The Talismans of Aerdrim
havenstone
First Post
Thanks, arcanaman! The maps and other images are all hand-drawn, scanned, and hosted for free at photobucket.com.
Nina, Master/Mistress of Disguise, was an interesting and often hilarious character. Sadly, his player left the game after the first season of play -- but as you'll see, not before having a major impact on the Five Families of Senallin.
Nina, Master/Mistress of Disguise, was an interesting and often hilarious character. Sadly, his player left the game after the first season of play -- but as you'll see, not before having a major impact on the Five Families of Senallin.
havenstone
First Post
Humblest of the Sufza
THE ARMY OF Wildengard spends several weeks marching down out of the Harak Rim and through the rich farm country along the Florin River. With each week, it attracts new profit-hungry followers: traders, gamblers, whores, tinkers, and thieves. One morning, Ontaya, Atrix, and Ash are hailed by a tall, skinny rider with weather-beaten brown skin, a mop of strawy hair, and an irrepressible beam. This curious figure carries a long, thin staff, a lasso, and (from the looks of it) at least twelve knives tucked into his garb.
“Squires of the Senallines! Most regal of riders, highest of horsemen! The humblest of the Sufza greets you, and offers his felicitations on the fineness of your fraternal fellowship.”
“Thank you,” Ash calls, a bit taken aback by the florid greeting. “What did you say your name was?”
“You are the kindest of cavaliers to take so intimate an interest in this most inconsequential of individuals,” comes back the delighted response. “Nurak is my name, but you may refer to me by whatever lowly label you like.”
One of the other squires scowls and shakes a fist at the alliterative rogue, whose grin never falters as he spurs his mount into a gallop and moves up the column. “Watch out. He was just having a look at the horses. He’ll be back later with five other Sufza weasels to take what he likes.”
“That’s a Sufza?” Atrix asks with interest. He has heard of the barbarian nomads, famed as the most talented horse thieves in the world. Over the next few days, Atrix ignores the advice of the squire and has several cheery conversations with Nurak. While a few other squires’ horses do disappear, the party’s do not.
The army also attracts Atrix’s roguish merchant uncle Porphyry (a wealthy commoner whose sister married into the d’Loriad family). He has cut short his usual regional rounds after hearing about the grand muster in Lynar. Porphyry is shocked to hear of the devastation of Rim Square and the murder of his old friend Hamber. He grimly promises to keep an ear to the ground regarding Shect’s whereabouts. “I promise, Carwyn lass, that a great deal of gold will go to the man who puts him in the ground.”
UNFORTUNATELY, KYLA'S FEARS about anti-Arawai prejudice are more than confirmed on the road to Lynar. Her friends stick close to her, but she has a rough time in the kitchen tents, where many of the drudges are venomously unkind to her despite Nina and Carwyn’s supportive presence. One evening, the army stops in the town of Swallowfeld, where a local innkeeper opens his establishment to the army’s kitchen crew. After dinner, the kitchen workers and their friends (including the whole party) get to enjoy drinks in the taproom. Caro, a pretty but cruel drudge, goads several tipsy squires into attempting to rough up “the Arawai wench.”
Naturally, this results in a grand tavern brawl. Atrix and Nina buckle swash all over the place, fighting acrobatically across the tables, bar, and balcony of the taproom. Ontaya lets her temper go just far enough to give the most aggressive squire a battering into unconsciousness, but manages to regain control before lapsing into a truly chaotic act. At the high point of the brawl, Caro pulls a knife and goes for Kyla. In the ensuing grapple, Caro falls on the knife and is stabbed to death.
At this point, two of Marcor's knights charge into the inn with a small detachment of soldiers and restore order. The squires who started the brawl accuse Kyla of murder -- but Ontaya swears, as a d’Orbis and a Sword-Priest of Ain, that Kyla acted in self-defense against an unprovoked attack. The knights accept the young paladin's testimony, and warns the squires that there will be grave consequences if they trouble Kyla again.
THE KITCHEN GIRLS retire upstairs, to the first beds and private rooms they’ve enjoyed in weeks. Atrix is one of the last squires to venture outside. Still feeling cheerfully invincible from the fight, he ambles around to the side of the inn and shoots a speculative glance at Carwyn’s high window. Climbing deftly onto the back of his horse, he manages to leap to the windowsill of a neighboring house. From this perch, he lassoes one of the ornamental eaves of the inn and ties the line off tautly. Then he strolls across the tightrope – his extraordinary dexterity serving him well – and knocks lightly on Carwyn’s window.
He startles out of Carwyn the most genuine laugh she’s had in many days. For a minute, she weighs him with her eyes, then shrugs, smiles, opens the window, and kisses him. Atrix swings into the bedroom. Moments later, he sticks his head back out. “Nurak? I’d be grateful if that horse was there when I got back.”
"Most amiable of Atrixes," comes back the delighted call, "there is no safer horse than a horse under the protection of the humblest of the Sufza."
