Menu
News
All News
Dungeons & Dragons
Level Up: Advanced 5th Edition
Pathfinder
Starfinder
Warhammer
2d20 System
Year Zero Engine
Industry News
Reviews
Dragon Reflections
Columns
Weekly Digests
Weekly News Digest
Freebies, Sales & Bundles
RPG Print News
RPG Crowdfunding News
Game Content
ENterplanetary DimENsions
Mythological Figures
Opinion
Worlds of Design
Peregrine's Next
RPG Evolution
Other Columns
From the Freelancing Frontline
Monster ENcyclopedia
WotC/TSR Alumni Look Back
4 Hours w/RSD (Ryan Dancey)
The Road to 3E (Jonathan Tweet)
Greenwood's Realms (Ed Greenwood)
Drawmij's TSR (Jim Ward)
Community
Forums & Topics
Forum List
Latest Posts
Forum list
*Dungeons & Dragons
Level Up: Advanced 5th Edition
D&D Older Editions
*TTRPGs General
*Pathfinder & Starfinder
EN Publishing
*Geek Talk & Media
Search forums
Chat/Discord
Resources
Wiki
Pages
Latest activity
Media
New media
New comments
Search media
Downloads
Latest reviews
Search resources
EN Publishing
Store
EN5ider
Adventures in ZEITGEIST
Awfully Cheerful Engine
What's OLD is NEW
Judge Dredd & The Worlds Of 2000AD
War of the Burning Sky
Level Up: Advanced 5E
Events & Releases
Upcoming Events
Private Events
Featured Events
Socials!
Twitch
YouTube
Facebook (EN Publishing)
Facebook (EN World)
Twitter
Instagram
TikTok
Podcast
Features
Top 5 RPGs Compiled Charts 2004-Present
Adventure Game Industry Market Research Summary (RPGs) V1.0
Ryan Dancey: Acquiring TSR
Q&A With Gary Gygax
D&D Rules FAQs
TSR, WotC, & Paizo: A Comparative History
D&D Pronunciation Guide
Million Dollar TTRPG Kickstarters
Tabletop RPG Podcast Hall of Fame
Eric Noah's Unofficial D&D 3rd Edition News
D&D in the Mainstream
D&D & RPG History
About Morrus
Log in
Register
What's new
Search
Search
Search titles only
By:
Forums & Topics
Forum List
Latest Posts
Forum list
*Dungeons & Dragons
Level Up: Advanced 5th Edition
D&D Older Editions
*TTRPGs General
*Pathfinder & Starfinder
EN Publishing
*Geek Talk & Media
Search forums
Chat/Discord
Menu
Log in
Register
Install the app
Install
Community
Playing the Game
Story Hour
Rugult's Iron Kingdoms Anthology (Updated 9/23/2008)
JavaScript is disabled. For a better experience, please enable JavaScript in your browser before proceeding.
You are using an out of date browser. It may not display this or other websites correctly.
You should upgrade or use an
alternative browser
.
