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To Find a King (updated 06/26)
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<blockquote data-quote="Mortepierre" data-source="post: 1871546" data-attributes="member: 9765"><p>Hi all.</p><p></p><p>Chapter 1 is going to be bigger than I anticipated and since I am rather busy right now, I have decided to divide it into several parts which I'll post as soon as I complete each of them. My hope is that it will make the waiting more bearable.</p><p></p><p>You can blame <span style="color: DarkOrange">ledded</span> for it as he got me addicted to some very good SH (his own included - read it!) and it's hard to stop reading to write again! <img src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" class="smilie smilie--sprite smilie--sprite7" alt=":p" title="Stick out tongue :p" loading="lazy" data-shortname=":p" /> </p><p></p><p><strong>Chapter 1: The NeMoren’s Vault</strong></p><p>(special thanks to James Bell)</p><p></p><p><u>1.1 Heirs to a Curse</u>:</p><p></p><p>Drachenhold - Duchy of Pellham</p><p>400 AC (Spring) - NeMoren manor (village of Weston)</p><p></p><p>The office had an air of faded grandeur.</p><p></p><p>It was dominated by a large window set in the eastern wall and made of three expensive glass panels, one of which was cracked and hadn’t been replaced. The walls were covered with wainscoting engraved with pastoral scenes. And the floor was hidden beneath an exotic carpet whose colors - before decades had dulled them - must have once offered a dazzling yet abstract motif for visitors to marvel at.</p><p></p><p>A massive desk occupied the center of the room. Carved from rare calantra wood, it was sturdy yet elegant, its entire surface having been polished to a mirror-like finish before being varnished. Presently, two items rested on it: a carefully folded piece of velum with an unbroken wax seal, and a small casket. The latter was open. Four identical silver keys lay in it on a blue velvet bed.</p><p></p><p>On one side of the desk, with their back to the window, two men. The first - a forest elf - was standing, his arms crossed in front of his chest, a nonchalant look on his face. The second - a human - was seated in a high-backed wooden chair covered in timeworn leather. In his late fifties, his pepper-and-salt beard and hair betrayed his age. Yet, his eyes were clear and his demeanor energetic.</p><p></p><p>Five persons faced them across the desk. From left to right, there was a dwarf, a halfling, two humans, and a stone elf. All were seated except for one of the humans.</p><p></p><p>The dwarf was equipped with an old yet well-maintained scale mail that, from the look of it, had been through many battles. He sported a superb midnight-black beard that reached down to his navel and had been carefully braided. The four braids were held together two-third of the way down by a steel clasp shaped like an angry badger’s face. A wicked-looking battle axe rested across his knees while a large wooden shield hung from the back of his chair.</p><p></p><p>Of all the persons present in the room, the halfling was probably the one who looked most out of place. He wore simple leather armor and cradled in his lap a strange-looking helmet with a broad brim and a pierced visor. The only indication that he was not a simple lower class worker was the ancient-looking silver medallion he wore around his neck. He was clean-shaven and had short-cropped auburn hair. At odd intervals, he would make grimaces as if he was listening to something he alone could hear and reacted to it silently. A pickaxe leaned against the back of his chair along with a small, round, wooden shield.</p><p></p><p>The third chair was occupied by a young, demure woman wearing a loose-fitting white linen robe held at the hip by a simple leather belt. She was small, barely one hand taller than the dwarf. Unlike him though, she was narrow-hipped and graced with delicate features. Her long chestnut-brown hair had been collected in a single braid down her back, and she wore openly Morwyn’s holy symbol around her neck. Blue-green eyes that knew no malice looked inquisitively from time to time at the other persons in the room as if trying to ascertain their motives.</p><p></p><p>A human warrior stood behind her. Taller than anyone else in the room, he was clad in chainmail over which he wore a white tabard embroidered with 3 blue tears arranged in a triangle. He also carried a small steel shield strapped across his back beneath a fur coat. His left hand held a quarterstaff while his right rested protectively on the back of the woman’s chair. A light flail was tied to his belt. He looked well-groomed, with short-cropped flaxen hair and a neatly-trimmed moustache. His hard blue eyes seemed to be constantly scanning the room for potential threats to his companion.