Unfinished Business

Rumor has it there are nooks and crannies in the decrepit remains of Laurynvale where even the most seasoned and ruthless members of the Five Fingers will not go.  There might be ghosts, so they say, or demonic powers, or rival gangs, or even actual sewer rats of size and ferocity to rival the gang that shares their name.  It’s the kind of mystique most vagabonds thrive upon, but one should never underestimate the power of a vagabond’s self-interest, which trumps all other concerns of stealth and secrecy.

Indeed, only the truly bold would dare make a home in, say, the bowels of the former Temple of Avandra.  The once grand citadel is now a ruined skeleton from a bygone era, a crumbling mass that does nothing beyond disturbing the flow of evening smoke and morning mists.  Avandra used to be a favorite of thieves, rogues, assassins, and so on, or so they say.  Now she is just another god: ignored, if not forgotten.

Except by one, as fireside tales will allege.  They call him the Priest, a lurking shadow who, like the crumbling temple he calls home, is a forlorn remnant of the old era.  They say his devotion to Avandra is as steady as his practiced hands, hands that seem to have stolen from everyone, even the Masters of the Five Fingers themselves.  No one has ever seen him.  No one has ever communicated with him.  No one is even entirely sure that he exists, so mysterious are the alleys of the old city and so nefarious are their citizens.  And yet, his shadow is long, and his home remains undisturbed, because self-interest finds a friend in superstition, and both keep safe the wisest of thieves.

What the Priest occupies himself with is anyone’s guess, assuming he exists at all.  One can assume that his nights are taken up by thieving and his days by worship.  One might also assume that he, being devoted to the Goddess of Luck and Change, favors a game of chance.  Or maybe just a habit.  A coin toss, for example.  Something to pass the time and to remind himself, in these dismal days, that there are forces even higher than he.

One could easily imagine him whiling away his early morning hours by flipping said coin at the foot of a shrine he has built to his goddess.  Maybe there is a smaller shrine as well, set aside for Mask, the goddess’s son, patron guardian of thieves.  He might keep these shrines in a hidden hall under the temple sanctuary, once, say, the quarters of clerics and paladins.  A fitting home for the last worshipper of his kind.

Surely he is comfortable in his privacy.  He often spends time flipping his coin, confident that he will not be disturbed.  Which is why he would no doubt be quite shocked if someone were to find him.

“Who goes there?” he might ask, feeling a presence looming behind him. 

He may wait for a response, wondering if maybe it was a rat or a dog that disturbed him.  Even the finest scouts of the Five Fingers have failed to discover him here – what could possibly change?

“Announce yourself,” he would continue, more certain than ever that something was not right. 

At that point he would surely turn to look at his trespasser, clapping eyes on a tall, hooded figure not dissimilar from himself.  His intruder might stand there, still and unafraid.  The Priest might find this a little off-putting, prompting his finger to trace the handle of one of his many hidden daggers.

“I have to say: I’m impressed,” the Priest may mutter, and why not?  “Been down here over a hundred years and you’re the first visitor I’ve gotten.  Well done.  But if it’s gold you’re looking for, you’re going to be disappointed: I keep me stash elsewhere.  If it’s conversation, well…I might be inclined to chit chat.  But you have to go first.”

The figure would remain unmoved.  If we imagine he can find the Priest, we can imagine he won’t be too frightened of the consequences.  The Priest would probably take this into account, and, with well-practiced speed and precision, produce a dagger and throw it straight for the intruder’s heart.

One could be forgiven for thinking the conversation ends there.  A dagger to the heart?  Thrown by a man whose expertise is legend?  No chance.

But this is the Priest of Avandra.  He should know there’s always a chance.  Which is why the dagger might disappear, and the figure might remain utterly nonplussed.

“I mean you no harm,” the figure would say in a voice that, while soft, reverberates through the underground hall.  “I only have a message for you…Ko the Wanderer.”

At this point, the Priest could react in any number of ways.  He might throw another dagger, sure that his first strike had merely been poor.  He might run, for valuable though his shrines are, his life is no doubt more useful to his goddess.  He might shout and scream and stomp his feet in rage, for who in the Realm would have the gall to invade his sovereign home in the first place?

But he might also pause, for the name “Ko the Wanderer,” foreign though it sounds, might echo with him in a way that a moniker like “The Priest” does not.

“I think there’s been some sort of mistake,” he could say.  “I believe you’re looking for someone else, friend.  There’s no Ko here.”

It might be the truth.  It might be a lie.  It probably wouldn’t make a difference to an intruder.  Certainly not to this one.

“It’s been a long time, Ko,” the intruder might say.  “Things are different now.  For both of us.  But there is still unfinished business to attend to.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the Priest would say, maybe a little more desperately than usual.  “Get out of here, or there will be trouble.  I can promise you that.”

This tactic would probably work on lesser foes, but let us assume that this intruder is not a lesser foe.  Let us assume that this intruder, who has so far shown himself incisive, crafty, and bold, is not of this place.  Perhaps not even of this world. 

Were that they case, he could choose this moment to prove himself.  Maybe he would lower his hood and give the Priest a look at his pale but chiseled visage and dark, glossy hair.  It could be that a bright flash of light would follow, something to wash out the darkness of the hall and blind the Priest with its brilliance.  Perhaps the intruder even levitates, or makes the Priest levitate, or transports them both to another plane, where the Priest twists and twirls and grabs for something to steady himself, but to no avail.  Surely there would be confusion, terror, even despair.  But perhaps it seems familiar, too.