THE ARMY OF Wildengard spends several weeks marching down out of the Harak Rim and through the rich farm country along the Florin River. With each week, it attracts new profit-hungry followers: traders, gamblers, whores, tinkers, and thieves. One morning, Ontaya, Atrix, and Ash are hailed by a tall, skinny rider with weather-beaten brown skin, a mop of strawy hair, and an irrepressible beam. This curious figure carries a long, thin staff, a lasso, and (from the looks of it) at least twelve knives tucked into his garb.
“Squires of the Senallines! Most regal of riders, highest of horsemen! The humblest of the Sufza greets you, and offers his felicitations on the fineness of your fraternal fellowship.”
“Thank you,” Ash calls, a bit taken aback by the florid greeting. “What did you say your name was?”
“You are the kindest of cavaliers to take so intimate an interest in this most inconsequential of individuals,” comes back the delighted response. “Nurak is my name, but you may refer to me by whatever lowly label you like.”
One of the other squires scowls and shakes a fist at the alliterative rogue, whose grin never falters as he spurs his mount into a gallop and moves up the column. “Watch out. He was just having a look at the horses. He’ll be back later with five other Sufza weasels to take what he likes.”
“That’s a Sufza?” Atrix asks with interest. He has heard of the barbarian nomads, famed as the most talented horse thieves in the world. Over the next few days, Atrix ignores the advice of the squire and has several cheery conversations with Nurak. While a few other squires’ horses do disappear, the party’s do not.
The army also attracts Atrix’s roguish merchant uncle Porphyry (a wealthy commoner whose sister married into the d’Loriad family). He has cut short his usual regional rounds after hearing about the grand muster in Lynar. Porphyry is shocked to hear of the devastation of Rim Square and the murder of his old friend Hamber. He grimly promises to keep an ear to the ground regarding Shect’s whereabouts. “I promise, Carwyn lass, that a great deal of gold will go to the man who puts him in the ground.”
UNFORTUNATELY, KYLA'S FEARS about anti-Arawai prejudice are more than confirmed on the road to Lynar. Her friends stick close to her, but she has a rough time in the kitchen tents, where many of the drudges are venomously unkind to her despite Nina and Carwyn’s supportive presence. One evening, the army stops in the town of Swallowfeld, where a local innkeeper opens his establishment to the army’s kitchen crew. After dinner, the kitchen workers and their friends (including the whole party) get to enjoy drinks in the taproom. Caro, a pretty but cruel drudge, goads several tipsy squires into attempting to rough up “the Arawai wench.”
Naturally, this results in a grand tavern brawl. Atrix and Nina buckle swash all over the place, fighting acrobatically across the tables, bar, and balcony of the taproom. Ontaya lets her temper go just far enough to give the most aggressive squire a battering into unconsciousness, but manages to regain control before lapsing into a truly chaotic act. At the high point of the brawl, Caro pulls a knife and goes for Kyla. In the ensuing grapple, Caro falls on the knife and is stabbed to death.
At this point, two of Marcor's knights charge into the inn with a small detachment of soldiers and restore order. The squires who started the brawl accuse Kyla of murder -- but Ontaya swears, as a d’Orbis and a Sword-Priest of Ain, that Kyla acted in self-defense against an unprovoked attack. The knights accept the young paladin's testimony, and warns the squires that there will be grave consequences if they trouble Kyla again.
THE KITCHEN GIRLS retire upstairs, to the first beds and private rooms they’ve enjoyed in weeks. Atrix is one of the last squires to venture outside. Still feeling cheerfully invincible from the fight, he ambles around to the side of the inn and shoots a speculative glance at Carwyn’s high window. Climbing deftly onto the back of his horse, he manages to leap to the windowsill of a neighboring house. From this perch, he lassoes one of the ornamental eaves of the inn and ties the line off tautly. Then he strolls across the tightrope – his extraordinary dexterity serving him well – and knocks lightly on Carwyn’s window.
He startles out of Carwyn the most genuine laugh she’s had in many days. For a minute, she weighs him with her eyes, then shrugs, smiles, opens the window, and kisses him. Atrix swings into the bedroom. Moments later, he sticks his head back out. “Nurak? I’d be grateful if that horse was there when I got back.”
"Most amiable of Atrixes," comes back the delighted call, "there is no safer horse than a horse under the protection of the humblest of the Sufza."
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Fimmtiu
First Post
Feir Fireb
First Post
Darren's player here:
Ah, how innocent we Northerners were, way back when!
arcanaman: Nina was quite the odd character. If I recall correctly, there were even some players who weren't certain at the time whether Nina was actually male or female, or even his true identity. Nina kept everyone on their toes.
Nurak was indeed probably the most beloved NPC of the game, not the least because of his alliterative amiability and nigh-unbreakable good cheer that caused you to overlook his utterly shameless and reflexive horse-thievery. But something that may not come across in print is the joy of hearing havenstone begin alliterating in that distinctive Sufzan accent where previously Nurak had been nowhere to be seen (and indeed might not have been for months of game time). Music to our ears.
Ah, how innocent we Northerners were, way back when!
arcanaman: Nina was quite the odd character. If I recall correctly, there were even some players who weren't certain at the time whether Nina was actually male or female, or even his true identity. Nina kept everyone on their toes.
