, Human Wis Check 20, Armoursmith DC 17 – 1000 year old ceremonial armour from ancient human barbarian kingdoms, made by northern smiths, v. 900 gp, doule that to a collector; includes gilded open-face helm with large buck antlers, v. 300 gp).

Spot DC 26 / Search DC 16: Ullyngrdr’s scabbard, made of black dragon-hide and set with corroded silver clasps, lies covered in dust and cobwebs on the floor behind the chests.

The Crypt (I) - The Runestone Ring



(UPDATED - SCROLL DOWN)

At some point in the future, in the course of another historical reminisence, I'll recount the tale of how our intrepid heroes managed to get from the pubs of Aeryn, through the bandit hordes (brought to you by the Order of the Broken Arrow) outside of the town of Old Forge, and thence to Fort Ryker, southernmost outpost of the Bjerglands, straddling the Nordvej - the Great Northern Road that runs alongside the River of Stars (aka the Stjerneflade) from Vejborg on the south coast of Zare, all the way to the Whitestone Pass in the mountains bordering the Dunvale to the north.

Suffice it to say that, once at Fort Ryker, our intrepid adventurers (from the lofty heights of Level 2) were able to rest, reprovision, and get a new set of orders from the Commander of the Fort. Seems a cargo ship sailing downstream from Ellohyin to Vejborg had stopped to take on cargo a Bornhavn, a small town (famed for its cider and chestnuts) a few days' ride upriver. During their brief stay, the pilot disappeared, and the Stjerneflade above Ryker was too hazardous to run without one. The Party - under the command of Breygon, temporarily promoted to Acting Sergeant for this mission - was ordered to escort a new pilot, one Pillar Howell, up the Nordvej to Bornhavn, where he was to join the ship and bring her downstream.

Simple enough, no?

* * * * *

UPDATE - THE SETUP

Nothing sets up an adventure like a nice, prosey introduction by a deliciously idosyncratic non-player character. Naturally, I had one ready, but I had forgotten where I saved it.

Well, I found it. Lucky you!

Upon arrival, Grant [the Paladin who had been keeping the newbies alive] is called aside by the commander of the Fort, Castlemayne of Aeryn, and sent on a secret mission of the utmost urgency along with his two buddies. He leaves without providing you with any details - just a stout pep-talk, a slap on the back, and a hearty "Thanks for absorbing all those arrows; I'm certain our paths will cross again." The party will have a day or two to rest, recuperate and re-equip to the extent possible at the Fort.

Fort Ryker, located at the northernmost easily-navigable point on the Stjerneflade River, is something of a border outpost, so it's short on luxuries and the finer amenities of life, but long on the things mercenary troops need: armour, weapons, ammunition, repair services, iron rations, foul-mouthed jongleurs, and beer. Now that Grant's commando squad has been sent off on assignment, the Commander has an urgent mission for you, his newest Watchmen. It's nothing too strenuous, but it requires competence, skill, flexibility and a track record of getting things done. Accordingly, on Grant's recommendation the Commander has appointed Breygon Acting Sergeant (Temporary) and has provided you each with a light riding horse complete with tack, saddles and saddlebags (these are "company property", to be returned when no longer needed). Gwendilyn is, of course, provided with a small pony.

Fighter-types are also invited to draw weapons and armour (again, on temporary loan) from the Fort's armoury: choices include leather, studded leather, scale armour, chainshirts and chainmail; small and large wooden shields; and the standard weaponry of the fortress (daggers, battle axes, shortspears, halberds and light crossbows. They have longbow ammunition, but longbows are personal property of the archers). You could also draw a ballista if you can figure out how to transport it. As with the horses, this equipment reverts to the guards on your death or retirement; paying for its repair and maintenance is your responsibility.

Finally, you all receive your salary for your first week of service: (calculated at 15 sp per day for the 10 days you've been enlisted). You also all receive a 10 gp bounty for "extra duty" in defending Old Forge from the Broken Arrow guys. As a non-Watchman, Joraz is not entitled to a salary, of course, but nonetheless receives the 10 gp bounty. Feel free to buy anything from the Player's Handbook that would be likely to be found at an isolated military post.

Now: your mission (should you choose to accept it - ha! Like you had a choice!) is explained to you by the Fort's castellan, a retired senior Guardsman named Lalagor:

"You probably didn't notice, boozing it up as you young'uns like to do, but we're running short of supplies. It's because there's a ship overdue.

"She's the
Swiftkeel, and she makes the run down the Stjerneflade once a month, bringing in grain, vegetables and ale from Ellohyin and Bitterberg. She usually stops at Bornhavn (about 50 leagues upriver) to pick up apples, cider, smoked mutton and whatever else they've got for sale. This time of year, it'll probably be chestnuts - tons of the damnable things.

"Anyway, a dispatch rider came in last night, and now we know why the ship's late. They stopped at Bornhavn ten days ago to load cargo, and their pilot disappeared. He was a notorious drunk named Olem of Barg, and the Captain of the
Swiftkeel - his name is Lyrik Allen, by the way - thinks the sot got to the bottom of one of Bellik's cider barrels and fell overboard in one of the dog watches. The river's too dangerous to sail without an experienced pilot, and while Bornhavn has plenty of shepherds and plow jockeys, there're certainly no sailors there. Allen's refusing to weigh anchor until we can get a new pilot to him.

