A Bear in the Hand

As dawn broke over Ganesford on the morning of 15 Lastreap, the Party got a taste of what autumn in the Bjerglands was going to be like. A suddenly chill wind whistled through the shutters covering the second-story windows of Malryn Olgin’s house, driving raindrops between the cracks as the PCs hunched over their gruel and “coffee” (which, in Northern Zare, generally consists of a hideous decoction of burnt bread crumbs sweetened with honey). Their fast broken and ablutions done with, the Party bade farewell to Olgin, loaded their wagon, saddled their steeds and rode over to the Tankard where, the previous night, they had seen the Dwarven Chanter perform.

Bjorn had had a much more pleasant night, wrapped in layers of wool and down-filled cotton, and had woken to the tantalizing odours emanating from a silver tray loaded down with plenty of roasted this and baked that. Well-fed, brushed, combed, and smelling vaguely of attar of roses, he met the rest of the Party in the stableyard of the Tankard, and wished them a cheery “Good morning” as they rode together to the Hospital of the Hand, where they recovered the still-comatose Ankallys from Gyle Fanwaith and his healers. Settling her carefully in the bed of their wagon, well-wrapped against the rain, they turned their faces to the west, and rode along the narrow River Road into the Sweetwaters Vale.

The day passed without incident. The more adventuresome and less patient of our heroes chafed somewhat at the slow pace of the wagon horses, but it was not to be helped; they Party was still transporting more than a thousand pounds of silver, armour, sundry weapons and other brick-a-brack that they had recovered from the wreck of the Sea Wyrm and the Broken Temple of Karg. Not everything was in the wagon, however, Bjorn looked resplendent and awe-inspiring in the ancient, Dwarf-forged armour bequeathed him by the ghost of Ekruhalagar, while Breygon carried the odd little shortsword they had found in the shipwreck. Very little of this was apparent to the casual onlooker, of course, as the adventurers rode wrapped tightly in their oilskin cloaks, hunched over the necks of their horses against the penetrating drizzle.

The evening’s camp was a more pleasant affair. The tents they had been carrying since Fort Ryker gave the Party a dry place to sleep, although there was little possibility of drying their clothing overnight. They set a watch, but nothing disturbed their slumber. Breygon, during his watch, thought that things felt a little “off” in the woods, but it was nothing more than a feeling; mere passing megrims that did not justify disturbing anyone’s well-earned rest.

The following morning brought similar weather, although the rain had been replaced by a chill fog flowing like smoke down the river valley, and clinging to the trees like wisps of spun wool. The mist reduced visibility to the point where Breygon, riding point as usual, heard the commotion long before he saw what was causing it: stamping, shuffling, thumping, and at last, the comforting whinny of dozens of horses. He and Gwen rode on ahead to find a trio of ranch-hands attempting to maintain control of a small herd of horses, jostling each other near where a long lake approached the road. Much to Breygon’s consternation, their leader was a half-orc – a gruff fellow who, despite his looks, spoke fairly, introducing himself and his crew as employees of Sieur Varlgant bringing a herd in to Bymill. And then he pointed out the problem: a small, huddled form curled up on the ground, unmoving, and slicked with blood.

In a flash, Breygon was off his horse. The injured creature was a Wilder Elf, a female, one of the wild tribal scions of the ancient days of Harad. They were not a common sight anywhere in the world, but they still haunted the wild lands here and there. This one was badly wounded; her leather garments were torn to rags, and the flesh beneath them had been savaged by the claws of some fell beast. As the wagon rolled up, Breygon called to Bjorn, and in a trice, the cleric had healed her.



Trouble was, nobody spoke her language (which, of course, was Sylvan). After a few attempts at communicating by hand-signs, Bjorn called upon Esu to grant him the power of comprehension, and he was soon translating her liquid speech for the rest of the Party. Her name, it transpired, was “Apstrasys”, which Lyra recognized as a contraction of the Elven word accipitraces, meaning “Eyes of the hawk”. She had been serving as rearguard for her tribe, the Pardugentis (“People of the leopard”, said Lyra), as they undertook their annual migration southwards, when she and her companion (a snow leopard called Fithayar), were attacked by an enormous bear. The creature, she recalled, shuddering, behaved as no bear should, but was foul-smelling, slavering and insanely vicious. The tribe’s mightiest warriors had already passed, protecting the non-combatants, and with the remainder of the younger warriors, she and Fithayar threw themselves into its path to allow them to escape. Many of the younger warriors were killed; but Apstrasys, more skilled than most, survived, although she does not know how she escaped, or indeed how she ended up near the River Road.

At this point, the Half-Orc leader of the horse wranglers spoke up. “Belike she came downstream,” he grunted, pointing to the far end of the lake, where a quick-running river splashed down out of the hills. “The water’d break her scent-trail, and it’s running fast enough to bear a little tyke like she a goodly ways.” Then he eyed Breygon warily and added, “We’re behind our time already, sirs. If you’d take it from here, I’d be obliged.”

Breygon, who recognized a story hook when he saw one, nodded curtly and replied, “Be on your way, then.” As the wranglers rounded up the horses and moved off westwards, the Party continued questioning Apstrasys. She had no idea what happened to her tribe, although she assumed that they went on, or her companion, Fithayar. Despite her fatigue and remaining wounds, she adamantly insisted on determining the answer to both questions. Ever alert to the importance of maintaining the natural balance of the world, Breygon agreed with her, although more out of a concern about finding out what was wrong with the bear that had attacked them than for any other reason. The rest of the Party was amenable, and so, ranger and Wilder Elf in the lead, and working on the assumption that Apstrasys had floated downriver after being wounded, they circled the lake, and after parking the wagon, camouflaging it, and hobbling their horses, they began moving up the creek and into the woods.

It turned out that the half-orc’s surmise was correct (always trust the DM to have a NPC ready to point out the next step in the adventurer when the party is standing around trying to figure out where to go next); Apstrasys had indeed floated down the swift-running creek. Breygon found blood smears on some of the rocks, and they followed the mountain stream uphill for the next hour or so. More bloodstains showed where the Wilder Elf had crawled into the creek, and a few moments later, they picked up the bear’s backtrail.

Breygon immediately noticed something wrong: the bear was sick. It’s trail was marked with a lingering stench of disease and decay, and fouled with the odd blob of greenish pus. This was an easy trail to follow, and after a half-hour’s climbing, they reached a low cliff opening that could only be the creature’s lair.

Weapons drawn, the Party advanced to the cave. Breygon and Gwen led the way. The cave mouth itself was relatively low, only about 5’ high and 15’ broad, but the cavern beyond was much larger. It was not a pleasant place; the stone floor was befouled with patches of dried blood and the same sort of viridian ooze that they had found marking the bear’s trail, and clots of fur clung to the rough stone walls. Even to the uninitiated, the atmosphere was horrid; dank air, the stench of rotting flesh and foul water…and something else: a heavy, oppressive feeling, as if something was drawing the very life out of the air in their lungs.

Stepping over a wrack of torn and sundered bones representing the gnawed carcasses of deer and other forest animals, Breygon and Gwen probed deeper into the cave. A gleam of light caught their eyes and they veered right, entering higher cavern containing a broad, shallow pool of greenish, moss-laden water. Drops fell from the tips of limestone stalactites far overhead, their splashes falling dully into the thick air rather than echoing. The Party examined the pool, finding only skeletons and half-rotted carcasses and a few coins; nobody cared to look any more deeply than that. Bjorn muttered a prayer to the Allfather, begging the ability to see the vestiges of evil with the eyes of the world, but saw nothing in here.

They then proceeded to the west side of the cavern, where things were more interesting. Here they found two large piles of debris: branches, leaves, earth and shrubbery piled high and worked, through long use, into the shape of a bear-bed. That this was the bear’s lair was so patently obvious that Breygon began to get nervous about being caught with his back to a wall, and so he concentrated momentarily, and cast a divination that would allow him to sense the approach of animals.

The heaps were unbelievably foul, containing rotting corpses as well as vegetation – but they caught the eye, for here and there bits of metal gleamed through. Gwen, Lyra and Joraz spent a few moments poking through the debris, coming up with a few odd items here and there, including a scabbarded sword on a gilded belt, and a long, curved staff topped with a razor-sharp blade, that Lyra instantly recognized as a Falx Altus, the Grand Glaive of the Royal Guard of Elvehelm. Bjorn, however, with Breygon behind, followed his divine vision to the far west end of the cavern, where a strange niche lay tucked against the rough stone wall. It was almost like a cage: a small hole, no larger than a wine-cask, had been carved into the stone, so long ago that the dripping water had formed bar-like stalactites over the opening. Peering through the rough stone bars, Bjorn was able to discern an object in the niche: a large, heavy river-washed stone, with a curled fist of black rock perched atop it. The heavy sense of foreboding and doom seemed strongest in this part of the cave.

At precisely this moment, Breygon’s head snapped up. His divine senses had twinged; something was coming, something very, very big, and it was only moments away. The Party disposed themselves around the cavern, spreading out to avoid being taken in one fell swoop. Apstrasys armed herself with her knife and a broken tree-limb, and Gwen concealed herself behind an outcropping of stone. They waited silently. A minute later, they heard a heavy tread, a deep snuffling, and the scraping noise of something forcing its way into a too-tight opening.

When the bear came around the cave wall, they saw at last how big it was: the most dire of Dire Bears, fully 20’ long, and weighing several tonnes at least. And it was in dreadful condition; it’s fur was matted and half-fallen out, blood and pus oozed from suppurating gashes and wounds, and a thick, white ichor dripped from it’s eye sockets, where tiny, blood-maddened orbs gleamed redly. It roared and charged at the intruders that it could smell clearly, but only barely see: Breygon and Bjorn.

The next few moments were chaotic. The cleric and the ranger held the beast largely at bay, aided by Joraz, while Apstrasys and Lyra sniped at its flanks. Gwen darted in behind the beast and landed several cunning blows. At length, after an exhausting minute or so, the creature lay dead, and the Party leaned on their swords to rest and catch their breath.