Nurak was indeed probably the most beloved NPC of the game, not the least because of his alliterative amiability and nigh-unbreakable good cheer that caused you to overlook his utterly shameless and reflexive horse-thievery. But something that may not come across in print is the joy of hearing havenstone begin alliterating in that distinctive Sufzan accent where previously Nurak had been nowhere to be seen (and indeed might not have been for months of game time). Music to our ears.
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havenstone
First Post
Thanks, Fimmtiu! Hope you keep enjoying it.
And actually, I think Nurak has said "Atrices" once or twice.
havenstone
First Post
Gray Dwarrow
MEANWHILE, THE EVER-inquisitive Darren has been traveling and working with Cannedun, the tinker and ironsmith of Wildengard – a gentle, quiet dwarrow given to long moments of reverie while working at his forge. Darren has always admired the enthusiasm with which the dwarrow live their lives, and their love of ancient tales (the ones he’s heard are downright exotic, even compared to those of Kalitha the bard). Now, working with Cannedun, he comes to appreciate how despite the dwarrow’s short lifespans, their enhanced gifts of intuition and perception enable them to reach heights of mastery that no human could achieve over a similar period.
Two weeks outside of Lynar, Cannedun brings Darren to a large tent of woven skins at the outskirts of the army camp. “Some friends of mine have just joined us,” he explains with a slow smile. “You’ll get on well with them.” He whistles a complex trill.
“Cannedun!” comes the answering roar. A grizzled, middle-aged dwarrow with a many-braided beard bursts out of the tent, stalks up to Darren and inspects him boisterously. “What’s this you’ve brought us?”
“My new apprentice, Darren. Darren, meet Mullod of the gray dwarrow.”
“You took on a human?” Mullod gives a genial bellow. “Always the optimist. You’ll be dust before you teach him how to piss straight.” The scrappy dwarrow wears plain gray plate mail; despite its lack of ornamentation Darren senses that it is of extraordinary quality. A mace, an axe, and a length of spiked chain add to Mullod’s instantly formidable air.
“He knows a few things already,” Cannedun replies with amusement.
“I’ll be the judge of that!” barks Mullod. By now five or six other dwarrow have emerged from the tent; none are armored, but most of them are heavily armed, and all of them have a similar gleam of ferocity in their eyes. One of them tosses a roll of loose-knit cloth to Mullod, who reaches up and hauls Darren’s head down to his level. “So Cannedun thinks you’ve got dwarrow ken, eh?”
Darren inclines his head, a little stunned but undaunted. “If Cannedun says so,” he says, not resisting or pulling away as Mullod ties the blindfold around his eyes. As Cannedun had guessed, Darren’s outward mildness hides an unflappable readiness to venture anything -- part of his driving love of exploration and invention.
When the world around Darren is a barely discernable blur through the blindfold, Mullod slaps a club into his hands. “Right, long-legs! Have at me.”
Darren swallows hard and does his best to clear his head and apply his strong sense of direction to the task. He’s not a trained fighter, and is quite slight of build, especially compared to the boulder-like Mullod... but he gets remarkably lucky [natural 20!] and despite the blindfold, lands a blow that sends the dwarrow captain rolling backward with a delighted, “Ha!” The gray dwarrow band burst into cheers. “Well, lad,” Mullod growls, pulling off the blindfold, “you can fight like a dwarrow. That’s a fair start. But... can ye drink like a dwarrow?”
The gray dwarrow hoist Darren onto their shoulders, carry him into the tent, sit down around a small mountain of barrels and pour six massive flagons of ale. Then they pour a few dozen more. “These are for you,” Mullod declares, gesturing at the first six, and claims two others of his own. Darren sways through the test by sheer force of will and manages not to pass out. Halfway through, Cannedun produces a small bag full of ingenious tinkers’ puzzles made of tangled wire and tosses them one at a time toward Darren. Here the young human is in his element, and despite his ale-induced bleariness, he unweaves each fiendish puzzle with joking ease. Mullod shakes uproariously, crying tears of laughter into his beard. “Lads, lads, Cannedun was right. This is a human to grow old with!”
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Cannedun shakes Darren awake beneath the barrels. From outside, they can hear Mullod and his band engaged in a deafening mock combat, with bellows nearly as loud as the clash of steel on steel. “You did well, lad. It’s not every human who can stand up to the gray tribe.”
Darren grins crookedly. “They’re... a little different from you.” Or, he thinks, the mild-mannered dwarrow craftsmen of Rim Hall.
“The grays have the same passion and gift for war that most dwarrow have for more peaceful arts.” Still thinking of Rim Hall, Darren suddenly has a terrible fear, which Cannedun senses. “What’s the matter, lad?”
Darren hesitantly describes the bloody scene he and his friends found in the caverns of the Rim. Cannedun’s face grows dark, and he quickly beckons in the gray dwarrow leader. “Mullod! There’s a colony to the south that’s been wiped out by the Delve.”
Mullod listens grimly to Darren’s account. “We’ll get a message to Houlan’s band. They’ve been pushing the bastards back under the western plains. They’ll be the best ones to know if this means a new front is opening up.”
“The Delve?” Darren asks cautiously.