"So that's your mission, you lot. We're down to less than two weeks hard rations, and hungry soldiers are unhappy soldiers, and the Commander wants his supplies - particularly the beer and cider, which makes the mutton jerky and hardtack go down easier, if you get my drift. Tonight on your way back to barracks, stop in at the mess and find Pillar Howall. He's old, nasty and looks like a shipwreck himself (he's got an eyepatch and the saddest beard north of the southlands), but he's the best pilot we have, and he's agreed to bring the
Swiftkeel downriver in jig time. I guarantee you'll find him at the bar. Tell him to go easy on the ale tonight, get him packed, and be ready to roll out at dawn.

"You've all been horsed, and I've had a two-pair stores wagon rigged out for you with rations, fodder, tents, ale, spare ammunition and a cargo of ten gross of arrows and twelve gross of bolts that you're to deliver to Captain Fellikartus in Bornhavn. Don't know what the man's been shooting at, this is the second time this year he's requested more ammo. I've assigned Guardsmen Telvor and Gambrik to drive your wagon; they'll meet you at the barbican at sunrise. Howall will ride with them, 'cause he don't know a horse from a homunculus. Don't kill your mounts, but you've got to get Howall to Bornhavn as soon as possible. It's nearly fifty leagues up the Nordvej, and though the road is hard and dry, that's still a five-day journey at least, and it will take Howall at least another two days to bring his tub down-river, so there's no time to spare. You're authorized to return aboard the ship, if you can persuade her Captain to take your horses aboard. If you do, send the wagon back by road. Either way, get back soon as you can; I'll likely have more work for you.

“Oh, and by the way, I’m not entirely sure that I buy the “getting drunk and falling overboard” story. Olem was a soak, but he could hold his liquor. I won’t miss his conversation, but he was a halfway decent man to lift a mug with. See if you can find out what happened to him, would you?

"Any questions? No? Right, then. Move out, sleep fast, and good journey."


See? Tell me that wasn't TOTALLY worth it.

* * * * *

With the pilot - an ale-swilling, shanty-howling sot - tucked into one corner of a wagon and the rest occuppied by the cargo of arrows and bolts, the Party set out into the Bjerglands. Nasty autumn weather notwithstanding, they made good time, and enjoyed an uneventful trip, until sunset on the third day of their journey saw them making camp in the shadow of a high, grassy hill capped by a dozen old, weatherworn stones.

This being too obvious an adventure hook to pass up, Gwen and Breygon mounted the hill to check things out...and that's where everything went pear-shaped. Because if somebody doesn't fall through the ground and into the dungeon, well, we wouldn't have an adventure, would we?

* * * * *

THE CRYPT (OUTSIDE): THE OBELISK RING
The enormous earth mound is visible from the Nordvej, rising out of the sparse trees half a mile off the road. The top is bare, and marked by large standing stones, encircled in a ring of gigantic oak trees. It looks like a place worthy of investigation, or at least a little sight-seeing.

- Earth mound 45’ high
- Crowned by large, carved granite blocks, each about 5’ x 5’ and 10-20’ high, around around 100’ diameter packed dirt circle, overgrown with grass
- Stone ring is surrounded by ring of enormous, ancient oak trees; smaller oak trees surround base of mound
- Path winds up side of mound; dirt and grass, difficult to follow
- Entrance to ring is flanked by two enormous, ancient holly trees

[Religion/History DC 16] This is a ring for druid worship of the ancient earth gods (fertility, war, winter, etc.); most druids have abandoned this worship for more recent (and less bloodthirsty) dieties
[R/H DC 20] This sort of ring was typical of the ancient, nature-worshipping human barbarian kingdoms of this region; most are long gone, along with the gods they worshipped
[R/H DC 24] Probably built more than 1000 years ago by barbarian kingdoms; sort of structure that is usually associate with a barrow, often of a high-ranking nobleman
[R/H DC 30] The Ancient barbarian dieties were: The Allfather, the Mother of the Underworld, the Earth Giant, the Sky Giant, the Father of Storms, the Daughter of the Sea, the Forest Runner (huge grey wolf), the God of Tricks, the Goddess of Magic, and the Goddess of the Hunt.

- Original stair entrance deliberately concealed, now grown over and impossible to find

- 12 blocks in total; 2 are “gateway dolmens” at entrance, other 10 represent ancient barbarian dieties – 2 blocks are fallen (Religion/History 28: These represent “Sky” and “Storm”)

ROLL PARTY DICE TO SEE WHO FALLS THROUGH THE HOLE
(D% for all who walk around ring of stones; lowest odd roll falls through; 2d6 subdual, Reflex Save DC 15 for half)
- hole through ground is 15’ dirt; 3’ stone ceiling, 12’ from ceiling to floor of crypt. Once broken through, hole at ground level is 10’ in diameter, funnel-shaped

Meet the Party

You'll come to know our player characters (hereafter PCs) a little better over the coming weeks. But by way of a bit of introduction, here's something of an outline.

The party met in Aeryn, once an independent kingdom, now a Duchy incorporated into Vestland, one of the three provinces of the Kingdom of Zare. I won't go into the details of their meeting at this stage (perhaps one of the intrepid adventurers might take on that task in the future), but suffice it to say, they were oddly matched form the start.

Alric, a farming lad of human descent, was a young lad of no little brawn, with some knowledge of weapons, and out looking to better his lot. Alric made his name slaughtering 0-level ruffians with an ironwood greatclub, getting gnawed on by dire wolves, and inaugurating the immortal phrase, "I smell like a bear."

Breygon Sylvanus, a Half-Elven ranger, was a fellow of both town and woods, of uncertain parentage, and jaded after a career squiring brainless nobles through the tame and track-ridden woods of Aeryn. A man of few words, he excelled at felling foes from bowshot, until Alric left the party and he suddenly became the meatshield-cum-moulinex. He now spends a lot of his time trying to get in touch with his Elven heritage, bits and pieces of which keep popping up at the most inconvenient moments.