Reply to thread
Message
<blockquote data-quote="Rugult" data-source="post: 4478994" data-attributes="member: 53273"><p><strong>Prologue - A dusty tomb</strong></p><p></p><p> </p><p> The kiss of steel embraced him. It was a sudden and disconcerting feeling all said, certainly something he could have done well without. The sudden darkness of the room engulfed his vision, and the man fumbled his hands out, hoping to pinpoint the location where the blade had struck.</p><p> </p><p> It didn’t take him long.</p><p> </p><p> Straight through the center of his chest did the man feel the cold steel enter its way into his body, and based off the closeness of the hilt; out the other side as well. Shaking his head, the defiant man didn’t even cough up blood as his last words escaped from his mouth.</p><p> </p><p> “You killed me. You weren’t supposed to kill me…”</p><p> </p><p> The blade exited as straight as it had entered, the blood from the impact smearing itself across the hands of the man who still vainly gripped the edge of the sword. The scent of dust crept up on him, and the man tried to speak again only to have his knees buckle and his body tumble onto the cold stone floor.</p><p> </p><p> Heavy footfalls boomed in his ears, followed by more, until the sound became one homogeneous rhythm. Like some macabre nursery rhyme, the sounds of marching footsteps sent the blood soaked man to sleep.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> <strong>1 Year Later…</strong></p><p> <strong>Gorim 6th, Glaceus, 604 AR</strong></p><p> </p><p> The embrace of steel was gone now, instead replaced by the most decrepit of odors. Feeling came back to the man who had spent a year alone and dead on the cold stone floor of this tomb. Memories soon followed the resurgence of senses, and the man began to remember important things like his name, his homeland, his companions, and most of all; his distaste for death.</p><p> </p><p> Once his mind cleared, and he was sure he could move normally, Dmitri Amarov made his first move; drawing his pistols. Within a second the young Khardic man’s hands had shot down to his holsters and back up into the air, but it took another second for Dmitri’s mind to compute the simple fact the there were no pistols in them. So there he sat for some time; in the dark holding imaginary pistols into the darkness. He might have even thought it comical, if he could see exactly how he looked.</p><p> </p><p> Time passed slowly in Amarov’s mind, as he waited for something to happen. As nothing did happen, he began to reflect on his current predicament and what might have happened. Perhaps he was dead, and this was Urcaen. If this was Urcaen it did not match any stories he had heard as a child from his Morrowan and Menite priests. It was a lot more quiet then any Morrowan afterlife, and certainly did not have enough fire to be proper for any Menite.</p><p> </p><p> As his internal theological battle continued, Dmitri tried to remember the specific circumstances that had brought him to this point. He remembered that he traveled to a tomb in search of a lost legion of soldiers to fight forces that had been occupying the Cygnaran city of Corvis. Then he remembered the numerous incompetent attempts at betrayal that occurred within the tomb that lead to the death of two of his companions; only one by his own hand. Finally the image of the raven haired sorceress impaling him with a cursed black blade flooded back into his mind.</p><p> </p><p> The shock of remembering being stabbed forced one of Dmitri’s arms back, while the other remained poised up holding his imaginary gun. The free arm frantically unbuckled the top buttons of his thick greatcloak. As the extra armor slid off, Dmitri’s arm felt around his chest, trying to find the mark of the wound. A patch of imperfect flesh greeted his touch, and Dmitri’s traced it as best he could to no avail.</p><p> </p><p> Shifting his eyes from side to side, Dmitri finally lowered his second arm. Guiding it across the stone floor, he tried and tried to find something to pick up. Eventually a small pebble found itself in the palm of his hand. A pebble would be all Dmitri needed for his next step.</p><p> </p><p> Reciting quick incantations he had learned as a youth, Dmitri clenched the stone tight in his hand. Dull yellow light engulfed his right hand as it made quick motions directed to the clenched pebble in his left hand. The light came off a series of free floating glyphs that circled his right arm as he quietly spoke. The words were still engraved in his mind, like a tablet that had been inscribed on ages ago, but as Dmitri spoke the tablet began to empty.</p><p> </p><p> As the glyphs disappeared in miniature flash explosions of intangible arcane dust, Dmitri’s left hand opened to a ball of pure light. The pebble, now acting as a conduit of arcane power, gave off clear illumination to the whole of the area, and also forced Dmitri to briefly shield his eyes.