</p><p></p><p>The elf radiated serenity. Long, graceful, pointed ears framed a delicate face dominated by two large, slanted eyes of vibrant silver. His hair was the color of pure snow, which contrasted strongly with his deep black skin (1). He wore garments of supple leather dyed a deep brown. Had he not been breathing, he might have been mistaken for an obsidian statue. A staff leaned against the nearby wall, within easy reach. Carved of duskwood, one side had been sculpted to represent a draconic head whose maw grasped a round-shaped lapis lazuli of large size. Its other side ended in a sharp point that had been reinforced by a metallic sheath.</p><p></p><p>Kel Varnsen rubbed his chin pensively while silently appraising the strangers.</p><p></p><p><em>I wonder if our liege had these folks in mind when he foolishly chose to entrust us all to Fate’s mercy...</em></p><p></p><p>He shook his head slightly, as if dismissing a thought, and then coughed to insure he had their attention.</p><p></p><p>“First of all, let me welcome you all to Weston and the Westwood Barony. I am - as some of you already know - Kel Varnsen, mayor of the nearby village of Hollobrae. If I took the liberty of inviting you here today, it was to honor the will - the <em>last</em> will actually - of the late Baron Paytro NeMoren.</p><p></p><p>Right before his death, three years ago, he named me his executor and left precise instructions about how to proceed. Apparently, long ago, the Baron had given away four silver keys. My task was to find their current owners and assemble them here. Once the first was found”, he nodded once in Eirak’s direction, “locating the others proved easier thanks to a friend of Aniel”. He bowed his head slightly to the elf standing at his side. “Master Eirak was kind enough to remain among us while the rest of you were being fetched. He spent the last year lending his.. ah.. <em>skills</em> to our militia where his help proved invaluable in dealing with local menaces.” He bowed his head again, to Eirak this time. The latter grunted once in acknowledgment of the compliment.</p><p></p><p>“Let me underscore that, in the Baron’s own words, <em>whoever has a key, no matter how it was acquired, qualifies for the heritage</em>. Thus, no matter the organizations you may represent individually, as far as I am concerned only the persons who produced a key when they arrived will henceforth be considered <em>true</em> heirs of the Baron.”</p><p></p><p>Seeing his last comment disturbed the young priestess, the mayor quickly added “But you are free to donate your share to whomever you wish.. <em>after</em> you have successfully claimed it, of course.”</p><p></p><p>Eirak snorted. “In yer dreams..”</p><p></p><p>Kalveig coughed loudly and shot a reproachful glance at the dwarf. The latter gave him a defying look underscored by running his thumb along the edge of his axe’s blade.</p><p></p><p>The halfling tensed like a rabbit about to walk into a trap and blurted out “WhatoftheBaron?” After which he turned red, as if he had just been scolded.</p><p></p><p>Everyone blinked and looked at him interrogatively until Pelrind interjected. “Methink our shy friend wishes to know why the <em>new</em> Baron hasn’t claimed the inheritance for himself.”</p><p></p><p>Musadoc nodded twice in quick succession, still red as a tomato.</p><p></p><p>The mayor’s face clouded. “Because there <em>isn’t</em> a new Baron. That’s the whole problem.”</p><p></p><p>The others all turned back to him, visibly waiting for an explanation. Kel Varnsen sighed, as if he was loath to talk about it, but then launched into the sad story.</p><p></p><p>It had begun in the days before the Cataclysm. A young knight named Kragor NeMoren had been fighting to secure the Northern Marches of Pellham (2) in a region that bordered the extreme southwestern frontier of Suress. Humanoid incursions from the nearby Wyrmsteeth Mountains threatened the whole area and, to the humans, the infuriating thing was that the elves stubbornly refused to collaborate in dealing with the problem.</p><p></p><p>This went on for years till, one fateful day, as he was leading a patrol deeper than usual in enemy territory, Kragor intercepted humanoid raiders who had captured an elven woman. He succeeded in freeing the prisoner and escorted her back to the Suressian border. It was only there that he learnt he had freed the elven King’s wife. As recompense, he received the unconditional support of the elven forces. With their help, he managed to completely secure the region after only a few months of intense skirmishing.