Gwendilyne, a halfling thief of extraordinary talents and extraordinarily bad judgement, made the acquaintance of her future partners while trying to drag a sack of stolen coins through a busy marketplace. Gwen's patented catch-phrase is, "I don't get mad, I get stabby!", and when faced with the possibility of sharing treasure with others, has been known to say "Boooo!" Gwen's Spot check is so high that she has been known to succeed even on a critical failure. Gwen recently became the proprietor of The Halfling's Hearth, a small tavern in the bustling town of Bymill, and is looking forward to opening it again, in order to fleece customers wholesale, instead of merely retail.

Joraz, a sober and reflective student of unarmed combat, sought to avenge his slain master, and recover his master's greatest written works from his killers, with the ultimate goal of reconstituting the Order of Tyrellus. Joraz was distinguished as being in the forefront of battle; and, since he doesn't wear armour, he is also the only member of the party to go below 0 hit points more than twice. Third time was the charm; he's dead now, and the party's new side-adventure is "looking for a diamonds worth a total of at least 5,000 gp."

And finally Qaramyn, a College Wizard of the Order of Light, was hoping both to prove himself, and to come to grips with the burgeoning arcane powers that made him more than mortal. Qaramyn's guiding ethos was formed in one of his early battles, when he discovered that the one thing he enjoyed more than a really heavy study session was burning people alive.

Alric and Qaramyn have both, regrettably, left the party; Alric has taken up a position as Lieutenant of Guards in the great city of Vejborg, on the south coast of Zare, while Qaramyn has accepted a position in the Royal Library in that selfsame city. Both will, doubtless, be back. In the meantime, their lamentable absence has been filled by two new arrivals:

Lyra Alyra, a Hiarsk (hereditary half-elf, rather than recent half-breed - more ancient history to follow!), began life as a rogue, but when her inborn talents as a sorceress emerged, she decided to follow a different path. Somewhat lacking in an internal moral compass, Lyra goes where the wind takes her, and looks DAMNED good doing it. Lyra has been having odd dreams lately, and the party is still wondering when they're going to get some use out of that Wand of Enlarge that she dropped 6,000 gold on.

And let us not forget Bjorn Guthbrandr - a fish out of water if there ever was one. A monstrously enormous warrior-cleric of Esu, the Allfather, Bjorn is a long way from his Jarlin home, doing his best to bring the blessing of the Mikkelseggr, the Big Man, to the heathen, and crushing a few skulls along the way. Bjorn stomps through life wearing a dead paladin's armour and carrying the biggest damned hammer anyone has ever seen, which he uses as a Seven-Iron on ogre heads.

Bjorn and Lyra, incidentally, share that special bond forged as the result of being the only two members of the party who have actually tried to beat the crap out of each other.

So much for the adventurers. In my next post, I'll bring you up to speed on some of the nasty things they've survived (or not survived; sic transit gloria...oh yeah, I already did that joke).

Also, more will be written about their early adventures, the first of which was a test of strength that saw them each recuited as members of the Watch of Aeryn (mostly to keep them off the streets). In this guise, after some weeks together, learning each other's strengths and weaknesses, and vanquishing a nest of bandits into the bargain, they left the ancient Duchy, setting out for an isolated fortress - and finding more along the road than they bargained for.

Because, hey - don't they always?

27 July 2007

Historia Antiquitatis - Part II

The following is another excerpt from the Historia Antiquitatis, by Ceorlinus Rectinarius, Sapienter Regalis of the Third House of Elvehelm, who lived, flourished, wrote, sang and died nearly a thousand years ago.

Sæculum Factionis ab Liberi Bræa

Fearing defeat in the War, Bræa pleaded with Anā for counsel; and both the Anari and the Uruqua were permitted to create new beings, of great but lesser stature, to serve in their wars. These new lives were to be weak in power but unlimited in number; and the skill of their creators would determine success or failure. But because this meant shattering the accord between Anā and Ūru (which in truth had already been breached by Bardan), the creation of the new beings, although undertaken by Bræa alone, was perforce accompanied by the Ban, which forbade the creation of any more beings of speech, and free will, and immortal spirit within Anuru.

And so Bræa laboured and brought forth the Eldest, the Brahiri, which name means “Children of Bræa”; and they were fair of face and unlike any beings yet seen within the confines of Anuru. Four peoples of the Brahiri were created. The First People were tall and very fair, with pale skin and dark hair and eyes; and they were patient and gentle, and on their brow was writ Wisdom. The Second People were short, broad and dark of hair and skin; and they were strong and enduring as the stones of world upon which they trod. The Third People were tall, fair-haired and blue-eyed, and these were fleet of foot and eager to know the secrets of Anuru; and the Fourth People were small, nimble and dark of skin and hair, and quick and clever. These were the People of the Spoken Word, created by Bræa, ever after called The Kindred; and in the instant of their waking, Anā closed the door of creation, and no more speaking creatures of free will and immortal spirit could ever after be called into being by the Powers upon Anuru, for good or for ill. And this sealing for all time of the door of creation was called the Ban of Anā.

