Brothers of Rhundil

Wolves in the Night
Training for something...

An explosion rips apart the northern tower followed up closely by another blast near the main gate. Shouts erupt all over the Ivory Tower barracks as soldiers leap out of their beds and hastily don their armor; many go without and just run outside to see where the cause of the commotion began.

Gu’ar, Maximus, and Mertimil follow Cyrus and Vantheryn as they make their way down the hall and through the courtyard doorway. Thick black smoke rolls across the training grounds; obscuring their view of the main gates. Fires leap out of the north tower windows and near rooftops near the main hall. Stones and rubble litter the courtyard grounds and soldiers wander out into the darkness cautiously.

Suddenly, fully armored figures emerge from the smoky darkness – the mark of the Red Wolves is clearly visible on their breastplates and weapon hilts. With a short upbeat of wind, the smoke clears momentarily, revealing a mass of Red Wolf soldiers squeezing through the main gates.

Without another thought,Brem runs past the awe-struck trainees and howls a war cry; his over sized blacksmith hammer raised high, and his poorly tied pants dipping dangerously low over his hips. Like he was slapped across the face, Vantheryn steps forward out of shock and begins forming a protective spell around Brem. Gu’ar and Maximus look toward the gate tower and break into a full sprint for the staircase entryway. Mertimil follows in step but slows as a man; brandishing a great iron mace, spots her and breaks away from the pack.

The room is dark, but a figure, clad in red, stands over the lifeless corpse near the gate controls. Only the light from lower levels can be seen past the huge coils of chains in the center of the room. Gu’ar makes his move; he throws the human male against the back wall and pummels him with fists so ferocious, his mentors would be ashamed. The red wolf soldier slashes out with a cold blade and slides the nimble monk aside. But Gu’ar was ready. With a small cry, the half-orc slams a thick fist into the man’s soft ribs and spins to deliver the deathblow; sourced at the heel. The soldier eats it in the jaw and reels back over the gate chain opening in the floor, falling to his death and lowering the massive iron barrier by a few feet.

On the first floor, Maximus wipes his blades clean and looks down at the small half-elf that just a moment ago, decided to keep him from completely closing the entry gate. Their efforts had managed to stem the unending flow of Red Wolf soldiers; seemingly bent on the complete annihilation of the Ivory Knights. Gu’ar joins Maximus at the foot of the steps and looks out over the field of battle. The yard is riddled with the dead and dying, but they are surprised to see that most of the area is covered in red sashes and wolf-like insignia. Perhaps they will survive this night and live to tell of it, but for now they must persevere.

Mertimil calls from the stone top of some entryway steps, close the barrack entrance. Her long elfish hair is ratty and untidy from movement and exertion; a dribble of blood can be seen running down the side of her face. Now that the gates were closed, it looked as though the tides have been turned and now that Ivory knights were able to get their faculties in order, Maximus turned towards his companions.

“I want my gear back – we should take this opportunity to go search through the vaults if someone has managed to open them.”

Cyrus began to plea, but after one look at Mertimil, his words cut off and he nodded reluctantly. He then turned back at the doorway and ran to assist Vantheryn and Brem; doing his very best to hide the disapproving look on his face.

It wasn’t long before the three had made their way through the winding hallways and bustling corridors and retrieved their gear from the various vaults. As they moved towards the courtyard exist to continue assisting in the battle, some familiar shouts could be heard near the main hall. Gu’ar neared the doorway just in time to see Greenwald smash against a tabletop and quickly regain himself as a tall pale man with no hair, lunged inward with a faintly glowing bare fist. The speed at which the two were fighting was staggering, but what each couldn’t beleive was the fact that Arthur Greenwald was apparently very well versed in the ways of hand to hand combat. Not only that, but he was almost as agile as a monk…

