Bornhavn, Day Two, Part One

On the morning of Myransday, 10 Lastreap, the PCs awoke, rested and refreshed, in the bunkroom of Bellik’s Rest, and decided to get an early start on the day.

But first, some notes on the calendar.

I’ll be posting the Erutreian Calendar in due course. But for the time being, it might help to know that there are seven days in the week, and that these are: Myransday, Tîansday, Vorwennasday, Tîorsday, Freasday, Sîan Baraj, and Sîan Vara.

For those of you who have read up on the Ancient History and some of the deities of Anuru already, many of these names will be familiar to you. Tîan, Vorwenna and Vara should be familiar to you, and anon you’ll meet Myran, Baraj, and Feynillor Freagan (after whom Freasday is named). And further along you’ll meet Tîor, called “The Mighty”, or Tîor Magnus in Elvish; the greatest arcane magister and High King the Elves have ever known.

“Sîan”, of course means “day of rest”.

(In case you hadn’t noticed, the first letters of the seven days of the week correspond to our own calendar in English. This is entirely coincidental. No, really!)

Not surprisingly, there are also 12 months in the year. Beginning with the New Year in the depths of deepest, darkest winter, the months are: Efterjule, Vintersdyb, Forars, Gron Forars, Sowing, Er-Sommer, Heit-Sommer, Firstreap, Heitreap, Lastreap, Ars-Waning and Jule. The decidedly Scandinavian flavour of some of the month-names reflects the fact that the Yonarri (of whom more later), who were the forerunners of the Jarlin peoples in the far north of Erutrei, were the first professional navigators; and since accurate navigation requires accurate time-keeping, they were the first, apart from the Elves, to develop a calendar well-adapted to marine navigation. Also, because the Yonarri were responsible for colonizing most of the human areas of Erutrei, the vestiges of their culture – including elements of language – remain visible across the known world.

Anyway, where was I?

Oh, yeah: the Party awoke on the morning of Myransday (Monday), the 10th day of Lastreap (October), and treated themselves to a hearty breakfast at Bellik’s board. They then set out to try to find out what was going on in Bornhavn. Breygon and Alric visited the smithy for weapons and armour, while Gwen, Qaramyn and Joraz spent the day wandering around town and chatting up its denizens. With her silver tongue, Gwen managed to pry a little bit of background information out of the normally taciturn Halfelven leatherworker, Sharoom Pardo.

Around about noon, they met for luncheon at the Rest, and noticed that the Swiftkeel had set sail; and about the same time, Breygon sent Private Gambrik back to Fort Ryker with the wagon, with orders to inform Castellan Lalagor that the squad was going to remain in town a little while longer to try to figure out what had happened to Olem of Barg.

More poking around later in the afternoon led Gwen into the company of one Seel Trask, an elderly bard, once a backup singer at the Grand Duke’s court in Aeryn (see the Bornhavn key), now enjoying a quiet retirement in a small town in the Bjerglands. While Gwen was enjoying a glass of wine, a commotion arose in the town square, immediately in front of the Rest, when a large, blackhaired and blustery human rolled up in an enormous wagon, and announced – in a very unconvincing Transylvanian accent – that he, “Baltun Cicero the Mighty”, had captured the creature responsible for gutting the town’s sheep. Sure enough, the back of the wagon held a cage containing an enormous grey wolf.

(At which point, the guy playing Breygon started singing “I’m getting an animal companion, I’m getting an animal companion!!!” Jeez, was it THAT obvious? Anyway...)

Things smelled a little funny to the PCs. For one thing, it was a REALLY bad accent. Another clue was the fact that Cicero’s sidekick was a Goblin, which put Breygon’s Dirty Harry tic into overdrive. What pushed the ranger over the edge, however, was the fact that the wolf was communicating with him empathically, emphasizing its innocence. Despite being shy of Cicero by one foot of height and about 100 pounds of mostly bicep, Breygon braced him up and told him to release his prisoner. It didn’t work. So Qaramyn uncrated his 10 charisma, and scored a natural 20 on his Intimidate check. Cicero released the wolf (not without some grumbling) and he and Patchkin moved on. The PCs retired to the Rest, where Breygon got to know his new friend a little better by feeding him half a cow’s worth of flank steak.

Talk flowed into dinner, which was going nicely until it was interrupted by a woman’s piercing screams. The Party piled out of the Rest and into the town square, where they immediately spotted a commotion on the steps of the Shrine of the Allfather. Not surprisingly, they intervened, only to find more of what they had already run into: five ghouls, attacking a young man and woman, both of whom had been paralyzed. Battle commenced. A moment later, they were joined by a woman wearing a long, dark robe, and carrying a long staff topped with a blackened metal raven. Working together, they dispatched four of the ghouls in short order, Breygon noticing that there seemed to be a lot of blue sparking every time the wolf bit something.

The fifth ghoul ran off - with Breygon, Joraz and the wolf in hot pursuit.

The newly-arrived woman doffed her hood and introduced herself as Viloriannis, "Hand of the Allfather", and Whitefist’s principal assistant in Bornhavn. With the help of Qaramyn, Alric and Seel Trask, they managed to get the two paralyzed townsfolk into the manse. Gwen followed along with an arrow nocked, in case the drooling badness decided to come back.

Meanwhile, the ranger, the monk and the wolf tracked the escaping ghoul, following its trail through the Storskov and into the festering, putrid wreck of the Great Swamp. A half-hour’s work led them to a low, tree-covered mound in the middle of the swamp, on the west side of which was a shallow cave opening, some six feet wide and half as high. This led into a surprisingly dry tunnel that twisted and turned through the clay, trending ever downwards into the blackness (solved by Joraz lighting a torch), and the intrepid adventurers followed it up – until a dozen red pinpoints pricked the darkness, resolving into a wall of grim, walking skeletons and shambling corpses, and a half-dozen spiders the size of a Smart Car. The intrepid trio took down the first rank, then realized that they were badly outnumbered, on enemy ground, and sans more than half of their party – so they beat a strategic retreat, escaping through the forest, and linking up with their comrades back at the manse.

Here, for your reading pleasure, is a synopsis of the events of that busy day – up until dinner time, that is.

* * * * *

Seel Trask sat cross-legged on one of the pilgrims’ cots, fingering an old and well-used mandolin he had found hanging above the mantle of the heavy stone fireplace that dominated the far end of the long room. It was not his first visit to the Pilgrims’ Hostel; in the five years since Whitefist had completed the Shrine, Trask had woken up in one of these cots on more than a few occasions, his head ringing like Turgo’s anvil, and with a strategically-placed bucket standing on the floor beside him. Any chanter worth his salt, he mused, plucking at the strings and tuning the instrument almost absent-mindedly, never strays too far from the cup. In a moment the strings were well-set, and his old but talented fingers teased out the first measures of a mournful Elvish tune he had first heard decades before, many long miles, and long years, from the little bend in the river that would one day become the town of Bornhavn.

A lifetime of performing before beggars and kings had left Trask accustomed to studying his audience while he played. This time, though, his their attention was understandably focused elsewhere, which was fine with him. You learned more watching men in ten minutes of crisis than in ten years of prosperity. After the brief battle on the steps of the Shrine (which Trask, being unarmed, had decided to watch from a safe distance), Viloriannis had Healed the victims of the night-demons’ attack. These had turned out to be two of the townsfolk known to the Chanter: Ulfgar, a sheep farmer, and his wife Benjiis, who, rumour had it, had come to the Shrine to beg the Allfather for a son.

Viloriannis had then led the group behind the Shrine to the Hostel, carrying the stricken townsfolk; though healed of their wounds, the priestess had been unable to break the enchantment that held the couple rigid. Trask had followed almost automatically; there were few new stories to be found in a sleepy backwater like Bornhavn, and he wasn’t about to miss out on a new one. Indeed, this tale promised to surpass many of those he had seen, or even heard told, in his long and checkered career.

As he watched, Viloriannis organized the group’s activities with quiet efficiency. Under her direction, the motionless villagers were tucked into cots, heavily swaddled in the hostel’s coarse woolen blankets, while the mailed warrior (Alric, Trask reminded himself), at a word from the Deacon, built up the fire. As the lithe, dark-robed woman bustled about the chamber, Trask grinned despite himself; he had made his trial of her virtue when she had first arrived in town three winters past, and had got no reward for his efforts but a bad case of frostbite. Memories of the chill whip of her tongue always caused him to wince. You’ve no sense when it comes to women, my lad, he thought as he played, nor ever had, neither as a young buck, nor as a greymane. In the years since, though, he had come to admire the Deacon instead of lusting after her; she had relieved the aging and infirm Whitefist of most of the burdens of running the Shrine and the Manse, and had proven a true guardian of their shared flock. Priest Ullet was one of the fixtures of Bornhavn, a townsman from the day of its founding, and the building of the Shrine had been one of its greatest tales thus far. Trask was still trying to condense it into song. One day, perhaps.

When all were settled to her satisfaction and a kettle of mulled drink was hissing at the hearth (Trask’s nose twitched at the familiar scent of cider and spices, although his fingers didn’t miss a note), Viloriannis disappeared through one of the doors athwart the fireplace, leaving the rest to their own devices. Trask watched and played quietly as the Watchmen sorted themselves out. The mailed warrior took one of the benches from a trestle table, dragged it over in front of the doors, sat down heavily on it, leaned his enormous, iron-banded club against the wall, and began honing one of his daggers with a flat stone. The Halfling, whose name Trask hadn’t caught well enough to remember, was poking about the room, glancing under cots and tables, eventually dragging a three-legged stool over to the fireplace, clambering up onto it to inspect the various candlesticks, incense boxes and roughly-made religious knick-knacks scattered across it. Trask had met many Halflings in his long travels – including, he recalled with a wry smile, a troupe of traveling acrobats that had performed at the Court of the Grand Duke in Aeryn, and had managed to nearly strip the palace bare before leaving in haste after only a week. Thirty years ago, he mused, fingers pacing methodically across the strings. Time is a river. Halflings...reflexively, he glanced down at his belt to reassure himself that his pouch was undisturbed.

The other fellow, the mage, had settled himself on one of the cots, one of the hostel’s tallow lamps close by. Propped up by a couple of blankets, he was engaged in that most characteristic of wizardly pursuits –nose-deep in a book, muttering under his breath. Trask shuddered slightly, remembering how the slender fellow had caused one of the ghouls to turn itself inside-out with only a few words and a touch. Although barely man enough for chin-thatch, this one lacked nothing in confidence or power. While enjoying his customary evening libation at the Rest, he had witnessed the confrontation with the trapper Baltun (“The Magnificent”, Trask recalled with a snort) Cicero, and had thought the wiry, black-robed fellow a fool for challenging the hulking woodsman, who was well known around town as a braggart and a ready-fisted bully. Trask had been astonished when Cicero had backed down; perhaps he had seen something in the young fellow’s eyes that had frightened him. After a lifetime of mixing with the mighty, though, nothing about the magi surprised Trask anymore, and he had developed a habit of simply staying out of their way.

The song ended; Trask’s fingers ceased their familiar dance. Alric glanced up from his dagger, and Gwendilyne (There, thought Trask, that was her name) stopped rifling the contents of one absent traveler’s trunk long enough to shoot the singer a long look as well, as if pleading for more. Even the wizard withdrew his beezer from the tome he was perusing intently and gazed closely at the old chanter, as if noticing him for the first time.

“Don’t stop,” said Gwendilyne, clapping enthusiastically. “You’re very good.”

“My thanks, my lady,” Trask replied with a courtly bow. Gwen beamed at him.

“Yeah,” growled Alric. “Sweet tunes for a dungheap like this. D’ya know any Dwarven pub songs?”

“My friend,” replied Trask with a smile, “I know them all. Any one in particular?”

Alric put his dagger away and ambled towards the hearth, chainmail jingling, and poured four cups of mulled cider. He left two on the table, passed one to Trask, and took one for himself, draining half of it at a gulp. “How about ‘Durin’s Mountaineers’?” he asked.

“Nothing easier. I’ll begin, and you can follow along,” Trask replied, putting down the mandolin. “Won’t need this. It’s a capella, as I’m sure you know.”

“I thought it was a shanty,” Alric grumbled, looking confused. Gwendilyne tittered; the wizard sighed, and turned back to his book.

Trask merely grinned. “With me,” he said. “One…two…’Oh, the year was thirteen seventy-eight’…”

“ ‘How I wish I was in Moria now…’,” Alric joined in, smacking his tankard on the table in time with the beat, while Gwendilyne looked on in delight, and the wizard began pulling bits of wool from the blanket, stuffing them rather ostentatiously into his ears.

*****

Viloriannis paused outside her master’s bedchamber, loathe to wake the frail old man even for so dire an emergency. She was Deacon of the Shrine of the White, and the Hand of the Allfather in Bornhavn, but even the Hand hesitated before disturbing the Fist. Especially when the old man was so ill, and needed his rest.