But Ūru, learning of the Ban of Anā, was wroth, for he perceived that the Peoples forged by Bræa, though yet young and but in the dawning of their powers, would fight for the Bringers of the Light; and though they were frail in comparison to the Powers, Avatars and Minions of the Dark, yet they were fecund, and soon would people Anuru in great numbers. So he strove mightily against the Ban, but it fell upon Anuru before he could undertake to oppose it. Thus, although he brought forth creatures and monsters innumerable, none could share the gifts of the Kindred of the Spoken Word, of Free Will, and of the Immortal Spirit; and were but beasts. And Ūru was wroth, and he seized instead upon many of his Minions of the Dark, and warped them into terrible and fell monsters, and set them in eternal enmity against the Children of Bræa; and so were created the fell serpents, the great spiders, the wolves of terror, the dragons, the giants, and all of the other horrors of Anuru. Some were lesser in strength and short-lived; but others were wise, mighty and long in years. And in time, some – especially the dragons – grew fell and terrible, exceeding the Minions in their power, to rival even the Avatars as the mightiest of the servants of the Dark.

While Ūru was withdrawn into the darkness and engaged in his hideous creations, abetted by Bardan, Zaman, and Tvalt, Bræa gathered her new-born Children in one place upon the earth and instructed them in the Spoken Word. And there was no time in that place, for the Lantern had not yet risen, nor had the Lamps that were to come in latter days; and the Children lived in peace and ease by the light and strength that lay in the Anari alone. They learned quickly; and as they learned, they grew in wisdom and power and independence; and Bræa, after a time, understood the terrible price that came with the Ban of Anā. For the Children of Bræa were not slaves; they knew no subservience to either Light or Dark, but were free of will, and so, unlike the Servants, the Avatars, and the Minions, free to disobey; even to oppose the Light, and to bend to the will and whim of evil. And this perplexed Bræa, for the Servants, the Avatars and the Minions of the Powers had been brought forth in servitude and obedience; and they could struggle, and argue, and twist; but in the end they could not rebel against their masters.

But the Children of Bræa were wilful; and although, compared to the greater beings, they were ephemeral, and fragile, and could be killed, yet they could not be cowed. And this freedom woke a kernel of fear in the bosom of Bræa; for she foresaw that this independence of spirit could lead them to follow and serve the Dark as easily as the Light. And moreover, for the Kindred, this independence of spirit, it seemed, endured even after death, for unlike the Avatars, the Minions, and even the Monsters of Bardan, the Kindred, when their bodies were slain, did not disappear forever from Anuru, but rather passed into the Long Halls of the Dead, under the eyes of Tvalt; whence the powerful might someday return.

And when she perceived this, Bræa railed against the light; and such was her despair at having unleashed Free Will upon Anuru that she sought to unmake her children, and return them to the stuff of Heaven and Earth whence they had come, lest they fall prey to the blandishments of Ūru, and so tip the balance even further against the Light. But Anā stayed Bræa’s hand, saying, “That which I have permitted thee to create, thou mayest not uncreate. Wouldst thou then slay thy sons and thy daughters for being not slaves? Thine dismay and distrust are unbecoming of the Light, and therefore do I say that these are now no longer thy children. While thou mayest instruct and even walk among them, never again will they hew unto you. No more are they in thy charge.”

And so saying, Anā summoned the Brothers of Bræa: Hara, Esu, Nosa and Lagu, and gave unto each of them the care and instruction of one of the Peoples. To Hara she bequeathed the care of the First People, those who were tall, dark-haired and wise, and they became the Haradi. To Lagu was given care of the Second People, those who were short, strong and of indomitable will, and they became the Lagudi. Esu received the care of the Third People, the Fair-haired Wanderers, to be known ever after as the Esudi; and Nosa was granted care over the small, nimble folk of the Fourth People, and they became the Nosadi. And the four brothers separated, taking their new charges to different parts of Anuru to instruct them as each saw fit. And Bræa did weep at this parting, and repented of her attempt to slay her children; and she vowed that ever after she would strive to protect and nurture them. But Anā forbade even this, warning Bræa that while she might still impart knowledge to her former Children, and even allow her Servants and Avatars to assist them, yet she could never raise her hand again, either in their defence of, or against them. And Bræa bowed her head in submission to Anā, and in grief at her loss. But in time, she found a means to subvert even the will of Anā, and give unto her children a gift that would strengthen them against their foes.

But for the nonce, her grief was all-consuming; and in that grief, the Light that was in Bræa left her, and she became a lowly and silent spirit, incomparably mighty, and of beauty unsurpassed; but quiet and humble. And rather than see it vanish from Anuru, Anā took the light of Bræa, and fashioned it into an orb of exceeding puissance and beauty, and placed it in the Heavens near unto Anuru, so that the light of Bræa could yet be seen by her Children, and they might feel her warmth upon their faces. And the orb was ever after called Bræadan, which in the language of the Anari, meant “Lantern of Bræa”.

But the will of Ūru was not to be denied; and he was wroth that the light of Bræa should fall without hindrance across all of Anuru, and lay bare the schemes of the Uruqua, and expose the fell pits in which his monsters were bred, and the dark vales in which they prospered. And so with a word, he set the Earth into motion, and spun it like a ball, so that all of the lands would know darkness as well as light, with each defeating the other in turn, allowing the Master of Shadow sufficient darkness for his fell deeds

Thus were created the days. And as the march of days began, so began the count of time; and with the count of time, the Age of Making ended, and the Age of Wisdom began.

26 July 2007

Varata Lohikäärmeta

One of the most enjoyable parts of Dungeon-Mastering (hereafter "DM-ing") is concealing information, and even clues, in obscure references - and there's nothing more obscure than tales, songs and bad poetry. Much of this comes to the adventurers through the Varata Lohikäärmeta, the Tales of the Wyrm, a mystical book given each inducted Brother, and from which the Brethren are expected to read each evening, in order to gain wisdom, courage, and an example to follow. The book falls open at a different tale every evening, offering poetry, prose and song to inspire weary adventurers and uplift the souls of the downtrodden. It also provides yours truly with a creative outlet and a means of torturing the players.