And then, there would be a message:

“Hear me, Ko the Wanderer, Highest of Avandra, Favored of Mask, Resistor of Nerodeus, Thief in the Night.  I the High Guardian have a warning from the seat of Helm, himself, he who Watches over All and plans for the Protection of Mortalkind.  Seek the thirteen pieces and their hold:

One around the neck of Chance's Champion
One around the neck of the Mad Queen Outcast
One in the sands beneath the Shattering Waves
One in the Greens reborn from fire
One among the scaled ones like the rainbow
One among the scaled ones fled from their own
One with those below and above the gods
One with the blood-criers together at last
One within the haven mysterious and old
One within the white of the great bitter north
One for the long-ears last together
One for the keepers of the mountains
One long lost in the pathway to the East
And the hold on prosperous shores to the West

Unite them and repel the forces that would waste the lands of mortals and challenge the dominion of the gods.  Conquer the beast you have awakened.  Rise again and shoulder the burden of your kin."

This is all a theory, of course, and being a theory, one would be free to assume that it ended in an instant, leaving the Priest dazed on the floor.  All would have returned, undisturbed, as if the intruder had never been there in the first place.  

The only thing he might be left with would be his coin, standing on its edge.  He would no doubt see this after picking himself up off the floor.  Surely he would wonder.  His coin must have gone flying.  Or fallen from his hand.  Or somehow stood on its end after sitting flat on the floor.  Either way, the result would be unprecedented; a remarkable feat of chance.  Something to send a chill up his spine.

An astonishing tale, to be sure, and more astonishing still were a voice to echo in the hall, distant but familiar.

"Trust in yourself," it might say.  "I will be watching.  Old f-f-friend."

Perhaps then Ko would know that the time to venture out in the world had come again.

Game 1 Quotes

Game 1: “Zippidee doo dah by Helm himself”

*little girl gets dropped off cliff* “See you in a bit!” – Jrod (as Lily)

“Why’d they only give me 10 campfires?” – Mrs. D (about torches)

“Fucking crickets! Shut up!” –Mrs. D

“Something comes up—“ –Jrod

“And eats you. Roll a new character.” –Mr. D

“Arr ar ar ar.” – Mrs. D (to wolf)

“So you try mocking the wolf?” –Mr. D

“That’s a bold strategy Cotton, let’s see if it pays off.” –T

“I give her a kiss back.” – C

“Your beards get tangled.” –Mrs. D

“Let’s get crazar!” –C

“Shaggin wagon.” –Jrod

“7^th level horse.” –Mr. D

“Lay on hooves.” –C

“He’s chaotic filthy.” –Mr. D (about Grechmas)

“I take a little nap next to the sex shop.” – J

“Zippidee doo dah by Helm himself” –Jrod

“If I could pee myself I would. But I can’t. I don’t have a bladder. Cause I don’t have a body.” –Mr. D

“I’ve got a knife, what should we do?”-Mr. D

“Why would you worship anything besides royality?” –Mrs. D

Tobor Z'ar

I heard the drums pounding in the field, knowing it was going to be any second now.

I stood against the opening of the tent, poised for the moment I had been playing over in my mind for weeks, and even months before. I had my pack and my staff - the name Torinn crudely scratched long ago into the side - strapped to my body, which was now shaking with anticipation. I was but a handful of years older than the young ones in the field now, and even after all the preparation I was troubled with thoughts of doubt, with worries that I was making a grave mistake, with fear that I would never speak to my brothers or sisters again.

It was the night of Tobor Z'ar, or New Life. This was the ceremony that honored the young dragonborn crossing over from childhood to join their elders as adults. It was one of the happiest nights for the clan, and the celebration often carried deep into the night. Their rhythmic cries of "Vrak ui loex, darastrix ui kitril!" sang triumphantly through the roaring wind. It never seemed more right than at this instant, knowing what was coming. 

I could see shadows dancing on the walls of my tent from the distant torchlight. I would have been celebrating right alongside them had things headed on a different path. I wondered how many of my clan were as afraid as I was. The Drachedandion have always wanted harmony for the Isle, but in the last months and weeks it had become less certain the hope is shared with the other clans.

I knew if I remained, there was nothing I could do to stop the avalanche. The rumors of the dragonborn clans warring between themselves was a laugh over our dinner months ago; the clan elders were meeting in secret now so often we can't ignore the possibility any longer. I can't stand by while brother fights brother. I have to find something that can unite us again, even if it means never coming back.

The drums raced toward their climax heavy and thick as the wind picked up, carrying the sound into the skies. Vrak ui loex, darastrix ui kitril, I whispered toward the stars, and waited for the breath of the words to fade into the night. Child is dead, dragon is born.

I sprinted for the gates and into the dark ahead.

Mara Hornraven Leaves Drogsheim

I can't believe I am finally leaving Drogsheim. It's been eight years since I left home: the Hornraven castle, a place tainted with miserable childhood memories. I had always hated that place, but his death was the last straw. Correction: his murder. I bent down to inspect a patch of clover, deeming it safe to consume. I've become fairly familiar with the flora and fauna of the Drogsheim countryside, but I feel completely unprepared for what awaits me past these borders.

I thought of Reed now, my halfling childhood companion turned lover. Sometimes I think he's the reason I turned out like I did, so very different from my hateful, greedy parents. Reed always saw the good in people, was generous and kind to all, and did not deserve his fate. Born strong of mind and body (both an advantage and a vice), I could endure their treatment for years to come. But when my parents carelessly ordered Reed to be killed after he spilled wine while serving the ruler of a neighboring kingdom, something inside me snapped.

And so I committed myself to the training of a paladin. I rejected my birthright (although, as my parents often reminded me, I would never rule before my child brother) and threw away my feminine garments.

I have hope that beyond these borders, somewhere, was the key to rescuing this kingdom from the rule of my parents and bringing back justice to this land. I looked back towards the direction of the Hornraven castle, grimaced, and then trudged forward into the unknown.