Behind her in the hostel, she could hear Trask’s clear tenor reciting some sort of chant in the guttural Dwarven tongue, and winced slightly as the warrior Alric joined in, roaring along in a tuneless bellow. The adventurers would’ve been surprised to see her smile, but she did anyway. Singing – even bad singing, and perhaps especially bad singing – was far preferable to moping and the night terrors after a close encounter with the denizens of clay. She had been gratified by the strength the Watchmen had displayed and the fearlessness with which, even though taken by surprise, they had stormed to the rescue of the newlywed couple. At the same time, she had been astonished at the sudden departure of their leader and the silent, weaponless warrior (whom she assumed was a monk, although his order and habiliments were unfamiliar to her), both of whom had raced off into the woods after the retreating monster, and the wolf that had appeared to be following it. While concerned and a little appalled at their sudden disappearance, she was pleased at their pluck; perhaps they would finally locate the creature’s lair, and together they would be able to put an end to the peril menacing Bornhavn.

She tapped lightly at the door, and was unsurprised when a faint voice invited her to enter. The master had been sleeping less and less lately; she supposed that the long pain of his illness (which she had tried without success to Heal on many occasions), exacerbated by his extreme age, was at last catching up with him. She opened the door and slipped into the room. Priest Ullet was propped up in his bed, surrounded by voluminous pillows. On a table beside him were a variety of potions, unguents, salves and poultices, along with gifts both rich and mundane from the townsfolk. She smiled to see him, as she always did, for even frail and debilitated, his presence comforted her. It evidently comforted the citizens of Bornhavn as well, for although he had not offered a service in more than a year, still the well-wishes and offerings came. It was more than gratitude for the building of the Shrine, she thought; the people genuinely loved him. To them, he was not Ullet, or even Priest Whitefist; he was simply “The Priest”. She doubted that they would ever love her the same way once he was gone.

She realized that she had been staring silently at her hands, and glanced up quickly at her superior. He merely raised his bushy eyebrows. Viloriannis wasted no more time in reverie. “Master, there’s been another attack,” she said, moving to the bedside. “On the steps of the shrine. The filthy creatures are growing bolder.”

Whitefist clenched his jaw; his eyes squeezed shut involuntarily in pain, but whether spiritual or mortal, she knew not. “How many were lost this time?” he asked, his once-powerful voice ground down by pain to a harsh whisper.

“None.”

Whitefist’s eyes flew open in surprise. “None? Then, you arrived in time?”

“Not I,” the deacon replied. “A patrol of the Watch arrived yesterday from Fort Ryker. They were in Bellik’s when the creatures attacked Ulfgar Tanner and his wife, and they intervened immediately. Two of the beasts were slain; a third escaped into the woods. Half of the Watchmen went in pursuit.”

“Are they well?” asked the Priest.

“Those who remained behind were not injured,” she answered, “but of the pursuers I know nothing, for they have not yet returned.” She paused, debating whether to tell him the rest. When he spun a finger impatiently, she blurted out, “But Ulfgar and Benjiis both suffered from the unclean touch. They are not in danger of death, but are frozen in rigor. I Healed Ulfgar’s wounds, but I...I lack the power to free their spirits,” she finished softly. They both understood the import of what she asked.

Ullet nodded soberly. “Be of good cheer, child,” he said with a weak smile. “And help me up. We are fortunate; the strength of the Allfather and his mighty Servants is with me tonight.” Pushing back the bedclothes, the elderly cleric slid unsteadily to the floor, grasping one of the bedposts with a palsied hand.

Viloriannis fetched a heavy cloak from one of the garderobes. “No,” said Ullet, “my chasuble, if you don’t mind. We are on the Allfather’s business this night.” Obediently, she replaced the cloak, instead retrieving a folded garment from the surface of the small altar at the far end of the room. She unfolded it, revealing yards of heavily embroidered white and gold silk, and held it up for Whitefist, who took the hem in his palsied hands and touched it briefly to his lips before allowing her to drape it across his shoulders. He leaned heavily on her outstretched arm as she led him towards the chamber door.

“Swiftly, child,” he said, his faltering steps belying the urgency in his voice.

*****

He was tired – tired and filthy. It had been an interesting day, to be sure, but for all that, a long and exhausting one.

He recalled waking at first light, still caged like one of the mandogs, with bits of foul straw clinging to his fur. He had drunk eagerly from the clay pot in the corner of the cage, but wrinkled his nose in disgust at the foul, burnt-smelling hunk of meat flung him by the goblinthing, pushing it back through the bars with a quick motion of his nose. He recalled being amused when the goblinthing, which evidently was less particular about its diet, snatched up and devoured the repulsive morsel itself.

His embarrassment at being taken like a pup knew no bounds. He had been hunting in the clean mountain woods near rushingriver, not far from highwalledmanvillage, taking special care to avoid the trails used by the trollbeasts, when he had come upon the carcass of a fallen broadhorn. It had been poorly killed, not by one of the people; partially disemboweled, its entrails scattered across the earth. But it was not putrid, and he had been so hungry that he had fallen to with a will - without, as was customary among the people when dining alone, taking the elementary precaution of inspecting his surroundings for enemies. And so he had been taken, for the meat had been tainted with something that tasted of the tallmanvillage. After his meal he had slept, and had awoken in the cage, being prodded with a stick by the tiny goblinthing. One growl had put an end to that indignity, but it was a growl only half in earnest, in part due to his mortification at being captured, and in part because not even the direst pangs of hunger could have enticed him to so much as nibble on so unappetizing a morsel as the goblinthing.

He had endured his captivity with all of the stocicism demanded of a hunter of the people, so that its end had come as even more of a surprise. For two days and a night he had been confined in the cage at the tail of the tallman’s rollingden, wallowing in his own filth and lacking even sufficient room to work off his self-disgust by pacing. On the second day he succumbed to appetite and ate the food offered him, choking it down with distaste and long gulps of water, and salving his conscience with the promise that soon he would dine on the tallman’s liver. And even if he could not bring himself to eat the goblinthing, he was certain that he could tolerate the creature’s stench long enough to tear out its throat.

But then it was over. The arrival of the rollingden at the tallmanrivervillage had been sudden, as had the tallman’s exchange with the other tallmen (all of them newmen, as he tended to think of anyone he had not smelled before). And then the door to his cage had fallen open. This had been so surprising a development that he had hesitated, interested to see what would happen next (he had had no fear that the cage would be closed again; he had little knowledge or understanding of the manthings’ toys, but he knew from the smell and the shape of the metal bars that some work would be required before they could once again close and entrap him).

Then a third surprise - the elfwoodsman had spoken to him! Not in the manthings’ words, which he found maddeningly incomprehensible, but with his eyes and posture, a few motions of his paws here, and a tilt of the head just so, almost as though he were one of the people. It was as surprising as his sudden freedom. And then the tallman, the goblinthing and the rollingden were gone. He sampled the scents of his deliverers and found them not unpleasant (although there was a lingering odour about the brightmetaltallman that reminded him of a hotspring he had visited in the mountains, where the water was warm and pleasing, but the stench nigh unbearable). The shortshehalfman seemed almost afraid of him, which amused him greatly; he would never attack one of the halfmen, for they were always kind to the people. The darktallman seemed indifferent and incomprehensible as well, and he decided to stay out of that particular tallman’s trail. Confidant, though, that they meant him no harm, he had returned to the side of the elfwoodsman, curious to see what would happen next.

A place of brightness and noise and fine, fresh meat; and then a sudden battle on the steps of a great stone house against foulthings that stank (and tasted) of bad meat and flesh long buried. And then a swift run through the forest, the elfwoodsman seemingly relying on his nose to follow the trail of the foulthings (a puppy’s chore, as one of the people could not have lost the gut-churning stench of the foulthings even in sleep). He had been loathe to enter the deathstinkingswamp, and even less enthusiastic about venturing underground, but the elfwoodsman – whom he had come to think of as the leader of this pack of manthings – had gone forward, followed by the quiettallman. And was it not the law of the pack that where the packleader chooses to lead, the people must follow? And so he had followed, only to find more terrors in the dark, and rotting deadthings of bone and decaying flesh, and great insects even larger than he, with bright eyes and clacking mandibles, smelling of poison and mourning. The packleader had wisely decided to retire, and they left the foul-smelling cavern behind, and fled the swamp for the town.

The packleader and the quiettallman had rejoined their companions at the longhouse. The other packmembers were happy to see the packleader, but complained loudly about his smell. His own fur was caked with the mud and filth of the swamp, and the stench of death and decay seemed to hang about him. So, while the others drank the fiery noseticklingwater of their kind and cleansed themselves, he slipped away. For he had smelt a river below the tallmanvillage, and was determined to cleanse himself in the manner of the people rather than submit to an ignoble scrubbing by one of the tallmanthings, which – all good intentions aside – would surely have ended in someone getting bitten.

But he would be back. The need for clean fur was momentary and easily satisfied; but obedience to the will of the packleader was absolute and not to be long denied.

*****

Viloriannis pulled the blanket up under her master’s chin, then bent and blew out the single candle. Whitefist had exhausted himself lifting the curse of immobility from the stricken townsfolk; his eyes were sunken behind closed lids, his face gaunt, and his breathing, as she bent and put an ear to his chest, seemed shallow and laboured. The deacon clasped her tarnished silver pendant in one hand and placed the other softly on her Master’s brow, her smooth white skin against his, wrinkled and age-mottled, and whispered a brief prayer to the Allfather. The Healing force flowed through her as it had so many times in the past, at once exalting and weakening her. But this time, as had been happening with depressing frequency, she felt no culmination, no sense of achievement or completion. The energy of her spell ran into her Master’s body and seemed to flow out as quickly again. She had no power against this wound, and no name that she could give to it, save Time; and it was more powerful than she.

She left the priest sleeping deeply and padded silently into the dining hall, closing the door to his chambers quietly behind her. Belmina, one of the volunteers of the Shrine, looked up from a kettle of something that she was tending at the hearth, a question in her eyes. Viloriannis put a finger to her lips, shaking her head, and the woman subsided again, returning to her stirring.

The Deacon of the Shrine gathered the folds of her dark robe closely about her and walked softly back down the hallway towards the pilgrims’ wing. The appearance of the men of the Watch, and the news, delivered by their Sergeant, one “Breygon of the Woods”, that they had discovered the lair of the creatures plaguing the town, had filled her with a mixture of anticipation and panic. Ever since she had guessed the nature of the attacks with the horrid death of the woodsman, Bas Kelbor, and the subsequent disappearance of his body from its cairn, she had been concerned that unnatural forces were at work in the town.

Unlike most of the townsfolk, she had believed Trask immediately when he had stumbled into the Shrine two weeks past, babbling about having seen Kelbor alive and well at the Rune Stones. There had been for her no question of doubting his tale, for although he had likely since forgotten it himself, Trask had that night told her and Whitefist a tale of cold mists, cold hands, and blank eyes radiating a terrible lust for the blood of the living. She recalled exchanging glances with Whitefist; they had both seen such things with their own eyes before. Viloriannis had herself once been beset by fell creatures from beyond the grave, damned souls wrenched from their enclosing clay by the foul magicks of a sorcerer and set against her and her friends.

Even the almighty power of the Allfather had been insufficient to hold them back, and they had won their escape and their safety only through hard handstrokes, and through the willing and courageous sacrifice of Orkregis, a mighty warrior of the White that she had known almost from childhood. At length the sorcerer, Calpurgnis of Aeryn, had fallen to an archer’s shaft, and Viloriannis had herself dispatched the last of the shambling horrors he had summoned from beyond the grave. So much her knowledge and experience of the fruits of the necromancer’s art, the crime and perversion of Undeath; but even these horrors were minor compared to the nightmares recounted to her by Whitefist, who, in his younger and healthier days before coming to Bornhavn, had stood eye to eye with fell and powerful demons of unlife, and faced them down, the power of the Allfather ravening from his eye, hand and heart. Poor man, she thought, to survive such nightmares only to be felled at last by the one truly implacable enemy.

She paused at the heavy wooden doors that separated the pilgrims’ wing from the rest of the Manse proper. After a moment’s hesitation, she slid a hanging torch bracket to one side, revealing a tiny hole in the wall to which she put her eye, giving her a view of the length of the Pilgrims’ Barracks. She saw immediately that Breygon and the quiet monk were still with their comrades, and still filthy and caked with mud. Although she could not hear what they were saying, their gestures were easily readable. Clearly they had followed the creature into the Great Swamp that lay beyond Storskov, the Greatwood, and had found not it, but something else entirely. Trask, for one, was hanging on their every word. As well he might, she thought grimly, given that he alone amongst the townsfolk has witnessed what they have seen. Except for Ulfgar and Benjiis, she corrected herself mentally, noting that the two appeared to be sleeping quietly at the near end of the barracks, now that their psyches had been released from the paralytic bondage of the ghouls’ touch. And the wolf is gone, she thought, wondering where it had got off to.