Gu’ar, was caught completely off guard by this simple truth. The man that had asked him to join the Ivory Knight ranks, the one who had promised to tell him of his true homeland, was also a man of the Iron Body? He had little time to roll this fact over in his mind when it became clear that the manGreenwald was fighting, knew techniques that had long since died out. The vibrating palm and burning finger was perfected by Master Roshi Tsubasa of the Durubai Dwarves, and he taught his skills to no man in order to preserve the balance of power within the martial community. So how did this stranger know such techniques? Guar watched as the two danced across the room; his eyes barely able to catch the subtle movements that made certain motions possible. To his trained eyes he was also able to see that Greenwald had sustained a massive cut to the kidney and was steadily bleeding out – his movements becoming sluggish and losing their rigidity. Before he could think, the stranger twisted his waist around in an almost unnatural motion and released a full 5-point Buddhist palm directly into Greenwald’s chest. To the others, this looked like a normal strike to the torso, but to Gu’ar, this was game over for the commander. He could almost see the chi get pushed from Greenwald’s core as the man darted back; fully knowing he had won. Gu’ar and the others ran into the room to aid the fallen companion, but the stranger only paused for a moment to consider the situation before turning away and running through an empty doorway. Perhaps he didn’t think he could handle a full team of fighters? Or perhaps they were nothing more than a fly to him and by stopping to kill them all would only be a waist of his precious time?

Few words were exchanged between Gu’ar and the dying monk; there was an unspoken truth that existed between the two and words would only muddle the rest. Greenwald tugged at his jerkin and revealed an elegant key around his neck. It was ornate in design and held a softly glowing blue crystal in the center.

“Take this to the north tower and get away… from here”, the emphasis on those two words had seemed odd but he continued. “Learn the truth and master it, you three have the power to change ….everything”. And at those words, his last breath left his body and Greenwald’s eyes looked out where no one could see.

The battle outside was coming to a close and the Red Wolves had failed at their extermination attempt due to the lack of reinforcing troops getting through the main gates. As the remaining attackers were dealt with, the three members moved quietly to the north tower door only to realize that it was completely smashed in the explosion. What did this mean for them? What use was this peculiar key now?

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Ivory Onlooker
They show promise...

Magister Roudius looked down on the new trainees in the courtyard. His eyes scanned over the new recruits; pausing for only a few moments on a young human boy reaching down to help up a half orc.

“They show promise, but I sense too much compassion and concern for their comrades. When we were on the front lines, nothing could stop us-”, he paused, “Nothing. And that is why we were able to achieve what we did, Al.”

The magister turned from the window and looked towards the impressive armored man leaning against the stone war room column. General Hawken looked past the magister out the window – the light sending a strong glimmer in his powerful golden eyes.

“No, it was because we worked hard to keep your pompous ass alive while you lobbed pitiful sparks at anyone who was in sight. You knew nothing of teamwork or true struggle. I plan to train my men in a fashion that we never had, and they will be better for it. Better soldiers, better friends, and better individuals”, he said.

“You always did have that false sense of goodness in people”, said the magister. “Speaking of that, have you reconsidered my offer?”

Hawken pushed off the column and moved to the door; his hand resting on the ornate brass handle. “All of you are in this for the wrong reasons. You are talking about throwing away lives just to keep people in the dark, our people.” He opened the heavy door and stood by the opening. “My mind is set. Do what you will, but I will have no part in it.”

Looking obviously displeased, Magister Roudious pursed his lips and stiffly moved through the door. “Fine, but you are missing out on a great opportunity”. As he passed through the open door he whispered under his breath, “You will regret your decision”.

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House of The Ivory Knights
Meet, Greet, and Fight

The afternoon sun barely shown through the soft grey clouds in the sky and the cool winds offered the trainees some comfort after the long grueling fighting sessions. The recruits were broken out into groups of three; preassigned by bunk columns from earlier, and were organized by way of specialties. Within a team was a heavy and light guardsman, and a mystics user. By pairing the members up in this fashion, they could decide how best to utilize their skills and strengths when placed in a difficult situation. To begin the training, Commander Greenwald would have two teams face off multiple times in order to illuminate the strengths of team members. This way, teams could develop their own styles and tactics.