And then it happened. The bear’s carcass began to twitch, its dead flesh bubbling and roiling, and then burst apart in a welter of blood, shattered organic refuse and maggots. A fell red light glowed from within the sundered corpse, and out of this light a diabolical figure slowly unfolded itself: a man-sized, man-shaped figure, bald and with blank, staring eyes, clad in elaborate, black and green armour festooned with long, razor-sharp spikes. Its hand ended in massive, three-pronged claws. It raised these to the ceiling, and a blinding wave of agony washed over the adventurers, staggering them in their tracks. It stepped menacingly towards Bjorn and Breygon, and the fight was on again. As it raked at them with its claws, Bjorn clubbed the towering creature mercilessly with his hammer, and Breygon hacked methodically at it with his swords. It shrugged off the wounds, moaning with soul-wrenching glee. Lyra spent her last few spells launching Magic Missiles at its back, and Apstrasys threw herself into the fray, and was clubbed to the ground for her pains. Gwen stepped in, slashing at its thighs, and received similar treatment. The Party was in dire straits, until Bjorn landed a final blow with his blessed hammer; and with a deafening shriek of rage, the fiend collapsed in upon itself, and vanished in a hiss of flame, leaving naught behind but the stench of brimstone. And, of course, a lot of rotting bear guts.

(It was this event that is satirized in this little Order of the Stick rip-off).

That pretty much wrapped up the side quest. Bjorn broke out the rest of his healing spells and got everybody sorted out, including Apstrasys, who had taken a few bad hits, both from the diseased Dire Bear, and the nasty fiend they had fought at the last – which, with a quick Knowledge (Religion) check, Bjorn determined to be an outsider known as a Meindraugr – a “Pain Devil”, one of the minions of the Dark, a creature answering to Lycenyllona, the Avatar of Agony.

Holding their noses, the Party then rifled the bear’s bedding one more time for good measure. In addition to the Grand Glaive (an enchanted weapon with the name Novacumactabilis inscribed on its blade) and the gilded sword belt and scabbard containing a number of emeralds (and a broken Masterwork Longsword), they found a few dozen gold pieces; a beaten copper scroll tube; and a small leather-and-wood pouch holding three vials filled with a syrupy white liquid. A few moments of effort also enabled them to wrestle the giant stone hand out of its stalactite cage. Nobody really wanted to take it along, but Bjorn insisted, arguing that it had detected as strongly evil, and he didn’t intend to leave it behind to work more mischief. So along it came.

The trek back down the hillside went a lot more quickly. They found their wagon and horses undisturbed (after all, they’d only been gone a couple of hours), and prepared to depart for Bymill. Apstrasys thanked them for their aid in destroying the wounded bear, and bade them farewell. She would have added that she was going to try to find Fithayar’s body before following her tribe, but by this time Bjorn’s Comprehend Languages spell had worn off, and nobody was good enough at improvised sign language to be able to manage complex sentences, so she simply bowed, and loped off into the woods.

The Party made it back to the River Road without further incident, and continued westwards. Around about noon, they came over a slight rise, and there before them, gleaming like a pebble in a setting of purest brass, lay the town of Bymill, throbbing like a pustulent canker...sorry, I meant 'gleaming jewel'...in the bosom of the Sweetwaters Vale.

But more on that later.

* * * * *

THE BEAR CAVE

1. Exterior

High, steep hill; lots of trees, vines, etc.

2. Cave entrance

Cave opening is 20’ wide, 12’ high, overhung with roots. Stench of death and decay; piles of bones and stripped, rotting carcases outside.

3. Foul pool

Pool is 2-3’ deep at edges, 10’ deep in centre; fed by slow spring. Stagnant, foul, filled with bones and discarded carcases. Several skeletons with rusted armour; several weapons, mostly rusty and rotting. One MW Light Mace and about 25 GP, 150 SP at the bottom (takes some doing to find – Search DC 20).

4. Bear’s Lair

The bear’s lair is full of dung, garbage, bones, rotting, torn-up carcases and various detritus. There is a 50% chance the bear is absent. If present, it will attack anyone or anything who enters.

**********
POSSESSED DIRE BEAR – CR 9
(Huge Dire Animal: 20’ long, 10’ high, 6,000 pounds)
HD 12d8+48 (102 HP)
Init +5 (+1Dex, +4 Improved Initiative)
Speed 40’
AC 17 (Size -1, +1 Dex, +7 Nat)
Attacks: 2 claws +18 melee, bite +13 melee
Damage: claw 2d4+10, bite 2d8+5 + disease
Face/Reach 10’x20’/10’
Special Attacks: Improved Grab (if hits with claw attack, gets automatic claw damage next round); Disease (Filth Fever DC 12, 1d3 days, 1d3 Dex/1d3 Con)
Special Qualities: Scent (Detect opponents within 30’); DR 10/+1; SR 15; Fear Aura: 20’ radius, Will DC 14 or flee for 1d4 rounds.
Saves: F+12, R+9, W+9
Abilities: Str 31, Dex 13, Con 19, Int 2, Wis 12, Cha 10
Skills: Hide +3, Listen+7, Move Silently+6, Spot+7, Swim+13
Appearance: Bear is enormous, dead black, with spiky, filthy hair matted with blood and gore; foaming at the mouth, eyes are glowing green, with green pus dripping from them; in addition to growling, makes horrific, deafening, shrieking noises.
**********

Bear’s bedding and crap contains:
(1) Search DC 12: a +2 High Elven War Scythe
(2) Search DC 14: a gilded swordbelt and scabbard bearing 8 emeralds (150 gp each) and a broken MW longsword).
(3) Search DC 16: a rotting leather pouch containing 75 gp
(4) Search DC 18: a beaten copper scroll tube containing a Scroll of 3 Spells (Fly, Charm Monster, Stinking Cloud)
(5) Search DC 20: a small, wood-reinforced leather “potion pouch” in good condition, containing 3 Potions of Daylight (if broken, Daylight as cast by 9th level Wizard).

THE STONE HAND

In a rough stone niche along the west wall of this cave is an enormous petrified hand, a clenched stone fist rather three times than a human hand; it looks like it was broken from a larger statue and fixed to a smooth river stone. The hand radiates strong but ancient evil and conjuration magic. This is the Hand of Baalgezael, an evil Cloud Giant sorcerer, an acolyte of Gargarik who lived millennia ago, and who was a specialist in conjuring fiends (Baalgezael was slain by an Ekhani wizard, who turned him to stone, and then smashed the resulting statue apart; some of Baalgezael’s minions made off with the hand, and enshrined it as a holy artefact). It’s only power is that it serves as the focus for summoning devils. Once per year it has a 5% chance of Gating a devil from the Infernal planes into Anuru (roll randomly).

BACKSTORY ELEMENTS

The Hand was enshrined here by the acolytes of Ballgezael during the Eon of Darkness, more than 2000 years ago. They have long since vanished. Some years ago, the Hand Gated in a Meindraugr, and the Dire Bear, who had since moved into the cave, killed it; but its diabolical spirit then possessed the Bear. The Hand can only be destroyed by having Remove Curse (or equivalent) cast on it in a Consecrated area by a Good Cleric. Anyone doing so must make a Spellcraft check of DC 25; failure means that a backlash of profane energy will do 8d6 Vile damage in a 20’ radius, and have the effect of a Desecrate spell of CL 15.

The Uruqua I

Now that I've managed to get the Anari out of the way, I figured it's time to handle the Uruqua, aka "The Powers of Dark".

I'm going to deal with these folks a little differently. The Anari were grouped by the Power with which each is associated. I did it this way for two reasons: to maintain the thematic "flow" of each section, and because I was covering ALL of them. I'm going to do the Uruqua alphabetically instead, for one reason: I'm NOT covering all of them.

Why not cover all of them? Simple. There are a lot more of them than there are of the Anari, and because most Player Characters are Good, there isn't any need to go over every last servant, avatar and minion of the Dark. So the only ones I'm going to cover are those who either have a major following upon Anuru (e.g., Bardan, the Lord of the Uruks), or who figure large in the pantheons of some of the major monster groups (e.g., Achamkriss, the Lord of Wyrms). To this end, I've included the name of the religion under the "church" notation. Also, running through them alphabetically will help when it's time to assemble all of this stuff in a single volume.

To keep things simple, I figured I'd cover them three at a time, working from A to Z. Here's the first batch. Enjoy!

* * * * *

ACHAMKRISS
Eldest and Wisest, Father of Wyrms
(Greater Servant of Bardan)

Perhaps the most fearsome of all of the Minions of the Dark, Achamkriss was the first Servant chosen by Bardan from among the creations that spring forth under his hand. Appearing as a wyrm of immense age and unimaginable size, Achamkriss is the acknowledge master of all of the Dragons of Anuru. While the Good Dragons no longer heed his dictates or pay him homage, they respect him as the foremost of their race.

Achamkriss has the ability to shift between Chromatic Wyrm types as a free action, gaining all of their protections and abilities, while still retaining his own immense powers and vast spellcasting abilities. Because of his wisdom, intellect and tact, Bardan often employs Achamkriss as his envoy to the other powers. He does this for two reasons: Achamkriss is a skilled negotiator; and as the most powerful of Bardan’s Servants, he is the one most likely to survive an outburst of wrath from one of the other Uruqua.

While the location of Achamkriss’ lair is unknown, it is rumoured that he is served at all times by a coterie of the most ancient and powerful Chromatic Wyrms in existence; and that when one of these is slain or passes into the Twilight, the next most powerful candidate immediately knows, and must report to and abase himself before Achamkriss before the next moonrise. It is also said that female Chromatic Wyrms of clutching years seek Achamkriss out as mate, in order to ensure themselves of mighty offspring. It is not known how often Achamkriss favours such petitioners with his attention.

True Dragons may serve as Clerics of Achamkriss, but he despises half-blooded dragons, and will destroy such aberrations wherever he can find them. Clerics of Achamkriss gain +2 HP per die, +2 damage per breath weapon die, and +1 per Age Category on all charisma-based checks with respect to all dragons (even good ones).