Hey, at least I don't sing to them.

* * * * *
Rune the Second:
Uhrata Mirosata - "The Sacrifice of Miros"

When he had finished with each of his vile creations, Ūru sent them into the world, and they gave their service and their loyalty to the Powers of the Dark. But though they had not free will, the fell beasts of the Dark were disobedient, and so Bardan took them under his careful overlordship; for he feared that if his siblings, who were ever untrustworthy and jealous of his rule, gained so great a following, they would one day challenge him for mastery of the Uruqu. And aided by his Seven Servants, Bardan undertook to instruct the new beasts in the knowledge and wisdom of Ūru.

…Achamkris, eldest and wisest of Bardan’s followers, was given lordship over the dragons. And Achamkris struck a bargain with Gargarik, so that each aided the other; and as a result, the dragons grew mightily in strength and power, and the giants grew in wisdom and lore. Still Acahmkris was not done, for he espied upon the Haradi, and stole from them the secret of speech, and gave it to the Dragons; and thus they were the first among Bardan’s creations to gain the power of the word. And the dragons taught the Giants to speak, and so the word spread among the fell creatures, and those who had wit to learn it, did so. But where the speech of the Haradi was soft and musical, that of the fell creatures was harsh and foul; and each of the creatures bent the word to its own uses. Under the tutelage of Acahmkris, the Dragons prospered and grew in lore and might, and they lived long years, and came thereafter to be the most powerful, and wisest, and longest-lived of all the mortal beings upon Anuru. Fell minions of the Dark quailed before them, and even the mightiest of the Avatars feared to contend with the Lords and Princes of Dragonkind. But still they were outdone by the Children of Braea, for the Dragons did not possess immortality of spirit; for that secret even the wily Acahmkris could not learn from the Brahiri.

- From the Book of Anuru, the Age of Making

Before mighty Hara accepted from the hands of his eldest sister, Bræa, dominion and overlordship of the Elves, he had, as yet, taken only one of the minions of light into his service; for Hara was particular in his vision of the ways of the world, and adamant in his desire that his adopted children should come into their powers not only with strength, but also with the wisdom to govern that strength. Thus while the Age of Making lasted, he was served only by Gemmo, the Lady of the Winds, to whom was given dominion over the raptors and predators of the skies; and her sight was long, and none could approach her on the wing; and she wielded a golden sword, from which sprang the fires of the heavens.

But though he was pleased with her service and her guardianship of the skies, Hara sought out others to bear his will unto the woodlands; for Gemmo loved the winds, and clouds, and descended only to visit the eyries of her people, and came not unto the earth. Thus Hara sought far and wide for a guardian of the woodlands. At length he found one of the Brahiri, a rough warrior of the people who would, in the fullness of time, come to be known as the Haradi, who roamed the wood with bow and sword, confounding the beasts and minions of the Uruqua. And this warrior, who was called Larranel, took especial pleasure in confounding the designs of Bardan.
Because of his ferocity, his skill at arms, his love of the forests and of his kindred, Hara found in Larranel a spirit meet unto his needs; and he approached the warrior, and elevated him as his second servant. And right well did Larranel Sylvanus serve his new master, haunting the woodlands like death avenging, until he had earned another name among his former kinsmen: Corellon Larethian, that is, “Spirit of the Elder Forest”. And in latter days Larranel was much beloved of the greenland-dwellers among the Haradi, and became the greatest of Hara’s servants, and was much revered.

But still Hara besought him still for a third servant; for he had been vouchsafed by his sister a third domain, and this was overlordship of the magi, and patron of all white wizardry; and this was a difficult task to answer, for the Brahiri were yet new to the art magic, even those who later became the Haradi; and many long years would pass before they mastered the mana, and the great mage-kings Tîor, and Xîardath, and Bîardath would come to plumb its uttermost depths. And so Hara searched long and in vain.

These years, the waning years of the Second Age, the Age of Making, were a fell time for the Brahiri. For they had been rejected by their mother Bræa, who, fearing their free and wilful natures, had lifted up her hand to unmake them; and though they had been spared this doom by the intervention of Ana, and Bræa had repented of her rash decision and given up the light that was in her, the care of the Brahiri had not yet been given into the hands of the brothers of Bræa, who in time would become their new teachers and guardians. Thus the Brahiri lay bereft of guidance and at the mercy of the evil powers, and in darkness; for the light of Bræa was gone from them, and the Lantern had not yet been forged by Ana. Thus they lived without the protection of their mother, that had hitherto kept them safe from all harm, and were besieged upon all sides.

Now it was that Bardan attempted to undo the making of Bræa; and to this end, he sent his monsters against the kingdoms of the Brahiri, that were scattered, and disorganized, and despondent in their abandonment. And though the monsters were few in number (for Bardan had not yet made the vicious orcs or the cunning goblins, the mighty ogres or the fell Uruks), yet they were mighty. The great vermin spread across the lands of the Brahiri, bringing pestilence and laying waste to crop and furrow. Bats and vultures rained from the skies, wolves ranged far and wide, and the Giants bestrode the land like titans, wreaking great destruction.

Most fearsome, however, were the Wyrms of Achamkris, Lord of Dragons, who in addition to their matchless strength and invulnerability, had learned well the magical arts that Achamkris had stolen from the Elves. Thus while the Brahiri had the strength to withstand even the greatest of the attacks by the other monsters, the Wyrms of Achamkris breached their defences time and again; and Bræa’s children stood on the precipice of ruin.