Major Clans and Allegiances

DWARVEN CLANS

Brightforge: Nestled within Sunshine Hill in the southern region, the Brightforge clan is strongly in favor of joining forces with the other civilized peoples of the Realm to defend themselves against the Dragons and the newly unified Horde.  This makes them the strongest of the Pro-Union faction.  They tend to be quite welcoming, at least as far as Dwarves are concerned, which bemuses some of their brethren and insults others.  They are seen as “bleeding heart” liabilities unsuited to the challenges of the world.

Darkore: The smallest, most mysterious, and most secretive of the Seven Clans, the people of Darkore are seemingly happy to hole up in the far north.  They are rarely involved in the affairs of the outside world, including among the Dwarves.  They have yet to declare an opinion on the Union issue, and in fact, rumors persist that they are actually pro-Dragon, which makes them highly unpopular among the other clans.

Greathill: This Clan is spread out over the rolling hills of Torgalen and is the second largest of the Seven Clans.  The majority of the Clan is Pro-Union but intends to drive a hard bargain if a Union were to happen, demanding strong Dwarven leadership and more lands in exchange for cooperation.  Many in the Clan see these times as an opportunity to spread Dwarvenhood and take a greater role in the Realm at large.

Grimstone: This is the largest Clan and its leadership takes that designation seriously, often acting as if they speak for the entirety of the Dwarven peoples.  They are firmly in the Anti-Union camp, preferring instead to unite the entirety of Dwarvenhood and reinforce their lands in anticipation of an attack.  There are known to meddle in the affairs of the other Clans, which agitates their brethren greatly, and yet they rarely face retribution thanks to their impressive size.

Highpeak: The people of the Highpeak Clan value knowledge very highly, and they believe the logical thing to do is to join up with the other civilized peoples of the world.  Despite being Pro-Union, their relationships with the Brightforge and Greathill Clans are strained, in part because of their differences in geography and goals, but also because the Highpeaks are often considering elitist snobs who think being Pro-Union is “high and mighty.”

Rubyhammer: The Rubyhammer Clan often claims to be the oldest of the Dwarven groups, which feeds into their ideas about Dwarven purity, which are the strictest of all the Clans, to the point that many of their people refuse to fraternize with people of other races in any circumstances whatsoever.  While this puts them squarely in the Anti-Union group, it also makes them difficult to deal with as they tend to pass judgment on the other Clans at will.  Their perspectives on racial purity are spreading, though, which means their stock in the Anti-Union camp is rising.

Thunderaxe: Easily the most cantankerous and violent of the Clans, the Thunderaxes are a war-loving people who will tangle with anyone, including their own kind.  Not only are they Anti-Union, they are extremely suspicion of Dwarven unity and would rather hunt down the Dragons and destroy them than wait for an attack.

DRAGONBORN CLANS

Nine Chromatic Clans: The Chromatic Clans, descendant from the evil chromatic dragons, are the most populous of the clans and dominate the majority of Dragon Isle, with the bulk of their power locate in the West.

Black Dragonborn: Vidrechar, Egrecherean, Fulruchtu.  All three of the Black Clans are in favor of joining up with the Dragons, but are notoriously difficult to deal with and have yet to reach a consensus among themselves on anything, let alone how best to support this new spread of Dragondom.

Blue Dragon: Mutruchdian, Kizzerak.  The Blue Clans are the most split on the Dragon issue.  Mutruchdian is strongly in favor of joining their forebears, but are wary of the rising Zechradarian Clan and determined not to let them dominate the conversation.  The Kizzerak, on the other hand, are totally against joining the cause of the Dragons.  They have a very negative view of their forebears and have no interest in associating with them.

Green Dragonborn: Bizrechon, Guruktian.  The Bizrechon Clan is in favor of joining up with the Dragons, but only on the condition that their terms are met.  The Guruktian clan, smaller but more prosperous than the Bizrechon, have yet to commit to the cause, and are mostly concerned with protecting themselves from their own kin.

Red Dragonborn: Zechradarian (united clans).  In an unprecedented show of harmony, the Red Clans have been united under a single banner after being enchanted by news of the return of the Scarlet Sisters, who share their bloodline and lust for power.  They are, by and large, wholly devoted to joining up with their kin and establishing a new dominion over the Realm, and are prepared to do this on their own if they are unable to rally more Dragonborn to their cause.

White Dragon: Xerechtyl.  The smallest of the Chromatic Clans, Xerechtyl has long suffered from the inhospitable conditions of Dragon Isle.  They see the rise of Dragondom as an opportunity to make safe passage to the North, which is their first priority.

Seven Metallic Clans: The Metallic Clans are much smaller than their Chromatic Counterparts and have largely cloistered themselves in the southeastern region of Dragon Isle.  They take after their forebears in that they are largely good and peaceful people, but the possibility of greater Dragondom in the rest of the Realm has many of them wondering what opportunities might be in store.

Brass Dragonborn: Lachrezian, Cractukahn.  The Brass Clans are the most eager to action in response to the newfound power of the Scarlet Sisters, but cannot come to an agreement on how best to help.  The Lachrezian are intent on joining forces with the rest of the Realm in the fight, while the Cractukahn want to seek out their Brass forebears to shore up their strength and seek their guidance.

Bronze Dragonborn: Karachulus.  The Karachulus Clan is keen to join the fight as well, but they view the newly united Zechradarian Clan of Red Dragonborn as the greater threat.  They want to unite a force to secure Dragon Isle first, then take care of the rest of the Realm later.

Copper Dragonborn: Fennelzhul.  The Fennelzuhl are a fun-loving people and do not care much for warfare.  They are keen to further peace with their Chromatic counterparts and believe the solutions to many of their problems lie in peace.

Gold Dragonborn: Jemruchal.  The smallest and most mysterious of the Clans, the Jemruchal have yet to weigh in on the matter.  They crave the wisdom of their forebears but are uncertain about forming an allegiance with them.  While they are almost certainly against the rise of the Scarlet Sisters, their attitudes about the spread of Dragondom in general are somewhat uncomfortably vague.