</p><p> </p><p> The room was obviously stonework, the floor and walls well worked, though bearing slight signs of age as evidenced by chips and crumbling. Though everything was tinted in yellow, Dmitri could see the entirety of the cramped room, stone walls all around save for a single out of place block of stone that sealed his entry to this place. The block was clearly more then he could ever move, but Dmitri neglected that small fact for the moment and instead worried about his more immediate problem of being stabbed.</p><p> </p><p> Shifting his clothing back with his right arm, and holding the pebble in his left aloft so he could clearly see the wound, Dmitri gained the courage and gazed down. The marking on his chest had clearly marked him for life, something so repulsive that he would have to be sure it was never seen by anyone he would ever meet, if he left the place. Centered on his chest at the exact point of the blades entry was a scar of the Ternion Brand; the symbol of the dark goddess Thamar.</p><p> </p><p> Dmitri laughed. The thunderous roar of an amused Khardic man filled the small chamber, and as he continued laughing, Dmitri threw the small pebble to the ground directly in front of the stone that barred his exit.</p><p> </p><p> “Oh you have to be kidding me!”</p><p> </p><p> In his younger years prior to joining the Winter Guard, as was mandatory for all Khardic youth, Dmitri had a falling out with his spiritual advisors. His brief displays of sorcery all but expelled him from the teachings of the northern Menite clergy, and his rash impulsive nature often lead him into conflicts with Morrowan authorities. It was a culmination of these events that kindled his interest in the goddess Thamar, twin sister of Morrow.</p><p> </p><p> By no means was Dmitri a bloodthirsty killer, or a man who went out and made deals with Infernal powers on a whim. Instead, Dmitri Amarov appreciated his freedom, and honesty. If Thamar offered one thing that the other gods of Western Immoren did not, it was honesty and the ability for her subjects to choose their own fates. Just as Morrow and Thamar had ascended to divinity, so to could any who followed in their footsteps.</p><p> </p><p> The branding of Thamar would be viewed as a black curse on Dmitri’s flesh, but to him it was now a source of continual amusement. Even the blade that had pierced him was believed to have been involved in the ascension of at least one of Thamar’s scions; those who followed her into divinity. If anything, this new brand was a mark of honor; it signified that he was important, or at least amusing enough to keep alive.</p><p> </p><p> Cutting short the spurts of laughter was the sudden movement of stone. From the corner of his eyes, Dmitri spotted the stone that blocked his exit budging under some extreme force. Taking a moment to re-button up his greatcloak, Dmitri waited as the stone slowly moved out of the way.</p><p> </p><p> Standing in the doorway was a short and thin man, likely of Midlunder descent based on the subtle skin inflections. He was garbed in a dusty white and blue robe and across his neck was a necklace that bore on it the sunburst of Morrow. This obvious acolyte of the clergy of Morrow ducked his head in briefly and paused at the sight of Dmitri. Others who had assisted in moving the block also peered in.</p><p> </p><p> “We… ummm… we heard laughter. How long have you been trapped in there?”</p><p> </p><p> Briskly walking past the stupefied group, Dmitri strode out into one of the main chambers of the Tomb of Lost Souls. All around him, construction workers bristled about trying to repair the monument. Ogrun, trollkin and the mechanical laborjacks performed heavy lifting while various Morrowan and Cygnaran officials scurried about overseeing things.</p><p> </p><p> “Oh, I would say a long time now… What’s the date anyways?”</p><p> </p><p> Turning around and fidgeting slightly, the novice priest looked at the extreme blood red attire of Dmitri; a direct clash to the various blue uniforms that flooded the tombs.</p><p> </p><p> “It is Gorim 6th, Glaceus, 604 A.R.”</p><p> </p><p> Without hesitation Dmitri let out another laugh, this time catching the attention of all those present in the tomb. As workers turned to look at the strange newcomer, Dmitri had to stifle the amusement of his one year incarceration here. Instead he just smiled and nodded briefly. </p><p> </p><p> “One year it seems.”</p><p> </p><p> The acolyte seemed more unnerved by his happiness, and now the ludicrous statement that came from him.</p><p> </p><p> “Ummm… how did you survive in there?”</p><p> </p><p> Letting out a smaller, more personal laugh, Dmitri turned and slapped the acolyte of Morrow on the shoulder.