Then came forth Miros, a princess of the Elves, daughter of Ylartallyk, one of the lesser kings of a lesser kingdom, that vanished long before Bræa returned, and mingled her blood with the blood of the Firstborn, and the founded the Houses of Harad. Miros was the youngest of five children, the only daughter, a child of grace and beauty, who had forsaken her family’s martial traditions to take up the staff in place of the sword. There were no masters and no colleges, and thus she learned her art from the winds and skies, and the trees of the forests, and the dark bones of the earth; and though she learned much in this wise, yet ever the deepest secrets escaped her; for even the mightiest of students, if he is to advance, requires a mighty teacher.
Her father was a fell warrior, and for long he held his mountain realm against the onslaught of the minions of Bardan; but mortal flesh was no match for the might of the Powers of Dark, and in time his warriors were slaughtered, his bastions crumbled, and his kingdom in flames. One of Miros’ earliest memories was of her father wielding his mighty sword left-handed; for a great viridian wyrm had taken his right arm. Yet even left-handed, he slew the foe that assailed him and threatened his daughter. And when Miros marvelled at his strength, and wept for his sacrifice, he told her that the true warrior of the light does not shun pain, but rather embraces it, and turns it into power.
When later he was slain defending the gates of his city from a host of ebon wyrms, she remembered the lesson of the right arm. She clung to his words, so well-remembered, and took them into the darkness of her heart; and in this darkest hour, she conceived a plan. Cloaked in the raiment of a minion of the dark, Miros left her father’s city and travelled deep into the mountain vales claimed by Bardan’s monsters, seeking out the greatest of their wyrm-mages, winning her way past sentries and even armies by the power of her magic and the force of the spirit within her.

At length, after many narrow escapes, she came upon the fastness of Scîarratekkan, the most ancient, once the mightiest of dragons, an ancient and wily serpent, Captain-General of the Red Wyrms, foremost among all the councillors of Achamkris. Using all of her skill and power, Miros penetrated his lair, and at length confronted him, seeking to wrest the deepest secrets of his power from him. But her quest was in foredoomed to failure; for Scîarratekkan had lived long, and his power vastly outstripped her own, and in an instant she stood unmasked, and mind-bare before the great wyrm.

As was, and is, the way of his kind, Scîarratekkan toyed with the elf-maiden, hoping to see what she was prepared to sell in order to buy her freedom; seeking to debase her and plunge her into despair before consuming her utterly. But Miros surprised him. Rather than pleading or weeping, she stood tall and proud before her fell foe, and offered her flesh to her captor.
Your flesh is already mine, to do with as I will,” Scîarratekkan hissed, scorching the air with his sulphurous exhalations.