“A mad race of dwarrow,” Mullod explains, and grasps Darren’s unspoken fear. “Not like us grays, lad. The Delve see beauty in blood and cruelty and death. They love to kill the same way I love to fight. And they’re... almost as good at it. They don’t usually show up this far west, though. Most of their territory is under the Arawai plains.”
“The horse clans have stories about them,” Cannedun adds. “Murderous spirits of the earth who will wipe out a camp by night. For the most part, the gray dwarrow keep the Delve too busy to trouble humans, though.”
DARREN BEGINS SPENDING most of his time with Mullod’s band, and one night, the hearty captain gives him a finely crafted amulet. “You’ve got a dwarrow heart, lad. You should have the eyes to go with it.” Darren puts the amulet on, feeling a strange tingle in his blood as he does so -- and the world around him changes. Where previously there was featureless darkness, now he sees sweeps of movement and color (but colors for which he has no name). The moons are gone, but the dwarrow and humans in the night are radiant blurs and the night wind ripples visibly around the tents.
“Heat, lad. Heat, and the dance of the air. We can see it as well as normal light. That little amulet lets you see it too. It won’t work for anyone else while you’re still breathing. And our priests have crafted it so we’ll be able to find it anywhere. So you be sure to hold on to it if we get separated.”
“Mullod – I don’t know how to thank you,” Darren says in disoriented awe.
“Hah,” Mullod snorts. “It would only embarrass me if you stumbled around the dwarrow caves like any other blind-stork human. Because mark my words, lad: we’ll get you underground one day.”
MEANWHILE, THE EVER-inquisitive Darren has been traveling and working with Cannedun, the tinker and ironsmith of Wildengard – a gentle, quiet dwarrow given to long moments of reverie while working at his forge. Darren has always admired the enthusiasm with which the dwarrow live their lives, and their love of ancient tales (the ones he’s heard are downright exotic, even compared to those of Kalitha the bard). Now, working with Cannedun, he comes to appreciate how despite the dwarrow’s short lifespans, their enhanced gifts of intuition and perception enable them to reach heights of mastery that no human could achieve over a similar period.
Two weeks outside of Lynar, Cannedun brings Darren to a large tent of woven skins at the outskirts of the army camp. “Some friends of mine have just joined us,” he explains with a slow smile. “You’ll get on well with them.” He whistles a complex trill.
“Cannedun!” comes the answering roar. A grizzled, middle-aged dwarrow with a many-braided beard bursts out of the tent, stalks up to Darren and inspects him boisterously. “What’s this you’ve brought us?”
“My new apprentice, Darren. Darren, meet Mullod of the gray dwarrow.”
“You took on a human?” Mullod gives a genial bellow. “Always the optimist. You’ll be dust before you teach him how to piss straight.” The scrappy dwarrow wears plain gray plate mail; despite its lack of ornamentation Darren senses that it is of extraordinary quality. A mace, an axe, and a length of spiked chain add to Mullod’s instantly formidable air.
“He knows a few things already,” Cannedun replies with amusement.
“I’ll be the judge of that!” barks Mullod. By now five or six other dwarrow have emerged from the tent; none are armored, but most of them are heavily armed, and all of them have a similar gleam of ferocity in their eyes. One of them tosses a roll of loose-knit cloth to Mullod, who reaches up and hauls Darren’s head down to his level. “So Cannedun thinks you’ve got dwarrow ken, eh?”
Darren inclines his head, a little stunned but undaunted. “If Cannedun says so,” he says, not resisting or pulling away as Mullod ties the blindfold around his eyes. As Cannedun had guessed, Darren’s outward mildness hides an unflappable readiness to venture anything -- part of his driving love of exploration and invention.
When the world around Darren is a barely discernable blur through the blindfold, Mullod slaps a club into his hands. “Right, long-legs! Have at me.”
Darren swallows hard and does his best to clear his head and apply his strong sense of direction to the task. He’s not a trained fighter, and is quite slight of build, especially compared to the boulder-like Mullod... but he gets remarkably lucky [natural 20!] and despite the blindfold, lands a blow that sends the dwarrow captain rolling backward with a delighted, “Ha!” The gray dwarrow band burst into cheers. “Well, lad,” Mullod growls, pulling off the blindfold, “you can fight like a dwarrow. That’s a fair start. But... can ye drink like a dwarrow?”
The gray dwarrow hoist Darren onto their shoulders, carry him into the tent, sit down around a small mountain of barrels and pour six massive flagons of ale. Then they pour a few dozen more. “These are for you,” Mullod declares, gesturing at the first six, and claims two others of his own. Darren sways through the test by sheer force of will and manages not to pass out. Halfway through, Cannedun produces a small bag full of ingenious tinkers’ puzzles made of tangled wire and tosses them one at a time toward Darren. Here the young human is in his element, and despite his ale-induced bleariness, he unweaves each fiendish puzzle with joking ease. Mullod shakes uproariously, crying tears of laughter into his beard. “Lads, lads, Cannedun was right. This is a human to grow old with!”
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Cannedun shakes Darren awake beneath the barrels. From outside, they can hear Mullod and his band engaged in a deafening mock combat, with bellows nearly as loud as the clash of steel on steel. “You did well, lad. It’s not every human who can stand up to the gray tribe.”