A bead of sweat ran down his temple as Cyrus stood back to rest. It was the first time his team had succeeded in overwhelming Mertimil, Maximus, and Gu’ar; a team he would be proud to fight alongside if ever the need arose. Vantheryn and Brem were starting to get back up as the healing aura that was cast over this place by Arla Lightbringer did its work. Her statue-like gaze seemed to penetrate all as he looked over at her armored form at the top of the steps, near the main hall.
Several other teams were in the same situation and many of them had already adapted to their new groups – learning of their best skill sets and finding weaknesses among other teams. Cyrus dropped the long sword he was carrying and went over to Gu’ar, who was on his side breathing heavily. The gash in his side was closing up and the pained look on his face was easing up. As Gu’ar turned to look at him, Cyrus reached out a hand to help him up. Gu’ar huffed and ignored the show of assistance. What was it that bothered him? Why did he have to close himself off and shirk those that wish him well? For being a well-mannered half-orc, he was certainly not showing it at this moment.

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The Stage is Set
For every hero, there is a beginning

Gu’ar

The lamplight flickers in the densely packed inn of the Broken Wheel. Gu’ar sips the luke-warm ale in front of him; its contents refreshing and full-bodied. He catches several words from conversations around him and is reminded of how different the world is when compared to his home at the monastery. The problems with money, land use, and work were foreign to him. At the monastery, it was only about survival and finding a harmonious balance between the physical realm and the ethereal; perfecting the body and mind by meditations and prayers to the ancient gods of lore.

While Gu’ar was lost in thought, a man bumped into him attempting to pass by another table.
“Excuse me there- o-oh! Sorry to trouble you, but may you be from the low lands of Gar’Shan?”, he asked politely. The man was wearing a rough leather tunic with a high collar, soft textured cloth pants and high-worn jackboots.

“I am – well, the monastery at least”, replied Gu’ar. “I am here to learn more about my kind – a great city such as this one is sure to provide me with the answers I seek” he added after the man’s eyebrows rose towards his hairline.

The night wore on and the man ended up sitting and chatting with the half-orc. As it turned out, he was once a spice merchant from Tumlan who frequented that part of the trade route. The man was actually very aware of the nature the barbarian tribes had and quite often traded goods with them. When the trade lines in that region began to dry up, he used his vast network for military contacts and correspondence in the capitol and was eventually over several years promoted to Battalion Commander.

“Tell you what”, he proposed. “I will give you a place to stay, food to eat, money to spend, and all the information I know about your clan if you join our ranks for a short time? We could use a level-headed individual such as yourself, and I am certain you could teach some of the recruits a thing or two about advanced hand to hand combat!”

Gu’ar thought for a moment and pondered the opportunity. He didn’t have a course yet, and the monks taught him to follow the path of life; to flow like water around river rocks and react swiftly with change. Perhaps this chance meeting will give him the answers he seeks?

“I agree to your offer…umm?” Gu’ar just realized, he had never asked for the man’s name.
“Arthur Greenwald, or I suppose now it would be Commander Greenwald”, he laughed.

Mertimil

Another note is scrawled into the reference book Mertimil has been working on. The Head Librarian, Mr. Mandragon, has tasked her with recording all the books that have anything to do with High Void Architecture – perhaps to glean an understanding of the floating nodes spread across the planet? Either way, it was a daunting task that Mertimil was certain to complete within the month. She had explored the most of the library during her stay, but it every once in a while, she would lose her way and discover a new wing or room she never knew existed. For this reason, she slowly began to rely on her arcane abilities to track the library and mentally develop a map.

She set the heavy tomb she was just working with down on the flagstone and stood up from the seat by the old mantle fireplace. The long day of short movements and staring at pages began to wear on her, and Mertimil thought a short walk might relax her slowly stiffening back. It was growing late and the library was beginning to flush out – but the wing she was currently in didn’t see many visitors. The sky outside was gold with the fading sun and shone through the tall stained glass windows; adorned with imagery of great battles long past and famous historians of old. The high arched ceilings were imposing and grand. Her mind floated away as Mertimil walked down the aisles, the melody of colors washing together as she passed row after row.

The light faded further and the gentle glow of Biesbron ivy slowly lit themselves; their tendrils weaving over the stone columns like veins pumping with gold. Mertimil paused to marvel at its artful appearance and how much it looked like script. She suddenly remembered what she was supposed to be doing and looked around her. The spell finding charm wasn’t activated and the area she was in looked unfamiliar! With quick steps, she skirted over to the nearest main walkway – it was unfamiliar as well! Had she accidentally discovered another wing? While she was thinking about this new fact, a silent but barely noticeable click was heard just behind a couple rows; near the exterior wall shelves. When Mertimil rounded the great stone column and looked towards the source of the sound, she stared in awe as a section of books recessed into the wall and formed an opening. More Biesbron ivy could be seen in the now accessible room. Carefully, she entered the space and saw that it was a great observatory with a giant brass looking glass of odd proportions suspended in the center. The observatory was circular and the walls were covered with more ancient looking books – several of which were decaying and covered in thick layers of dust. They had obviously been neglected and she was going to immediately take it upon herself to clean them up.