Viloriannis slid the sconce back into place, then drew the bolt and entered the barracks. Conversation ceased immediately, and every eye turned to her. She noticed that Alric had moved his bench back in front of the door and was perched on it, watching the conversation with furrowed brow, and she nodded approvingly at his precaution. A diverse group, this, and prone to rash judgment, but at least some of them had a grain or two of sense.

“Welcome back,” she began. “First, are you well?”

“Well enough,” Breygon answered. “We didn’t find the creature we sought, but we found plenty to keep us occupied. All of us,” he emphasized. “But we’re not wounded.”

“The Allfather be praised,” Viloriannis said, making a small gesture over her heart and then folding her hands in her sleeves. “Their lair is in the Great Swamp then?” she asked. Breygon nodded.

“It is, and it seems that we have a larger problem on our hands than merely a single ghoul, or even a nest of them. We found a lengthy tunnel and a building of sorts, buried far beneath the swamp. We descended the tunnel, and were set upon by a trio of walking skeletons. These we dispatched without much difficulty; but then, in a larger chamber, were confronted by enormous spiders and a party of shambling, scarlet-orbed corpses.” He paused, shuddering at the thought of what they had stumbled into.

“And you withdrew,” Viloriannis said. “It was the wiser course.” She walked to one of the nearby trestle tables and sat wearily on the bench beside it. “Do you plan to return tonight?” she asked.

“Hardly,” said Breygon. “Night probably isn’t the ideal time to assault a stronghold filled with creatures of darkness such as these.”

“It is not,” she agreed. “What, then, do you intend to do?”

Breygon appeared about to answer, and then stopped himself, and looked around at his tiny command. “Thoughts?” he asked.

“We have an appointment to keep,” said Qaramyn, closing his book and stowing it back in his pack. He stood and stretched the gathering kinks out of his neck. “And we’re late. Moreover, we are woefully ignorant about that which we face. Although,” he added with a nod towards Joraz, “less so than if you two stout hearts had not decided to take on the foe single-handed.” Joraz smiled back serenely, ignoring the wizard’s jibe. Qaramyn shrugged and continued. “Still, if dinner at the House of Sieur File is to be as well-attended as we’ve heard tell today, we may increase our hitherto scanty understanding of the evil that assails this town.”

“As concise as ever,” replied Breygon. “Gwen?”

“I agree with Qaramyn,” the Halfling replied. “There’s not much here to stea…I mean, see,” she said. “Maybe we can find something at Trader File’s that will turn to our prof…advantage.” She fidgeted for a moment, shifting from foot to foot, hands in her trouser pockets. “Anyway, let’s go to dinner!”

Bregon smiled, tugging at one ear. “Gwen,” he asked, “what have you got in your pockets?”

“Nothing!” piped the Halfling. “Nothing at all! Well…nothing but my hands,” she corrected herself with a smile.

“Keep it that way,” Breygon said. “Joraz?”

“The fates will place your feet upon the path that leads to your destiny,” the monk replied steadily. “Choice is an illusion. Man’s destiny lies not in choosing his fate, but in how he meets the fate that has been chosen for him.”

Breygon stared at the monk for a moment. “And that means…?”

“If trouble is coming,” Joraz explained, “it will come, whether you climb a mountain, dive to the depths of the sea, or hide in a cave. If we wait here, trouble will surely find us here. It will find us wherever we go.” Then the monk smiled. “But if we keep our appointment, we may enjoy a good meal before it does.”

Breygon and the others laughed. “Well said,” he chuckled. “And what say you, Alric?”

“I’m hungry,” the warrior said simply. “I fight better on a full stomach. But,” he added with a scowl, “any more chestnuts and I’m liable to turn into a squirrel.”

“I heard that,” Breygon agreed with some feeling. He turned back to Viloriannis. “My lady, it’s been a busy night, and some of us are unfit for dinner at a wealthy man’s house,” he said, nodding at himself and Joraz.

“Fitness lies in the heart, not in the raiment,” she replied with a grin, “but I too am invited, and you both smell...unappetizing. You can bathe and change your clothing here. But I warn you,” she added, “the robes of a pilgrim are unlikely to flatter the eye of a discerning man like the Sieur File.”

“I’m not much for flattery,” Breygon said, “and I share your ideas about fitness. And simple garb becomes simple folk such as we. We are indebted to you for your hospitality and for the care you gave to those poor people.”

“I did little,” the cleric replied. “The Allfather sent you to them in their need. Yours was the deed of valour. Their care, in truth, is nothing more than my duty, for I am the Hand of the Allfather in Bornhavn.” Viloriannis stood and nodded towards the door. “It is late, and time presses. We will speak more of duty later, I have no doubt.”

Another solemnly-clad woman had joined Viloriannis near the fireplace. “This is Belmina,” the Deacon explained. “She will show you to the bath-house and provide you with clothing. Your own garb will be laundered tomorrow.”

Breygon glanced at Alric and Qaramyn. “Keep an eye on the door. Gwen,” he added, “take care of the young couple.” All three nodded. “Joraz,” he continued, “it’s bath-time. Unless, that is, you have something profound to add about how we smell?”

Belimina beckoned, and Joraz and Breygon fell into line behind her. “The nose,” Joraz expounded as they walked, “is the most discerning of the body’s senses. For the blind man cannot see riches, but he can smell corruption; the deaf man cannot hear the speech of the fool, but he can smell his folly; the handless man…”

“I liked the ‘inscrutable silence’ thing better,” Viloriannis heard Alric growl as she closed the door.

Despite the gravity of the situation, she could not help a wry smile. These Watchmen were unlike any others she had ever met. She hoped that their obedience to the Code matched their bravery.

She walked back to her simple cell. Once there, she lit an oil lamp and doffed and folded her robe, washing quickly and brushing out her hair, all the while trying to decide on appropriate attire for File’s banquet. The man was a toad, but he was one of the powers in Bornhavn, and even the Hand of the Allfather did not dare make too many enemies in the mortal realm. Normally, knowing that Fellikartus and Beal Trite, Bornhavn’s Reeve (and File’s man, bought and paid for) would be at hand, she would have preferred to wear something womanly in order to loosen their tongues – but tonight was different. In her heart, she felt that action, too long delayed, was coming at last – a clash of powers, a true reckoning between the Light and the Dark. And with her Master too weak to stand before all and lead the charge, the oldest duty of a Priest of the Allfather fell to her.

She was about to whisper a prayer for guidance, but the words faltered on her lips. Could her indecision be nothing more than cowardice? Was she hiding behind her lesser duties to her flock and ignoring the first calling of the faithful? Was she using her Master’s infirmity as an excuse, refusing to acknowledge that which she had known to be true almost from the moment these attacks had begun – that after four all-to-brief years, her time as the Hand of the Allfather was nearly at an end?

So be it. She shut her wardrobe firmly and threw the latch, and strode instead to a dusty wooden chest standing under her cell’s sole high, narrow window. With a whisper and a wave she released the locks, and the lid lifted in the darkness with a rusty creak of long-disused hinges. A jumbled mass of oiled leather and polished steel gleamed in the lamplight. Almost reverently, she removed the trappings of her past, hidden away since her arrival in Bornhavn and her pledge of service to the master: a heavy, padded gambeson, complete with leather skirts and cuisses; a gleaming steel breastplate of ancient design, with faded runes and whorls cut into its scarred, polished surface; a heavy iron mace, with cruel bronze studs set into the ball atop the leather-wrapped handle; an elaborate, pointed helmet she had taken from the body of an incautious Northern raider, furred and bearing the dried and waxed wings of a raven on either side of the crest; and lastly, a broad, heavy metal shield bearing upon its whitened surface the symbols of her faith: an adamant raven poised atop an anvil of silver. The sigil of the Allfather.

Hardly noticing the cold night air penetrating her shift or the icy stone beneath her bare feet, she slid her left arm into the shield’s straps and hefted the mace in her right hand. It was as though she had doffed them only yesterday instead of nearly four years ago. These, she mused, these are the true vestments of a servant of the Light: the hauberk my chasuble, the helm my veil, the arming coat my priestly robes, the mace my rod of office...and my shield, she thought, the face of my Master, the Mikkelseggr, All-knowing, Lord of Thunder, and the Scourge of Heaven.

Viloriannis settled her shield more tightly against her left arm, and with her right, swung the mace in a broad, hissing arc. It left a trail of silvery sparks against the darkness of her cell.

For four years I have been the Hand of the Allfather, she thought with chill contentment, but no longer. No longer.

She swung the mace again, and it whined as it cut the cold night air.

No longer. Tonight, I am his Fist.

THE ANARI (I) – BRÆA and TÎAN

The following is the first instalment in the pantheon of Anuru. Be patient and bear with me; if I keep to my plan of presenting two Powers, and their associated Servants and Avatars, per post, then it will take me seven posts to get through this.

Each of the Powers, Servants and Avatars is what I consider a “true deity”; this is to say that they are immortal, and their statistics are so high that it is virtually inconceivable that any mortal could amass enough sheer might to challenge, let alone defeat or slay, one of them. Each is also an appropriate focus for followers and is capable of granting spells to divine spell-casters; although not all of them actually have large churches in the sense of “organized religion”.

Bræa is a case in point; while there is technically no “Church of Bræa” in Anuru, all of the hierarchies of the Anari pay homage to her, to one extent or another, as the head of the pantheon. Also, given that the Servants and Avatars remain free to travel the River of Stars (of which more later) in order to be physically present on Anuru, direct inspiration of worship is also not uncommon. So while there is no “Church of Bræa” per se, there are, for example, more than a few Paladins of Bræa, divine warriors who are inspired by her example, and who receive their divine powers directly from her.

One other caveat for would-be divine spell-casters. As I noted in a previous post, granted spells are limited according to the Order of one’s deity. To repeat the relevant part of the table:

1) only a Power may grant epic-level spells, and only a Power can raise or resurrect the dead;

2) a Greater Servant may grant up to 9th level spells, and may appeal, on behalf of a petitioner, directly to his or her Power for epic-level spells or revivification magic;

3) a Lesser Servant may grant up to 7th level spells, and may appeal, on behalf of a petitioner, directly to his or her Power for 8th, 9th and epic-level spells, or for revivification magic; and

4) an Avatar may grant up to 5th level spells, and may appeal, on behalf of a petitioner, directly to his or her Power for more potent magicks.

As noted in that previous post, it is also possible to select, as one’s divine inspiration, a Greater Minion or Lesser Minion; but these can only grant, respectively, 3rd and 1st level spells. Demogorgon may indeed be found somewhere on one of the Lower Planes; but he doesn’t have a cult, shamans, or clerics. He’s just a local big-shot.

With these caveats in mind, and without further ado, I bring you the two senior members of the Anari – Bræa and Tîan.

* * * * *

BRÆA

First among the Anari, called “The Beautiful”, and also “The Vessel of the Light of Anā”. Before that Light was taken from her, she appeared as a wingèd vision of puissance, too potent and brilliant to gaze upon, striding from cloud to cloud, accompanied by the birds of the sky, and by two white tigers, sprung from the Heavens. During the Age of Wisdom, she walked among her Children in the guise of a maiden of the Haradi, still beautiful, white-robed, with flame-red hair; which trait appears not among the pure Houses of Harad, but yet still tells among the Hiarsk alone, and those of the Esudi who count the Hiarsk among their forefathers. Few worship the Mother of the Children in these latter days; yet for those who do, her device is Bræadan, the Lantern that holds her light; and she welcomes the homage of all good creatures. Indeed, it is said that she did not depart Anuru with her power at the falling of the Dome of the Firmament; but that instead she relinquished her might that she might remain within the Dome, and watch over her children.

Alignment: True Good
Sphere(s): The heavens, light, life
Sigil: Golden sun on a blue field
Preferred hues: White
Preferred weapon: Open hand (clerics of Bræa may not harm any of the Kindred)
Worshippers’ alignment: Any Good
Domains: Good, Luck, Protection, Purification, Weather, Sun
Church: None (isolated followers only)

SERVANTS

None

AVATARS

SORYLLEA

Avatar of Winds, also called Queen of Eagles, whose aspect is that of a maiden of the Esudi, tall and strong, with the wings of an eagle. She soars the skies, clad only by the clouds; and her symbol is an eagle silhouetted before the sun.

Alignment: Chaotic Neutral (Good)
Sphere(s): The winds, birds of prey
Sigil: A stooping eagle, silhouetted before the sun
Preferred hues: White and scarlet
Preferred weapon: Talons
Worshippers’ alignment: Chaotic, non-Evil
Domains: Air, Liberation, Pact, Sun
Church: None (isolated followers only)


VORWENNA

Avatar of Protection, who appears as a woman of the Haradi, white-haired, with black eyes, and wielding the twin Rods of Bane and Banishment. She appears always accompanied by cats, who serve as her eyes and ears; and her sigil is a white ankh on a black field.