Silver Dragonborn: Drachedandion, Alchemacron.  The Silver Clans are united in their desire to pursue allegiances and deals with the rest of the Realm, but they have very different attitudes about how to go about it.  The Drachedandions desire allegiances with the other civilized peoples of the world but are cautious about making deals too quickly.  The Alchemacron, on the other hand, see the potential for many opportunities should Dragondom spread, and are tentatively in favor of cutting deals with the Scarlet Sisters, if only as an initial step.  This has earned the suspicion of most of the other Metallic Clans; it has also caught the attention of the Chromatic Clans, particularly the Zechradarian.

THE TRIDENT

The Trident is a loose association made up of the Blackplane, Drogsheim, and Wanderbelt Kingoms.  It contains rules on borders, trade, exchange of prisoners, etc., but largely amounts to a non-aggression pact.  It was signed twenty years ago by the royal families of these Kingdoms: the Amblecrowns of Blackplane, the Drogleys of Drogsheim, and the Whitestones of Wanderbelt.  The pact is enforced by a collection of lords and ladies associated with each Kingdom, many of whom have intermarried with their royals.

Blackplane: The Parkwirth, Draven, and Suker families have very strong holds in Blackplane and have been tied to the Amblecrowns from the very beginning of the Kingdom.  The heirs to the Amblecrown throne are expected to marry from these families, which makes the competition between the two quite intense.

Drogsheim: It took several families to help the Drogleys take the throne, but the Hornravens have long since become the most powerful of the noble families in the region, so much so that they serve as de facto enforcers for the Drogleys and lord their status over the other families at any opportunity.

Wanderbelt: The Whitestones make up a rogue Dwarven clan that intermarried with the Hemley family, formerly of Laurynvale in the West.  These two families rule the Kingdom in a fraught and sometimes confusing arrangement, which leads to a lot of under-the-table infighting and espionage.

ORDER OF THE HIGHER LIGHT

The foothills of Bright Mountain are home to a group of monks known as the Order of the Higher Light.  They seek to harness the basic forces of magic that unite the various Realms and Planes, a power higher and more mysterious than even the gods themselves.  They live in Lotus Hollow, a small commune nestled in a secluded area that falls under the mysterious magic of Bright Mountain.  The monks are a people who value service, study, and peace, and their home is open to widows, orphans, the ill, the disenfranchised, and the repentant dregs of society.  While they loathe violence in all its forms, they will protect the innocent who seek shelter with them by any means necessary.  They keep to themselves as much as possible, except when they go on their mandatory spirit journeys, which involve observing the world and serving where necessary while staying out of disputes and violent affairs as much as possible.

Shieldbiter

Photo courtesy of Darren Hick (Darrenique)

Old Memories, Fresh Hells

I’m not too old for this. Elric thought as he packed his worn knapsack. His adventuring gear had been gathering dust in the corners of the room. That mirror had saved him from the vampires masquerade. Those candles had helped time the traps in Forever Deep Dungeon. These regular pieces of chalk had unraveled the secrets of the mad alchemists maze. And that painting…

He sighed as his gaze landed upon this well loved painting from all those days ago. This day his wife, Athona, had painted so they would always remember. To remember how proud they were of their son. “Ten years old and already growing a beard. Remarkable.” Elric chuckled softly to himself. Even from a young age Finley had wanted to be an adventurer, just like his parents. “We should have prepared you better for the world.” Elric put down the painting and composed himself as he put on his pack, the time for mourning had long passed.

Elric muttered a soft prayer to Helm, to keep him and his loved ones safe in these trying times. He heard shouting from down the hall, dwarven curses let loose and sounds of goblets shattering. This would be all as normal if not for the lack of usual merriment. Let the other dwarves bicker amongst themselves. This was not the time to fight amongst themselves. The gods had gone silent these past years, the dragons were causing chaos where they nested, the world as he had known it was tilted. This is the time to unite, this is the time for old heroes to don their armor, this is the time to heal the world of her pain. It’s time for Elric Stonebreaker to go back into the field!  

Princess Persephone Celestia Rose Amblecrown

I can’t believe this! Could they really be going through with it? I thought they loved me! This is no way to treat your only precious child. Nor is it any way to treat a princess!

When my parents, King and Queen Rodrick and Tabathina Amblecrown, first told me I’d be going away for a year, I thought maybe they were sending me on a vacation to our castle on the beach. But NO! Apparently, since I am now 19, I must begin to learn how to act like a “proper, dignified, wise and worldly queen”. I’m very proper, I’m extremely dignified, and I’m the wisest princess I know!! Plus, why do I need to know about the world when everything that really matters is already right here in Blackplane? 

But, here I am. One week into my “learning experience” and I’m HATING it. At first, I thought they were bluffing, so when they bid me farewell at the gates, I decided I was just going to stand my ground and wait them out. I’m very  good at standing my ground. Once, when I was five, I held my breath until my face turned purple and my parents finally got me my own unicorn. Anyway, I had no intention of leaving the kingdom for a year, and I yelled over the gates that they might as well let me back in because this was just going to be a big waste of their time and I wasn’t going anywhere. I stood, and stood, and stood, and yelled, and yelled, and stood at those gates all night. Finally, in the morning, the gate creaked open. But it wasn’t my parents! It was their huntsman. “Sorry your majesty, I’m following the King’s orders and I’m doing this for your own good.” That’s when he threw a dark bag over my head, tied me up and placed me in the back of a coach. We rode for what must have been two days, and he finally released me, completely disoriented, at the edge of a town. At least he left me some food and coin before he rode off. “Wait!!!! I don’t even know where I am!!! Come back here!”

The Gray Aisling of the Aisle

Here’s a story.