She reached up and dusted off another book with her hand; she was covered with cobwebs and dust particles floated through the air like an early morning mist. Something appeared to be above the book and she strained to grab it from the ladder rung that supported her. If only it was just barely closer… and then she remembered who she was: a wizard. How foolish this must seem, Mertimil thought to herself. As she began to whisper the words of power, two things happened in quick succession. A book landed in the middle of the room beneath her – not like it had fallen, but as if it had been thrown, and secondly the magic words were almost complete and as she turned her attention back to the shelf only to see that several of the books were beginning to glow blue; getting brighter with every word!

She was so alarmed that Mertimil lost her balance and began to fall backwards off the ladder. Her hand reach out for the rungs and accidental grabbed a glowing book as she fell to the floor. She hit the hard stone floor with a thud and the book fell open next to her. The pages were unlike any she had ever seen: they were stiff and somewhat hard. With another blink, Mertimil saw that the writing and images on the pages were moving.

’What are you doing here! This is a restricted section!" came a shout at the room opening. Three guards and a short squat turtle of a man emerged. “Guards, take her away! See that this little magical snoop finds her way to the barracks.”

“B-but I’m assistant to the Head Librarian! I didn’t know this was off limits – Just ask Mr. Mandragon!” she pleaded. The small man quickly stooped down and slammed the book shut and the blue lights went out with a soft chime.

“I’ll have a few words with him, my dear. But for now…” He jerked his head and the guards scooped Mertimil up and drug her out of the library.

. * * * .

After four days of interrogation, Mertimil was told she would be released under reassignment. Not a word from Tom Mandragon in all of this. How could her employer, her friend, a man of such kindness leave her in this place?

“Mertimil Allanar”, said a tall imposing guard with a high point cap, “you are to be reassigned to the barracks and trained as a battlefield magi. Your skills and cooperation with officials have given you pardon, and it has been decided to place you under the direct supervision of Commander Arthur Greenwald of the Ivory Knights. Your work as an assistant in the library has proven valuable, but you are needed by the people of Mannon. The belongings you had in the library quarters have been moved to your new bunk within the Barracks and your finances have been transferred to the city Vault under your name. They may be accessed at a later date once your training is completed. Good luck and may the gods keep you.” He raised a fist to his chest in salute and walked away without another word.

Maximus

Maximus weighs the sack of gold that was handed to him. 36 pieces of gold, not a bad deal, he thought to himself.

It was only yesterday that the price on his head was about that much – and now, his punishment is abolished and he is getting paid more than the price for his head…

for a book.

It was 4 days ago when the man in black approached Maximus grovelling in the streets for food; stealing what he could and killing for the rest. The proposition of gold seemed too great to pass up, and his stomach was urging him on. He needed food AND wine, and not the trash they sell off at Gelding’s Corner. This would be top shelf, and cleaner than a kings goblet.

Stealing a key into the Grand Library was enough, but getting through the library unnoticed was another. His gloved hand palmed the leather patch that was given to him. The patch contained a map of the library and had the location of a secret room said to contain the book he needed. Whatever was in this book, he didn’t care. With the thought of fresh wine, food, and a warm body next to him to boot, who cared what a damn book had to tell him?

Once he was able to get the most immediate issues taken care of, he could… no, there was no time for that. The blade was back in his hand, still stained with the blood of his parents. Their screams fresh in his mind, but their faces faded by time. He was not ready to find the men that murdered them, but would there ever be? he thought to himself.