Alignment: True Good (Neutral)
Sphere(s): Protection from evil, protection of the weak and helpless
Sigil: White ankh on a black field
Preferred hues: White and black
Preferred weapon: Rod (club or light mace)
Worshippers’ alignment: any Good
Domains: Community, Good, Protection, Sun
Church: Minor (Humans, Elves)

* * * * *

TÎAN

Second of the Anari, sister to Bræa, Tîan was betrayed during the War of the Powers by Zaman and Zaman’s Greater Servant, Balcocheth; pinioned for all time to a mountain peak by the unbreakable sword, Vasatri, ; she alone, of all the Anari, remains within Anuru, beneath the Dome of the Firmament. Tîan’s aspect is that of a woman of the Esudi, black-haired and white-skinned, bearing the horns of a bull, and the wings of an great raptor; but she is no longer beautiful, for she was wounded unto death long and long ago, and her agonies have lasted four ages of the world. Tîan is called variously The Just, The Lawgiver, and The Imprisoned One, and her sigil is of a simple sword thrust through a mighty stone. She is the embodiment of law and justice, and the ideal of kings and righteous warriors; and those who revere her carry a great sword.

Alignment: True Lawful
Sphere(s): Justice, Law, Retribution, Punishment, Rulership
Sigil: A sword piercing a stone (see above)
Preferred hues: Silver
Preferred weapon: Longsword
Worshippers’ alignment: Lawful, non-Evil
Domains: Force, Glory, Inquisition, Law, Mind, Purification
Church: None (isolated followers only)


SERVANTS

TIORETH

(Greater Servant)

The first of Tîan’s servants, Tioreth stood at her side during her battle with Balcocheth and Zaman, and after the betrayal, struggled to free his mistress from the embrace of the stone, and wept when he could not. He it was who first spat upon Zaman’s disfigured visage, and swore eternal vengeance upon her; and since that time, he has wandered Anuru, seeking out and destroying the creatures of the Dark. Tioreth, nearly alone among all the Powers, took up arms in defence of the Haradi at the Gloaming of the Wyrms, before the falling of the Dome, and he lay waste whole legions of the hordes of darkness. And it was Tioreth who, centuries after the death of Mordakris at the hands of Chuadwaith, gave fair answer to the prayers of the wolves, and accepted their overlordship in Mordakris’ stead; since which time, he has been known as Lupuspater in the Elven Tongue, and in the Travelling Tongue, Father of Wolves.

Alignment: Neutral Good
Sphere(s): Loyalty, Faithfulness, Wolves
Sigil: A silver wolf on a blue field (see above)
Preferred hues: Silver and Blue
Preferred weapon: Club or rod
Worshippers’ alignment: any Good
Domains: Animal, Celerity, Pact, Summoner, Travel
Church: None (isolated followers only)


CHAMDRAN
(Lesser Servant)

After the falling of the Dome, Tîan remained within Anuru; but she was imprisoned, and unable to travel hither and about, to answer the call of petitioners, and learn where her powers might best be applied. Tioreth was a mighty adjunct to her powers; but he was fey and wilful, too caught up in the fates of mortals, and to merciful to act as judge. And so Tîan called two mortals of Esud to be her Lesser Servants, and serve as the eyes and ears of justice throughout Anuru. The first to be called was Chamdran, a warrior-woman of Esud; a mighty fighter, but one who prized prowess in war, excellence in battle, and truth in all things above even her own life. Chamdran appears fully armoured, sword in hand, with a forbidding visage, black eyes, and golden hair in a warrior’s coif. Chamdran has served Tîan since the Eon of Darkness, for more than three millennia, as the patron of generals, judges, and those who battle the forces of undeath.

Alignment: Lawful Good
Sphere(s): Female Paladins, Command, Truth, Destruction of Undead
Sigil: A longsword superimposed on a smiling sun (see above)
Preferred hues: Silver and Gold
Preferred weapon: Longsword
Worshippers’ alignment: Lawful Good
Domains: Domination, Inquisition, Law, War
Church: None (isolated followers only)


IARWAIN
(Lesser Servant)

Iarwain followed close on the heels of Chamdran, both because Tîan needed more than a single advocate of law, and because Chamdran had little interest in serving as the patron of men. Iarwain had been a Paladin of Tîan in life, who had died in a nameless field, protecting a farming family from ravaging bandits. Like Iarwain, he appears armed and armoured, with golden hair; but Iarwain bears a noble visage and an indulgent smile. He excuses the foibles of mankind, and asks only that they stand for what is right.

Alignment: Lawful Good
Sphere(s): Male Paladins, Law, Justice, Protecting the Weak
Sigil: A black gauntlet on a silver and white field (see above)
Preferred hues: Silver and Black
Preferred weapon: Longsword
Worshippers’ alignment: any Good
Domains: Force, Glory, Law, Protection
Church: None (isolated followers only)


AVATARS

None



* * * * *



That's all for tonight, folks. Hopefully I'll get a few more of these "pantheon updates" up this week.

The Ordering of the Universe

I’ve been throwing the names of various deities about for the past several posts, and it occurs to me that it’s probably long past time to provide you, gentle reader, with an accounting of them. Accordingly, I’ll be giving you an overview of the Powers under two separate headings: the Powers of Light, otherwise known as the Anari; and the Powers of Dark, commonly called the Uruqua.

The origins of the Powers was covered in one of my earlier posts concerning the ancient history of Anuru, the World of Light and Darkness. The following material is intended to provide a little more detail, especially for those who might consider playing a divine spellcaster linked to one or another of these individuals.

As a precursor to that, though I need to provide a little clarification in the area of terminology, if for no other reason than to avoid letting things become horribly confused.

* * * * *

The Ordering of the Universe

All that is, or ever was, once was unified; but when the Forces came into being at the dawn of time, this Unity split into two disunities: the Universe, which contained the Forces; and the Void, which contained nothing, and was an infinitude of emptiness.

All beings in the Universe fall into one of seven Orders. The Orders, from most to least powerful, are as follows:

The Forces. There are only two forces in the Universe: The Light (called Anā), and the Dark, called Ūru. All beings in the Universe flow from one or the other, or from the union of the two.

The Powers. The Powers are the undiluted, unmingled offspring of the Forces. The Children of Anā are called the Anari, or the Lightbringers; they are Bræa, Tîan, Vara, Hara, Esu, Nosa and Lagu. The Children of Ūru are called the Uruqua, the Keepers of the Dark, and they are Bardan, Zaman, Tvalt, Kaer, Morga, Ekhalra and Daesuglu.

The Servants. During the War of the Powers, the Anari and the Uruqua alike sought to bolster their numbers and their strength, and so they created many more beings, like unto themselves but of lesser power. These were called the Minions of Light and Dark. Each of the Powers took a number of the mightiest of their minions and raised them to the statue of Servants; and these answered directly to the Power to which each owed allegiance and obedience. Bræa and Bardan originally agreed to eschew Servants, for each was mighty; but Bardan betrayed this bargain, and took seven Servants, more than any of his siblings. The remainder of the Anari and the Uruqua took each of them three Servants.

The Avatars. In time, the Anari and the Uruqua raised up others of their minions, to hold sway over lesser forces or realms that fell outside of the domains of their Servants, and that yet required supervision. The Avatars thus stood second to the Servants, yet still far mightier than the remainder of the minions.

The Minions. These beings formed the armies of Light and Darkness during the War of the Powers. Like the Powers themselves, and like the Servants and Avatars drawn from among their numbers, the Minions were formed of pure Force, either Light or Dark. The Minions count among their numbers all of the myriad Celestials, Fiends, Elementals and Outsiders that populate the Universe.

The Speaking Peoples. In the Age of Making, Bræa created her Children, giving them three gifts: freedom of will, immortality of spirit, and speech. It was the latter gift that distinguished them within Anuru, and enabled them, in later years, to build mighty kingdoms and empires. Because of these gifts, the Children of Bræa were not constrained by the Forces, or even by the Universe itself, and thus they posed a danger to its very foundations; for in time, they could learn to overcome the laws circumscribing the divisions between the Universe and the Void, and overturn time and being. For this reason, Anā forbade the creation of any more beings of free will, immortal spirit, and speech. Bardan strove against the Ban of Anā for eons; but while he succeeded in acquiring the secrets of speech, he could not overturn the Ban; and thus he was ever unable to create beings of immortal spirit, nor – because he did not himself understand freedom – could he ever discover the secret of creating beings of free will.

Thus the first Speaking Peoples were the Children of Bræa; and after the Light that was in Bræa left her, and was formed into Bræadan, the Lantern of Bræa, her children were sundered, and taken for instruction by her younger brothers, and became known as the Haradi, the Esudi, the Nosadi and the Lagudi. And in latter years these selfsame peoples were called, in the corrupted Travelling Tongue, Elves, Men, Holbytlan and Dwarves.

Before they earned these new names, however, Bardan, acting in treachery and under cover of dark, kidnapped many of these Children of Bræa, and spirited them away; and he tortured and warped them, creating new, fell beings to serve him. And because they came from the Children, these new creatures had speech, though it was foul; and they were of immortal spirit, though that spirit shrieked and wailed within each at the horrors visited upon it; and they had free will, though that will was ever bent to the wishes of Bardan. From Elves, Bardan created the Orcs; from Men, the Ogres; from Halflings, the Gnomes; and from Dwarves, the Goblins. And these new creatures Bardan were called the Dark Children; and Bardan mingled their blood with the blood of his fell beasts and minions, and thereby created innumerable monstrosities and horrors to plague Anuru.

Alone of these fell creatures the Gnomes refused to serve the Darkness, and turned back to the light; and for this reason, the Elves, Men, Holbytlan, Dwarves and Gnomes are together called the Kindred. For though the Gnomes are not Children of Bræa, because they turned to the Light, the Children count the Gnomes as brothers.

The Beasts. Last of all come the creatures of Anuru that do not share the gifts bestowed upon her Children by Bræa, or wrested from them through foul craft by Bardan. Numbered among these are all of the animals of the fields, the birds of the skies, the fish that swim, and the dark things that dwell far underground.

* * * * *

(More on cosmogony and the characteristics of the Powers, the Servants and the Avatars in forthcoming posts)

Orkarel Hax

While I tend to keep details about recurring NPCs secret, if for no other reason than to keep the PCs guessing, every now and then I intend to post certain details about some of the characters the Party meets. I think it adds spice to the proceedings. I don't, of course, have the same qualms about posting stats on NPCs who end up dead or otherwise out of the story; or on specialized, home-made monsters that the players run into and defeat.

(Note that, as always, any images posted are without prejudice to the rights of the authors or artists that produced them, and are used here without any intention of claiming ownership or authorship, or of generating profit. The origin of images will be identified wherever possible.)

Anyway, with that caveat stated up front, here is the first outline of many, concerning one of the NPCs mentioned below: the High Elven warrior/mage, Orkarel Hax.

Orkarel Hax
(High Elven Female, Fighter 4/Sorceress 4)



Stats: 5’5”, 115 lbs, 275 yrs old
Hit Dice: 4d10+4 / 4d4+4 (43 HP)
Initiative: +9 (+5 Dex, +4 Imp Init)
Speed: 30’ (light)
Armor Class: 21 (+5 Dex/+4 Chain/+2 bracers)
Attacks: MW Greatsword +11/+6 Melee [2d6+6]; MCLB(+3) +15/+10 ranged [1d8+3]; thrown MW dagger, +14/+9 ranged [1d4+3]
Face/Reach: 5’x5’/5’
Spec. Attacks: Spells
Saves: Ref+6, Fort+7, Will+6
Abilities: Str 16, Dex 20, Con 12, Int 15, Wis 12, Cha 17
Skills: Climb+7, Concentrate+3, Handle Animal+7, Jump+7, Knowledge (Arcana)+5, Ride+7, Spellcraft+8
Feats: Combat Casting, Dodge, Improved Initiative, Power Attack, Wpn Focus(Greatsword), Wpn Specialization(Greatsword)
Languages: Common, Elven, Orc, Goblin
Alignment: Neutral Good
Treasure: Boots of Elvenkind, Bracers of Armour +2, Elven Chainshirt, Ring of Sustenance
Experience: 29,440

Equipment: MW Greatsword, Mighty Composite Longbow +3, MW Dagger (x2), Light Warhorse, Saddle, tack, saddlebags, 1 x waterskin, 1 x blanket, 2 days hard rations, 1 x oil flasks, whetstone, tinderbox, three steel needles, vial of indigo tattooing ink (1 ounce, v. 250 gp)

SPELLS [(0):6/(1):7/(2):4] (0): Detect Magic, Detect Poison, Disrupt Undead, Light, Open/Close, Read Magic / (1): Feather Fall, Hold Portal, Mage Armour / (2): Invisibility

Elven: Immune to magic sleep, +2 on saves vs. enchantment, Low-Light Vision, sword and bow proficiencies, +2 Search, +2 Spot, +2 Listen, 5’ Autosearch for Secret Doors

Personality: Orkarel is a loner, interested only in perfecting her fighting and magic skills through challenge and combat, and is concerned with proving herself a superior combatant to anyone she meets. As such, she doesn’t mind giving or getting a thrashing. Something of a thrill-seeker, she disdains monetary treasure for anything that improves her combat or casting abilities. Unusually for someone of High Elven birth, she is polite and respectful to humans, and has an unusually deep-seated fondness for half-elves.