Darren grins crookedly. “They’re... a little different from you.” Or, he thinks, the mild-mannered dwarrow craftsmen of Rim Hall.
“The grays have the same passion and gift for war that most dwarrow have for more peaceful arts.” Still thinking of Rim Hall, Darren suddenly has a terrible fear, which Cannedun senses. “What’s the matter, lad?”
Darren hesitantly describes the bloody scene he and his friends found in the caverns of the Rim. Cannedun’s face grows dark, and he quickly beckons in the gray dwarrow leader. “Mullod! There’s a colony to the south that’s been wiped out by the Delve.”
Mullod listens grimly to Darren’s account. “We’ll get a message to Houlan’s band. They’ve been pushing the bastards back under the western plains. They’ll be the best ones to know if this means a new front is opening up.”
“The Delve?” Darren asks cautiously.
“A mad race of dwarrow,” Mullod explains, and grasps Darren’s unspoken fear. “Not like us grays, lad. The Delve see beauty in blood and cruelty and death. They love to kill the same way I love to fight. And they’re... almost as good at it. They don’t usually show up this far west, though. Most of their territory is under the Arawai plains.”
“The horse clans have stories about them,” Cannedun adds. “Murderous spirits of the earth who will wipe out a camp by night. For the most part, the gray dwarrow keep the Delve too busy to trouble humans, though.”
DARREN BEGINS SPENDING most of his time with Mullod’s band, and one night, the hearty captain gives him a finely crafted amulet. “You’ve got a dwarrow heart, lad. You should have the eyes to go with it.” Darren puts the amulet on, feeling a strange tingle in his blood as he does so -- and the world around him changes. Where previously there was featureless darkness, now he sees sweeps of movement and color (but colors for which he has no name). The moons are gone, but the dwarrow and humans in the night are radiant blurs and the night wind ripples visibly around the tents.
“Heat, lad. Heat, and the dance of the air. We can see it as well as normal light. That little amulet lets you see it too. It won’t work for anyone else while you’re still breathing. And our priests have crafted it so we’ll be able to find it anywhere. So you be sure to hold on to it if we get separated.”
“Mullod – I don’t know how to thank you,” Darren says in disoriented awe.
“Hah,” Mullod snorts. “It would only embarrass me if you stumbled around the dwarrow caves like any other blind-stork human. Because mark my words, lad: we’ll get you underground one day.”
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havenstone
First Post
Patriarch’s Gold
AFTER PUTTING UP with Atrix’s smug good cheer for a few days, Ontaya confesses her own affections to Carwyn, a bit stiffly and uncertainly. (Aerdrim isn’t a world where same-sex trysts are widely condemned; most priests, including Ontaya’s own Order, consider them lawful, and Ontaya’s own natural attractions have always tended that way). Carwyn, who is definitely attracted to charmers and rogues but also yearns for a more stable and solid romantic presence in her life, arranges a few assignations with Ontaya. Deep down, though, Carwyn can’t envision a long-term affair with either the relentlessly lawful paladin nor the dashing but reckless d’Loriad -- she’s too practical to end up with Atrix, and much too unruly for Ontaya.
As the army of Wildengard draws close to Lynar, they are joined by a small force led by a d’Nerein family commander. This creates some tension with Marcor d’Syrnon’s knights, who have clashed with the d’Nereins in the not too distant past. Ontaya takes some time to explain these lineage conflicts to her friends who aren’t steeped in Senalline politics.
THE FIVE FAMILIES of Senallin are the d’Loriad, d’Syrnon, d’Orbis, d’Nerein, and d’Aramant. Each Family is led by a patriarch from the city of Lynar.
The d’Aramants are the most powerful and populous Family, large enough to have a southern branch living along the Arawai plains and a northern branch along the Aradur border. Their arch-enemies are the house of d’Loriad -- Atrix’s family. The d’Loriads consider the d’Aramants to be monstrous empire-builders who would sacrifice any value and break any promise for the sake of power. The d’Aramants consider the d’Loriads to be unbearable hypocrites who hide their own envy and constant angling for power behind a veil of self-righteous cant. The d’Orbis try to remain neutral in this power struggle; the learned d’Syrnons tilt toward the d’Loriads, and the wealthy d’Nereins toward the d’Aramants.
This tangle of names and motives takes on new seriousness for the party a few days outside of Lynar. On a rainy afternoon, General Marcor d’Syrnon falls back to confer with some of the knights in the column, and is nearly murdered by a knife-wielding assassin. Fortunately, the ever-observant Ash spots the killer’s weapon and shouts to his friends, who are the only ones not caught flat-footed by the attack. They tackle the assassin and manage to capture him alive. A flint-faced General Marcor has the prisoner taken to his tent, and sends for Meeshak. "Rumor has it that you have skills in interrogation, young priest."
Meeshak enters the tent and shrugs off his rain-cloak. The candlelight in the tent throws the angles of his gaunt, implacable face into sharp relief. He walks over to the prisoner, now tightly bound and defiant-looking. “You are familiar with the priests of the Sistechern Order?” he asks bleakly. The assassin responds with an obscenity. Meeshak ignores it, draws a long, heavy iron pin out of his robes, and holds it over the candle flame. “Some priestly Orders have a saying: ‘It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to find favor with Ain.’ The Sistechern version of this saying is simpler: ‘It is easy for a needle to go through the eye of a rich man.’”