</p><p></p><p>Pellham’s High King showed his appreciation by elevating him to the rank of Baron and awarding him all the lands he had fought in defense of. As for the elven King, he named Kragor officially <em>elf-friend</em> and granted him (and his descendants) the right to lumber a certain number of trees every year in a specific area just beyond the Suressian border. Since those trees all belonged to rare species usually unavailable to humans, Kragor became rich virtually overnight as several guilds outbid each others in order to secure an exclusive trade agreement for the ‘special’ wood.</p><p></p><p>Knowing his lands were still wild and needed to be tamed, the new Baron wisely turned logging (not only of the elven trees but also of the barony’s forests) into a local industry. Ground cleared by the lumberjacks proved very fertile, allowing the development of small settlements of farmers that quickly prospered. Still, Kragor always strove to maintain good relationships with his elven neighbors and even invited druids to settle in his Barony to insure the forest wouldn’t be overexploited.</p><p></p><p>As he grew old and rich, he realized his family needed not only a residence but also something to protect their fortune. So, he hired dwarven artisans to build him an underground vault that would be impervious to all thieves and then raised a manor on top of it.</p><p></p><p>Throughout the centuries, his descendants ruled the barony justly and wisely despite the Cataclysm and the tragic events that followed (3). They were among the first native nobles to take an oath of allegiance to the Drachen king and the latter, recognizing the barony for the steady source of income that it was, shrewdly left the NeMorens in charge of it. And each new Baron added to the wealth stored in the now-infamous NeMoren’s Vault...</p><p></p><p>Then, about 40 years ago, young Paytro NeMoren became the new Baron of Westwood. Shortly after succeeding his father, he wed a local girl named Amelia. Alas, tragedy struck. Not a month after the wedding, the Baron’s wife was apparently abducted by brigands while on her way to visit her parents, and her escort brutally slaughtered.</p><p></p><p>According to the locals, the Baron’s heart died that day, and so he exiled himself to his family’s mansion and the life of a recluse, keeping only two servants for company till his death in 397 AC.</p><p></p><p>As the mayor was finishing his summary of past events, Eirak cut in with an amused comment. “C’mon Varnsen, tell them about the ‘curse’ too. It’s worth a good laugh.”</p><p></p><p>Kel Varnsen threw him a horrified look before answering. “Please master Eirak, do not jest about it. To us, it is very real. You see, friends, as our liege went into self-imposed exile things around here slowly.. <em>degenerated</em>. First, there was the plague that struck Weston but a few years after the Baroness’ abduction. A third of the village’s population died from it and some still catch it these days! Those that were left tried to restore prosperity to what had been their home for generations but nothing worked. It was as if a pall of ill luck had been cast over Weston.</p><p></p><p>The loggers’ guild was the first to go. It moved to Hollobrae. Then, the local temple closed, its priest having died from the plague, and none was sent to replace him. Finally, people started to disappear.”</p><p></p><p>“Disappear? How so?” interrupted Kalveig.</p><p></p><p>The mayor shrugged helplessly. “All that is known is that someone disappears about once every four months. At first, people thought the missing folks had just given up and left but when they failed to show up in the other villages of the barony, we grew concerned. Yet, the militia failed to uncover any evidence of wrongdoing.</p><p></p><p>Of course, it didn’t take long for people all over the barony to associate the problems of Weston with the situation of the Baron. Some started to whisper he had offended the gods in some way and had been cursed in return, curse that affected the villagers too since they lived in close proximity to his manor. That caused some of them to flee to other parts of the barony, or even the kingdom, in hope that distance would be enough to avert doom.</p><p></p><p>The end result is that a once-thriving community has been reduced to less than a hundred souls all hiding in fear as soon as the night comes and praying they won’t be next. Still, they refuse to leave. Their families have lived here for so long in peace and prosperity that they simply can’t admit the need to relocate. How long that will last, I don’t know but I fear this place is bound to become a ghost town sooner or later.”