“Pardon, incarnadine one, but you misunderstand,” the maiden replied, struggling to keep her voice bright and unwavering, despite the dragonfear that clawed at her soul. “I do not offer myself as a meal, but as a mate.”
Pardon yourself, insignificant one,” the dragon answered, his vast jaw working in a terrifying grin, “but I fear you would find my bulk…uncomfortable.”
“Surely a mage of your power could rectify the disparity,” she replied archly.
Indeed.” Scîarratekkan hissed an incantation in the sibilant tongue of his people, and his figure warped and blurred. An instant later, the great wyrm had vanished, and in its place stood an Elflord, tall and well-made, of surpassing beauty; but with scarlet hair, and eyes like pools of viscid fire.
Miros stood motionless as this demonic vision of one of her kin-folk approached, and felt a line of fire along her jaw as Scîarratekkan stretched out his hand and caressed her cheek. “That is not what I had envisioned,” she whispered, then repeated his incantation; and in an instant, the elf-maiden had been replaced by an enormous red wyrm, sleek and surpassingly lovely, at least in the eyes of a dragon.
Scîarratekkan reversed his transformation, and a moment later the great dragons stood together, necks entwining. “Is this why you came to me?” the elder wyrm asked, eloquent and commanding in his natural tongue.
In part,” Miros replied in the same language. “I will speak plainly, for no lies can be told in the tongue of dragons. I seek only the power and skill to protect my people from the depredations of your armies. To obtain it I offer you my industry, my obedience and my heart, for a span of seven years.”
That is but the breath of a whisper in the life of dragons,” Scîarratekkan replied, nettled by her candor, and yet intrigued by her offer.
As it is in the lives of Elves,” Miros answered. “But for you, it is a guarantee of immortality. Again, I beg your pardon, dread master, but I must speak plainly. You are old, and though your power is yet great, unmatched among your folk, your hide is dark, your teeth are dull, and the beat of your wings no longer shakes the earth. And you have no heir. I offer you the chance for your legacy to live on through our child.”
Scîarratekkan snorted derisively. “A bastard offspring, half-wyrm, half-mortal. What manner of legacy is that?”
A legacy of power,” Miros replied. “You are unsurpassed in might, and all-knowing in the ways of the dark. I am well-versed in the lore of my people and the power of the light. Our child would bestride both worlds, a mage unrivalled in all the history of Anuru.”
The ancient wyrm was entranced by the maiden’s offer, but still cautious. “My master, mighty Achamkriss,” he said slowly, “would not view my betrayal of his arcane secrets with favour.”
What matter that,” Miros asked, “if you are near death in any case, and your posterity has been assured, and your line hidden from him?” She held her breath as the elder dragon debated.
At long last, he nodded. “It is well,” he said. “I accept your bargain. You will be my love, and learn my art. Our paths will be joined forever, and you will raise our child to follow it. And his footsteps will shake the foundations of the Earth.”
* * * * *
Thus was the bargain struck. Elf mated with Dragon, breaching the unbreachable gulf separating the dark from light, and the children of Bræa from the monsters of Bardan. Miros opened herself to the blazing advances of her foe, and became one with him; and ever after would the minions of light and dark cross that gulf at their whim. The bloodlines of Brahiri and Dragons mingled and grew strong together, rife with arcane power, as invincible as adamant. The inviolable boundaries set in long ages past by Ana and Uru were shattered, and the shadow of the shattering would be long and grievous upon the earth.
Miros learned quickly the ways of dragons, and though the lessons were harsh, she endured them. Indeed, she soon came to long for her weyr-mate’s embrace, for in the union of their bodies, his spirit relaxed its iron vigilance, and their minds were as one; and in their shared passion, she gleaned much from his unguarded spirit that might otherwise have been closed to her. And as she slowly came to comprehend the vast, arcane mastery of the great wyrms, Scîarratekkan’s son quickened in her womb. Oft she lay awake at night, apprehensive, feeling the fell creature growing inside her, gritting her teeth to smother the pain as her diminutive form stretched beyond all nature to accommodate the monstrous being taking shape within it.
Well she knew what it was she bore; a twisted, unnatural child, an abomination, a thing that had no place in the plans of Bræa or of Bardan, and no claim on life or sustenance anywhere upon Anuru. The pain was nigh unbearable, but she determined to bear it, to last another day, and thus earn another day’s wisdom for her people. To ease the pain, she spent more and more time in dragon’s form, living as one of the great red wyrms; and she learned their lust for treasure, and power, and glory, and the skies, and came to understand their indifference to mortal aspirations and endeavours, and their contempt for the petty, weak, ephemeral beings that crawled in the dust like insects. All these things wyrm-form granted her; and as she became one with the wyrm, the memory of her old body faded and grew dim. She had embraced her pain, and it became her power; and her power grew daily.
At length, the seven-year span ended, and it seemed indeed to Miros that the time had come and gone as quickly as the stroke of a moth’s wing. Scîarratekkan was despondent, saddened that his bargain with Miros had come to an end. To his surprise, he had grown genuinely fond of the lovely elf-maiden, for she had proven to be more than a careful and ingenious student; she was also a courteous and gentle companion, a staunch weyr-mate, and a dutiful and dedicated consort. And moreover, he felt an overwhelming affection and sense of pride in the child of their mingled blood that was growing rapidly within her womb.
Thus when she arose one morning, and took, for the first time in more than a year, the shape of her mother’s people, the great wyrm’s spirit quailed within him, for he knew that the period of their bargain was at an end. Scîarratekkan eyed the tiny elf-woman’s rippling, distended abdomen with dismay, and was plunged into despair at the thought that he would not see his child born; and he pleaded with her to stay at his side.
“Will you not remain with me,” he implored, speaking her own tongue in his desperation to dissuade her, “that we might raise our son jointly, and see him grow strong and set upon the path to power, and together instruct him in the arcane arts?”
Miros smiled gently. “Dread lord, I have no intention of ever leaving this place.”
Scîarratekkan was relieved, even delighted, but at the same time puzzled. “Have you then forsaken your people, and your promise to deliver to them the fruits of your bargain?”
“I have forsaken no one,” Miros replied. “I intend indeed to gift them with the hard-won fruits of my labours. But only in part.” Reaching into her robes, she held up a scroll of magnificent white parchment, bound with a golden cord. “This contains all of the knowledge, wisdom and art that I have learned from you. It is my legacy to my people, for it will give them the power to resist you and your foul brood, and if you persist against them, to destroy you.” Closing her eyes, she whispered a brief incantation, and the scroll vanished. An instant later, its place in her hand was taken by a gleaming silver dagger.
The great wyrm frowned. “What have you done, my love?” he asked, still not comprehending the import of her words.
“As I promised, I have shared with my people one of the fruits of our union,” the elf-maiden replied firmly, yet with a grim set to her jaw. “All of your knowledge is now in their hands, to be used to confound your master, and his master, and all the Powers of Dark.”
“But why yon blade?” the dragon asked, nonplussed. “What possible reason…”
“It is a remedy,” Miros interjected, “for the other outcome of our liaison. Perhaps one day, the Brahiri will mate with the great wyrms, and spawn a long line of magi; but if we do, it will be on our terms, not yours. I, for one, will never be party to such an abomination.” And so saying, she reversed the dagger, and to Scîarratekkan’s horror, plunged it deep into her swollen belly.
The dark child shrieked in agony within her womb as the dagger pierced her tender flesh, and buried itself within its unborn body. Miros ground her teeth against the pain and collapsed to the flame-scarred and smoke-stained floor of the cavern. The dragon-child clawed frantically at her innards, struggling for life; first one razor-taloned foot, then another, and finally a wing tore through her tender flesh, emerging into the dank air of the great wyrm’s lair, staining the stones with droplets of its mother’s blood.
With the grim determination of the doomed, Miros grasped the squawking, struggling, mortally wounded dragonet by the exposed wing, and tore its writhing body from the ragged wound in her midriff. Smiling into her mate’s horrified eyes, she calmly twisted and broke the tiny creature’s neck, then tossed the pathetic, bloody little corpse at Scîarratekkan’s feet.
The great wyrm reared back in surprise, hissing and baring his fangs. “Murderer! Betrayer and oath-breaker!” he screamed, lasping back into wyrm-speech, shattering the rocks, and scattering his terrified minions to the corners of the cavern with the fury of his shrieks.
“This is not murder, but a cleansing,” Miros hissed through pain-gritted teeth. “Nor have I broken any oaths. The Elves make no bargains with the vermin of Bardan.”
“Liar! Liar and deceiver! You promised me your obedience and your love!”
“I promised you only my flesh, worm," the she-elf panted. "Take it now, for I need it no more.” And with that last remark, Miros set the razor-edge of her dagger to her white throat, and cut deep.
As her body slumped to the floor of the cave, Scîarratekkan trumpeted in rage, agony and despair. The very stones of his lair were riven from their foundations, and a black cloud blotted out the sun. A storm of incandescence incinerated his fallen consort and his murdered son, and mounted in a vast, towering pyre visible for a hundred leagues, that melted the very bedrock of his lair.
Closing her eyes against the incarnadine glare, Miros greeted the cleansing fire with a soft sigh of relief.
* * * * *