Appearance: Hax is physically very attractive, but as she is more concerned about combat and being “wired tight”, her beauty tends not to show. She has dark eyes and hair, which is usually worn loose, and prefers dark colours for concealment; her chainmail and sword are blued to this end. Her only vanity is a series of crescent moon tattoos, done in very expensive indigo ink, one commemorating each "great battle" she has fought. She has more than fifty pairs of such tattoos, but the only (normally) visible ones are the four around her left eye (two above and two below). After the fight at the abandoned farm, she added one more pair on her left thigh, circling the scar left by Gwen's arrow.

* * * * *

Synopsis II - Night-time in Bornhavn

Earlier on, I related what our intrepid adventurers saw when they crested the rise in the Great Road and first laid eyes on the town of Bornhavn. You, gentle reader, now of course know a heck of a lot more than they did when they first rode into the place.

Upon their arrival, the High Elven warior/mage Orkarel Hax took her leave of the party, advising them that she intended to spend the night at Bellik’s Rest, and continue northwards in the morning. The PCs watched her depart with a certain wistfulness (especially Breygon), but were swiftly summoned back to business when they espied a crowd of farmers gathered in one of the sheep-fields. The crowd was glumly examining the remains of a dead sheep. Ever curious, the Party stopped to find out what was going on, and Breygon took a moment to examine the animal. He was forcibly reminded of the dead messenger they had encountered on the road; the sheep had had its throat torn out and its viscera partially consumed. What was worse, however, was the fact that maggots were proliferating in its shredded flesh, an unusual development given that the animal had been alive the preceding evening.

Unable to determine the cause of the attack, the Party continued on into town. A brief dispute erupted when Alric wanted to stop at the blacksmith’s shop to sort out his kit, while Breygon insisted that they make some headway on their assigned duties. Gwen and Qaramyn were dispatched to secure lodgings at the Rest, while Joraz and the two warriors carried on with the wagon, first to deliver Howell to Captain Allen aboard Swiftkeel (and good riddance to the sot), then to discharge their cargo of ammunition at the tower. They met Captain Fellikartus, and managed not to form much in the way of a positive opinion of him or his troops; then returned to Bellik's Rest (see above), where the wizard and the rogue had secured the bunkroom at the eastern end of the building as their lodgings for the night.

The following synopsis should give you a sense of what the PCs were thinking at the end of their journey.

* * * * *

Despite the aches and pains of combat and the exhaustion imposed by a long and active journey, none of the members of Breygon’s band found it easy to get to sleep on their first night in Bornhavn. Even the heavy meal, heady cider, and comfortable straw ticks furnished by innkeeper Halgor Bellik failed to do the trick, and the party lay wide awake – all save Gambrik, who was sprawled like a corpse across one of the further bunks. A twitching, snoring corpse that had, from the smell, attempted to drown itself in a barrel of cider.

Gwendilyn had difficulty even closing her eyes, and Gambrik's snoring wasn’t helping. She had gotten over her embarrassment at having put an arrow into the mysterious Elven warrior that had joined their fight against the ghouls, and although the woman had been gracious enough (“Think nothing of it,” she had growled in response to Gwendilyn’s stammered apology – all the more alarming, as elves rarely growl), the knowledge that the warrior/mage was spending the night somewhere in the same inn did nothing for the Halfling’s peace of mind.

Her principal problem, however, was the knowledge that right next door to Bellik’s Rest lay the enormous mansion they had descried on their entry into town, with its pillared walkways and tall, square tower. Even in a backwater like Bornhavn, such a house fairly screamed “money!”, and Gwendilyn found her fingers itching. Eventually her nature got the better of her, and she crawled out from under her rough woolen blanket (fully clothed, her normal precaution when sleeping in strange places) and shrugged into her cloak. She was halfway to the door, sword-belt in one hand and a coil of rope in the other, when a dancing spray of sparks erupted in front of her eyes, and she jumped in alarm. She shot an accusing glance at Qaramyn's bunk. The wizard, watching her from the shadows, merely raised an eyebrow, and whispered, “Midnight stroll?”

Joraz noted the interplay between his team-mates, but ignored it. Deep in the contemplative trance that he found more restful than actual sleep, the night sounds outside the open window and even the grunts and snorts of his colleagues washed over him meaninglessly. He replayed the battle with the denizens of clay in his mind, recalling each blow and imagining how it might have been better lplaced. He recalled the momentary flash of fear that had gone through him when the chilling power of the creatures’ grasp had clutched at his heart; it was one thing to fight another man (or indeed, giant wolf) fist to fist, but to go barehanded against monsters from beyond the grave was an unwelcome novelty. While he had no desire to learn any new skills beyond those demanded by his art, the pale, stinking monsters they had encountered at the abandoned farm had definitely given him a new respect for archers. He found himself wondering whether it might not be prudent to invest in some means of keeping similar opponents at something more than arm’s length in the future.

Qaramyn smiled to himself as Gwen climbed sullenly back into her bunk. Not that he had any moral qualms about her larcenous tendencies (so long as she kept her fingers off his spell components); indeed, he himself had noticed a high window in the neighbouring tower with a light burning brightly, and had caught the characteristic loom and shadow of his favourite type of furniture: bookshelves. He wouldn’t mind paying a visit to the mansion, if circumstances offered an opportunity, but he was fairly certain that burglary was not the best means of gaining access to the proprietor’s library.

To distract himself from fruitless speculation, he lay back and tried to sort through his initial impressions of the town. The place seemed to to him to lie under a pall of fear. There should have been more activity in the market square; more farmers in the fields (harvest time was nearly come, after all), more wagons and horsemen on the road, more children driving the sheep and cattle. Indeed, there should have been more faces at the bar; if nothing else, the presence in town of a patrol of the Watch would normally have been expected to bring out half the townsfolk out in hopes of hearing a good tale or two. Instead, there had been fewer than half a dozen souls at Bellik’s table, grimly pounding back their host’s cider, and eating in silence. Not a normal night for the inn, Qaramyn thought, nor even a slow night.

A dead night, perhaps, he thought with a grim smile.

Most telling, however, was the fact that Captain Allen of the Swiftkeel had kept his men at their stations for nearly two weeks now, ever since the pilot Olem had disappeared. Threescore thirsty sailors with full pockets confined aboard; that must have been a sore blow to Bellik. Of course, now that Howall was safely aboard, the ship was free to leave, and therefore so too were Qaramyn and his companions. Indeed, the wizard had already overheard their half-elven leader instructing Gambrik to return with the empty stores wagon to Fort Ryker, and Qaramyn knew that Breygon was wrestling with his worries over whether to split his party and assign the lone soldier a co-driver and protector. Even Qaramyn was uncertain whether Breygon would decide to return to the Fort, or remain and, as Castellan Lalagor had ordered, attempt to ascertain what had happened to missing pilot. And for that matter, would Breygon want to seek out Telvor?

Despite having known his half-elven colleague for hardly a fortnight, Qaramyn suspected that he understood the man well enough to guess what his decision would be. So be it. With a grimmer smile, he conjured a small ball of flame and set it to burn by his right ear, then pulled out his spellbook, flipped to a page that he had only recently come to understand – one illustrated with a shrieking figure writhing in tongues of flame – and began to mutter the arcane words of magic over and over to himself. [Note the wizard is memorizing his spells. I hadn't yet brought the new rules for spellcasters into effect at this point.]

Alric saw the tiny, floating fireball appear, and rolled over to face the wall. He was a man with a problem. The previous night’s battle had not gone at all well for him; after landing a few telling blows against the terrifying, putrid grave-monsters, one of them had slashed at him with its jagged claws, and he had fallen, cold and numb, to the ground - still aware of the ongoing fight, but unable to twitch so much as a finger. As his lungs laboured for air, the fight continued to rage around him, and he recalled his terror as one of the beasts had stood over him and paused, slavering and drooling its foul and festering spittle onto his face, as if considering whether to dine on him, until a well-placed kick from Joraz had sent it back to the abyss that spawned it. It was not a happy memory for Alric.

Nor was Breygon’s cavalier treatment of his desire to halt at the smithy on the way into town; that, too continued to rankle. What was wrong with a quick stop? Surely that blasted greatsword they had dragged out of the mound of the statues was worth a little tender treatment if it improved Alric’s ability to hand out lacerations. But no-o-o-o-o! They had to deliver the pilot and the cargo RIGHT NOW! Alric had had a good idea of discipline beaten into him by his father, but while he understood the need for obedience, he had never come to like it much. That point had been driven home earlier in the afternoon when the group had met Captain Fellikartus at the Bornhavn Watchtower. Now, that was the life for Alric – command and responsibility shared in equal measure with comfort and the respect of one’s compatriots. If you had to be in any army at all, the Bornhavn Militia certainly had a better row to hoe than the bloody Men of the Watch, chasing hither and thither, getting bitten by wolves, chased by brigands, mauled by walking statues and snacked on by undead nightmares from the grave.

Alric sighed, and thought to himself, At least Grant wasn’t kidding when he told us there’d be ‘No life like it’. He found himself wondering, How do I get out of this chicken-dung outfit? Not for the last time.

Breygon heard Alric’s sigh and ground his teeth in frustration. Morale in his little group had bounced back somewhat after the battle at the farm (as it always does after a successful engagement), and yet his troops still seemed restive and half-mutinous. Keeping Gwendilyn away from other people’s valuables (to say nothing of keeping her from shooting unexpected allies) was a full-time job in itself, but Breygon had the others to worry about as well. Qaramyn, although useful in a fight (and handy at cremating corpses after the fact), seemed bemused by the half-elf’s leadership, and affected a cynical and disinterested demeanour, as though obedience to orders were a favour he accorded, rather than an obligation. Alric had become sullen, and although Breygon regretted his abrupt treatment of the man earlier that day, he suspected that the fighter was taking the fact that he had succumbed to the ghouls’ deadly touch a little harder than necessary. Not everybody had elven blood, after all.

Joraz, not surprisingly, had proven to be a reliable and trustworthy companion in battle – but he was the only one of their party who was not officially one of Breygon’s warriors, having declined to enlist in the Watch. Gambrik was hardly worth mentioning as a fighter, although Howall, while old and a sot, had proven remarkably tenacious and agile in a fight. Of course, he was gone now. Furthermore, Breygon was still no closer to figuring out what had happened to Telvor. And now he had to decide whether to remain a day or two to try and figure out what had happened to Olem. It would certainly be nice to report back to Fort Ryker with the answer to THAT question, especially after all that had gone on.

This chain of thought brought Breygon back to the battle at the abandoned farmhouse, and to the sudden appearance of the warrior calling herself Orkarel Hax. Although his upbringing had deprived him of many of the benefits of Elven culture, Breygon was familiar enough with the customs and lore of his mother’s people to recognize both names. “Orkarel”, he remembered from childhood tales, was the surname of Elder Fineleor Orkarel, the great elven warrior that had led an ancient army to death and glory against the demonic hordes of the Balor, Gryshgranax. “Hax”, on the other hand, was not so much a name as a suffix meaning “noble blood” (it would be the equivalent, he mused, of a human named “miller”, “tanner” or “tinker” going by the surname “Er”). It was simply never used alone, which made Breygon wonder whether the dark and mysterious maiden was travelling under a deliberately obvious pseudonym – and why she would choose to do so. Yet if she was indeed a scion of one of the noble High Elven families, she would hardly be caught dead alone and without attendants, garbed so drearily, and acting like a common human mercenary. The half-elf smiled to himself. Hax was a mystery, wrapped in an enigma, wrapped in a delightfully snug elven habergeon...

...his ears pricked up at the sound of stealthy movement outside the bunkroom door. Breygon glanced around, shaking his head to clear it of visions of their rescuer, noticing that while Alric seemed to be dozing and Qaramyn remained immersed in his spellbook, Gwendilyn’s and Joraz’ heads had come up, too. Breygon was gratified to note that the halfling and the monk both glanced his way, as if for direction. In response to the question in their glances, he shook his head and put a finger to his lips for silence.

There was a brief scraping noise as something was slid under the door, and then the sound of booted feet moving away, accompanied by a brief tinkle of metal armour. Breygon caught Gwendilyn’s eye and nodded toward the door. The halfling padded noiselessly over, listened briefly at the wood, and returned with a folded bit of parchment. Breygon swung his legs out of bed, took the paper from the rogue, and walked over to where Qaramyn squatted crosslegged on a bottom bunk, book in hand. In the flickering light of the wizard's fireball, Breygon saw a heavy red wax seal marked with an impression that seemed to be formed of two faces – a gleeful, smiling face superimposed upon a glowering, frowning one. He glanced at the wizard. “Any thoughts?” he whispered.