Alignment: Lawful Evil
Sphere(s): Dragons, sorcerers
Sigil: A silhouetted dragon, rearing
Preferred hues: Black
Preferred weapon: Claws, Spells
Worshippers’ alignment: Any evil
Domains: Destruction, Domination, Evil, Magic, Trickery
Church: Minor; "The Elder Claw" (only True Dragons may be clerics)

* * * * *

ALLARKIN
The Traveler, The River Guide, The Ghost-Mistress of the Planes
(Greater Servant of Tvalt)

Foremost among the Servants of the Master of the Long Halls, Allarkin is both feared and revered. As the patron of the incorporeal undead, she is worshipped (or at least respected) by the wraiths, specters and ghosts of Anuru; and as the patron of planar travel, she is admired by wizards, sorcerers, and all those who would walk the Æther, and sail the River of Stars between the outer planes and Anuru.

Allarkin is generally pictured as a wispy, insubstantial human female, with empty eyes in a beautiful, hooded face, and a horrifyingly skeletal body wrapped in a long, tattered cloak formed out of the stuff of the universe. She is never without her silver greatsword, which she calls “The Oar of Eternity”, although this is not a weapon, and she never uses it as such; instead, it is the focus of her power to travel anywhere in the multiverse in the space of a single breath. She always knows where the sword is, and on the few occasions when it has been stolen from her, the thief has been quickly apprehended, and has suffered an appalling death at the hands of her spectral minions.

Allarkin’s following in the mortal world is small, but potent; many of her clerics are multi-class sorcerers or wizards, wielding both arcane and profane magicks in her service. Clerics of Allarkin gain the Extra Turning feat for free at 1st level, and when casting necromantic spells, do so at four levels higher than their own. Once per day per three levels, they can act as though under the effects of a Freedom of Movement spell, lasting one minute per level.

The most sacred rite for worshippers of Allarkin is to be sacrificed to her glory, and then brought back as an incorporeal undead. Any worshipper suffering this fate will come back as a full hit-point incorporeal undead, Evolved one step (as per the Libris Mortis).

Alignment: Neutral Evil
Sphere(s): Incorporeal Undead, Wizards, Planar Travellers
Sigil: A scrying ball, red, on a golden pentragram
Preferred hues: Blood and gold
Preferred weapon: Staff, Spells
Worshippers’ alignment: Any non-good

Domains: Death, Knowledge, Magic, Oracle, Travel
Church: Minor; "The Seekers"

* * * * *

BARDAN
The Lord of Shadows, Master of Darkness, The Slayer
(First among the Uruqua)

As Bræa bears the light and life of the world, Bardan, mightiest of the Uruqua, is the bringer of death and of darkness. He is the negator, the emptiness that is left when all that is, is gone. Those who revere him do so not because of what he gives, but what he takes away: the last vestiges of the cloying beauty of the world, the warmth of comradeship, the pain of being, the unease of life. Bardan is the silence at the end of the song, and his most common aspect reflects this attribute: that of a great, dark cloud of shadow that swallows and obliterates everything it touches. In the ancients tongue of the Esudi, he is Eyðar, the Waster; the Elves call him Eradicatrum, the Dark Destroyer, while to the Dwarves, he is þéostor geændung, the Ender-in-Shadow. Bardan's minions and slaves have other names for him: to the Goblins, he is Nuantă Rău, and they fear him above even Morga, their master; the Orcs and Uruks, his favoured children, call him Sötét Ányék; and in the Dark Speech of the fiendish realms, he is known as Zeshkane Zotëri. His manu is awesome and terrifying: that of a colossal devil, a Pit Fiend wreathed in flame, standing more than 100’ tall.

Bardan’s relationship with Bræa is more complex than most realize. Unlike the rest of the Powers, they are all but twins, opposite sides of the same coin. Theologians theorize that neither could exist without the other; and some even argue that Bræa agreed to give up the light that was in her, knowing that, as a consequence, Bardan would be diminished as well. It is not known whether Bardan’s strength was lessened by her sacrifice; but it may well have been.

The worship of Bardan is most widespread among the more orderly of the Speaking Monsters (especially, as noted above, the Orcs and the Uruks), and has even made modest inroads among the more orderly, if wicked, human societies. The Elves have never been seduced by his fair words, however, and have remained his implacable foes since the birth of their race; in the words of one of their heroines of old, "The Elves make no bargains with the vermin of Bardan." For this reason, amongst others, Bardan is said to delight in living sacrifices of the Children of Hara.

Bardan’s clerics follow a strict hierarchy and maintain order at all times amongst their followers, providing them with many benefits, but exacting unquestioning obedience as well as tribute from them. Clerics of Bardan gain Intimidate as a class skill and, if they reveal themselves for what they are, are +1 on charisma-based checks against intelligent evil creatures, and +4 vis-à-vis all orcs and goblinoids. Finally, clerics of Bardan are able to channel his devastating power of negation, transforming any spell they have been granted into a touch attack, doing 1d6 negative energy damage per spell level (Fortitude Save DC 10+CL for half).

Alignment: True Evil (Lawful)
Sphere(s): Darkess, Uruks, Orcs, Goblinoids, Armageddon
Sigil: Black fist on a hatched red shield (No, Bardan is NOT associated with the Black Panthers)
Preferred hues: Black and red
Preferred weapon: Flail
Worshippers’ alignment: Any evil
Domains: Cold, Death, Destruction, Domination, Evil, War
Church: Major; "The Fist of Darkness"

The Anari VII – The Scions of Stone

At long last, we come to the final entry in our review of the Anari, the Powers of Light.

This last section details that part of the pantheon associated with the youngest of the Four Brothers – Lagu, the stern, unwavering foe of darkness into whose care passed the fate of the Dweorga, who in the Travelling Tongue are called the Dwarves.

Once this section has been completed, I will continue with a very brief overview of some of the Uruqua. I don’t intend to cover all of them (because this takes an AWFUL lot of time), but I do want to highlight those who serve as Player Character deities, or whose followers and acolytes are sufficiently widespread that they ought by rights to be included in the collected volume of “Deities and Demigods of Anuru”.

If I ever get around to whomping THAT horrible beast up. But more on that later. For now, let us wrap up the Anari with a look at the Scions of Stone.

* * * * *


LAGU

The High Priests of Lagu say that each of the Four Brothers was created out of one of the elemental aspects of the cosmos, the stuff of the firmament drawn from the Aether and woven into the material world that is called Anuru. Hara is respected for his mastery of the forces of magic; but the Dwarves regard him as inconstant and capricious, a being formed of the ever-changing winds. Esu is revered for his ferocity and skill at arms, and they say that he was drawn, whole and fully-formed, from the fires of the cosmos. Nosa they hold in some suspicion, as he is erratic and flighty, and can be treacherous if not carefully watched; and for this reason, they say that this means that his being was formed out of the treacherous and ever-changing waters of the world. And in the sum of their world-view, this left only the earth; and so they say that Lagu, solid and reliable, steadfast and trustworthy, the firmest foe of darkness, was formed out of the heartrock of the Universe; and for this reason, his eye is ever on the mountains, and those who dwell beneath them.

It is not known whether this interpretation of the theogenesis of Anuru is accurate, but in many ways it reflects all that is known and understood about the youngest of the Four Brothers of Bræa. Depictions of Lagu are uncommon; the Dwarves seem to be almost reticent about creating images of this mightiest member of their pantheon. He is said to be shorter than Esu, stronger than Hara, and more solidly grounded in the material world than Nosa; and his heart is immovable as the rocks of the mountains. When shown in religious artwork and iconography, he is usually depicted as a fully armed Dwarf warrior, helmeted and bearing a heavy axe; but for some reason, his face is always shadowed. His sigil, the hammer and anvil, is symbolic; to the Dwarves, the hammer represents Barraj, the forger of Dwarven souls, while the anvil is Lagu standing firm upon the Earth, against which those souls are straightened, purified and hardened against all evil.

Lagu is the apotheosis of the Dwarves, who prize duty, loyalty, reliability and faithfulness above all things; and he is one of the principal foci for all those who cleave to the law and righteousness, and who consider the endless struggle against the Dark to be the fundamental purpose for being of all those who love the Light. The followers of Lagu do not compromise with evil; they seek no pacts, make no bargains, never equivocate, never give an inch of ground, and never surrender. And if they die with their feet on stone and their faces to the foe, it is said that their bodies are absorbed into the earth, and are taken into the deep places where Lagu rules supreme, there to sleep until Barraj has reforged their souls in preparation for the Last Battle at the Breaking of the World.

The followers of Lagu are nowhere near as numerous as the priests of Barraj; his worship lies at the heart of all Dwarven societies, but he is most popular with the Deep Dwarves. While his priests are few in number, only a High Priest of Lagu can lead a major temple, and they are the only Dwarven priests who may legally perform marriages. The requirements for a priest or paladin of Lagu are strict; they must have a minimum of 16 Wisdom and must be of Lawful Good alignment; and if they stray even a little from the true path, they lose all of their powers forever. Atonement spells do not help; Lagu brooks no deviation in the fight for order against chaos, and good against evil. In return for these demands, however, the Priests of Lagu receive enormous powers. As the judges of their people, they receive Sense Motive as a class skill, and add their cleric level to all checks. Once per day per three levels, they are able to cast Discern Alignment, and a combined Protection from Chaos/Evil spell; and once per day per five levels, they are able to cast a combined Halt Chaos/Evil spell. Paladins of Lagu receive the Sense Motive benefit as well; their Smite attacks work against Chaos and Evil simultaneously, and once per day, they are able to use their Lay On Hands skill to do double damage to any Chaotic Evil creature by simply making a touch attack.

Alignment: True Good (Lawful)
Sphere(s): The Dwarves, all subterranean creatures
Sigil: A hammer upon an anvil, on a black field within a rune-inscribed ringPreferred hues: Silver and blackPreferred weapon: AxeWorshippers’ alignment: Any Good
Domains: Community, Earth, Glory, Good, Law, War
Church: Minor, but powerful

SERVANTS

Barraj, The Soul Forger
Lord of Artisans, The Earth Marshall
(Greater Servant)

If Lagu is the Warrior, then Barraj is the Maker. Patron of artisans, especially smiths and stonecrafters, Barraj is the consummate Dwarven craftsman. He is usually depicted at his forge, either crafting relics of incomparable beauty and magical power, or drawing the souls of fallen Dwarves through the cleansing fires, and reforging them into harder metal against the time when they will be called forth to fight. According to Dwarven legend, the souls of the Dwarves are only on loan. When Anuru is broken at the last by Anā and Ūru in preparation for the final battle between the Powers, Lagu will call home the souls of all Dwarves, both the living and those who have fallen throughout the ages, to fight at his side against the Uruqua. The role of Barraj is to fire the souls of the Dwarves against this last and greatest of trials. Dwarves who were diligent and courageous in life will have the honour of standing at the forefront of the Legions of Deepdark; and their names will be written in the stars and the stones of other worlds, there to live forever.