</p><p></p><p>“And what of the new Baron?” asked Pelrind.</p><p></p><p>“Well.. you see, Baron Paytro insisted on the need to cremate his body right after his death and-”</p><p></p><p>“Cremation? That old custom? (4) That’s highly unusual these days, no?” interjected Siubhan.</p><p></p><p>“Yes and no” answered the mayor. “Many natives of our barony still honor the old ways. Even so, no NeMoren had been cremated in living memory. Thus, it surprised quite a few people, most of all the King’s men who arrived too late to see his remains and accept trust of the barony on the King’s behalf. From what I understand, it made dissolving the NeMoren’s baronage more.. <em>problematic</em>. The matter has been dragging for more than two years now, though I suspect the Orgothian invasion of 398 AC and the failed coup last year had something to do with the King’s inability to devote time to it.</p><p></p><p>To make matters worse, there is the added problem of the annual elven woodcutting. It always takes place during fall. Baron Paytro died in the early winter 397 AC, after that year’s yield had been secured. At first, it seems the Suressian authorities weren’t aware of it, so the event took place as usual in 398 AC. Last year, however, the lumberjacks who tried to cross the border found themselves face to face with a full company of the Forest Ghost battalion whose officers calmly yet coldly informed them that unless a new NeMoren became Baron, no more wood would be cut on their territory.</p><p></p><p>Apparently, it has something to do with a ring Kragor NeMoren received from the elven King. Trouble is: no one knows where that ring is. Baron Paytro didn’t have it on him when he died. We know for sure he had it once because some old folks remember seeing him wearing it on the day he became Baron. Some <em>think</em> he may have given it to his bride as a wedding gift.. in which case it disappeared along with the Baroness when the latter was abducted. Even if the ring could be found, Aniel tells me it would be of no use unless there was a NeMoren to wear it.”</p><p></p><p>“My <em>E’ith Braeh</em>(5) cousin speaks the truth” announced Pelrind. “I know of such items, rare as they may be. They are keyed to the blood of those who receive them - a singular honor by the way. Anyone could wear it, but only blood-relatives of the late Baron would be able to unlock its powers.” He added, as if in warning, “And any elven mage could tell instantly the difference if deception was attempted.”</p><p></p><p>“So, even if the baroness had somehow survived all these years and was found wearing the ring, it would us do no good?” asked the mayor.</p><p></p><p>“That assessment is correct” responded Pelrind. “Recovering the ring and giving it to whomever the King nominates as new Baron wouldn’t work either.”</p><p></p><p>The mayor groaned. “It’s even worse than I thought. The loggers’ guild filed a formal protest to the Lord High Chancellor (6) but now I doubt it will solve anything” he lamented, with much wringing of hands.</p><p></p><p>Kalveig narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Mayor Varnsen, you are still holding back something. I can feel it. What is it?”</p><p></p><p>Kel Varnsen looked at him in surprise before replying sheepishly “Ahrm.. I may have accidentally omitted to mention that the loggers’ guildmaster, Aberwell Tegman, is the last living relative of Baroness Amelia. Her nephew to be precise. That’s why he vindicates his rights to the annual woodcutting in Suress. You have to understand that the barony’s prosperity has always been tied to the guild. If they can’t gain access to the elven trees anymore, they stand to lose much money. Possibly be ruined. And thus, so will we...”</p><p></p><p>“Ye mean yer village will, don’t ye?” added Eirak sarcastically.</p><p></p><p>The mayor blushed with shame but didn’t deny his assertion.</p><p></p><p>“Bah! T’is none o’ our business anyhow. Get to the bloody point and tell us how much money this heritage is worth!"</p><p></p><p>“Master dwarf!” shouted out Kalveig. “Please be so kind as to show some respect for these folks’ plight. We are not vultures about to tear a corpse!”</p><p></p><p>Eirak shot him a dangerous look. “The name be Eirak, boy. I dinna like the way you say ‘dwarf’. And I’ll say whatever I want ‘cause there ain’t anyone here capable of makin’ me shut me trap.. though ye’re welcome to try.” He grinned evilly and started to get up.</p><p></p><p>“I know Kragor, he is a good man if a bit pig-headed.”