Qaramyn took the letter in his hand. “Good parchment,” he muttered. “Very nice. Expensive.”

Breygon saw Gwendilyn’s lip twitch and eyebrows go up, and rolled his eyes. “And the seal?”

“I’m getting to that,” Qaramyn whispered back. “Impavidus in consectatio fructum. Elvish for ‘Fearless in the pursuit of profit.’ A merchant. Or a thief, if there’s a difference. And the device...two faces, a smiling face hiding a frowning face...” Qaramyn stopped, tapping his lip with a finger.

“What is it?” Breygon asked after a moment.

“The smiling face hides the frowning face,” muttered Qaramyn. “The velvet glove conceals the iron fist. A monster behind a mask.” The wizard glanced up. “Whoever owns this seal is both a brutal enemy and a treacherous friend, and doesn’t care who knows it.”

“Who do you suppose sent it?”

Qaramyn shrugged. “Break the seal and find out.”

Breygon did so, unfolding the rich, creamy parchment and holding it up to the light. “More Elvish,” he muttered. “Ab Breygon, centurio Advigilum regalis... ‘To Breygon, captain of the royal watch...humble and...’ what’s this word? Fraternus?”

“‘Brotherly’,” Qaramyn translated.

“Shouldn’t that be 'consanguineus'?” Breygon asked.

“Only if you and the author had the same parents, which doesn’t seem likely,” Qaramyn replied with a smirk. “You’ve been living among the round-ears too long, my dear sergeant.”

“No argument there,” said Breygon. “All right, ‘Brotherly greetings’ it is. ‘It is my honour’,” he continued, “‘and pleasure to invite you and your...turma...'squad', I think...to dine at my humble home as soon as it is convenient to you. In addition to fine food and drink, I can...promise you other things for which you doubtless hunger and thirst. I look forward to...” He looked up again. “Novitas cognitio?”

“‘New acquaintance’,” said Qaramyn. “He looks forward to making new acquaintances. It’s a standard formulation.”

“After the past few days, I’m not sure I need any new acquaintances,” Breygon muttered. “It’s signed ‘Clammet File, Trader and Mercantilist’.” He paused. “So, what do we do?”

Qaramyn stared levelly at him. “That, my dear sergeant, is up to you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Breygon asked testily.

“Nothing more than what I’ve said,” the wizard replied. “The decision is yours. I’m sure you’d like to get back to the fort as soon as possible. I’m sure you’d like to look for poor Telvor along the way. And I’m sure you’d rather go to a dwarven well-digger to fix a toothache than to allow darling Gwendilyn into some rich man’s mansion. But unless you feel like spending the next few nights knocking on doors or hanging around the bar asking inane questions and swilling Bellik’s apple-flavoured horse urine, then dinner at the House of File is probably the fastest way to find out what’s going on in this town.”

Breygon smiled. “I think that’s the longest speech I’ve ever heard you make, wizard.”

“Then be glad you missed my oral dissertation in ‘science of rhetoric’.”

“Trust me, I’m glad. Very well, then,” Breygon continued, “dinner it is, at Master File’s residence, tomorrow night. I’ll have Bellik send word that we accept, with much pleasure. That will give us a day in town to get ourselves squared away, ask around, and find out anything we can about what’s going on in this one-horse dungheap.” He glanced around at his squad mates. “There’s plenty to do, and we’ll probably want to visit as many of the local notables as are prepared to talk to us.” He paused for a moment, then noticing that the fighter was stirring, added, “At the very least, Alric will probably have to go visit the smith.”

Alric, awake now, gazed steadily at Breygon, then smiled. “Good thing, too. I’ve been itching to get my sword polished ever since we got here.”

“That’s all good,” Breygon replied, “but that’s not why you’re going.”

Alric raised one eyebrow, and even Qaramyn looked curious.

Breygon smiled. “If I have to take Qwen to a dinner party at some rich trader’s mansion, we’re going to need a stout pair of manacles and no more than ten feet of very strong chain.”

*****

Bornhavn

Well, welcome to Bornhavn! A nice little town on the Stjerneflade...except for all of the skeletons, zombies, ghouls, ghasts, angry mercenaries, overbearing half-orc bodyguards, cowardly guardsmen, plotting merchants, crazed beast-hunters and - of course - vampire spawn hanging around to make the PCs' lives difficult.

And did I mention the chestnuts?

* * * * *

GENERAL

Bornhavn is a quiet town; indeed, for a place that is supposedly a major route-stop and a growing trading town, things are too quiet.

The Nordvej runs cobbled through the place from south to north, broadening to a village common near the well in the center of town. The high road follows a long ridge that parallels the river. As you look northwards, you see many humble buildings, and even a few that border on the magnificent.

To the left – the West – the ground slopes gently down through bright fields of wheat and rye, towards a great wood of enormous chestnut trees. To the right, the ground slopes downwards more precipitously, through trees and fields, towards the valley of the Stjerneflode.

Even from the road, you can see that the chestnuts are heavy with spiky, unripe fruit, and the apple trees, equally healthy, are too numerous to be counted. Hundreds of sheep dot the fields between the trees, or stand placidly behind fences of wicker and timber. But few of the townsfolk are to be seen; in fact, the only visible human being is a peasant, far off in one of the fields, guiding two oxen pulling a long, low plow. He seems to keep looking back over his shoulder a lot.

As you ride closer to the town, you note that the poorer outlying hovels are of wattle and daub with smoke-holes, while most of the buildings nearer the centre of town are of half-timbered construction, with thatched roofs, and proper chimneys. A few structures stand out. Close by where the road enters the town proper, a small stone building boasting a heavy chimney that belches black smoke to the ringing of metal on metal, likely marking a smithy. A little further north, an ornate shrine of white stone with a domed roof can be seen on the west side of the road; opposite it is an impressive two-storied manor house of an unfamiliar design (featuring a tall, square tower and even a slate roof!). Just before this manor house, a cross-street runs down the hill to a long stone pier, where a number of small fishing boats are tied up, and a large three-masted barque can be seen, standing moored and silent. Beside the pier stands a tall, round stone tower, roofed and machiolocated, with a fire burning at the waterside near its base. Along the river, upstream of the pier, a few women can be seen washing clothes.

North of the manor house, opposite the town’s well (where a vendor is doing absolutely no business at all hawking freshly roasted chestnuts) is a long, broad one-story stone building featuring an especially high, peaked thatched roof, with a covered stable out back. A sign depending from the front of the building features an engraved apple, a stylized smiling face, and a bedroll – which, taken altogether in the vernacular of the road, mean “Food, Drink and Bed”, marking this building as an inn, and one of the more traditional variety rarely seen these days.
Beyond the inn are a few more large buildings, many more farmhouses, and several dozen of the wattle-and-daub hovels. Beyond them, there is nothing but the great road, running northwards out of town.

KEY

1. Farmhouse. Farming family (man, woman, 1d4 children), vegetable garden, grain or rye, apples, possibly sheep (60%), possibly pigs (10%), possibly cow (5%), possibly oxen (2%).

2. Blacksmith’s house and shop. Turgo Blain specializes in farm implements, but studied with the dwarves in his youth. He is a Weaponsmith 6 (+4 on Craft check when making axes of dwarven design), Armourer 6. He charges top dollar but does fair work. He does not normally make metal armour, but is capable of repairing it. If met at his shop, he will be turning a pair of mail shirts [for Captain Fellikartus] in a sanding barrel.

3. Brewer’s house and shop. Galdron of Bitterberg is a jovial chap who studied for the priesthood but failed miserably. He remembers his novitiate, though, and turns out excellent cider by the barrel (he charges 40 gp per 55 gallon wooden barrel, each weighing 400 lbs).

4. Trader’s mansion. Clammet File is the wealthiest trader in town. His house is fully timbered, two stories, 12 rooms with a three-story stone tower. It is a square Venetian style with a curtained outer wall, and an inner courtyard and gardens.

File has two daughters, the younger (Mellian) beautiful, the elder (Mergot) hideous. He has 1 poet, 2 musicians, 3 painters and 12 servants headed by a butler on staff, and owns three large ships, including Swiftkeel, and 20 barges. He is worth close to a half-million in gold, but only keeps about 10,000 gp in the house. His bodyguard, Gurm, is a ¼ Ogre Barbarian 7. File is the fellow who is refusing to let Swiftkeel sail without a qualified river pilot.
File's daughter Mergot is engaged to Balagor, a spendthrift minor nobleman of Bitterberg. Balagor disappeared last month, and no one knows where he has gone. Mergot is heartbroken and vengeful, and File is furious, because Balagor made off with a significant part of Mergot’s dowry, a gold and pearl necklace worth a staggering 5,000 gp. File has offered a 500 gp reward for Balagor’s “safe return”; but he’ll be happy with only getting the head back, so long as the necklace is still attached to it.

5. Shrine and manse. Ullet Whitefist is a Lawful Good Cleric 12 of Esu, and is the Fist of the Allfather in Bornhavn (human, 61 years old). Once a valiant warrior of the white, he was badly injured in battle years ago and has never recovered his health or strength (Str 5, Dex 11, Con 2, Int 13, Wis 19, Ch 15, HP 12). His possessions include his +2 chainmail and “Foecrusher”, a silvered MW Heavy Mace.
Whitefist spends his days in prayer, ministering to parishoners, every now and then crafting “Blessing Beads”. These are 10 gp pearls which, if crushed and sprinkled over one's-self, have the effect of “blessing” the recipient for the following hour.
Whitefist's assistant and deacon is Viloriannis, a 4th level female human Chaotic Good cleric, of Esu, 27 years old, 5’8”, 145 lbs. She is a true warrior of the white (S 15, D 12, C 16, I 10, W 16, Ch 15, HD 4d8+12, HP 33), who sees it as a cleric’s duty to give personal battle to evil. She is intolerant of human frailty, and despises cowards. Her possessions include a MW Breastplate, a +1 heavy mace, a MW large steel shield, a Cloak of Resistance +1, and two Potions of Remove Paralysis. If properly approached, Viloriannis may join the party, particularly if a “battle against evil” is in the offing (in case you didn't pick it up from the extent of the detail here, Viloriannis is the second of the major NPCs the Party ran into - after Orkarel Hax).
The Shrine is a large (80’ diameter), circular stone building with a vaulted roof three stories high, supported by internal columns. It is spartan, containing nothing more than decorative hangings and an exquisite marble alter.
The Manse is a large timber and stone building; one wing contains the Rectory (offices, records, vestry and so forth), the other Ullet’s living quarters, a communal kitchen and bathing room, a large communal salon, and bedrooms for four pilgrims. Viloriannis occupies one of these.

6. Reeve’s House. Beal Trite is a retired 7th level CG male human fighter, age 56. Long ago he earned the favour of the Count of Ellohyin, and was given this sinecure when Bornhavn was first established 11 years ago. He loves tales of valour, but has little energy left to deal with mischief. Enjoying his creature comforts, he owes a lot of money to Trader File, and thus will do whatever File tells him – and File has told him to do everything in his power to find Balagor.
Trite does not understand what is happening in his town, and does not know what to do about it. He is afraid, and will welcome any assistance offered him.

7. Guard Tower. Captain Fellikartus, (Human NG Warrior 5) is a brave but unimaginative man. He sees his duty as regulating disorder in the town, not haring off on adventures. He commands a force of 6 archers and 12 footmen, all 1st level warriors. He sees his role as maintaining order, not fighting shadowy monsters; but at the same time, he is jealous of his authority, and won't be too happy if newcomers seem likely to usurp it.

8. “Swiftkeel”. This two-decked, three-masted barque has a crew of 31. Captain Lyrik Allen is staying aboard and, since the disappearance of his pilot, Olem of Barg, has been keeping the crew at action stations. He desperately wants to get underway, but needs a pilot, and desperately needs to keep his job. The crew wears no armour and is armed with a selection of light crossbows, cutlasses, half-pikes, and belaying pins.

9. Bellik’s Rest. Halgor Bellik is the true diplomat of Bornhavn. Once the owner of a fine inn just outside the palace in Aeryn, he moved north a decade ago to make his fortune in the newly-established town. Bellik’s Rest is known up and down the river as providing good food and a clean bed for a fair price.
Bellik welcomes all comers and is congenial, but right now he is worried; traffic on the road is dropping off, and the crew of the Swiftkeel, who normally would be drinking his cider, are standing watch-and-watch. He likes talking and is inclined to do so if approached in a friendly manner.
He has heard tales of disappearances from caravans on the road, and thinks that there is more to the nobleman Balagor’s disappearance than meets the eye. He is still doing well and providing for his family (who live on a small sheep farm just north of the Rest), but he is starting to wonder whether Bornhavn isn’t turning sour on him.
On any given night, there is a 50% chance that Seel Trask is in the bar. The chance for File is 40%; for Captain Fellikartus 30%; for Reeve Trite 20%; for Priest Ullet 15%; for Sharoom Pardo 10%; for Viloriannis 5%. There are no horses in the stables.