Because of his role as the focus of artisanship, the worship of Barraj is widespread throughout the Dwarven realms, but he is most popular among the Mountain Dwarves. Most work-a-day Dwarven priests, and most of those who adventure on the surface of the Earth, are followers of Barraj; of all the pantheon, he is the most likely to excuse slightly erratic behaviour, believing that true artistry and craftsmanship can only come from a soul that is free of duress and constraint. He is also the most likely to accept a non-Dwarf as one of his clerics. Priests of Barraj encourage and cajole, rather than thunder and condemn, which makes them rather more popular than their stricter counterparts at the altars of Lagu. All Dwarves know, however, that the worship of Lagu and Barraj forms the necessary duality of Dwarven life, with Barraj symbolizing the strength and creativity necessary to build; and Lagu, the stability and eternal solidity upon which things are built. While the two sides of Dwarven life are occasionally at odds with each other, neither could in truth survive alone.

Priests of Barraj are in many ways the opposite of those of Lagu. Because they interact more often with their own folk and those of other races, they tend to value high charisma, and gain Bluff and Gather Information as class skills, adding half their level to skill checks in both areas. They must be masters of stone or metal work, and each priest of Barraj automatically gains one skill rank per level in an appropriate Craft skill (although he may take more if he wishes). Finally, the priests of Barraj are implacable enemies of the Undead, and automatically gain the Extra Turning feat at 1st level.

Alignment: True Good (Chaotic)
Sphere(s): The Dwarves, artisans (especially smiths), warriors
Sigil: Lagu’s sigil within an intertwined runic squarePreferred hues: Silver, black and greyPreferred weapon: HammerWorshippers’ alignment: Any good
Domains: Creation, Earth, Fire, Knowledge, Strength
Church: Major

Khallach, Master of Stone
(Greater Servant)

Khallach’s origins are as obscure as those of many of the Minions of Light. According to some legends, he spontaneously rose up out of the Earth the first time it was violated by the footstep of Bardan in the eons before the Age of Wisdom; while others believe that he is one of the Héahbeorgástr, the Mountain Spirits, elevated to the status of a Greater Servant for accomplishing some mighty task set him by Lagu in the distant past. Still others think that he is the progenitor of the Stone Giants.

Whatever his origins, Khallach remains one of the most elemental of the Servants of Light. His appearance is somewhat similar to a colossal stone golem, albeit of enormously greater substance and physical mass. His strength is incalculable, and is said to be greater than that of any of the other Servants or Powers, surpassing the might not only of Gargarik, Lord of the Giants, but even that of Morga himself. Khallach is said to be able to cause mountains to crumble merely by looking at them, and is able generate an earthquake simply by stamping his foot. He is widely revered by the Mountain Spirits (see below), the Stone Giants, and all creatures that make their homes in the Earth.

Khallach’s church, while small, is influential throughout the Dwarven lands, but it is mostly concentrated among the Hill Dwarves. He is revered not only as an implacable foe of evil, but also as the Cleanser of the Hillsides, and his clerics perpetuate this role, scouring barren lands for signs of evil, and exterminating them wherever they find them. Followers of Khallach have little use for authority and are often found among exiles, rebels and vigilantes. His clerics gain Survival as a class skill, and add their level to skill checks. They also gain an additional +2 on any skill checks involving stonework, and can Turn air creatures, and Rebuke earth creatures, as a Cleric four levels higher than their own. Finally, Clerics of Khallach are proficient in unarmed combat, gaining Weapon Focus (Unarmed) and Weapon Specialization (Unarmed) at 1st level. Finally, beginning at 3rd level, a Cleric of Khallach can cast Stone Shape once per day per 3 levels; and beginning at 6th level, he can cast Stone Tell once per day per 4 levels.

Alignment: Chaotic Good (Neutral)
Sphere(s): Stone, the mountains, the earth, earth creatures
Sigil: An erupting mountain within a double ring of runesPreferred hues: Black, blue, greyPreferred weapon: Unarmed
Worshippers’ alignment: Any good
Domains: Earth, Force, Oracle, Strength, Summoner
Church: Minor

Zoraz the Patient
Guradian of the Deepdark
(Lesser Servant)

During the Wars of the Powers shortly after the creation of Anuru, a sullen rivalry sprang up between Lagu and Zaman (as it did between many of the other Powers of Light and Dark). Their mutual dislike was deep and irreconcilable, not only because they stood opposed to each other across the gulf between the Anari and the Uruqua, but because Lagu stood as the champion of steadfastness and honour, while Zaman embodied treachery and betrayal. When the Powers came to create the Minions, however, the rivalry between Lagu and Zaman burst into full flower, for in the flurry of creation, each struck out at the same portion of the Aether with their formative might – and the result was a pair of twins, each a mighty Minion in his own right, and each an archon embodying the best (and worst) of his makers.

One of these twins was called Zoraz, and the other Zylurz. The two were as alike in appearance as peas in a pod, titanic beings with bodies of corded muscle, and heads like lions; and each was an exemplar of physical perfection. But in mind, they could not have been more different; for Zoraz was a being of calm, reflection, stolidity and patience; while his brother, Zylurz, was a being of chaos, whim, caprice and madness. Both were mighty warriors, skilled beyond belief, wielding double-bitted weapons in a frightening blur. But where Zoraz submitted his skills to Lagu, and became one of his lesser Servants, Zylurz ravened through Anuru like an uncontrollable, elemental force, until at last he was borne down by Zaman, and became her Avatar of Fury.

Zoraz is known by the Dwarves as the Master of Patience, and the Guardian of the Deepdark. He is revered by fine craftsmen: jewellers, gemcutters, gold- and silver-smiths, clockmakers and others who work at long, difficult, demanding tasks. Also, by virtue of his patience and skills as a warrior, he is the focus of worship for royal guardsmen, and is the patron of the Iron Guard, the elite war-masters of Non-Delvin under the personal command of the Emperor of the Deeprealm. A worshipper of Zoraz may try to talk his way out of an altercation, but he will never back down from a fight, especially when there are innocents to be protected. While there is no formal religion organized around his worship, Zoraz has many paladins, and a few clerics. Both paladins and clerics gain Sense Motive as a class skill, and gain the Two-Weapon Fighting feat at 1st level. They also gain Martial Weapon Proficiency and Weapon Focus in the two-headed weapon of their choice (Double-Bladed Swords and the Dwarven Ugrosh are the most popular choices).

Alignment: Lawful Neutral (Good)
Sphere(s): Skill, craftsmen (especially jewellers and gemcutters), elite guardsmen
Sigil: A double-bitted axe on a blue shield with a crenelated black border, bar sinisterPreferred hues: Black, blue and silverPreferred weapon: Double-headed weaponsWorshippers’ alignment: Any Good
Domains: Community, Glory, Knowledge, Protection
Church: None

AVATARS

Dargarulak, Avatar of Vengeance
High Priest of Battles

Dargarulak is an oddity: a human priest of Barraj, a man who was raised by the Mountain Dwarves after his parents were slain by goblins in the years following the Darkening of Bræa. Maturing more rapidly than his Dwarven comrades, Dargarulak became a mighty priest of the Soul-Forger in short order, and made a practice of leading his adopted people against the goblinoids, fighting from the front rank himself. While a superlative warrior, however, he was not a very good general; and one day his passion for battle outran his luck. He led his army, a thousand-score Dwarves, into a trap laid for them beneath the earth by certain of Bardan’s wilier minions, where they were cut off. Rather than see his subordinates be slaughtered, Dargarulak attacked the enemy captains personally, allowing his men time to disengage and extricate themselves from the trap – but at the cost of their general’s life.

Dargarulak’s soul returned to the Forge of Barraj, where he was examined closely by the Master Craftsman, and found to be a mighty servant of the light, but badly wanting in the area of leadership. Barraj therefore took Dargarulak into his own service, forged for him a new body, and created for him a gigantic mace of black iron that causes fear in all who see it, and that can slay any evil creature it touches. He then sent Dargarulak back to Anuru to battle evil – but forbade him from ever attempting to lead others. Dargarulak is revered by battle clerics, barbarians and any who seek revenge. His clerics are able to Rage as a barbarian of their level, and gain both Power Attack and Cleave at first level; but they are -5 on all Bluff and Diplomacy checks; they lose all divine powers until they can Atone if they ever retreat from a fight; and they may never take the Leadership feat.

Alignment: True Neutral (Lawful)
Sphere(s): Warpriests, warriors, those seeking revenge
Sigil: An inverted mace on a gold and red shield, flanked by two gryphonsPreferred hues: Gold and scarletPreferred weapon: Heavy maceWorshippers’ alignment: Any non-chaotic, non-evil
Domains: Chaos, Destruction, Madness, War
Church: None

MINIONS

Veróldmóðir
(The Earth Mother)

Veróldmóðir, the Earth Mother, is a unique celestial being, one of the most powerful of the Minions of Light. She is empowered to enforce the will of Lagu throughout the foundations of Anuru, which requires close cooperation with Khallach (so close that she was even his Mistress, for a time). She is able to pass through stone at will, moving as quickly as she does anywhere else, although she cannot swim or fly. She can fall from any height and take no damage, so long as she lands on stone. She can also rebuke and command Earth creatures as an Epic-level cleric, although all good-aligned Stone creatures will obey her implicitly. She is constantly attended by Futhakolk, a Celestial Raven of immense wisdom, that was a gift to her from Esu when he was courting her in ages long past.
Veróldmóðir appears as an extraordinarily beautiful human female of average height and weight, with earth-coloured skin, brown eyes, and long, flowing brown hair. She normally appears wearing either white or earth-coloured clothing; and her only equipment is her sword, which hangs from her girdle of gold and silver nuggets. While slender, however, she is extremely dense, weighing several tonnes. She can modify her weight at will, but often forgets to do so, and as a result she often leaves deep footprints anywhere she passes.
Veróldmóðir has little interest in the affairs of any creatures other than humans, dwarves and Earth creatures in general (although she has a special place in her heart for Stone Giants, and they worship her). She ignores elves, plants and animals, except for those that live underground or tunnel through stone. Any Good creature making an offering of precious gems or metals to her, however, or endowing a shrine to her, may receive a visitation for the purpose of strengthening any structure he is building; and any Good caster who invokes her aid while constructing a clay or stone golem may find it strengthened considerably. It is common, particularly in Non-Delvin, Jarla and Ekhan, for architects to invoke the Earth Mother in their works, and even to set aside space for a small shrine to invite her aid. Such a shrine may be simple, but the floor, walls and ceiling must always be of rough, undressed stone. She has a very minor following; not a religion per se so much as the occasional Adept, Druid or Cleric, often among stone-dwelling races. Such casters gain the ability to cast Stone Shape once per day per three levels, and Stone Tell once per day per six levels.