The Biesbron ivy pattern on the column lead him to the next wing, just as the leather scrap said. He searched for the stained glass image of Carnath Bashiro and took to the far left row of books; just as instructed. As he reached the books on Agriculture in Westoros, Maximus thought he heard someone out in the hall. Quick as a shadow and quiet as a fog bank, he peered around the row of books. There was someone standing just around the corner with their back turned, but it appeared that were too preoccupied with something else. He slithered back over to the books and hastily searched for the book labeled Plants for Ponies and Portholes by James E. Fullman of House Burns. Third row from the bottom, and right between two shelf columns he found it. Just as the leather patch described, he pushed on the label and the spine of the book opened like a door; revealing a keyhole.

The troubling thing was he didn’t have a key, but no matter. The lock-pick set he carried on his thigh and the skills he picked up on the streets would make quick work of this. Just before he successfully picked the lock, the device produced a louder-than-expected click and Maximus rolled back quickly; thinking it might be a trap. It was a good thing too because not a second later, someone rounded the corner and looked down the row. Maximus hid behind a row of books knowing that if he looked now, he would be spotted.

The search for the book was going badly. If only he could have some peace and quiet…alone.
He laughed at the thought. Peace and quiet to steal something! What a dream.

Before he decided to enter the room and dispose of the unwanted intruder, Maximus would check to see if anyone else heard the noises; someone who might be more trouble. The coast looked clear, until he saw the glint of armor….

. * * * .

He waited until the surprisingly good looking young half-elf was hauled away before he moved to the opening of the room. Maximus saw a book in the middle of the floor. But before he could move, an armored hand was resting on his shoulder.

There is my little rat”, the voice behind him said. Maximus closed his eyes and muttered a curse.

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The Hound
Cold Winds on a Cold Night

The tavern is cold and drafty despite the fire in the hearth. Worn and weary travelers huddle with their cloaks around a table, listening to the tales of an armored adventurer over bowls of thin soup and watered down ale. The adventurer, strong and tested in battle, regaled his stories of combat and voyage, monsters slain and favors won. His coin flowed freely, buying round after round of the meager offerings held by such a wayward hamlet. Even though his boasts stretched the bounds of belief, the travelers and other listeners soaked it in like day-old bread in a warm stew, for it was better to listen to tall tales than sink into their own troubles. The ex-soldier knew his role was more than just to fight for commoners, but also to grant them reprieve from their daily worries, and so he fulfilled that task with gusto. With gestures and drama he revealed the hole where his chainmail had been pierced by an Orcish arrow, and told of how he had fought through the pain to slay the archer. He drew his sword, still stained with blood from the slaughter, and watched as the other travelers eyes-widened. Raising it, he elegantly rotated the blade in his hand, he dramatically stabbed it into the table for effect as told of his defeat of the Arrow Ridge bandits. Those at the table jumped back, causing a thin-faced man to flip his bowl soup over the fighter. A flash of anger passed over the warriors face, before he regained his composure as the traveler profusely apologised.

“Well, with that, I think I may have to call it a night. Tomorrow, I ride to meet up with my party to see what can be done about those bandits in the hills that have been harassing travelers”

The small crowded mustered a small applause as the hero went up to his room upstairs. He took off his armor, carefully laying it out, and rested his sword against the bed. Counting his coins, he chuckled in slight displeasure at the diminished pile. Another big score would be around the corner, and he would get everything back and more.

“It’s funny, a professional soldier would have taken his armor to get repaired as soon as he could”

With a shock, the adventurer turned to see the thin-faced man standing calmly in his room, his hands running across the chainmail carefully laid out on the table. He hadn’t heard the door open. As he stammered to find his words, the thin-faced man continued,

“But you are not a professional soldier, now are you? No, I think not. Nor was this armor pierced by an Orcish arrow, the hole is too small”

“What.. What are you getting at? Who are you?” stammered the adventurer, shaking slightly. His eyes darted to his sword.

“I am Justice, and you are charged with the murder and impersonation of a soldier of the realm. Terrus Apparaus Fata.” Words of power echoed out of the mouth of thin-faced man and filled the room with terror. Shaking, the formerly boastful warrior blurted “You won’t get away with this, I have friends in the hills, and they are coming tomorrow, with my report or not! They will avenge me!”

“I have already dealt with your bandit brethren. They will join you in the afterlife” The gleam of steel flashed. The imposter crumpled to the floor, his blood pooling around him.