</p><p></p><p>Everyone turned to Musadoc, astonished at what he had just said.</p><p></p><p>“Er.. I mean, <em>he</em> knows.. er, no! We.. er.. no, that’s not it either.” The halfling turned a deep red and seemed to sink into his chair. “What I meant is that I know someone who kne.. er.. <em>heard</em> of him.” Seeing the others were still looking at him incredulously, he quickly added “He was a Warden (7), wasn’t he?”</p><p></p><p>The mayor raised an eyebrow. “Why, yes, he was. The NeMoren family was always extremely devoted to the Earth-Mother. From what I understand, the dwarves who built the vault for them even added a chapel that is rumored to be a work of art and-”</p><p></p><p>“WHAT!?” exclaimed Eirak. He swore loudly.</p><p></p><p>Kalveig looked ready to knock him senseless while Siubhan blushed. Musadoc, Kel Varnsen and Aniel cringed in unison. As for Pelrind, he shook his head sadly.</p><p></p><p>“Please master Eirak, calm down!” begged the mayor. “My apologies for wasting your time with our problems. You are right. It is no concern of yours. I promise I will get down to the heart of the matter now.. if you could just sit down first.. please?”</p><p></p><p>The dwarf grumbled but complied. Since he was looking at the mayor, he didn’t catch Siubhan gazing at him pensively.</p><p></p><p>Kel Varnsen mopped his brow with a handkerchief nervously before continuing. “This text was penned by Baron Paytro himself before his death. I was told it is a direct message to his heirs.” He broke the seal on the letter, opened it and started to read:</p><p></p><p><span style="color: Silver">The Last Will and Testament of Paytro NeMoren, Baron of the Westwood region, heir to the NeMoren Manor, and sole survivor of the respected NeMoren bloodline.</span></p><p><span style="color: Silver"></span></p><p><span style="color: Silver">Gathered to hear my final words should be four fortunate persons, each possessing a single silver key. How you received this key is unimportant. However you came to possess it, I hope it was given in the spirit that I initially intended: as a reward, as compensation, as a way to lessen my own guilt.</span></p><p><span style="color: Silver"></span></p><p><span style="color: Silver">Though of noble birth, in my youth I was a vain and pompous man, and did not live up to the ideals of my station. I have kept a dark secret during my lifetime, and it is a secret that I will take to my grave. My shame was not always easy to hide, and often, I took drastic, necessary steps to protect my image and my good name.</span></p><p><span style="color: Silver"></span></p><p><span style="color: Silver">To each of those that suffered so I could live with false dignity, I gave a token: a single silver key. These keys have passed through generations, across borders, and between many hands, I am sure, but at last they have gathered together to fulfill their true purpose.</span></p><p><span style="color: Silver"></span></p><p><span style="color: Silver">Hundreds of years ago, my ancestors ruled this resource-rich land. To oversee it, a manor house was constructed, and under the manor house was carved a mighty vault, protecting the vast hoard of our clan. Four special keys were created, all of which are needed to open the vault and reveal the riches within. Those keys were passed down from one generation to the next, until at last they were given to me.</span></p><p><span style="color: Silver"></span></p><p><span style="color: Silver">I had hoped to pass the keys on to my heirs - but alas, it was not meant to be. Shortly after my marriage, a curse fell upon my wife, my name, and the good people of Weston. I was to blame for this horrible curse, and I knew that I was unworthy of the treasure that my noble ancestors had gathered. So, sealing the entrance to the vault, and giving away the keys to those I had wronged, I hid away the hoard for as long as I lived...</span></p><p><span style="color: Silver"></span></p><p><span style="color: Silver">And now, after my death, Fate has brought the silver keys home - and with them, four deserving souls to reclaim the lost treasure. In the wine cellar, along the north wall, you will find a ten-foot section of wall that does not match the surrounding material. Take sledgehammers to this wall, and behind it you will find the doorway to the NeMoren family vault.</span></p><p><span style="color: Silver"></span></p><p><span style="color: Silver">Be forewarned: the vault will not easily yield up its riches. Generations of my family have installed deterrents, and who knows what may have happened to the structure in the many decades since it was sealed. Deep in the vault you will find a room with four evenly spaces keyholes. Insert your keys into the locks to activate the final mechanism, and the vast hoard of the NeMorens will be yours. Perhaps then I will have made amends for the wrongs I have committed. May it convince Maal to allow my soul to rest more peacefully than did my living spirit.