Price Schedule for Bellik’s Rest :
Piggin of cider: 5 cp
Tenpenny Ordinary (full meal)*: 1 sp
Mug of Apple Brandy: 2 sp
Stabling for one night (per horse): 2 cp
Single room w/board: 2 gp
Double room w/board: 1 gp
Bunkroom w/board: 5 sp
Head on a board (sleep in attic): 5 cp

*The Tenpenny Ordinary consists of Rye bread, mutton, gravy, root vegetables, apple dessert, and a piggin of cider. Breakfast is white bread, wheat porridge, aeblegrod (stewed apples) and mug of cider.

10. Haberdashery. Sharoom Pardo is an elderly expert Half-Elven tanner and leather-worker. He is unmarried and taciturn, but willing to sell his wares to polite visitors. He turns out excellent quality Padded (7 gp), Leather (15 gp) and Studded Leather (35 gp) armour at slightly above normal price, but guarantees his work, and will repair it free of charge. He has a medium-sized suit of MW Studded Leather available, and will part with it for the price of 325 gp. More than 60 years ago, he had brief but intense relationship with the High Elven warrior/mage Orkarel Hax. She drops in to see him from time to time, but their relationship is now more akin to that between favourite grand-daughter and indulgent grandfather.

11. Trader’s home. Hargon Blast is nowhere near as wealthy as his competitor File, but this is because Blast is honest. He coordinates the chestnut picking and packing, and owns two small, single-masted trading ships that ply the river. He currently sells to File, but is trying to develop separate trading contacts both up and down the river. His wife, Juliana, makes excellent pemmican-like hard rations out of pounded mutton, chestnuts and berries; 7 days’ rations cost 7 gp, and weigh only ½ pound per day.

12. The Bard. Seel Trask lives in a small thatched cottage, nursing a drinking problem and memories of a glorious past. A retired NG male human Bard 8, aged 53, Trask once served as Second Chanter to the Grand Duke in Aeryn (the present Duke’s father). Rumours abound concerning how his dismissal came about, but he was actually fired for becoming too friendly with the Grand Duke’s daughter, sister of the present Duke. The present Duke’s nephew, incidentally, plays a pretty mean lute.
Trask knows everything there is to know about Aeryn’s history, culture, nobility and geography (Knowledge 10 in all areas). More importantly, as a one-time adventurer, he has considerable experience fighting Undead creatures, and suspects that this may be what is afflicting the town. His possessions include +2 leather armour, a +1 rapier, and “Mistweaver”, a Lyre of Fascination (+4 on all Perform and Bardic Music checks.) Trask won’t accompany the party, however; he is packing to leave town.

13. The Stone Cairns. There are more than 40 large stone mounds set in a jumbled, haphazard fashion under the chestnuts against the forest wall; a large marble stone in their midst has been flattened on one side, and has the names of all the passed townsfolk engraved on it. It is a quiet, peaceful place under the eaves of the wood. Except in one place, where one of the cairns appears to have fallen apart.

[SEARCH DC 14: the cairn is empty]
[SPOT DC 16: it is one of the more recent cairns, e.g. built only a few months ago]
[SEARCH DC 20: according to the flat stone, it is the cairn of Lobell Hand, a farmer who died in a fall from an apple tree two months ago.]
[SPOT DC 22: it appears to have been knocked apart from the inside]

14. The Storskov. The Great Forest is made up of 25% chestnut trees, 65% conifers, and 10% apple trees. It is bright, sunny and clean, with little undergrowth, and is inhabited by happy squirrels and singing chipmunks (10% bear in daytime, 10% wolf at night). But if the wind is from the west (20%), anyone coming near the forest can smell a foul odour of decay and rotting vegetation...and something else that smells even worse. The forest runs longer than the town, and is about a mile wide at the town’s center. Beyond the forest the trees thin out and get more stunted for another mile – and then the great swamp begins.

15. The Great Swamp. The swamp behind the forest is barren, with bracken, stunted trees, and standing pools of oily, filthy, sour water. The smell of decay and rot is all-pervasive – not just vegetation but also, it seems, flesh. In daytime it is depressing and gloomy; at night, misty and terrifying. Small copses of brush and juniper dot the landscape. Various tracks can be seen here and there, some of them familiar, some not.

No animals will be encountered here in daytime. At night, roll d20: 1-10 nothing, 11-14 1d6 skeletons, 15-17 1d6 zombies, 18-19 1d4 ghouls, 20 a ghast.

[Search DC 25: one of the copses is perched on what appears to be a small mound with a low cave entrance in the west side]

* * * * *

So much for Bornhavn! Over the coming posts, I'll let you know how the Party fared with its many and varied denizens.

Interlude – the dead messenger

As I suddenly realized below, I had forgotten to include mention of a mildly significant incident on the party’s second day out from Fort Ryker, before they stopped for the night at the Runestone Ring.

Mea maxima culpa; my notes from the early days of the campaign are pretty sparse. Hopefully I won’t leave out little details like this in the future.

* * * * *

The Dead Messenger

Shortly after starting out on the morning of their second day out of Fort Ryker, the party will come across a light riding horse munching grass near a lone body lying face down in the ditch. The body is that of a dead adult human male, equipped with leather armour, a shortsword, dagger, and light lance. The horse is saddled and is carrying saddlebags containing three days’ worth of trail rations, two waterskins, and a sealed message purse.

[SPOT DC 15: the corpse, despite its state, can be seen to be wearing more or less the same rig as the messengers that the Party has seen circulating through Fort Ryker.]

[HEAL DC 12: the man seems to have been killed by clawing and bite attacks.]
[SURVIVAL DC 18: these claw and bite marks are not the work of a natural animal; there is a foul stench of decay about them, beyond that which might normally be expected.]
[SURVIVAL/DUNGEONEERING DC 25: this fellow was killed by a Ghoul or a Ghast.]

The message pouch contains a rolled and sealed scroll addressed to the Commander of Fort Riker.

[SPOT DC 15: The “scroll” does not appear to be made of high-quality parchment. The seal, which is poorly-impressed, appears to consist of a stylized frowning face behind a smiling face.]

The scroll is a “town advertisement poster”, written in the Travelling Tongue, in the vernacular of the Bjerglands (see the graphic, above). The verso of the document contains a message, hastily scrawled in black ink: “Fell deeds er afoot. Send help immediate if thou wouldst uphold our accord.” It is signed merely “F. of Bornhavn.”

* * * * *

Needless to say, the Party recovered the scroll, gave the dead messenger a decent burial, and salvaged his kit and his horse. This is the same horse that Breygon later gave to Orkarel Hax following the fight at the abandoned farm.

Okay, loose end tied up. Anal retentive? Maybe, but I just HATE leaving plot hooks dangling around.

The Healing Hand

The following is the Class Description for a new class, the Priests of the Healing Hand. I should note that while these folks may look extremely powerful, they are poorly adapted to to adventuring, as they are virtually incapable of causing damage. They are fantastic "boosters", however, and due to their ethos, their temples (which are, basically, hospitals) are usually the first point of call for an adventuring party entering a new city with wounds, ability damage, or a PC who, for whatever reason, has assumed room temperature.

* * * * *

Background: The Theocracy of the Hand in Ekhan ended with the defeat and overthrow of the White Hand in the year 1001. The clerics and paladins of the Hand were given a choice: to repent of their evil and misdeeds, and hitherto live a pure life, doing no harm, and helping others; or to go into exile. Those who accepted exile and founded the state of Mirabilis continued to worship Vara, incarnated as the White Hand; those who recanted formed a new religion, in which the smiting hand of justice became the Hand of Healing. There are no paladins of the Healing Hand.

Game Details: Priests of the Healing Hand accept a strict regimen in exchange for their powers:

- They wear no armour and bear no weapons of any kind, except for a staff, which they may use only in self defence (and which they cannot use to kill, see below).

- They may not wear footwear of any kind. This can cause problems, except at higher levels where they can ignore the effects of the elements.

- They are forbidden any form of ostentation; no headgear of any kind is allowed, and they may not wear any form of ornamentation, including jewelry (although dispensations can be obtained, through prayer, if the items are magical and enhance the wearer’s protection or healing powers).

- They are forbidden to acquire individual wealth; they may not accept money in exchange for healing, and any treasure gained must be given to the poor and needy, either directly or through the church.

- If they ever intentionally kill a humanoid (or any intelligent creature), they lose all divine powers until they can Atone.

- They must “max out” their Heal skills.

In exchange for these sacrifices, they gain enormous powers:

Xarda’s Mystery: A Cleric of the Healing Hand gains the “Healing” domain twice; he adds +2 to his Caster Level when casting healing spells, and gains two bonus spells per day (which must bear the “Healing” descriptor).

Shield of Thanos: A Cleric of the Healing Hand adds his Wisdom rather than his Dexterity bonus to his Armour Class. This is lost in any circumstance that deprives the character of his Dex bonus (e.g., surprise), until 7th level, when (unlike the Dex bonus) it becomes permanent so long as the character is conscious.

Armour of Varaneth: A Cleric of the Healing Hand (who is not already immune to such effects) adds his Wisdom as well as Constitution bonus to all Fortitude saves to resist ability damage, ability drain, energy drain, disease, drug addiction and poison.

Once per day, as a free action, a Cleric of the Healing Hand may invoke the Blessing of Vara on himself; when struck by an attack, but before damage is rolled, he may state that he is attempting a Will save (against the DC of the attacking effect or spell, or failing that, against the attacker’s attack roll). The Will save and damage are rolled simultaneously. If the Will save fails, normal damage is taken (subject to further saves, i.e. reflex saves in the case of a breath weapon). If the Will save succeed, the following rules apply: If the total damage exceeds his normal maximum hit points, he takes half damage from the attack; if it is equal to or lower than his normal hit points, he takes no damage from the attack. The Blessing of Vara protects against any attack that causes physical harm, regardless of its source (including falling damage, instantaneous disintegration, petrification, etc). In the case of an attack that already permits a save (e.g. to resist disintegration), the Blessing save is made first, followed by the normal save.

Once per day, as a move-equivalent action, a Cleric of the Healing Hand may invoke the Blessing of Vara on others; this is a Mass Cure effect that heals (1d8+Caster Level) HP for all allies within a radius equal to 10'+10'/level, regardless of the total number of allies involved.

In addition, a Cleric of the Healing Hand gains numerous powers as he advances in level. These our outlined in the table heading this post. A few notes to this table:

(*) A Cleric of the Hand adds his “Fast Healing” bonus to all Cure spells.

(**) If the XP loss causes loss of a level, Cleric must make a Fort Save against (DC 10+HD of all creatures raised/resurrected); failure means Cleric takes 1d10 Str, 1d10 Con and 1d10 Wis temporary ability damage.

The Fight at the Farm

When last we saw our intrepid warriors, they had just woken up on on the morning of their third day out from Fort Ryker. A badly-needed night of undisturbed rest was welcome, but the PCs were shocked to discover that Corporal Telvor, one of the “red-shirts” assigned them by the Commander of the Fort, had gone missing in the night, leaving nothing but a welter of feral-looking footprints and a long streak of blood down the side of their wagon.

Breygon immediately got his “Ranger thang” on and did his damnedest to track to footprints, but lost them on the stony ground of the ridge they were following. With no further options to try to recover their vanished comrade, the Party decided to carry on to Bornhavn and try to complete their mission as quickly as possible. Private Gambrik and their passenger, the drunken sailing master Pillar Howell, grumbled a bit, but neither was prepared to go haring off into the underbrush after Telvor. There had, after all, been a LOT of footprints around the wagon.

Bornhavn was still some ways off, and the weather was worsening. The ridgeline gave way to a series of low valleys as the Stjerneflade river wound its way southwards. This protected the Party from the increasingly bitter winds, but not the rain that came with them, and by nightfall everyone was soaked and miserable. They had passed numerous abandoned settlements and farms during the day, and decided to make use of one of these as darkness finally settled in.

They made camp at an old timber farmhouse with gaping holes in the walls and a sad lack of thatch; but it had a well, and the fence around the paddock north of the homestead was still robust enough to contain their horses (see the map, above). They made a fire, dined sparingly, set a watch, and were attacked in the wee hours of the morning.

The creators of the footprints turned out to be a roving pack of ghouls. Gwen happened to be on watch when they came slavering out of the woodline, and she managed to shout a warning quickly enough to get everyone up and active, armed at least, if not necessarily armoured. Qaramyn moved into the lee of the wagon and began sniping at the oncoming horde with Magic Missiles, while Breygon got to work thinning their numbers with his bow. Alric was first into the line of fire, landing a few heavy blows before being surrounded and unceremoniously paralyzed (sometimes the extra feat and skill points we humans get aren't as useful as good old Elven resistance to paralysis). The fighter went down like a sack of wet laundry, and Gwen shifted her fire to cover him and prevent his attackers from chowing down, as they seemed about to do. Joraz had better luck, leaping into battle with his fists, and laying waste left and right. The ghouls landed a few blows, but he managed to shrug them off.