Alignment: Chaotic Good
Sphere(s): Earth and stone creatures
Sigil: A mountain within a runic ring, inscribed “Veróldafl”, or “Truth of the Earth”Preferred hues: Stone-greyPreferred weapon: LongswordWorshippers’ alignment: Chaotic good
Domains: Earth, Strength
Church: Very minor

Héahbeorgástr
(The Mountain Spirits)

The Mountain Spirits are Minions of Light who dwell exclusively in the Earth. They answer primarily to Khallach, although they have been known to serve Lagu, Barraj and Zoraz from time to time. They also interact often with the Earth Mother. They tend to be neutral, albeit with tendencies towards good, and Khallach relies on them to drive evil from the mountains; to deliver messages to other Minions, Avatars, Servants and Powers; to explore the Earth for new marvels and treasures; and to destroy the minions of the Uruqua (principally of Daesuglu and Ekhalra) who pollute the pristine stonerealms of Anuru.

Mountain Spirits look terrifying; they appear to be colossal stone golems 30’ feet tall or more, weighing hundreds of tonnes, with intricately-worked stone carapaces. Due to their tendency to remain dormant and unmoving for years at a time, they are often covered in moss, bushes and even small trees. They project an aura of calm, and a long-dormant Mountain Spirit may even come to be used as a place of worship, with altars and even temples constructed atop them. Evil creatures, however, fear them and avoid them instinctively.

Mountain Spirits are immortal and very, very patient. While they can move silently and blend into rough stone faces (i.e. in mountainous terrain), in other surroundings they walk with a loud grinding noise, and when they desire, their steps shake the ground like an earthquake. They fear nothing; they can slaughter the mightiest of fiends with ease, and even the greatest of the dragons fear to challenge them. A Mountain Spirit can throw anything weighing up to 1000 pounds, although they tend to throw rocks weighing 250-500 pounds, with a range increment of 1000 feet. To the weak and helpless, they are extraordinarily gentle; and to good creatures lost in the mountains, they can be a friend and protector at need. Perhaps because they are made of stone, animals fascinate them, and they will sit and listen to dogs barking, wolves howling or even twittering birdsong, often for weeks on end. It is said that the singing of the Elves fascinates them.

A Dream of Blood

The DM's Guide tells us that "evil is evil". My view, however, is that seeing as how the forces of Good are capable of kicking a little ass every now and then, evil should not be just evil, but EVIL. Or better yet,

E-E-E-EVIL!
BWAAAA-HAHAHA!!!

So every now and then the PCs stumble across a truly horrible manifestation of just how nasty the world can get. Whether it's unscrupulous wizards rewarding their hirelings with a bottle of poisoned wine, equally unscrupulous clerics handing out cursed rings that burn their bearers alive, Elves that seduce elderly dragons and then kill themselves rather than bear the consequences of their actions, green-skinned stinky fellows who torture halflings for jollies, or Machiavellian vampires who ambush the Party's NPC cleric while they're off sleeping elsewhere, Anuru is replete with examples of moderately awful bad guys.

Thing is, the PCs haven't event MET any of the REALLY bad guys yet. But during their second night in Ganesford, one of them had a dream about some of them, and was a little freaked out by it.

This is the dream that the PC in question had, presented for your amusement in all of its gory glory. A word of warning to the PC who experienced this little nightmare: you are forbidden to reveal your identity to your party mates (or at least, to those who haven't already guessed it). There's a reason that this is happening to you, and you don't know what it is at this stage. Let's not blow the surprise just yet.

Bwa-hah.

* * * * *

A Dream of Blood

The Great Hall of the Stone was broad, so broad that its walls were invisible in the dark distance; and high, so high that its ceiling, if indeed it had one, was lost in unseen lightless shadows. All that was visible were the flagstones: close-fitting, seamless, formed of polished, black basalt from the mountain’s heart, they seemed to drink all light, reflecting only the unlight: the otherworldly gleam of the Hall’s sole occupant.

At the centre of the Hall lay a deep stone pit, thrice the height of a man: hemispherical, eerily regular, like a perfect crater formed by a heavy object fallen from great height. But unlike the flagstones, not smooth; the walls of the pit were heavily carved, inlaid with complex and arcane runes, close-set and dense. And not shining black, but dull, unreflective, stained with the foul detritus of uncounted centuries of use.

At the bottom of the pit lay a wonder: a small, silver-white stone, no larger than a woman’s fist, standing vertical, balanced upon a base of sparkling silver. Faint hints of light could be seen within the stone: shifting, opalescent patterns, like sparks of thought. From time to time a gleam escaped, erupting across the scored, discoloured walls of the pit, throwing the harsh, brutal runic carvings into sharp relief, and illuminating the crusted horror of ages.

The great hall stank of uncounted centuries of blood.

Footsteps; the sound of struggling. From the deep darkness of the Hall, three figures emerged. Two were robed and hooded, heavy black cloth falling to the floor, concealing all but their hands. Each wore a scarlet chasuble, richly worked with threads of silver and gold, forming runic patterns not unlike those adorning the walls of the pit. Among the many symbols worked into their vestments, one stood out: a grinning skull in profile, framed by a five-pointed star.

Between them they held the weakly struggling form of a woman bearing the gracefully pointed ears, ebon hair, and emerald eyes of the Third House. This latter was clad in nothing more than a filthy tunic of rough cloth, that might once have been white, but that was now stained with long use, and crusted with blood both new and old. Beneath the tunic, her hands were bound roughly behind her back. The hooded figures half-walked, half dragged her, clutching her by the upper arms. Fresh blood dripped from her fingertips, and her unshod feet left scarlet prints on the polished flags of the floor.

At the edge of the pit stood a single stone: gleaming black, obsidian, a heavy, upthrust splinter. Its upper edge was a blade, honed to glinting menace, undulled by uncounted centuries of service. Unlike those elsewhere in the Hall, the flagstones before this stone were misshapen; worn away by heavy, repeated use, forming a slight depression. Behind the obsidian block, the wall of the pit dropped away, curving down towards where the white stone lay, shimmering softly, at the bottom.

Before this stone the trio halted. The two robed figures stood still and silent; the Elfwoman between them shuddered and shook, nearly collapsing in weakness and terror. After a moment’s silence, the dexter figure released the woman, raised his arms in invocation, and began to speak, intoning harsh, profane phrases in a ringing basso voice. The words seemed to echo through the vastness of the Hall, reflected back by the distant walls, gaining in timbre and power. In the pit, the argent shimmering of the stone grew more urgent, more insistent, as though it recognized the words and awaited their culmination hungrily. Flecks of eager light probed the darkness.

Another moment, and the sinister figure followed suit. He too released the Elfwoman, who now stood bone-still; rigid, as if mesmerized by the ringing words. Her shuddering had ceased, as though even the piercing agony from her tortured flesh no longer tormented her, although the blood still seeped slowly from her lacerated feet, and dripped to the floor from her mangled fingertips. As the harsh words continued, trumpeting with ever-growing power throughout the chamber, her head came up, and her eyes sprang open, revealing nothing but blank orbs, ichor-white and unseeing.

The incantation ceased. The dark-robed chanters lowered their arms. Entranced, the woman shrugged her shoulders, and the filthy, vermin-infested, blood-drenched tunic fell to the floor. Alabaster skin marked with glaring whip-wheals and speckled with blood gleamed softly in the shimmering light emanating from the pit. She took three steps forward and knelt carefully before the obsidian splinter. Her knees rested in the depression in the flagstones, where uncounted others had knelt before her, partaking of a ritual that had endured for three ages of the world.
The robed figures raised their arms again, palms out, and the chanting resumed, softly at first, but growing swiftly louder, and increasingly heavy and insistent. The foul phrases thundered darkly throughout the chamber. The Elf-woman inclined her upper body carefully forward, until her small breasts flattened against its icy surface, and the smooth skin of her throat lay against the razor-edge of the splinter’s tip.

A final, guttural phrase, and the merciless hammer of the Dark Speech ceased. White skin firm against the ebon sliver, the woman closed her eyes, and spoke in the Fair Tongue. Her words sounded frail and weak against the black malice now brooding in the chamber. “Cado in laudis Regina orbis terrareum. Cado in laudis pater atrus Bardan Eversor. Abicio animus ab Dominorum Tenebrus. Captatio immolus me.” Then with a swift, deliberate motion, she drew her throat down the long length of the stone. The obsidian splinter cut deep, and the pulsating light was effaced by a sudden spray of scarlet. The woman’s body toppled to the flagstones, spasming harshly, but the choked gurgling lasted only an instant. Her legs trembled briefly, and then lay still.

It was over. The body lay pale, cold and unresponsive before the upthrust obsidian block. Blood gleamed slick and incarnadine against its mirrored surface.
The dexter priest balled up the discarded tunic, while the sinister drew a length of rough hemp rope from beneath his robe and, kneeling, tied one end of it around the woman’s ankles. His rope-work finished, the man squatted on his heels and pushed his hood back, revealing a pale, handsome face, and golden hair worn in a long braid. His cheeks were flushed with excitement, and feverish with the expenditure of profane energies. “That was easier than I expected,” he said in a conversational tone.