</span></p><p><span style="color: Silver"></span></p><p><span style="color: Silver">I would request one thing of you. This vault was not only meant to protect our fortune but also to house the earthly remains of our ancestors. Take the treasures; they are yours. But please do not vandalize the tombs. My dead relatives were guilty of no crime. I wish them to enjoy a peaceful afterlife.</span></p><p><span style="color: Silver"></span></p><p><span style="color: Silver">Signed, Paytro NeMoren.</span></p><p><span style="color: Silver"></span></p><p></p><p>A bit shaken by the revelations, the mayor put back the letter on the desk and slowly looked at the four prospective heirs. “Lady and gentlesirs, it is up to you now. Will you accept the inheritance and brave the vault’s perils? Aye or nay?”</p><p></p><p>“Aye, I would like to see this place dedicated to the one you call the Earth-Mother” answered Pelrind with a smile.</p><p></p><p>“In the name of the Holy Mother of St-Martha, I humbly accept if it can help bring peace to this troubled man’s soul.” Siubhan bowed her head and began a short prayer for the late Baron.</p><p></p><p>“As long as there is some digging involved, count me in!” Musadoc was grinning like a child about to receive a gift.</p><p></p><p>Silence.</p><p></p><p>Everybody turned to Eirak. The dwarf’s hands clenched convulsively his chair and his face was pale as if he had seen a ghost.</p><p></p><p><em>A vault. It had to be a cursed underground vault. Battle-Father, give me strength! Can’t let them see me like this.</em></p><p></p><p>When he spoke finally, it was through clenched teeth. “I.. accept.”</p><p></p><p>**********</p><p>(1) Yes, Stone Elves look exactly like Drows.. except the latter are unknown (or are they..) on this world.</p><p></p><p>(2) In those days, Drachenhold didn’t exist yet. It was the time of the Traladaran kingdom of Pellham, which covered roughly the area of the present-day duchies of Karameikos and Pellham. Back then, Suress was still an independent elven kingdom which held all its neighbors at bay in an effort to remain free of their cultural influence.</p><p></p><p>(3) Pellham’s last High King was brutally murdered during a civil insurrection that resulted from the Cataclysm. The kingdom existed in a state of anarchy for close to 70 years during which time the Orgothian Empire easily subjugated half of it. Then, the Drachens arrived and conquered what was left, turning it into Drachenhold. Slowly, they expanded its borders again, retaking the lands stolen by the Empire and adding new territories to the East and the North.</p><p></p><p>(4) During the Third Epoch of the world, the Deceiver tricked Terak (god of war) and Tinel (god of magic) into fighting each other. Both gods died in that fratricidal battle, and from their death arose Mormekar (god of death). Morwyn (goddess of life) gave him her divine spark so that he could bring back the fallen brothers to life. He did so by burning their bodies on a funeral pyre. So, in the old days, many races had adopted the custom of burning their dead to symbolize the hope that they would be reborn to a better life. In the immediate aftermath of the Cataclysm, many abandoned that particular tradition as they felt all hope had fled the world.</p><p></p><p>(5) “Free Folks” (aka Forest Elves) in the elven language.</p><p></p><p>(6) High-ranking member of the government in charge of diplomats, officials, royal heralds, and - most importantly - tax collectors.</p><p></p><p>(7) Wardens are the holy warriors of Rontra (goddess of earth).</p><p></p><p>**********</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Mortepierre, post: 1871546, member: 9765"] Hi all. Chapter 1 is going to be bigger than I anticipated and since I am rather busy right now, I have decided to divide it into several parts which I'll post as soon as I complete each of them. My hope is that it will make the waiting more bearable. You can blame [COLOR=DarkOrange]ledded[/COLOR] for it as he got me addicted to some very good SH (his own included - read it!) and it's hard to stop reading to write again! :p [B]Chapter 1: The NeMoren’s Vault[/B] (special thanks to James Bell) [U]1.1 Heirs to a Curse[/U]: Drachenhold - Duchy of Pellham 400 AC (Spring) - NeMoren manor (village of Weston) The office had an air of faded grandeur. It was dominated by a large window set in