Meeshak doesn’t quite suit action to word. The assassin cracks in the face of his intimidation, and confesses to being hired by a stammering man whose face remained hidden behind a heavy cowl and hood. The stammering man found him in the Dastard’s Dregs, a tavern of ill-repute in Lynar, and paid him on the spot in newly-minted Patriarch’s Gold -- the exclusive coinage of the Five Families, whose value lies as much in its implicit authority as in its weight. When Meeshak is convinced that the man has told them everything he knows, General Marcor orders a swift execution for the prisoner, “before word of this reaches the d’Nereins and they ask for a word with him.” He tells Meeshak to say nothing of this to anyone, and that he'll contact him again soon.
WHEN MEESHAK GETS back to the camp, he quietly reports the results of the interrogation to his friends. “Patriarch’s Gold?” Ontaya repeats incredulously. Almost no one who receives Patriarch’s Gold spends it on the normal market, but rather keeps it in reserve to mark a favor owed by one of the Families, and returns it to the Family concerned when they need help. “Someone in Lynar is sending a message. They must have known the chances of us capturing the man and finding out this information was high -- whether or not he succeeded in his mission.”
“But what message?” Meeshak wonders. “That not all the Families support the war effort? Or is it an attempt by someone outside the Families to make Marcor think that another Family is trying to kill him?”
“It could be simpler,” Atrix offers. “General Marcor is sure to be one of the paramount commanders of this campaign. Another Family with a less notable general might simply have hoped to remove the competition.”
They are no closer to an answer by the time they finally reach Lynar.
AFTER PUTTING UP with Atrix’s smug good cheer for a few days, Ontaya confesses her own affections to Carwyn, a bit stiffly and uncertainly. (Aerdrim isn’t a world where same-sex trysts are widely condemned; most priests, including Ontaya’s own Order, consider them lawful, and Ontaya’s own natural attractions have always tended that way). Carwyn, who is definitely attracted to charmers and rogues but also yearns for a more stable and solid romantic presence in her life, arranges a few assignations with Ontaya. Deep down, though, Carwyn can’t envision a long-term affair with either the relentlessly lawful paladin nor the dashing but reckless d’Loriad -- she’s too practical to end up with Atrix, and much too unruly for Ontaya.
As the army of Wildengard draws close to Lynar, they are joined by a small force led by a d’Nerein family commander. This creates some tension with Marcor d’Syrnon’s knights, who have clashed with the d’Nereins in the not too distant past. Ontaya takes some time to explain these lineage conflicts to her friends who aren’t steeped in Senalline politics.
THE FIVE FAMILIES of Senallin are the d’Loriad, d’Syrnon, d’Orbis, d’Nerein, and d’Aramant. Each Family is led by a patriarch from the city of Lynar.
The d’Aramants are the most powerful and populous Family, large enough to have a southern branch living along the Arawai plains and a northern branch along the Aradur border. Their arch-enemies are the house of d’Loriad -- Atrix’s family. The d’Loriads consider the d’Aramants to be monstrous empire-builders who would sacrifice any value and break any promise for the sake of power. The d’Aramants consider the d’Loriads to be unbearable hypocrites who hide their own envy and constant angling for power behind a veil of self-righteous cant. The d’Orbis try to remain neutral in this power struggle; the learned d’Syrnons tilt toward the d’Loriads, and the wealthy d’Nereins toward the d’Aramants.
This tangle of names and motives takes on new seriousness for the party a few days outside of Lynar. On a rainy afternoon, General Marcor d’Syrnon falls back to confer with some of the knights in the column, and is nearly murdered by a knife-wielding assassin. Fortunately, the ever-observant Ash spots the killer’s weapon and shouts to his friends, who are the only ones not caught flat-footed by the attack. They tackle the assassin and manage to capture him alive. A flint-faced General Marcor has the prisoner taken to his tent, and sends for Meeshak. "Rumor has it that you have skills in interrogation, young priest."
Meeshak enters the tent and shrugs off his rain-cloak. The candlelight in the tent throws the angles of his gaunt, implacable face into sharp relief. He walks over to the prisoner, now tightly bound and defiant-looking. “You are familiar with the priests of the Sistechern Order?” he asks bleakly. The assassin responds with an obscenity. Meeshak ignores it, draws a long, heavy iron pin out of his robes, and holds it over the candle flame. “Some priestly Orders have a saying: ‘It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to find favor with Ain.’ The Sistechern version of this saying is simpler: ‘It is easy for a needle to go through the eye of a rich man.’”
Meeshak doesn’t quite suit action to word. The assassin cracks in the face of his intimidation, and confesses to being hired by a stammering man whose face remained hidden behind a heavy cowl and hood. The stammering man found him in the Dastard’s Dregs, a tavern of ill-repute in Lynar, and paid him on the spot in newly-minted Patriarch’s Gold -- the exclusive coinage of the Five Families, whose value lies as much in its implicit authority as in its weight. When Meeshak is convinced that the man has told them everything he knows, General Marcor orders a swift execution for the prisoner, “before word of this reaches the d’Nereins and they ask for a word with him.” He tells Meeshak to say nothing of this to anyone, and that he'll contact him again soon.