“A few days with the Framantâres will soften even the toughest ones,” the other replied. Now that the ceremony of sacrifice was complete, he too had doffed his hood, revealing an older face, lined, framed by close-cropped hair and a short, greying beard. He appeared distracted, glancing about him, at the floor, the sacrificial stone, the pit. He even looked up, as if attempting to discern something in the distant heights of the invisible ceiling.

“What is it, Strămosi?” asked the younger man. He too glanced around nervously, wondering what his superior was looking for.
“I don’t know,” the older replied with a shrug. He paused for a moment, as if considering whether to...“Does it seem brighter in here?”

The younger man shrugged. “This is only the third time I’ve partaken of the ritual, elder brother,” he replied. “I hardly know what to expect.”

“Well, I’ve celebrated the rite a thousand times and more, Tânar,” the older man grated, “and I’ve never before seen...”. His voice trailed off, and he stepped softly to the edge of the pit. The walls were still slick with the Elf-woman’s blood, and the white stone on its mithril base stood in an inches-deep pool of incarnadine ichor. “Is it the Stone?” he asked, half to himself.
The younger man joined him. “I don’t know. It certainly seems to be...”

He was cut off by a thunderclap of sound and a blinding burst of white light. The vast Hall rang as if struck by the hammer blow of a god, and both men felt the flagstones lurch under their feet. Light burst from the stone at the bottom of the pit: not its customary white, pearlescent sheen, but a harsh, ravening white light, shot through with flecks and lances of inky darkness. Both men felt a hot wind against their faces, although neither their robes nor their hair were stirred; it was as if a sirocco of arcane power ravened through the aether, washing over and penetrating them, blasting their minds, if not their flesh. The younger man stood stock-still, stunned, blinded and deafened by the unfathomable torrent of energy. The elder threw up his arms, palms out before his face, and tried to scream a spell of warding into the gale. But the incantation was shredded into nothingness by the otherworldly shriek of might emanating from the stone.

As suddenly as it had begun, the whirlwind of power ended. It was as though a door had been shut, or a candle blown out. But though the eldritch hurricane had subsided, the light did not entirely vanish. Blinking against the starred afterimages blurring their sight, both men peered fearfully down into the pit. The white stone stood on its base as before, but now it throbbed hotly, pulsating like a heart, with each beat throwing waves of black-shot silvery gleams across the walls of the pit, shedding its newfound illumination into the deep night of the Hall. The pool of blood had vanished; and on the walls of the pit, the multifarious etchings glowed harshly with a deep, eldritch light.

“Has that ever happened before?” the younger man whispered.

“Not in my lifetime,” his elder replied softly. “But the Scrolls speak of it.”
“What was it?”

“ ‘Cea Trezire’,” the bearded priest replied simply. “The Awakening. The Stone has returned to life.”
“Was it the sacrifice?”

“I think not. Something...” his voice trailed off, and the elder man glanced fearfully around the chamber again. “Something in the wider world has brought the Stone to life again. The Prevazâtri must be told. We must consult the Scrolls.” He strode away, calling back over his should, “Bring that.”

The younger priest stooped and took the end of the rope. He tugged, dragging the Elfwoman’s pale, limp body across the flagstones, leaving a wide blood trail, and followed his chief. “Should not her Dread Majesty be told as well?” he said, panting with the effort of dragging the woman’s slender corpse across the stones.
“That will be for the Wise to decide. Probably not until we have a better idea of what’s happened.” He paused, then shook his head. “Belike she knows already, anyway.”

“We must ensure she knows, Strămosi,” the younger man insisted.

“You’ll hold your tongue,” the bearded priest snarled over one shoulder. “Unless you want to be the next to kneel before the Păleta Cernît.” Lengthening his stride, he stalked off into the shadows.

The younger man shuddered, then followed, dragging his burden unceremoniously behind him.

In a moment, both had been swallowed by the inky blackness. And after a few moments more, the last drops of the unknown Elf-woman’s blood had vanished too, sunk without trace into the smooth, gleaming surface of hungry stones.

Ganesford

Hello again. I see that it’s been a good long while since I wrapped up the tale of what transpired at the Broken Temple of Karg. It’s time to move on and recount what occurred over the next few days.

Today’s subject is the town of Ganesford. Ganesford is pretty much a one-horse whistle stop whose only reason for existence is the fact that it’s located at the easiest place to cross the Sweetvale River, one of the major tributaries of the Stjerneflåde. The Sweetvale is cold, fast and in most places deep, but it shallows out where it has to cross the granite escarpment that parallels the great river and the Nordvej. There’s no bridge here and no need for one; the Sweetvale never gets above two feet deep even during the spring thaws, and while the bones tend to chill in the crossing, there are warm fires and cold ale to be had on both sides.

You’ll recall that, on 12 Lastreap, the newcomers (Bjorn and Lyra) joined the rump of the original Party (Breygon, Gwen, Joraz and Greywind) at the site of the earthquake, near the broken temple of Karg. They also met Ankallys of Vejborg, who was busily scrabbling in the detritus for signs of her master and colleagues. The follow day they entered the temple, and scared up some of its denizens; and Ankallys provoked a major crisis by breaking into the tomb of the former high priest, resulting in a wave of Allips that was only resolved when Bjorn agreed to be possessed by the Ghost of Ekruhalagar.

Well, as you know, the Party survived, but seeing as how there was a town only a mile or so up the road, they didn’t feel like spending the night sleeping in tents. They mounted up, rode for Ganesford, and reached the south bank of the Sweetvale by mid-afternoon. They took rooms at the Traveler’s Rest Inn (see below) and slept the night. The following morning, 14 Lastreap, they crossed the Sweetvale and entered the town proper, and began looking around, trying to find out where their designated contact, Malryn Olgin, lived. Gwen and Joraz dropped in on Eldred Wainstik, the leatherworker, while Breygon, Lyra and Greywind visited Telchin Manor – only to discover that Sieur Telchin had a Half-Orc door-warden, an inauspicious occurrence given Breygon’s choice of favoured enemies.

Bjorn took the wagon, with the comatose Ankallys aboard, to find the Temple of the Hand, and made the acquaintance of Gyle Fanwaith, Priest of the Healing Hand, and his acolyte, Eloan Wood. They advised Bjorn, much to their regret, that they did not have the skill or power to restore Ankallys’ mind, but they further informed him that the Fist of the Allfather in Bymill stood high in his church’s hierarchy, and could no doubt perform the necessary rites. In the meantime, they agreed to take Ankallys under their care while the Party was in Ganesford.

By this time, Gwen and Joraz had figured out where Olgin lived. The Party met at the town square, then sauntered over to his house and banged on the door. They were admitted by his housekeepers and greeted by the Master himself, both sides repeating the Draconic incantation to prove their bona fides. Bjorn was invited to take a seat in an antechamber, with apologies for the necessary secrecy, while the Brothers met to discuss the way ahead.

Olgin then gave the rest of the Party a tour of the Chapter House – a modest affair, but one that contained all of the requisite areas and amenities for such a small place as Ganesford. He then sat them down in the kitchen for tea and cakes, and gave them their mission.

“Take a look at this map I’ve had drawn up for you,” he said. “I apologize for the garish colours; the only scribe in town here is excellent, but he’s an Elf, and you can’t part him from his paint-pots.

“Here’s what I want you to do. Travel west, up the valley, until you get to Bymill. There’s a horse trader there, name of Varlgant, and pay him for two stallions he’s holding for me. They’re a gift from the Brotherhood for a noblewoman in Ellohyin, north of here a ways. She’s done us a service and we always pay our debts.

“Before you come back with them, though, there’s something else I’d like you to look into. I’ve been hearing rumours about problems at a mine a little further up the valley, north of a town called Lucky Lode. Nothing specific, just some odd injuries. Check it out. Before you leave Ganesford, you might want to look up Rauf Toldner; he’s the guild captain of the miners here in town, and he might have heard more than me. You can trust him; he’s a good man.

“A couple of housekeeping details. First, among the Brethren we are all equals, but every mission needs a leader; otherwise you’ll dissolve into a mob at the first sword-stroke and you’ll be lost. Our tradition is that leadership among Brothers falls by lot. Therefore, cast the dice and determine who is to be charged with leadership of the Party in the matter of Varlgnt’s stallions; and who is to be charged with investigating the rumours about Lucky Lode and the mines.

“Second, since you’ll be back this way soon, there’s no need to make your tithes to this Chapter House today, unless of course you have a burning desire to rid yourself of some coin. But I’ll expect an accounting when you return with the horses. And if you’re looking for a worthy charity in town for that part of your obligation, Brother Fanwaith at the house of the Hand is an honest man, and his healers do good work. One of them saved one of that fool wizard’s shovelmen a week or so ago. They aren’t of our order, but they’re worthy, and could use the money.

“I hope that’s all clear. I wouldn’t be doing my duty if I failed to enjoin you to remember your oath and your obligations: loyalty to Brotherhood, courage in battle, and mercy to the helpless. Leave nothing evil or unexplained in your path.

“Before I forget, there’s something happening tonight that I’d like you all to see – a special event for a pisspot little burg like Ganesford. And I’d like to buy you a drink. So come along and join me for the nightmeal at the Tankard at dusk. It’s the big inn just the other side of the Square; you can’t miss the sign. Incidentally, given what I think we’re going to hear tonight, we’ll forego The Tale; but you should all get into your books when you have the chance, and peruse what you find there. You’re all new, and you have much to learn.

“By the way, bring your big friend, the priest; I like the look of him. I’m going to send word to the Hiltmark in Ellohyin; once you get there drop in and see him. He may elect to bring your friend aboard. The Fists of Esu are always welcome among us.

“Speaking of Ellohyin, with any luck, you’ll be there in time for the Solemnity of Harad. It’s the single most important day in the calendar of the Brotherhood, and the Ellohyin Chapter House is a far better place to celebrate than this modest accommodation.”

“Well, that’s enough from me. Make yourselves free of this house; elsewise, I’ll see you at the Tankard at dusk.”

With that, Olgin went back to his study, leaving the Party to their own devices. They split up again and spent the afternoon checking out different parts of the town. They first went back to the Traveler’s Rest, recovered their wagon and horses, and moved them to Olgin’s house – except for Bjorn, who took a room at the Tankard and spent the afternoon soaking in an oak tub full of rosewater.