the eastern wall and made of three expensive glass panels, one of which was cracked and hadn’t been replaced. The walls were covered with wainscoting engraved with pastoral scenes. And the floor was hidden beneath an exotic carpet whose colors - before decades had dulled them - must have once offered a dazzling yet abstract motif for visitors to marvel at. A massive desk occupied the center of the room. Carved from rare calantra wood, it was sturdy yet elegant, its entire surface having been polished to a mirror-like finish before being varnished. Presently, two items rested on it: a carefully folded piece of velum with an unbroken wax seal, and a small casket. The latter was open. Four identical silver keys lay in it on a blue velvet bed. On one side of the desk, with their back to the window, two men. The first - a forest elf - was standing, his arms crossed in front of his chest, a nonchalant look on his face. The second - a human - was seated in a high-backed wooden chair covered in timeworn leather. In his late fifties, his pepper-and-salt beard and hair betrayed his age. Yet, his eyes were clear and his demeanor energetic. Five persons faced them across the desk. From left to right, there was a dwarf, a halfling, two humans, and a stone elf. All were seated except for one of the humans. The dwarf was equipped with an old yet well-maintained scale mail that, from the look of it, had been through many battles. He sported a superb midnight-black beard that reached down to his navel and had been carefully braided. The four braids were held together two-third of the way down by a steel clasp shaped like an angry badger’s face. A wicked-looking battle axe rested across his knees while a large wooden shield hung from the back of his chair. Of all the persons present in the room, the halfling was probably the one who looked most out of place. He wore simple leather armor and cradled in his lap a strange-looking helmet with a broad brim and a pierced visor. The only indication that he was not a simple lower class worker was the ancient-looking silver medallion he wore around his neck. He was clean-shaven and had short-cropped auburn hair. At odd intervals, he would make grimaces as if he was listening to something he alone could hear and reacted to it silently. A pickaxe leaned against the back of his chair along with a small, round, wooden shield. The third chair was occupied by a young, demure woman wearing a loose-fitting white linen robe held at the hip by a simple leather belt. She was small, barely one hand taller than the dwarf. Unlike him though, she was narrow-hipped and graced with delicate features. Her long chestnut-brown hair had been collected in a single braid down her back, and she wore openly Morwyn’s holy symbol around her neck. Blue-green eyes that knew no malice looked inquisitively from time to time at the other persons in the room as if trying to ascertain their motives. A human warrior stood behind her. Taller than anyone else in the room, he was clad in chainmail over which he wore a white tabard embroidered with 3 blue tears arranged in a triangle. He also carried a small steel shield strapped across his back beneath a fur coat. His left hand held a quarterstaff while his right rested protectively on the back of the woman’s chair. A light flail was tied to his belt. He looked well-groomed, with short-cropped flaxen hair and a neatly-trimmed moustache. His hard blue eyes seemed to be constantly scanning the room for potential threats to his companion. The elf radiated serenity. Long, graceful, pointed ears framed a delicate face dominated by two large, slanted eyes of vibrant silver. His hair was the color of pure snow, which contrasted strongly with his deep black skin (1). He wore garments of supple leather dyed a deep brown. Had he not been breathing, he might have been mistaken for an obsidian statue. A staff leaned against the nearby wall, within easy reach. Carved of duskwood, one side had been sculpted to represent a draconic head whose maw grasped a round-shaped lapis lazuli of large size. Its other side ended in a sharp point that had been reinforced by a metallic sheath. Kel Varnsen rubbed his chin pensively while silently appraising the strangers. [I]I wonder if our liege had these folks in mind when he foolishly chose to entrust us all to Fate’s mercy...