I was about ten years old when my brothers Thom and Siggard talked me into sneaking out of the house. Thom would have been twelve and Siggard thirteen or fourteen. This was a good many years ago, and Thom and Siggard are both gone now, but they were alive and indestructible then. It was summer, and my brothers had gotten it into their heads to sneak out to the cliffs some miles from our cottage, itself some miles outside the city of Stonebeach. There was a legend, old even then, that a ghost haunted those chalky cliffs, only visible by the light of the full moon: the Gray Aisling of the Aisle. Some say it is the spirit of the dread Avery Hornblende, or his second-in-command Captain Jack Littlebrook, both lost when their ship, the ironically-named Tide’s Revenge, was swallowed by a storm while crossing the Shatter Gulf. My brothers were fascinated with pirates, and between them had worked up the courage to go see the apparition for themselves. Naturally, they decided to drag me along, thinking a good fright might do me some good.

So, one summer night, we pulled on our boots and slid out the window of the room we shared. The air was still warm, and fireflies flit along the path we cut through the fields. Though the night was, indeed, well lit by the full moon, it took us probably more than an hour to reach the cliffs. Along the way, my brothers recounted the tales of the Gray Aisling, attempting to build both tension and excitement. In truth, I don’t think my brothers expected to see anything but fireflies that night, but the adventure was fun enough, and I looked forward to making up stories to share with my friends the next day.

Soon enough, the fields gave way to the open yellow-white rock of the cliffs overlooking the chopping sea that had devoured The Tide’s Revenge. Thom and Siggard directed me to a cluster of large rocks and a skeletal tree, burned, it seems, some years before. There, we crouched, as Thom continued another tale – no doubt invented on the spot – of the Gray Aisling, when, suddenly, Siggard slapped his hand tightly over Thom’s mouth. I looked at Siggard, who was staring at the cliffs past Thom. Something had caught his eye, and now it caught ours as well. A figure was moving along the cliffs – not walking, not moving its legs, just… gliding. And it was getting closer to us.

Well, I about shat myself. My brothers ran, and – as they would tell it later – kept running until they made it back to the safety of their beds. Somehow I stayed right where I was, crouched by that burnt-out tree. I won’t say it was bravery that kept me rooted in place, for I was frozen in terror. The apparition glided silently across the edge of the cliffs. It was the shape of a man – yes, I can say that much – but it was imprecise. I can’t say what it wore, exactly; the image would not fix itself in my mind. Through it, I could see the seas beyond, and it flickered like a wind-tickled candle. The figure seemed wracked with anxious purpose, though I can’t say what about it made it seem so, as it did little more than pace the cliff’s edge, floating some inches above the ground. I watched for some time in the moonlight, until – and I cannot believe I did this, the folly of youth – I called out to the specter. Truthfully, I cannot even remember what I said, something inspired like “hello!” or “you, ghost!” no doubt. The whole show had been like a pantomime, and I expected no more response than one would get from a shadow. But the thing turned its head to face me. And it had a face, sure: it had two eyes, one nose, one mouth. It wasn’t a monster in any conventional sense, all boogie-eyed or befanged. But it was nevertheless the most terrifying face I’ve ever seen. I can’t put my finger on what exactly was wrong with it, except that – that it was wrong. Fundamentally wrong. Terribly wrong. And the eyes that were lit as if with weak candles fixed on me. And the mouth that didn’t belong opened. If a sound escaped those misplaced lips, I didn’t hear. But suddenly, all was icy cold, and I could see my breath. A cloud passed in front of the moon then, and the ghost flickered out entirely. I stayed crouched there for some time longer, but the spirit did not return. Eventually I found my way back to the cottage, though I have no memory of this. In the morning, my brothers asked me what I saw, but I would not speak. Rather, I could not. I could not describe the thing on the cliffs, the Gray Aisling of the Aisle. And I would pay a pirate’s ransom not to have a second look.

The Known Realm

NOTE: These are major points that will play into the story.  Smaller towns and places can be made up as starting points; some will be made up on the fly as the story unfolds.

Great White North: A frozen wasteland unexplored by peoples of the Known Realm.  Considered either wild or the domain of the Vikeron people.

White Dagger: Capital of the Vikeron people, who are said to be the offspring of humans and frost giants.  They are a savage, war-loving people known to conduct raids on Neverwinter and surrounding towns, but they have been dormant for at least the past fifty years.  Some believe they are preparing for a large-scale assault, though no one seems brave enough to conduct an reconnaissance.

Neverwinter (purple): Formerly an affluent kingdom unto itself, this cold city is now the dominion of the Cold Skull Gang, a group that rules the surviving people with an iron hand and conducts raids on southern cities and then hides in its fortified capital.  The Gang has been known to conduct business with the Five Fingers of Laurynvale, but their dealings have been fraught with deceit and long-held grudges.

Dragon Peak (red): Formerly the High Elf city of Perillion, Dragon Peak is now the home of Zangura and the other Scarlet Sisters, as well as a revolving door of other dragon allies.  It has become a hot, desolate place littered with stolen treasures and the remains of great buildings.  Lesser peoples enter it at their peril.

Littlemoor (purple): Formerly the chief residence of the Halflings, now a slave colony where the indigenous people, among others, are bought and sold for work.  It, like the remnants of the kingdom of Laurynvale, falls under the combined rule of the Five Fingers.

Laurynvale (purple): Formerly a large, relatively prosperous kingdom ruled by half human, half elf blood, it is now the metropolis of crime, owned and operated by a loose confederation of gangs known as the Five Fingers.  The Five Fingers – which includes the Slip Witches, the Crocs, the Hollow Eyes, the Sewer Rats, and the remnants of the Grim Hand Gang – have divvied up the city and the slave colony that now exists where Littlemoor once stood.  They continue to raid the surrounding areas, but largely keep to their own fiefdom.