Gwen went shopping and made the acquaintance of Dannik of Dunholm at his general goods emporium. Intrigued at meeting another Halfling, she spent some time in conversation with Dannik and learned many interesting things about the town and its inhabitants. Most interesting, however, was the fact that Dannik was still owed 200 GP by the wizard Oras Rathorn for a truly bizarre special order: a hundred small silk bags containing a mixture of earth and fine clay. Gwen looked one of these over, but couldn’t figure out what they were for.

Meanwhile, Lyra, Breygon and Joraz ambled over to the Hardin’s Hammer Tavern, looking for Guild Captain Toldner. Being the sort of establishment it was, there was no shortage of patrons even in mid-afternoon, and Lyra wasted no time trying her wiles on the cadre of drunks, endeavouring to charm some information out of them, while Breygon and Joraz hung back nervously, waiting for the inevitable fight to break out. They learned a little bit more about the goings-on at Lucky Lode – about miners being brought out of the deepest pits, babbling about “monsters”, with weird, triangular bite marks on their legs and arms.

After a few near misses fight-wise, the three left the Hammer, returning to the town square, where they met up with Gwen and headed for the Tankard, joining up with Bjorn at the vast – and already very busy – dining hall.

Olgin joined them there as the sun was going down, and the six dined in companionable silence. Breygon and Lyra both found themselves noticing an odd occupant of one of the busy tables: a dark-skinned, white-haired woman of obvious Shadelven origins, surrounded by a coterie of ladies-in-waiting and hulking bodyguards. Their attention was diverted, however, when a half-dozen elderly dwarves shambled out of the shadows, led by an extraordinarily ancient and decrepit dwarf bearing a traditional iron tambour.

The tale of what happened next is recounted in one of the synopses given the Party after the event.

* * * * *

Harweac

Night comes early in the Bjerglands in autumn. Breadan drops behind the western peaks, and the weary farmer homeward wends his way, picking his steps carefully across the furrows, heading unerringly for the welcoming firelight in the doorway, a simple meal, and a mug of something cheering. The chill of evening settles into the branches, browning leaves and hearts with trepidation at the nearness of another mountain winter.

Evening in town comes, by contrast, with more light, more cheer, and considerably more noise. As the party tucked into the hearty fare bearing down their trenchers (and banked the fires of spice with foaming mugs of local ale, happy to have left the cider of Bornhavn behind them), they eyed the teeming humanity roundabouts: miners with black dust of their trade ground into the creases under their eyes stumbling over shit-smelling farmhands eager to spend a week’s wages on a night’s debauchery; drovers jostling against caravan teamsters, sizing each other up for the fight that would be inevitable once both sides were sufficiently lubricated; a gaudy merchant and his equally gaudy whores seated next to, and contrasting wildly with, a trio of solemn Servants of Vara, the Healing Hand black against robes of grey; and all around and among them, the flotsam and jetsam of Erutrei. Scores of the local people provided the backdrop against which more unusual characters were unusually obvious. A Gnomish tinker, fiddling with some unidentifiable gadget; three men of the Watch tossing dice in a corner and throwing back outsized piggins of some sort of locally-distilled horror; a richly-attired, dark-skinned Shadelven maiden of extraordinary beauty, surrounded by a host of grim-faced, heavily-armed attendants; a fanged, bewhiskered caravan guard with more than a jot of the Uruk in his lineage, who gnawed absently on a partially-cooked leg of something-or-other; two gentlemen adventurers of the Holbytlan persuasion, attracting more than their fair share of attention by arguing over ownership of a purse that obviously belonged to neither of them; and various and sundry other denizens of Anuru, that wash up nightly on the shores of the Great Road.

Tenscore faces, tenscore stories; but that night, they all had one thing in common: they had come to hear Harwéac, the venerable and world-renowned Dwarven chanter. Word had gone around that the old fellow was on his last pilgrimage from the Deeprealm to Vejborg, to visit Leif Ironfist, his old comrade-in-arms, upon his deathbed. It was said that he had sworn that on this, his last journey, he would sing of nothing but the deeds of his friend, and of their blood-brothers long dead, and their many triumphs and sorrows. Such was the rumour of Harwéac’s skill that those who came to listen were content to hear whatever tale he might choose to tell.

A door opened at the rear of the tavern, and the roar of conversation faded into chatter, and then to a low murmur. The old dwarf appeared from one of the inn’s guest rooms and shuffled into the firelight, accompanied and assisted by a trio of apprentices – each of them a virtuoso in his own right who could have made his fortune in the wider world, had he been willing to leave the side of the Master. At the front of the room, near the hearth, Harwéac settled his old bones slowly into a tailor’s seat on a simple chaff-filled cushion laid on bare stones, while his assistants formed a standing semi-circle behind him. The instruments they held were strange to most of the onlookers: a set of iron bars riveted to a heavy metal frame, and played with tiny bronze hammers; thin-walled stone bowls with covers of animal skin stretched and tightened with thongs; a long, narrow horn that wound around and around the player’s neck, gradually forming into a gleaming, hammered bell, engraved with intertwined serpents and dragons. Harwéac himself bore nothing more than a simple tambor of hide stretched on an unadorned wood and metal frame, and a broad bronze striking paddle, worn smooth and gleaming by long use.

Silence fell; a respectful silence formed in equal parts of anticipation and curiosity. None of those in the tavern that night had ever heard Harwéac’s voice before; nor was there any who had failed to hear his name. Into the well of that silence, the ancient dwarf, without a word of explanation or introduction, plunged like a spelunker bent on exploring caverns and subterranean vistas never before seen. With short, arrhythmic strokes of his bronze rod on the taut skin of the tambor, he evoked a slow, deep rumble, as of long ages spent beneath the Earth. Almost imperceptibly, he joined his heavy voice to the song of the drum, layering words onto the rhythm like the tumble of stones against the deep heartbeat of a mountain.

Ic áwrecan ymbe æðeling;
æðeling isengrǽg, ísenheard
Isenfýst, carlmann, gástberend, gumþegen,
Isenfýst, ceorlmann, guma Ekhanni
I-Esu yrfeweard, I-Esu gástsunu,
Isenfýst, gígantmæcg,
ǽgðer fréond, gebróðra mé.

Ic áwrecan æscþracu, níðweorc, gárgewinn;
Ic áwrecan æsctír, gúðsweord átǽsan...

(Editor’s Note: This is the song Léoð ymbe Isenfýst, “The Lay of Ironfist”, which may be found in the Tales of the Wyrm, and has been published elsewhere on this blog.)

Those in the audience familiar with the speech of the Deeprealm heard the words, and understood them; those who did not merely listened, spellbound, captivated by the rhythm. No one attempted to render the words into the Common Tongue, for any translation could only cheapen the Master Chanter’s incomparable composition.

Thus it ran, and the audience was captivated by every word, locked into an involuntary, inescapable embrace by the Master’s rumbling eloquence. Such was the power of his song that none noticed when his accompanists joined in with horn, drums and bells; these remained far in the background, the merest hint of honey-glaze layered imperceptibly upon the incomparable confection of Harwéac’s masterpiece. In his words, they saw the incomparable beauty of the precious gemwork of the Underfolk; felt rivers of gold flowing through their fingers; and heard the slow, unbearably heavy heartbeat of the Mountain.

One of the farmhands, a dolt named Dellrimple, who passed his days shovelling horseshit for one of Varlgant’s overseers, had never learned a single letter of the complex Dwarven tongue; and yet the next day, the stablemaster overheard him muttering the exact words of Harwéac’s ballad under his breath; in a tuneless baritone, perhaps, but with an accent that would have marked him instantly as a denizen of the Deeprealm. And yet he had no idea what he was singing. Such was the especial magic of Harwéac Hargóin, Gamolfeax-láruw, the Great Teacher, Master Chanter of Nondelvin.

None knew how long the song lasted; they only knew when it was over, because Harwéac was sitting still and silent, his hoary head bowed nearly to his breast, the plaits of his long, silvery beard lying coiled on his knees. The muted thunder of the tambor had faded, and the hall held its collective breath. No one moved; all were hoping that it was merely a pause, but they knew that it was not, for they could see that Harwéac had spent himself for them. For the briefest of moments, each man and woman in the audience felt as though the Lantern had been extinguished forever, and all would henceforth be doomed to live in eternal darkness; and at the same time, none feared any darkness that could produce such a singer as this.

A vast sigh gathered, and from more than one eye, tears fell like silent rain. Two of the Servants of Vara were praying, eyes cast down, their lips moving soundlessly; the hobbit adventurers stood spellbound, the purloined purse forgotten on the floor between them; and even the regal Shaldelven maiden sat motionless, a stunned but appreciative smile fixed upon her glistening lips, while her retainers blinked owlishly, as if emerging from a deep slumber.

So sat they all – until the Master Chanter’s spell was broken by a sudden, deep-throated cheering and thunderous, one-man applause. The half-Orc caravan guard was an ardent aficionado of all things musical, and liked a good tune, especially one with martial overtones. Harwéac’s song was, in his educated opinion, the finest thing ever written or performed since the dawn of time. Never one to refrain from physical expressions of approval, in a moment he was capering and clapping wildly, his matted hair swirling around his scabrous head, and saliva flying from his fangs as he swung his half-eaten lamb shank in glorious tribute, forgetting his badly-accented Common in his excitement, and yelling, “Multe, multe, mai multă!” in his barbarous mother tongue.

Harwéac raised his head and smiled at this heartfelt tribute from such an unexpected quarter. He nodded acknowledgement and thanks at Krumlich’s frantic gestures and grunts of approval. The half-Orc’s antics quickly lifted the awed paralysis gripping the crowd, leading first to laughter, and then to cheers and applause. One of the old dwarf’s assistants leaned down and whispered in his ear; Harwéac shook his head slowly and motioned to be helped to his feet. The horn player took the old dwarf’s other arm, and the trio began to shuffle slowly back to the guest room.

The third assistant, bearing his rack of bells, waved for silence, and the crowd, and even Krumlich, gradually subsided. “Many apologies,” the dwarf said, his deep voice thickly accented, “but that is all for tonight. The Master is very tired, and tomorrow we must resume our travels. He thanks you for your most kind welcome, and has asked that I wish you, as we say in our tongue, hléowne ysen, ælceald ýð – ‘hot iron and cold mead on the morrow’.” With that, the fourth dwarf bowed and followed the other three to the back of the inn, pursued by thunderous applause.