A moment later, or an eternity, she awoke to cool breezes and soft birdsong, and the gentle caress of meadow grass against her bare flesh. She savoured the sensations, uncertain where she was, and uncaring. She had not felt the tickle of verdure since she had closeted herself, all willingly, within the basalt fastness of Scîarratekkan’s lair.
At length, she opened her eyes and sat up. A short distance away sat one of her kinsman, cross-legged: an elf clad in a simple grey leather tunic and kirtle, unarmed and unarmoured, with unruly blonde hair and gleaming, silvery eyes. Glancing around, she saw that they sat in the centre of a grassy dell, surrounded by softly waving pines, and that they were alone. The stars shone brightly above, limning her surroundings with a shimmering argent radiance, but it seemed that they shed extra luminescence on the stranger sitting silently before her.
Making no effort to conceal her nakedness, she asked curiously, “Are these the Long Halls?”
“No,” the stranger replied, in a light, playful and melodious tone. “It is the forest north of Cællafall, not more than stone’s throw from your homeland. Why? Are you dead?”
Glancing down at her pristine, flawless skin, Miros smiled and shrugged. “I thought I was,” she answered slowly, “but now….” Wondering, she ran her hand over the smooth, unmarred skin of her midriff. There was no evidence to indicate that she had ever even been…
She glanced back at the stranger. “I should be dead,” she said gravely. “I meant to die. Who are you? Did you save me?”
“On the contrary,” the stranger answered, his solemn tone and manner belying the playful sparkle in his eyes. “You saved me, fair mistress. Or more properly, through your courage and single-minded sacrifice, you have saved my people.”
“ ‘Your’ people?”
“ My people. Your people. The Elves.”
“Are you a king then?” she asked, puzzled that she had never seen him before.
"No," he smiled, “no. Not a king.” He paused, as if reflecting a moment. “Would you consider making a bargain with me nonetheless?”
“I doubt me, sir,” Miros said. “The last pact I conceived was ill-struck.” Marvelling at her miraculous survival, she glanced down again at her pristine flesh. “In truth, I have no skill for negotiation.”
“I disagree, brave one,” the stranger replied, still solemn. “For it seems to me that you bargained sharply with a fell foe, and won your wager justly, on your terms rather than his. Though the cost must have seemed high to you, the reward was greater than you can know. But in any case,” he added, grinning again, “you need not fear. I do not make unfair bargains.”
Miros wondered whether she could trust him, fair stranger, and then decided that it didn’t matter. A calm acceptance had washed over her; and if she were indeed returned from eternal oblivion to walk once again the verdant earth that she so loved, what matter the cost? And so she shrugged. “What terms do you ask?”
“Little enough,” the stranger answered. “You will serve me forever, without reward of any kind. You will use all of your power, knowledge and wisdom for the betterment of others, without expectation of recognition, remuneration or even thanks. You will struggle for an age, and another, and still another, and yet when all the ages are done, and you are weary with toil, you will be further behind than when you began. And when the world breaks, and your people go to the Long Halls for eternity, you will not go with them, but will pass beyond the Void and into the oblivion of the Endless Age with me, and with my brothers and sisters. What say you?”
Miros blinked. “That doesn’t sound like much of a bargain,” she replied in astonishment. “Is there no fee or benison in your plan for me?”
The stranger smiled more broadly. “Well,” he said, as if considering deeply, "I could offer you a somewhat different form." And so saying, he raised a slender finger.
Miros snorted derisively, and flame jetted from her jaws. Astonished, she reeled backwards and nearly fell over, automatically flapping her enormous wings to keep her balance. Instinctively, she swept her tail into position behind her, muscles tightening to brace her weight against the ground, and keep her upright.
She glanced down. Rippling, intricately-detailed golden mail gleamed back at her. She shot a terrified look at the stranger, and reeled again. In his place, a gigantic silver dragon sat back on its haunches, towering above the treetops, its gleaming, bearded argent head cocked quizzically to one side, regarding her with a bemused eye.
What say you?” the stranger repeated in the dragons’ tongue, a hint of a chuckle in his tone.
For a moment, she heard a ghost of Scîarratekkan’s outraged bellow in the stranger’s words; and she was stunned when, in the inferno of her wyrm’s heart, she felt a hot kernel of sorrow blossom for the ancient wyrm, and a stab of pain at his loss...and hers.
What say you, lady?” the stranger repeated, regarding her intently.
Let the pain become your power, she told herself. She didn’t answer. Instead, she took a deep breath, flexed her wings, flapping them experimentally once, twice, thrice…
and like a bolt of golden fire, launched herself into the heavens.