Shallow City (green): Formerly a capital of fashion, commerce, and pleasure, it is now under the dominion of the Orcs, who have re-purposed the trading ships that littered the area into vessels of war.  It now functions as a sort of second capital to the unified Orc Horde.

Cliffs of Grumbaar (green): An inhospitable natural phenomenon that is considered by many to be the birthplace of the Orcs.  It has now become the capital for the unified Horde.

Orc Territory (green): After the Schism in the Pantheon and the fall of many of the more “civilized” kingdoms, the Orcs began to expand into the remaining lands and have now increased their territorial holdings by over 400%.  What exactly has unified the Horde is not known to outsiders, but there are some who believe dark and powerful magic is behind it.  Whatever the case, their strength and numbers are growing every day.

Seran’Vine (black/white): The land of the Wood Elves, a forest of remarkable magical power and secrecy.  Now that the High Elves are scattered and the Drow continue to fight amongst themselves, Seran’Vine is the last remaining bastion of Elven civilization.  Neither the dragons nor the crime families nor the rising Orc Horde have attempted to take Seran’Vine, but the Orcs have successfully seized both major tributaries leading into the forest, which is sure to prompt a conflict at some point, though the Elves have, as usual, remained quiet throughout the Orc expansion.

LaSelle Island: A land of tremendous wealth, prosperity, and stability, it has remained largely untroubled by the upheaval on the mainland, preferring to shroud itself in even more mystery than usual.  In the past, its geographical position allowed it to conduct trade with the Elves, the major kingdoms, and the Spice Aisle by way of Stonebeach, but that may change what with the Orc Horde developing a stronger naval presence.

Shatter Gulf: A devastating stretch of water that is the focal point of several weather anomalies, Shatter Gulf is renowned for destroying even the finest ships.  Sailors traveling between Stonebeach and LaSelle Island avoid it at all costs, and it is often considered the reason the Orcs have taken so long to develop quality ships of their own.

Jagged Isle: Located in the center of Shatter Gulf, this Isle is a huge mystery, as few people have been on it and lived to tell the tale.

Uran Oasis: A land of tremendous beauty and magical power, it sits in between two great forces, the Orc Horde and the Spice Aisle, yet, remarkably, it remains largely unspoiled.  It is considered the home of many a notable magical creature, which makes it a popular destination for top-class hunters – though few have emerged with anything worth boasting of.

Stonebeach (yellow): A large, highly cosmopolitan port city where trade rules.  Unlike the crime capitals of Laurynvale and Neverwinter, it is very heavily regulated by a central business bureau and considered one of the fairest and most balanced places in the Known Realm.  It is the southernmost point of the Spice Aisle and the center of naval trade in the region.

Spice Aisle (yellow): A column of land that stretches from Stonebeach to Bright Mountain, it is considered a free zone where merchants and craftsmen of all kinds can buy and sell at leisure.  Located between the Known Realm and the as yet uncharted territories of Punjabar and Soa-Teran, it is “ruled” by a collection of Overloads who protect their investments ferociously.  Though it may not be as chaotic as Laurynvale, it is much more brutal than Stonebeach; thieves and fools beware.

Drogsheim (brown): A kingdom built in what was once a wasteland by a collection of lower-level nobles supporting the soon-to-be royal Drogley family, Drogsheim is arguably the most stable kingdom in the region, but that is largely to do with the brutal way in which the royal family enforce their control.  Constant vigilance is highly valued since it is surrounded by Orc Territory, other kingdoms, Bright Forest, and Uran Oasis and thus quite vulnerable.  Unfortunately, it also depends greatly on trade to get the necessary amenities, meaning its people tend to be poor and its trade policies tend to be strict.

Blackplane (brown): Like Drogsheim, Blackplane rose up from the chaos as a relative oasis of calm, though unlike its neighbor, it has tended to maintain a more open policy, particularly when it comes to pleasure.  Sharing a border with the Spice Aisle means access to a great many amenities; unfortunately, it also means being taken advantage of by the Aisle’s many crafty Overlords, who have effectively put Blackplane into their pocket by getting its people hooked on an assortment of drugs and alcohols.  They also depend very much on Blackplane when it comes to trading in flesh.

Wanderbelt (brown): Like Laurynvale before it, Wanderbelt has found relative stability and prosperity through the allegiance of two key races: the Humans and the Dwarves.  Many of the Dwarves are renegades and outcasts from the Seven Clans of the Rock, and have sought patches of land of their own.  They have intermarried with Humans, themselves looking for stability after the Schism, and have established joint rule over their young kingdom.  Of the three new kingdoms in the region, they are no doubt the wealthiest thanks to an impressive stock of Dwarven valuables, but this creates tension between the two main factions, with many of the Dwarves viewing their Human counterpoints as free-loaders. 

Bright Forest: After being heavily burned in the lead-up to the Schism, Bright Forest has rebounded well and grown in size and mystique.  Once a haven for gangs, witches, and even Dragons, it is now treated with great awe and even suspicion by the peoples near it, with only Pixies, Gnomes, and, rumor has it, some Elves calling it home, at least in numbers.

Dwarf Territory (blue): After nearly a thousand years of relative peace, the Seven Clans of the Rock have begun to war among themselves again.  High upon their hills and deep in their mountains, the Dwarves have stirred up old grudges and created some new ones as they try to come to terms with their new world.  Threatened by the new kingdoms at their border, ever-suspicious of the mysterious peoples in the East, wary of the rising Orc Hordes in the South, and certain that the dragons will come from the West for their valuables, the Dwarves consider themselves an endangered species.  Rather than band together, though, the Clans of Grimstone, Rubyhammer, Brightforge, Highpeak, Thunderaxe, Greathill, and Darkore all have their own opinions and, in true Dwarf fashion, will not rest until those opinions are obeyed.