* * * * *

After the Dwarves had left the dining hall, Olgin bid the Party good evening and left. Lyra, hoping to find out more about the mysterious dark spectator, approached the Shadelven woman, smiling her way past the bodyguards. Before she could speak, however, the dark elf fixed her with her gaze and stopped her in her tracks; and Lyra simply stood, dumbly fascinated, while the Shadelf gathered up her entourage and returned to her suite.

While this was going on, Gwen slipped out of the crowd, snagged a look at the registry behind the front desk, and located the room that had been rented out to Oras Rathorn. The lock on the door was no match for her nimble fingers, and she was inside in two shakes of a manticore’s tail. Some hurried rummaging yielded a few maps, several books and Rathorn’s cloak, then she slipped back out in silence and returned to the Party.

They spent the night at the Chapter House under Olgin’s eye – all except for Bjorn, who luxuriated beneath a down-stuffed tick, and fell asleep looking forward to the traditional Zaran fried breakfast, and another decadent rosewater bath, on the morrow.

* * * * *

The Town of Ganesford

1. Sweetvale Tavern (Link Weathers: Average, Cheap)
Very pleasant fellow, caters mostly to farmers and travellers. Average quality, low cost. Remembers Oras Rathorn and party; they turned their noses up at his accommodations.

2. Traveller’s Rest Inn (Mance Mandrill: Good, Expensive)
Supercilious, officious, very busy; greedy. Very nice accommodations but three times normal cost. Remembers Oras as a reliable paying customer with a large party (Wizard, Apprentice, Factor, three geographers). Still has a lot of Rathorn’s dunnage locked up but won’t release it until back-lease is paid on rooms and supplies provided to the party (225 gp).

3. Smithy (Elgor Nale)
Taciturn but not unpleasant. Mostly does tools. Not good with weapons or armour, but covers up inability by being gruff. Wife is Selma Nale, very attractive; haunts the town’s bars and flirts with anything male (inevitably results in conflict with husband). He remembers Oras Rathorn; provided him with a dozen picks, mattocks and shovels, and two wheeled carts.

4. Tollhouse (Liam Trotter)
Enormously fat and cheerful; talkative but forgetful. Doesn’t remember anything. For a bribe, will forego recording names and crossing dates, as is his duty.

5. The Ford and Bridge
Ford is 2’ deep, easy for horses and wagons, not too hard for pedestrians, hard for small creatures like hobbits. If it is raining, difficulty level rises. There are nets spread 20’ downstream to catch anyone who loses their footing.

6. Fish Smokehouse (Llanor of Erdallen)
Exudes stench of smoked fish, but quality is high and it will keep indefinitely. Llanor is an ex-member of the Watch, and will provide any serving member with a week’s worth of dried fish rations free of charge. But boy, does he smell bad. He remembers Oras; sold him 6 barrels of smoked Giltscales a month back.

7. Miner’s Guildhouse (Guild Captain Rauf Toldner)
Rauf Toldner is a retired hard rock miner from Lucky Lode; he still has contacts there and has heard rumours of trouble in the mines. He knows Rathorn quite well; asked for “every experienced miner I could lay my hands on”. Thought Rathorn was a fool; he offered meagre pay and “a share in the profits”

8. Mining Supplies Store (Parag Sakonure)
Parag is a Half-Elf from Celenora, a long way from home. He is reasonably friendly but expects money up front; Rathorn cleaned him out and still owes him more than 500 gold for tools, rope, torches, lumber and so on.

9. Merchant’s Manor (Lars Telchin)
Telchin is a grasping, greedy absentee landlord who normally lives at his castle in Bitterberg. His manor is usually empty and locked; there is only a 20% chance per week that he will drop by. His Seneschal, Yancey Mealerger, comes by a few days in advance to open the place and air it out.

10. General Merchandise (Lars Telchin, owner)
The store is run by Ulgric Bugbane, a half-orc Warrior 6 who keeps this job to remain respectable (nobody messes with one of Telchin’s people) and pay the rent. He lives here, receives shipments of goods from the north, and sells them to all comers. He is rude , uncouth and likes teasing people, but hasn’t had to fight in quite a while. Any violence against him will eventually result in a visit from some far worse people on behalf of Sieur Telchin.

11. Gane’s Tankard Tavern (Alonon Payne: Good, Expensive)
Alonon Payne runs a good, but overpriced, establishment. The gentry come here to impress each other; smarter folk go elsewhere for better food at lower prices. He remembers Rathorn, who had a standing account at the Tavern, and whose tab (for fine brandies and delicacies) stands at 181 gp, 9 sp and 4 pennies. Rathorn's room is at the front of the lower floor, and has not been disturbed (except by the bucket boy) since Rathorn last slept there a week ago. It contains his maps, a large number of journals and books, some cash, and his cloak.

12. Market Hall
A large, open-walled timber structure with a thatched roof and room for two dozen market stands. Open on weekday mornings for food market; Great Market on Sian Barraj. Most common equipment items can be bought on the weekend market day.

13. House of the Hand (Gyle Fanwaith, Cleric 8, Vara)
Gyle Fanwaith is a competent cleric and an expert healer; he has three 2nd-level apprentices. One of them (Eloan Wood) was at Rathorn’s camp last week to treat a worker who had had a large stone crush his foot. Wood thinks that Rathorn is a tyrant and a fool.

14. General Store (Danik of Dunholm, Halfling)
Danik of Dunholm is a clever businessman that sells excellent quality goods and specializes in hard-to-find items. He will report that Rathorn owes him 200 gp for spell components, but will add that “It doesn’t really matter, since I made twice that off him in profit already”. One of the ingredients he provided was a special mixture of earth, sand and loam in small silk bags (Spellcraft DC 15: “Move Earth” components).

15. Malryn Olgin (Retired Fighter 11)
Olgin is a retired fighter who is living off his earnings and enjoying his retirement as a hunter, general problem-solver and local celebrity (he is famous for having killed a giant bear with a tree branch some years ago). He is also the local Superior Brother of the Brotherhood of Wyrms. This is the fellow that the exiled Watchmen are expected to contact. Olgin will treat them as seasoned professionals, explain the codes, rules and benefits, and order them to investigate the rumours that Toldner, Guild Captain of the Miner’s Guild, has heard about in Lucky Lode. They are also ordered to pick up a brace of fine stallions in Bymill and bring them back to Ganesford, before delivering them to the house of a noblewoman and friend of the Order in Ellohyin. But more on that when they return with the horses.

16. Leatherworks (Eldred Wainstik, leathercrafter)
Eldred Wainstik is an associate of Sharoom Pardo, the Bornhavn leathercrafter. He contracted with Rathorn for a variety of leather products, and is still awaiting payment on a bill of “several hundred crowns.”

17. Meat Market (Olgar and Olga Thorssen, butchers)
Fair merchants, who have never heard of Oras Rathorn. But they do have kin in Søby, south of Ellohyin, who operate a cattle farm – and last week, a herd of cattle being driven south to Ganesford (and supposed to go on to Bymill) went missing on the Nordvej, somewhere between Steenby and Ganesford. They theorize that a band of Orcs may be running a cattle rustling operation somewhere in the hills.

18. Hardin’s Hammer Tavern (Tug Wylkyn, ex-miner; very rough, very cheap)
Tug Wylkyn is a retired Warrior 4 who served 20 years in the Guards in Ellohyin. He knows the city like the back of his hand, and has contacts in the Elloyhin underworld. He runs a very rough, very cheap place that the local miners like. The rumours about the Phoenix Mine at Lucky Lode have reached this tavern; one or two of the patrons will tell a tale that arrived only this week, about a miner’s corpse being found, bitten in half at the waist.

19. Shrine to Vara (small)
This is a small, one-room shrine built out of the local limestone, with a thatched roof. It is maintained by Fanwaith and his apprentices, and like all shrines to Vara, it contains a large, carved stone vessel of water that is Blessed daily, and that petitioners toss coins into (at any time it will contain 1d100 copper, 1d20 silver and 1d4 gold pieces). It is not policed or patrolled, but during day there is an 8 in 20 chance that someone will be praying here (the chance drops to 1 in 20 after dark). This is a Consecrated location for Vara, her Servants and her Avatars.

20. Leagor of Ellohyin – retired expert historian (K-Hist 22), Reeve of Ganesford
Leagor is an elderly human who lives for books. Once the Chief Librarian to the Count of Ellohyin, he gave up his sinecure a decade ago and built a quiet home here on the banks of the Sweetvale River, filling it with fine furnishings and books. He is compiling a comprehensive history of Zare, and is presently writing Volume 16 (volumes 1 through 15 are available at the Bookbinder’s, for 100 gp per book – each one takes a month to read, and will give the reader +1 Knowledge-History). His knowledge is encyclopaedic, to the point that it is difficult to keep him from diverging into tangents. He knows Oras Rathorn, but dismisses him as “an amateur – a typical wizard, more concerned with twiddlings and twinklings than actually KNOWING anything.” They squabbled over an ancient book in Leagor’s possession (the Varata Ikivanha Maailma, a Draconian text, the “Book of the Ancient World”). Leagor will part with it for 1000 GP (Oras offered him that amount, but promised only 250 gp in advance and the remainder “in a few months”). Studying the book uninterrupted for 1 month will give the reader an inherent bonus on Knowledge(History) checks of +5.

21. Scrivener’s Shop (Iltoeyna Paloyina, Elven Expert Calligrapher 16)
Iltoeyna is an Elvish calligrapher, magnificent with the pen. She hired the copyists to produce Leagor’s magnum opus, and illuminated them herself. She also produced a number of detailed maps of the banks of the Sweetvale between Ganesford and Bornhavn for Oras; he still owes her “more than 100 gold” for the work.

22. Bookbinder’s Shop (Royaur Desfitylna, Elven Expert Bookbinder 14)
Royaur is an associate of Iltoeyna’s, and a solid devotee of Leagor’s writing. He has nothing but praise for the sage, and shares his contempt for Rathorn’s “lack of historical knowledge.”