WHEN MEESHAK GETS back to the camp, he quietly reports the results of the interrogation to his friends. “Patriarch’s Gold?” Ontaya repeats incredulously. Almost no one who receives Patriarch’s Gold spends it on the normal market, but rather keeps it in reserve to mark a favor owed by one of the Families, and returns it to the Family concerned when they need help. “Someone in Lynar is sending a message. They must have known the chances of us capturing the man and finding out this information was high -- whether or not he succeeded in his mission.”
“But what message?” Meeshak wonders. “That not all the Families support the war effort? Or is it an attempt by someone outside the Families to make Marcor think that another Family is trying to kill him?”
“It could be simpler,” Atrix offers. “General Marcor is sure to be one of the paramount commanders of this campaign. Another Family with a less notable general might simply have hoped to remove the competition.”
They are no closer to an answer by the time they finally reach Lynar.
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havenstone
First Post
This Glorious Campaign
THE PARTY SEES the smoke of Lynar rising from behind a low range of coastal hills many hours before turning the last bend in the river and seeing the great city itself. Sprawled along the north bank of the Florin, the capital of Senallin is an expansive tangle of towering wood and brick houses connected to each other by rickety bridges above narrow, muddy streets and cobblestone squares. Ash, Carwyn, Darren, Kyla, and Nina are struck by the size of the place: fifty Rim Squares could easily by swallowed up by Lynar. On a hill to the northeast stands the Palace of the Patriarchs, five ancient castles that have melded together over the centuries into a single sprawling, ever-growing edifice.
As the army of Wildengard reaches the outskirts of the city, they are met by cheering, festive throngs. Women are dancing, men are tossing ale at the soldiers and each other, minstrels are singing the chorus of the hour:
To tame the horse and till the plain,
And teach them all the fear of Ain!
The armies march to Arawai, huzzah!
Kyla has to dodge hurled fruit and the occasional rock. During another popular ditty – “One last drink, my lads, before you ride away/ One last hoisting of the skirts before you join the fray” – a group of whooping young men in the crowd try to hike up girls’ skirts, including Carwyn’s. She rounds on the offender, a scruffy-looking young Lynarman with black hair and a shameless grin, and punches him full in the face. He tumbles back into the crowd, while other revelers roar with laughter and cheer Carwyn on.
At the end of the long procession, the army arrives at the hilltop Patriarchs’ Palace. From the gate, the party sees the fields to the north blanketed with the multi-colored banners and tents of soldiers from all corners of the Dominion. Chardion, the knight who took Atrix as squire, nods down at the great camp with pleasure. “It’s been years in the planning, lad, but finally the Families are marching as one.”
WHILE THE ARMY descends to join the camp on the plain, the knights of Wildengard and their squires ride in to present themselves to the Patriarchs, accompanied by the priests. Outside the grand audience hall, they meet Chamberlain Gall, a thin man who wrings his hands and sweats copiously while fretting over finding room in the palace for yet another group of knights. Then Chancellor Eliduc d’Orbis arrives, the high priest to the Five Families. Eliduc’s long brown hair is streaked with gray and he exudes a sense of serene power. He welcomes the newcomers graciously, and beams when his eyes fall on Ontaya. “Welcome back, daughter. Your strength and courage have been much missed in these last few months.”
General Marcor leads his delegation into the grand hall and receive the formal greetings of the five Patriarchs. The white-haired, eloquent Patriarch Athagon d’Aramant descends from his dais and welcomes the d’Syrnon commander. “Brother Marcor, you and our own cousin, Mercon d’Aramant, will be the field commanders of Senallin’s great force. You will answer to the two High Generals: Sarquin d’Loriad and Athriam d’Aramant.”
“Wait – the d’Aramants get two generals?” whispers Atrix, outraged.
“If I remember rightly, Mercon leads the northern branch of the d’Aramant family,” Ontaya breathes back. “And Athriam is from the southern one. Both have a good reputation in the field, though Athriam is known to be boastful and brash.”
“Neither could hold a candle to Uncle Sarquin,” Atrix grumbles. He catches the eye of his raven-haired uncle, whose military exploits against Aradur and the barbarians are legend. Sarquin recognizes him and breaks into a knowing grin; Atrix warily decides he doesn’t like the look of it.
“This war is not just Senallin’s war,” Patriarch Athagon continues. “All the civilized realms are joining in this glorious campaign: Velnar and Caragon, Aradur and Kedris. The armies of five great nations will join us at the fortress of Guardwatch and move in to the plains, to defeat the horse clans and colonize their lands. This war will transform the face of the world. Villages will grow out of the dust of Arawai, spreading south into the unknown reaches of the plains. Senallin will no longer trail along the southern edge of the civilized world. We will be at its heart!”
The squires try to absorb the idea that the sprawling army encamped below Lynar is only a small part, perhaps a quarter, of the army that will be mustered against the Arawai. No one knows exactly how many Arawai tribesmen there are, but it is all but impossible to imagine the divided horse clans withstanding a force of such terrific scale – especially when the Arawai religion bans steel as a Northern abomination. A nation armed with flint arrows and spears can scarcely hope to stand against the colonizing might of the civilized North.