Bright Mountain: Shrouded in mystery and renowned for its magic, the Mountain is where many a traveler, adventurer, and poet goes for bounty and guidance.  Like Uran Oasis and Bright Forest, few people get exactly what they are looking for out of the Mountain, except for the elusive Monks of the Order of the Lotus, who have considered the Mountain their home for thousands of years.

Punjabar: A strange and mysterious nation spread out over the great plains to the East, the Punjabar people largely keep to themselves, though they do trade heavily in the Spice Aisle.  Some in the West consider them an imminent threat, especially in such uncertain times, but they have yet to make any sudden moves.

Dragon Isle (orange): A secluded island that is home to the Dragonborn, the long lost children of earliest Dragons, Dragon Isle is carefully avoided by all who pass near it.  The land itself is desolate and inhospitable, largely thanks to the efforts of its residents, and the food sources are becoming strained.  Also strained are the already frayed relationships between the various species of Dragonborn, all of which have their own clan divisions to contend with.  The return of the Dragons on the mainland has stirred the pot significantly, with many of the chromatic Dragonborn eager to join their forebears, while others are skeptical and even actively resistant to a reunion.  The metallic Dragonborn, who are as rare as their own creators, are mostly keen to join the fight against the Dragons, while some remain suspicious of the other peoples and are content to leave them to their own purposes.  Despite these divisions, many of the Dragonborn share a kinship with each other, all of them being descendant from a much more powerful and largely negligent race, not to mention being so far removed from the rest of the world.

A View of the World

Captain Tarbiter had survived the Thirteen Gales of the Southpoint Seas, a claim he loved to boast about to anyone within earshot and beyond, whether or not they had already heard it a hundred times before.  In truth, it was a claim worth boasting of, for the Thirteen Gales had devastated many of the Sea’s islands and very nearly destroyed the port city of Stonebeach, something hordes of pirates and foreign invaders had never come close to accomplishing.  The specifics of his survival seemed to change according to the listener: to strangers, he was a courageous seadog who had safely guided his ship, the Gertrude, through all thirteen of the Gales and back to harbor, but to those who knew him, the tale most revolved around him courageously fortifying the port ahead of the seventh and deadliest Gale.  Residents had long since given up trying to corner him on one version or another, because he was an exceedingly loud and annoying man, and the stench emanating from his thick, crumb coated beard had enough bite on its own to match his impressive bark.

Needless to say, Tarbiter didn’t have many friends, nor did he have many lovers, who were generally put off by his stench and his reckless disregard for personal maintenance.  He preferred to blame their aversion to him on “peg leg prejudice,” though even a cursory glance at his tavern of choice would prove him wrong; if anything, the ladies of the evening were particularly kind to the “woodenly abled” as they preferred to be called.  Tarbiter’s nights, therefore, were primarily filled with the persistent badgering of newcomers, many of whom were neither polite nor strong-willed enough to put up with him and his companion funk.

However, every now and then, a kind soul would entertain Tarbiter’s many stories for an hour or two.  Tarbiter lived for those nights, and he thought he had struck gold when a strange hooded figure sauntered into the tavern late one night, requesting little more than a weak cider and a corner table at which to entertain locals.  The barkeep was immediately put off by the visitor’s dark demeanor and thin rasp of a voice, but Tarbiter was hooked the moment he heard the word “entertain,” and immediately offered up his services.

“I’ve got some stories to tell you, I have,” he barked, shoving himself in between the raspy man and the barkeep.  “Survived the Thirteen Gales, I did.”

“The Thirteen Gales?” the figure asked in his strange whisper.  “Pray tell, what were those?”

“Oh, I’ll tell you, I will.  Come on, let’s pull up a chair.”

Tarbiter gave the barkeep a smug smile and ushered his new friend over to a table.  He put his hand on the stranger’s back to guide him and nearly recoiled as his touch was met with a thin, bony frame lurking underneath the dark cloak.

“By Umbree, old man, you’re skin and bone!” he exclaimed.  “You should get yourself a stew, you should.  It’s shit, but at least it’s thick.”

“No need, I assure you,” came the whisper.  “I am nursing myself back to health, slowly but surely.  Thank you for your kindness.”

Tarbiter decided not to push the matter and instead pulled a chair out for the thin creature, who sat and nodded his head in thanks.  Tarbiter then swaggered all of one step over to his own chair and sat down, ready to launch into his rollicking tale as soon as his posterior hit the wood.  It was only when he sat down that he finally got a look at his companion’s face, or what he could make of it, which was enough to give him pause.  He could only really see hints of muddied red by the jaw and perhaps the outline of a long, thin nose with a pronounced tip.  He also noticed the peculiar shape of the hood: it seemed to have odd lumps in it, as if it were hiding something underneath.  It was then he realized what he was dealing with.

“Hope you don’t mind me saying,” he began conspiratorially.  “But we don’t get many of your kind around here, even in this place.  A few stick around but most of them pass through quick, they do.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” the figure said, raising his glass with a gloved hand and taking a sip.  “Many of ‘my kind’ prefer to keep to themselves anyway.  Bad reputation and all.”

“I’ve no intention of judging you, I don’t,” Tarbiter said with a half chuckle.  “I just thought it worth mentioning.  What brings you here?”

“I thought you were the one doing the talking.”

“Well…”

“Tell me about these Thirteen Gales.  This sea.  These lands.  Tell me everything.  I’ve been gone a long, long time.”

Tarbiter was taken aback.  He had never actually been asked to talk about anything, not even his famous story.  He was so baffled by the request that he simply stared at the mysterious Tiefling with his mouth agape. 

“Let me get you started,” the figure said.

Tarbiter watched as he reached into the folds of his cloak and produced a scroll, which he gently unrolled to reveal a map of the known world.

“Tell me,” he began, “what’s going on here?”

He traced a large area in the West with the tip of his finger.

“What’s going on there?  Well, um…how long have you been gone?”

“Almost one hundred and fifty years.”