</p><p> </p><p> “Clearly you’ve never been in a northern community Winter Guard barracks my friend!”</p><p> </p><p> Giving him one final pat, Dmitri turned and began to walk right out of the old tomb.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Rugult, post: 4478994, member: 53273"] [b]Prologue - A dusty tomb[/b] The kiss of steel embraced him. It was a sudden and disconcerting feeling all said, certainly something he could have done well without. The sudden darkness of the room engulfed his vision, and the man fumbled his hands out, hoping to pinpoint the location where the blade had struck. It didn’t take him long. Straight through the center of his chest did the man feel the cold steel enter its way into his body, and based off the closeness of the hilt; out the other side as well. Shaking his head, the defiant man didn’t even cough up blood as his last words escaped from his mouth. “You killed me. You weren’t supposed to kill me…” The blade exited as straight as it had entered, the blood from the impact smearing itself across the hands of the man who still vainly gripped the edge of the sword. The scent of dust crept up on him, and the man tried to speak again only to have his knees buckle and his body tumble onto the cold stone floor. Heavy footfalls boomed in his ears, followed by more, until the sound became one homogeneous rhythm. Like some macabre nursery rhyme, the sounds of marching footsteps sent the blood soaked man to sleep. [B]1 Year Later…[/B] [B]Gorim 6th, Glaceus, 604 AR[/B] The embrace of steel was gone now, instead replaced by the most decrepit of odors. Feeling came back to the man who had spent a year alone and dead on the cold stone floor of this tomb. Memories soon followed the resurgence of senses, and the man began to remember important things like his name, his homeland, his companions, and most of all; his distaste for death. Once his mind cleared, and he was sure he could move normally, Dmitri Amarov made his first move; drawing his pistols. Within a second the young Khardic man’s hands had shot down to his holsters and back up into the air, but it took another second for Dmitri’s mind to compute the simple fact the there were no pistols in them. So there he sat for some time; in the dark holding imaginary pistols into the darkness. He might have even thought it comical, if he could see exactly how he looked. Time passed slowly in Amarov’s mind, as he waited for something to happen. As nothing did happen, he began to reflect on his current predicament and what might have happened. Perhaps he was dead, and this was Urcaen. If this was Urcaen it did not match any stories he had heard as a child from his Morrowan and Menite priests. It was a lot more quiet then any Morrowan afterlife, and certainly did not have enough fire to be proper for any Menite. As his internal theological battle continued, Dmitri tried to remember the specific circumstances that had brought him to this point. He remembered that he traveled to a tomb in search of a lost legion of soldiers to fight forces that had been occupying the Cygnaran city of Corvis. Then he remembered the numerous incompetent attempts at betrayal that occurred within the tomb that lead to the death of two of his companions; only one by his own hand. Finally the image of the raven haired sorceress impaling him with a cursed black blade flooded back into his mind. The shock of remembering being stabbed forced one of Dmitri’s arms back, while the other remained poised up holding his imaginary gun. The free arm frantically unbuckled the top buttons of his thick greatcloak. As the extra armor slid off, Dmitri’s arm felt around his chest, trying to find the mark of the wound. A patch of imperfect flesh greeted his touch, and Dmitri’s traced it as best he could to no avail. Shifting his eyes from side to side, Dmitri finally lowered his second arm. Guiding it across the stone floor, he tried and tried to find something to pick up. Eventually a small pebble found itself in the palm of his hand. A pebble would be all Dmitri needed for his next step. Reciting quick incantations he had learned as a youth, Dmitri clenched the stone tight in his hand. Dull yellow light engulfed his right hand as it made quick motions directed to the clenched pebble in his left hand. The light came off a series of free floating glyphs that circled his right arm as he quietly spoke. The words were still engraved in his mind, like a tablet that had been inscribed on ages ago, but as Dmitri spoke the tablet began to empty. As the glyphs disappeared in miniature flash explosions of intangible arcane dust, Dmitri’s left hand opened to a ball of pure light. The pebble, now acting as a conduit of arcane power, gave off clear illumination to the whole of