Aarl Coldwind paused, said a silent prayer and calmly returned to his room. He gathered his things and headed out into the cold dark night.

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A Chance Discovery
A Wealth of Knowledge

Mertimil Allanar sweeps across another page with her slender finger. The rich text of another language is processed instantaneously as she seeks out key phrases and words so that the book may be categorized properly. It has been almost 7 moon phases since the Lead Scholar for the High Library of Mannon requested to take her on as an apprentice; an opportunity few ever see and even fewer are chosen for. With such a vast collection of knowledge in one place, it was hard for the half-elf to pass up when the old Scholar approached her at The Broken Wheel. With full wages, lavish living quarters in the library, and access to almost every piece of written historical text this continent had to offer, Mertimil took up the position immediately and with no hesitations.

This particular book was written by Wratha Hamlin III, titled Halfhammers and Holdings; a Bard’s account of the Dwarven mining practices of the West and how they log findings compared to that of the South Barrens Dwarves.

Mertimil closes the book and scrawls down a shelf division and numerical location from memory on a parchment list. She pulls back a loose strand of her long hazelnut hair behind her pointed ear and looks over the several stacks of old dust-covered books. The gnome who had held the position before her had apparently abandoned his work early on and favored napping in the shelves. Because of this, the old Head Scholar would check in on her several times a day and verify that work was being done, and in the manner he required.

“This library contains more knowledge than all the combined crypts of the elven kings”, the old human would always say. A fact, she never believed. Tom Mandragon was his name, and though he was weary with time, he had a sense of charm about him that denied his age. He spoke with a rhythm and had a distinct sing-song tone to his old voice. Occasionally Mertimil wondered where he was from and even once attempted to decipher the mystery of his past – but failed utterly when he took to drinking heavily and droned on about the importance of Hefflekroon Snouts and its impact on the development of modern trading techniques.

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The Arrival
Treasure of the West

The rain is falling and the air is thick with humidity.
Pools of water fill the streets and reflect the dark skies like hundreds of small mirrors. Overwhelming amounts of mud make it difficult to traverse the side streets until it meets up with the smooth cobblestones of the city and planks of wood have been laid out for those who are relatively “height challenged”. A hooded figure makes its way smoothly across the planks and onto the bleak front porch of a particularly popular inn known as The Broken Wheel. The figure pulls back the soaking wet hood to reveal a thick, jet black knot of hair; pulled back into a short tail. The green skin of the half-orc shines briefly as the moon peeks out from behind a water-leaden cloud and is smothered shortly after by the onslaught of night. A gash of light slices through darkness like a gaping wound as Gu’ar opens the inn door and enters. The laughter and merriment within the vicinity doesn’t skip a beat with the presence of a newcomer.

A gnomish bard plays another upbeat tune on his pipa and more coin drops in his cap laid out before him on the tabletop. Gu’ar motions to the plump woman cleaning a glass near the bar and she sets the rag down in exchange for a fresh mug of ale. Several gas lamps cast a warm and inviting glow around the room; their light is a welcome site to the half-orc. It has been a long journey from the hills of Gar’Shan and he wished to gain some insight into the comings and goings of a real city. What better place to learn about his kind than the great Capitol City of Mannon. Of course he could return to his ancestral tribe, but they were nomadic and … rough around the edges as well as unrefined. Perhaps one day he would gather more information on their whereabouts and truly learn about who he was and where he had come from, but today he would learn of the grandeur and cultural diversity of Mannon.

A young man vomits over the side of his table near Gu’ar and the plump woman bringing Gu’ar his beverage slips in the sick and almost loses balance. She catches herself and quickly spins on the spot; proceeding to land a hard blow in the boy’s face with her heel.

“So sorry about that, love.” She says cheerfully to Gu’ar. “May I be getting’ ya anything else? A hot stew, perhaps?”

“I –I think I’ll pass”, Gu’ar responds, kindly.

Yes, the Capitol City of Mannon. Treasure of the West.