Tarbiter stared, unsure what the intelligent, or even polite, thing to do was.

“That’s…a long time,” he stammered, pleased to have said anything at all.

“Yes, it is,” the figure whispered, harsher this time.  “I have a lot to catch up on.  Tell me what is going on in these places.”

Not for the first time, Tarbiter began to wonder if it wouldn’t be best to see himself out of a tricky situation and live to talk another day.  Not only was the task of explaining all that was going on quite a monumental one, but his new friend, if one could call him that, was starting to make him rather uneasy.  As if sensing that, the figure retreated his hand into his cloak once again and produced five shiny gold coins, the likes of which Tarbiter had never seen before.

“If it’s money you want, I’ve got it,” said the Tiefling.

Tarbiter briefly eyed the gold and came to the realization that he didn’t have anything better to do that night than to earn some money giving history and geography lessons to a complete stranger in a tavern.  So he cleared his throat, took a swig of his salty mead, and set off.

He explained to the Tiefling that the West had descended into chaos after the so-called Great Schism and that the great cities of Laurynvale, Shallow City, and Neverwinter, among others, had fallen into disarray.  Laurynvale and Neverwinter were sectioned off and ruled by assorted crime syndicates and loose associations of nobles whose ancestors had long since been dethroned.  The other towns and small kingdoms around them had been burned to the ground or turned into havens for thugs, traveling merchants, and refugees.  Shallow City, meanwhile, was now a stronghold of the Orcs, who had constructed themselves an impressive navy to go with their already formidable ground force.  The Halfling shire of Littlemoor had been overrun and converted into a slave colony where the Halflings were put to work making trinkets, clothes, and other wares for humans to sell.  The Dwarf clans of the north were locked in another long grudge war, yet no one dared take advantage of their distraction to make a grab of their precious mines lest they be dragged into the conflict and bashed into smithereens. 

The East, of course, had escaped much of this mayhem and was relatively calm.  Large, relatively young kingdoms like Drogsheim, Wanderbelt, and Blackplane were stable but brutal dominions over the vast planes and wastelands that spread over the center of the continent.  Most of their goods came through trade with the Punjabar and Soa-Teran peoples of the Far East, primarily through the Spice Aisle, a large swath of land that extended from Stonebeach to Bright Mountain.  The Spice Aisle was practically a nation unto itself, a place where commerce reigned and people of all shapes, sizes, colors, faiths, and dispositions could mingle.  It was a dangerous place, though, especially for a thief or a fool, neither of which were tolerated, particularly by the Overlords, who looked after their stores as greedily as dragons.

Tarbiter mentioned dragons offhandedly, but it seemed to pique the Tiefling’s interest.

“What of the dragons?” he asked, shifting ever so slightly closer.

“Well this island here,” he said, tapping at a large mass of land to the south and east of them, “is teeming with Dragonborn.  Nasty creatures, they are.  Just like Dwarves – always fighting among themselves, every clan for their own.  They’ve been antsy every since the dragons started to stake their claim to lands in the West.”

“Is that so?”

“It is.  Rumor has it – and this is only a rumor because no one’s foolhardy enough to get too close – rumor has it there’s a nest of dragons who have taken up in the old city of the Elves that was destroyed.  They say the dragons are the ones that really rule the West.  They’re quiet for a now, they are, but there was a time when they would ravage anything in sight looking for even the slightest speck of gold.”

“The gods are gone and the dragons play,” the figure mused softly.

“So some people say.  Never put much stock in the gods meself, no sire.  Big waste of time praying to a bunch of jumped up giants who are no better than the rest of us.”

“I would have to agree with you on that,” the figure whispered with more than a hint of bitterness in his voice.  “Tell me, do you make trips to the Dragonborn island?”

“To Dragon Isle?  Never.  Few do, very few do.  The Dragonborn are angry types, they are.  Very difficult to deal with.”

“What might persuade you to take me for a visit?”

“What do you want to do with them?  They won’t like Tieflings, they won’t, you can be sure of that.”

“I think I can persuade some of them to like me.  I’ve persuaded you.”

With that, he reached back into his cloak and produced yet more gold for Tarbiter to stare at.  Tarbiter obliged, his mouth salivating as his eyes traced the glinting edge of each coin.

“It would make for some lovely stories to tell, don’t you think?” the figure whispered seductively.

“You can say that again,” Tarbiter whispered back, his mind made up and his fingers trembling with ecstasy.  “I can rustle up a crew and be ready in a few days, I can.”

“Promise them gold and have them ready by morning,” the Tiefling countered.  “I am in a bit of a rush.”

“Consider it done, mister…I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”

“Forget the name.  Part of the pay is for discretion.”

“Oh…I see.  I’ll just get to work then…”

Tarbiter, thrilled to be working on a job that was both profitable and mysterious, got up to go about his business, but was stopped when the figure’s thin but strong hand reached out and grabbed his forearm.

“I do mean discretion,” he whispered with a trace of menace.  “No one needs to know I’m here.  Not even your crew.”

“But it’ll be hard to keep you hidden on a boat for that long…” Tarbiter ventured delicately.

“I have ways.  Just keep quiet.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

The figure released Tarbiter and went back to his cider.  Tarbiter turned and scuttled off, a chill running up his spine.  When he turned to make sure his new employer could see him hurrying, he found that their table was now empty, save for the flagon of cider.  There was no sign of a rushed departure, and the crowd that was chatting and milling about seemed entirely nonplussed.  Tarbiter scratched his head in confusion and wondered if he should have gotten his gold first.

“What’s that, Tarbiter?” the barkeep chuckled huskily.  “You scare another one away.”

The barkeep’s mockery emboldened Tarbiter and he set off once again for the door.

“Up yours, Muckley, I’ve got work to do.”

And with that he burst out into the night to rustle up a crew, quite uncertain about what he had signed up for but determined to see it through regardless.