THE AUDIENCE ADJOURNS, and the knights dismiss their squires to their quarters. As Atrix leaves the grand hall, he spots two of his many d’Loriad cousins (Adgar and… “that quiet one, good lad, damned if I can remember his name…”). Adgar clasps his hand with a broad but oddly rueful grin. “Welcome back, ‘Trix. We’ve got orders from your father. He wants to see you immediately.”
THE PARTY SEES the smoke of Lynar rising from behind a low range of coastal hills many hours before turning the last bend in the river and seeing the great city itself. Sprawled along the north bank of the Florin, the capital of Senallin is an expansive tangle of towering wood and brick houses connected to each other by rickety bridges above narrow, muddy streets and cobblestone squares. Ash, Carwyn, Darren, Kyla, and Nina are struck by the size of the place: fifty Rim Squares could easily by swallowed up by Lynar. On a hill to the northeast stands the Palace of the Patriarchs, five ancient castles that have melded together over the centuries into a single sprawling, ever-growing edifice.
As the army of Wildengard reaches the outskirts of the city, they are met by cheering, festive throngs. Women are dancing, men are tossing ale at the soldiers and each other, minstrels are singing the chorus of the hour:
To tame the horse and till the plain,
And teach them all the fear of Ain!
The armies march to Arawai, huzzah!
Kyla has to dodge hurled fruit and the occasional rock. During another popular ditty – “One last drink, my lads, before you ride away/ One last hoisting of the skirts before you join the fray” – a group of whooping young men in the crowd try to hike up girls’ skirts, including Carwyn’s. She rounds on the offender, a scruffy-looking young Lynarman with black hair and a shameless grin, and punches him full in the face. He tumbles back into the crowd, while other revelers roar with laughter and cheer Carwyn on.
At the end of the long procession, the army arrives at the hilltop Patriarchs’ Palace. From the gate, the party sees the fields to the north blanketed with the multi-colored banners and tents of soldiers from all corners of the Dominion. Chardion, the knight who took Atrix as squire, nods down at the great camp with pleasure. “It’s been years in the planning, lad, but finally the Families are marching as one.”
WHILE THE ARMY descends to join the camp on the plain, the knights of Wildengard and their squires ride in to present themselves to the Patriarchs, accompanied by the priests. Outside the grand audience hall, they meet Chamberlain Gall, a thin man who wrings his hands and sweats copiously while fretting over finding room in the palace for yet another group of knights. Then Chancellor Eliduc d’Orbis arrives, the high priest to the Five Families. Eliduc’s long brown hair is streaked with gray and he exudes a sense of serene power. He welcomes the newcomers graciously, and beams when his eyes fall on Ontaya. “Welcome back, daughter. Your strength and courage have been much missed in these last few months.”
General Marcor leads his delegation into the grand hall and receive the formal greetings of the five Patriarchs. The white-haired, eloquent Patriarch Athagon d’Aramant descends from his dais and welcomes the d’Syrnon commander. “Brother Marcor, you and our own cousin, Mercon d’Aramant, will be the field commanders of Senallin’s great force. You will answer to the two High Generals: Sarquin d’Loriad and Athriam d’Aramant.”
“Wait – the d’Aramants get two generals?” whispers Atrix, outraged.
“If I remember rightly, Mercon leads the northern branch of the d’Aramant family,” Ontaya breathes back. “And Athriam is from the southern one. Both have a good reputation in the field, though Athriam is known to be boastful and brash.”
“Neither could hold a candle to Uncle Sarquin,” Atrix grumbles. He catches the eye of his raven-haired uncle, whose military exploits against Aradur and the barbarians are legend. Sarquin recognizes him and breaks into a knowing grin; Atrix warily decides he doesn’t like the look of it.
“This war is not just Senallin’s war,” Patriarch Athagon continues. “All the civilized realms are joining in this glorious campaign: Velnar and Caragon, Aradur and Kedris. The armies of five great nations will join us at the fortress of Guardwatch and move in to the plains, to defeat the horse clans and colonize their lands. This war will transform the face of the world. Villages will grow out of the dust of Arawai, spreading south into the unknown reaches of the plains. Senallin will no longer trail along the southern edge of the civilized world. We will be at its heart!”
The squires try to absorb the idea that the sprawling army encamped below Lynar is only a small part, perhaps a quarter, of the army that will be mustered against the Arawai. No one knows exactly how many Arawai tribesmen there are, but it is all but impossible to imagine the divided horse clans withstanding a force of such terrific scale – especially when the Arawai religion bans steel as a Northern abomination. A nation armed with flint arrows and spears can scarcely hope to stand against the colonizing might of the civilized North.
THE AUDIENCE ADJOURNS, and the knights dismiss their squires to their quarters. As Atrix leaves the grand hall, he spots two of his many d’Loriad cousins (Adgar and… “that quiet one, good lad, damned if I can remember his name…”). Adgar clasps his hand with a broad but oddly rueful grin. “Welcome back, ‘Trix. We’ve got orders from your father. He wants to see you immediately.”
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