the area, and also forced Dmitri to briefly shield his eyes. The room was obviously stonework, the floor and walls well worked, though bearing slight signs of age as evidenced by chips and crumbling. Though everything was tinted in yellow, Dmitri could see the entirety of the cramped room, stone walls all around save for a single out of place block of stone that sealed his entry to this place. The block was clearly more then he could ever move, but Dmitri neglected that small fact for the moment and instead worried about his more immediate problem of being stabbed. Shifting his clothing back with his right arm, and holding the pebble in his left aloft so he could clearly see the wound, Dmitri gained the courage and gazed down. The marking on his chest had clearly marked him for life, something so repulsive that he would have to be sure it was never seen by anyone he would ever meet, if he left the place. Centered on his chest at the exact point of the blades entry was a scar of the Ternion Brand; the symbol of the dark goddess Thamar. Dmitri laughed. The thunderous roar of an amused Khardic man filled the small chamber, and as he continued laughing, Dmitri threw the small pebble to the ground directly in front of the stone that barred his exit. “Oh you have to be kidding me!” In his younger years prior to joining the Winter Guard, as was mandatory for all Khardic youth, Dmitri had a falling out with his spiritual advisors. His brief displays of sorcery all but expelled him from the teachings of the northern Menite clergy, and his rash impulsive nature often lead him into conflicts with Morrowan authorities. It was a culmination of these events that kindled his interest in the goddess Thamar, twin sister of Morrow. By no means was Dmitri a bloodthirsty killer, or a man who went out and made deals with Infernal powers on a whim. Instead, Dmitri Amarov appreciated his freedom, and honesty. If Thamar offered one thing that the other gods of Western Immoren did not, it was honesty and the ability for her subjects to choose their own fates. Just as Morrow and Thamar had ascended to divinity, so to could any who followed in their footsteps. The branding of Thamar would be viewed as a black curse on Dmitri’s flesh, but to him it was now a source of continual amusement. Even the blade that had pierced him was believed to have been involved in the ascension of at least one of Thamar’s scions; those who followed her into divinity. If anything, this new brand was a mark of honor; it signified that he was important, or at least amusing enough to keep alive. Cutting short the spurts of laughter was the sudden movement of stone. From the corner of his eyes, Dmitri spotted the stone that blocked his exit budging under some extreme force. Taking a moment to re-button up his greatcloak, Dmitri waited as the stone slowly moved out of the way. Standing in the doorway was a short and thin man, likely of Midlunder descent based on the subtle skin inflections. He was garbed in a dusty white and blue robe and across his neck was a necklace that bore on it the sunburst of Morrow. This obvious acolyte of the clergy of Morrow ducked his head in briefly and paused at the sight of Dmitri. Others who had assisted in moving the block also peered in. “We… ummm… we heard laughter. How long have you been trapped in there?” Briskly walking past the stupefied group, Dmitri strode out into one of the main chambers of the Tomb of Lost Souls. All around him, construction workers bristled about trying to repair the monument. Ogrun, trollkin and the mechanical laborjacks performed heavy lifting while various Morrowan and Cygnaran officials scurried about overseeing things. “Oh, I would say a long time now… What’s the date anyways?” Turning around and fidgeting slightly, the novice priest looked at the extreme blood red attire of Dmitri; a direct clash to the various blue uniforms that flooded the tombs. “It is Gorim 6th, Glaceus, 604 A.R.” Without hesitation Dmitri let out another laugh, this time catching the attention of all those present in the tomb. As workers turned to look at the strange newcomer, Dmitri had to stifle the amusement of his one year incarceration here. Instead he just smiled and nodded briefly. “One year it seems.” The acolyte seemed more unnerved by his happiness, and now the ludicrous statement that came from him. “Ummm… how did you survive in there?” Letting out a smaller, more personal laugh, Dmitri turned and slapped the acolyte of Morrow on the shoulder. “Clearly you’ve never been in a northern community Winter Guard barracks my friend!” Giving him one final pat, Dmitri turned and began to walk right out of the old tomb. [/QUOTE]
Insert quotes…
Verification
Post reply
Community
Playing the Game
Story Hour
Rugult's Iron Kingdoms Anthology (Updated 9/23/2008)
Top