Private Gambrik spent most of the battle cowering under the table in the dilapidated farmhouse (as I recall, he rolled a 1 on his will save); but Pillar Howell rolled a 20, and with a gutful of “Dutch courage”, grabbed a table leg and did himself proud, clubbing down the two ghouls who came loping through the open back wall of the house. Qaramyn held fire for an instant, Summoning a Celestial Dog to give the ghouls something else to concentrate on. Breygon and Gwen each took down another one. Gwen held her position as the enemy closed, but Breygon dropped his bow, drew his swords, and moved into the fray.

At about this time, two of the ghouls at the back of the pack went down, and a shadowy, cloaked figure emerged from the woods, longbow in hand. Gwen spotted the new target and sent an arrow its way, scoring a near-critical hit and maximum damage – only to be greeted by a flood of Elvish cursing. By now Qaramyn was down to his last Burning Hands and was holding back, gripping his staff and trying not to attract too much undead attention. Joraz had reached Alric’s supine form and was engaging the ghouls intent on snacking on "fighter tartare". Breygon was ranger-moulinexing the front rank of undead, and the shadowy newcomer at the back had pulled out an improbably enormous sword and was laying into the rear rank of the enemy with a will. With eleven ghouls (a number which, as the party discovered later, included two ghasts) down, the remaining three fled, howling and slavering, into the woods.

The newcomer limped forward and lowered her hood. The Party was surprised to see that they had been joined by a female High Elf, a warrior-mage of considerable prowess (and considerable grumpiness when she was introduced to Gwen) called Orkarel Hax. Apparently she had been travelling to Ellohyin on the Nordvej. While she was camped out a few miles to the north the previous night, the ghoul-pack had killed her horse, leaving her without a mount. She had been tracking the pack since sunrise, slowed by being forced to do so with her saddle and saddle-bags over one shoulder, and had only caught them up just prior to their attack on the farm.

The Party thanked her effusively for her intervention, and invited her to spend the night, and travel with them to Bornhavn the following morning. Breygon, in a gesture of comradeliness (possibly brought on by the fact that Hax was extremely easy on the eyes), gave her the horse that the Party had found next to the body of the messenger they had found slain on the Nordvej a few miles North of Fort Ryker. [Oh crap – I forgot to put that part in, didn’t I?] Hax was suitably thankful, and may have been even more grateful, had she not had a Halfling arrow sticking out of her thigh. In any event, the remainder of the night was quiet. The Party assembled the ghoul corpses into a heap, and Qaramyn helpfully incinerated them with arcane fire before climbing back into his sleeping bag.

All arose the next morning, anticipating a relatively short ride, as there were only about four more leagues to go. Breygon spent most of the remainder of the trip conversing quietly with Hax in his mother’s tongue. They exchanged a lot in the way of local information and banalities, but he didn’t manage to learn too much about her background, about which she was oddly evasive.

They were still deep in conversation when, about mid-morning, the Party crested a rise and saw the town of Bornhavn laid out before them.

Historia Antiquitatis – Part IV

Hey, folks. Sorry about the light posting over the past few days. We now return to our ongoing series on Ancient History, with your host, the eminent High Elven sage, Ceorlinus Rectinarius.

The next few sections outline the origins of the divine bloodlines of the Elven dynasties. If it seems like they go on a bit…well, you can blame Ceorlinus, I guess. Nothing brings out his prosey side like talking about his own people and their magnificent and tragic history.

* * * * *

Prosapiae Haradi: The Houses of Harad

Throughout the Age of Wisdom, the Powers of Light lived in close harmony with their subjects, walking and even living among them; and even so did Bræa, whose Children had been given over unto the care of her brothers. And because the light that was in her had left her, and had been sealed into the ever-burning lamp that lit Anuru, Bræa walked more easily among her children than her siblings could, wearing her manu of matchless beauty, and teaching quiet wisdom to all who would listen.

At length, after many long years, she was at last overcome by her loneliness, and so she took a husband from among the men of Harad. His name was Cîarloth, foremost among all her pupils; and the people of Harad wondered at her choice, for though he was wise and tall, and of fair visage, he was but a common man, and not one of the many kings that had risen among the fair folk. In time Cîarloth and Bræa brought forth children, that were likewise tall, and all wondered at them; for they were pale of skin, and dark of hair like unto their sire, but wisdom and beauty beyond compare had they from their mother.

Because they were born of the Children, they were beings of Heaven and Earth; but with the blood of Bræa mingled into their line, they were the fairest and wisest of all of the Children of the Mother. They were far-sighted, and had dominion over the Skies and the Seas; the birds of air and beasts of the earth answered to their call; and such a strength was in them that they feared no Power of Dark. And these children did not die within Anuru unless slain; and even then, their spirits were ever reborn beyond the Ether, in the fair homes of the Anari.

The children of Bræa and Cîarloth were Nîamlo, Brahad, Sîallath and Xîardith; and these together were called the First House of Harad. And those of the First House were ever after mighty beyond all of the other Children; and in time they became living legens among the Haradi, seeking no kingship, but only to increase their knowledge, and use their powers to the betterment of the world. But of the line that held the kingship after Cîarloth, misfortune came hand-in-hand with might; and treason befell them, and horror, and death. And this dark fate pursued all of his heirs, even unto modern days.

When he saw that his elder sister had come to live in peace and joy with the Children, Hara, her her eldest brother, took a wife from the women of Harad; one Oramna, she whose beauty was first among the Mortal Children, before the birth of Nîamlo. Long had she been Hara's pupil in the wisdom of the stars, and she was wise beyond all save the Anari themselves; and even more wise in the ways of the mortal world. For she followed, as Hara had taught her, the stars in their courses, and knew the names of tree and rill and stone, and numbered well all the beasts, fair and foul, of Anuru. Their children were Elloamna, who carried her mother’s beauty, and Îardan, who bore his mother’s wisdom. And both came to life with their father Hara’s boundless knowledge of the universe, his unquenchable thirst to know more, and his undying love of all things upon Anuru. And they were the progenitors of the Second House of Harad, renowned for their knowledge, and wisdom, and guardianship and lore of Heaven and of Earth, and everything within them.

The First and Second Houses grew slowly, and prospered, and were ever revered among the Haradi, latterly called the Elves. No misfortune befell their long descent - save only for those who mingled the two divine bloodlines. More will be told of them later. We turn first to the origins of those called the Hiarsk, to whom the unknowing and ignorant have given the appellation "Half-Elf".

Originis Hiarskae, Benedictiae Bræaoni, et Fatum Humanitus

Nîamlo, eldest daughter of Bræa, and most beautiful of the Haradi, dark-eyed and dark-haired and tall, wandered long without taking a husband; for in truth she desired only the knowledge of the skies and the stars. Yet at the last she met and fell enamoured with Chuadwaith of Esud. And this astonished her kin among the Haradi, for he was not even of her own people, but one of the Esudi, a child of the people of Esu, arrogant, violent and inquisitive.

Yet their union had been foretold, fated and written in the Book of the Heavens. For in her youth, Nîamlo had been stolen away and hidden by the Uruqua Tvalt, concealed amongst the Dead who roamed his Long Halls; for he coveted her force of life and her beauty, the likes of which had never been seen except among the Anari. Indeed, so closely did she resemble Tvalt’s sister, Zaman (before her beauty had been blighted by her treachery), that Tvalt desired her; and he held Nîamlo captive, against her wish, in order that the Powers of Dark might thereafter force Bræa, her mother, to do their bidding.

Chuadwaith was the son of the son of a King of Esud, who had heeded the dark but compelling words of Bardan, and owed fealty to Tvalt; but when he saw Nîamlo held captive, his heart changed withni in, and he freed her and fled with her. Tvalt was wroth, and his fell and deathless minions pursued the fugitive pair across Anuru, and even unto the ends of the Earth. But Chuadwaith was wise in the ways of the world, and a mighty warrior besides, and he protected her against all foes.

The pair took refuge in the deep places of Anuru, with the Children of Lagud, where their King, Gargarund, the mightiest and most skilled of smiths, foresaw the battles that lay ahead for Chuadwaith. And so he himself took hammer in hand, and thrice-forged a mighty sword of black iron from the heart of the mountain; and this he gave to Chuadwaith to aid him in preserving the daughter of Bræa. And he called the sword Bjergshjert, which means “Mountain’s Heart”. And while living among the Lagudi, in the dark of the earth, Nîamlo bore three children to Chuadwaith: two sons, Cîarndim and Cîardak, and a daughter, Hîarhala. And for years, Chuadwaith battled the minions and monsters of the Dark, both above the earth and below; but never did the seekers sent by Tvalt find him or his family.

At length, after all his machinations had failed to locate the daughter of Bræa, Bardan sent his servant Mordakris, Lord of Hunters and of Wolves, to find and retrieve her and her daughers; and Mordakris was the wisest of hunters, and could not be denied. He followed Chuadwaith to the kingdom of the Lagudi, and assailed them with the wolves and fell hunting beasts, and the most horrid of minions, that were his to command; but the Lagudi were steadfast, and were themselves mighty warriors, and were armed and armoured as no others upon Anuru. And Bardan sent even his sister Zaman, blighted in her visage, but wise in fell blandishments and promises; but the hearts of the Lagudi were loyal to the light and firm, and could not be swayed. And even did Bardan send his fell brother Dæsuqlu, Lord of Pestilence, to plague the Lagudi with fell humours and disease, and to call forth from the Underworld the most horrific of creatures to harry them; but the Lagudi withstood them, and defeated them all.

In desperation, Mordakris himself agreed to single combat with Chuadwaith, and it was his undoing; for Chuadwaith, although by this time old and gray of hair, was yet mightiest among the men of Esud; and although sore wounded, he slew Mordakris with the black sword of Lagud; and the Earth and Heavens shook at the great wolf's fall, for never before had one of the Children slain one of the mightiest of the Servants of the Dark. It is said that at the death of Mordakris, even Bardan trembled in his shadowy fastness beyond the stars; for the death of Chuadwaith had shown him that men might be slain, but that the spirit of the Children of Esud could never be bought, blandished or cowed.

Nîamlo fled the scene of the battle with the body of her husband, and bore him back to the hidden halls of Lagud; and there she stayed with him, neither eating nor drinking, until at length she too passed into the shadows; and the greatest beauty that ever was or ever shall be fled the world with her. But though they had passed from Anuru, neither Chuadwaith, nor his wife Nîamlo, came ever after unto the Halls of the Dead; for they had sworn eternal enmity to the ravisher Tvalt, and would not suffer his overlordship, either in life or in death. But Bræa deemed it unfit that, after so many travails, they should find no rest after death, and so she importuned Anā to find for them some place of peace. And so to preserve in the record of the heavens the story of their courage and their fidelity unto death, Anā took their spirits and forged of them two orbs, and set them in the Heavens near unto the Earth; and these were called Chuadan and Lodan, the lamps of Chuadwaith and Nîamlo. Unlike the lamp of Bræa, they stood in the Heavens but a little apart from the Earth; and they followed differing paths, so that at times they lay together in the sky, and at times apart. And Chuadan was bold and bright, flashing the light of Bræadan from his face, and it seemed that he followed Lodan through the sky, as Chuadwaith had pursued Nîamlo when she was held by Tvalt. But Lodan was silvery and dark, and lay chill and beautiful against the vault of the night, gracing it as Nîamlo had once graced the Earth.

The children who followed after Chuadwaith were the first People of Two Houses, of parentage deriving from Harad and Esud; and they were ever after called the Hiarsk, known in latter days (to those unwise in ancient lore) as the Half-Elven. Because of their parentage, they were fair, wise and long in years like unto the Haradi; but also were they strong, and fleet, and full of courage and wonder, like unto the Children of Esud. And though in latter years the Hiarsk were frowned upon by both Houses, and declined somewhat in might and wisdom, yet none could forget that their heritage was once the mightiest, the wisest and the bravest of all the Kindred; for all could look into the sky and see, in Chuadan and Lodan, the light upon the Earth of the mother and father of the first of the Hiarsk.

And the Black Sword Bjergshjert was passed down from father to son in the line of the Overlords of the Hiarsk, for many a long age; until in the fullness of time it was lost. But while it was still known upon the Earth, by this sword were the Lords of the Hiarsk acknowledged as first among the firstborn of all of the Kindred.

But by far the greatest legacy of the intermingling of the two folk through Chuadwaith and Nîamlo was the Choice that was given to the Hiarsk, alone of all the Kindred. They, and none other, had the right to choose between the fate of the Haradi – to live forever a life of wisdom and sadness, unless slain, within Anuru, and then to pass to the Halls of Tvalt for a time, before coming to a final rest beyond the Dome of the Firmament (that that eternal bliss which is called the Blessing of Bræa); or to live a short life, full of joy and glory, before passing through the Halls of the Dead and beyond, to an unknown fate outside of the Universe, beyond even the ken of Anā and Ūru (that which is called the Wyrd of Men).

For none is it an easy choice.