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The General
Lines of age

He slammed the lead mug against the thick wooden tabletop; sending drink all over and soaking the small bit of parchment he had just read. General Alron Hawken rose from his chair and walked across his richly decorated chambers to the warmth of the stone hearth. Its flickering light cast an eerie glow across his face, and deepened the already growing lines of age. The years have not been kind; not for the reason that he was unpleasant to behold, but because the scars of war and the weight of his position have had an impact on his strong stature. He was getting old, tired, and the sweet song of the Varrow called to him in the darkness of night – their pale skin and soft touch reminded him of his mother; whose face he could no longer recall. But there was still much to be done, and the Varrow must sing their gentle words elsewhere. Proud trophies of animals, weaponry, and house banners adorn his stone walls, and they grow more impressive in the cascading light of the fire; their shadows dancing across the wood-beamed ceiling like savage black imps. General Hawken breathed at an even pace and stared deeply into the flames before him. The thick pine logs at the heart of the fire burned luminously hot and deep chasms grew as the flames devoured the wood. His eyes stared at the scene before him until the fuel of the core broke under the pressure of the newer logs above and collapsed in a glorious shower of sparks. He took a long, deep breath and let out a pained sigh before closing his eyes.

There was soft knock at the door.

“Come”, the General said gruffly; not turning away from the mantle fireplace.
The heavy oak door creaked and swung open slowly. An armored man entered the room and carefully closed the door behind him. He stepped toward the General and placed a fist to his chest in salute.

“Your orders General?”

“Rouse the men. Call the Banners. We make ready to storm the Capitol.” Hawken replied. He turned from the fire and walked toward the iron-clad man.

“It is time we actually made good use of these blades by fighting the real enemy”.

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The Chancellor
And so it begins...

The cool evening air licked at his robes and cast them wide; revealing the soft green patterned tunic beneath. Its chill caressed his body like the touch of a winter wisp before it slips into the ethereal planes in search of refuge. Rhondal Theron leaned forward onto the smooth stone edge of his balcony and breathed a heavy sigh into the seasonal winds. The transition into the harvesting days always brought a smile to Rhondal Theron’s face and reminded him of the simplicity this land had to offer. Rich in resources, water that flowed through the sky and kissed the limitless variations of terrain, and climates that could soothe a child or pressure the heartiest of men. In short, it was almost perfect, genuine, and rare.

Chancellor Thelon?” came a hoarse voice from inside his room.
“I-I have done as you have asked, and barely made it back.” The man was dirty and out of breath. His clothes were torn and discolored; dark stains speckled his rough leather tunic and he appeared to be struggling with an injury near his ribs.

“The device was a success, but I am all that is left. Hera and Rodgar- I am all that is left.” He coughed between sentences and winced as fresh blood oozed between the fingers pressed at his side.
The Chancellor turned from the balcony that overlooked the city and slowly strode towards the man hunched over in his study.
“M-my lord, this is so much bigger than any-“, his voice was cut off as the Chancellor set down the silver-tipped quill on a ledger atop the richly embroidered iron oak desk; its tines freshly filled. A look of questioning spread across the wide-eyed wounded man’s face. He gurgled and scratched at his neck before falling forward in a slowly growing disc of warm liquid. Rhondal Thelon moved back to the balcony and spread his hands wide over the masonry edge.

“Yes, it is.” he breathed.

This time of the year was always his favorite.

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Welcome to your campaign!
A blog for your campaign

Wondering how to get started? Here are a few tips:

1. Invite your players

Invite them with either their email address or their Obsidian Portal username.

2. Edit your home page

Make a few changes to the home page and give people an idea of what your campaign is about. That will let people know you’re serious and not just playing with the system.

3. Choose a theme

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4. Create some NPCs

Characters form the core of every campaign, so take a few minutes to list out the major NPCs in your campaign.

A quick tip: The “+” icon in the top right of every section is how to add a new item, whether it’s a new character or adventure log post, or anything else.

5. Write your first Adventure Log post

The adventure log is where you list the sessions and adventures your party has been on, but for now, we suggest doing a very light “story so far” post. Just give a brief overview of what the party has done up to this point. After each future session, create a new post detailing that night’s adventures.

One final tip: Don’t stress about making your Obsidian Portal campaign look perfect. Instead, just make it work for you and your group. If everyone is having fun, then you’re using Obsidian Portal exactly as it was designed, even if your adventure log isn’t always up to date or your characters don’t all have portrait pictures.

That’s it! The rest is up to your and your players.

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