[/I] He shook his head slightly, as if dismissing a thought, and then coughed to insure he had their attention. “First of all, let me welcome you all to Weston and the Westwood Barony. I am - as some of you already know - Kel Varnsen, mayor of the nearby village of Hollobrae. If I took the liberty of inviting you here today, it was to honor the will - the [I]last[/I] will actually - of the late Baron Paytro NeMoren. Right before his death, three years ago, he named me his executor and left precise instructions about how to proceed. Apparently, long ago, the Baron had given away four silver keys. My task was to find their current owners and assemble them here. Once the first was found”, he nodded once in Eirak’s direction, “locating the others proved easier thanks to a friend of Aniel”. He bowed his head slightly to the elf standing at his side. “Master Eirak was kind enough to remain among us while the rest of you were being fetched. He spent the last year lending his.. ah.. [I]skills[/I] to our militia where his help proved invaluable in dealing with local menaces.” He bowed his head again, to Eirak this time. The latter grunted once in acknowledgment of the compliment. “Let me underscore that, in the Baron’s own words, [I]whoever has a key, no matter how it was acquired, qualifies for the heritage[/I]. Thus, no matter the organizations you may represent individually, as far as I am concerned only the persons who produced a key when they arrived will henceforth be considered [I]true[/I] heirs of the Baron.” Seeing his last comment disturbed the young priestess, the mayor quickly added “But you are free to donate your share to whomever you wish.. [I]after[/I] you have successfully claimed it, of course.” Eirak snorted. “In yer dreams..” Kalveig coughed loudly and shot a reproachful glance at the dwarf. The latter gave him a defying look underscored by running his thumb along the edge of his axe’s blade. The halfling tensed like a rabbit about to walk into a trap and blurted out “WhatoftheBaron?” After which he turned red, as if he had just been scolded. Everyone blinked and looked at him interrogatively until Pelrind interjected. “Methink our shy friend wishes to know why the [I]new[/I] Baron hasn’t claimed the inheritance for himself.” Musadoc nodded twice in quick succession, still red as a tomato. The mayor’s face clouded. “Because there [I]isn’t[/I] a new Baron. That’s the whole problem.” The others all turned back to him, visibly waiting for an explanation. Kel Varnsen sighed, as if he was loath to talk about it, but then launched into the sad story. It had begun in the days before the Cataclysm. A young knight named Kragor NeMoren had been fighting to secure the Northern Marches of Pellham (2) in a region that bordered the extreme southwestern frontier of Suress. Humanoid incursions from the nearby Wyrmsteeth Mountains threatened the whole area and, to the humans, the infuriating thing was that the elves stubbornly refused to collaborate in dealing with the problem. This went on for years till, one fateful day, as he was leading a patrol deeper than usual in enemy territory, Kragor intercepted humanoid raiders who had captured an elven woman. He succeeded in freeing the prisoner and escorted her back to the Suressian border. It was only there that he learnt he had freed the elven King’s wife. As recompense, he received the unconditional support of the elven forces. With their help, he managed to completely secure the region after only a few months of intense skirmishing. Pellham’s High King showed his appreciation by elevating him to the rank of Baron and awarding him all the lands he had fought in defense of. As for the elven King, he named Kragor officially [I]elf-friend[/I] and granted him (and his descendants) the right to lumber a certain number of trees every year in a specific area just beyond the Suressian border. Since those trees all belonged to rare species usually unavailable to humans, Kragor became rich virtually overnight as several guilds outbid each others in order to secure an exclusive trade agreement for the ‘special’ wood. Knowing his lands were still wild and needed to be tamed, the new Baron wisely turned logging (not only of the elven trees but also of the barony’s forests) into a local industry. Ground cleared by the lumberjacks proved very fertile, allowing the development of small settlements of farmers that quickly prospered. Still, Kragor always strove to maintain good relationships with his elven neighbors and even invited druids to settle in his Barony to insure the forest wouldn’t be overexploited. As he grew old and rich, he realized his family needed not only a residence but also something to protect their fortune. So, he hired dwarven artisans to build him an underground vault that would be impervious to all thieves and then raised a manor on top of it. Throughout the centuries, his descendants ruled the barony justly and wisely despite the Cataclysm and the tragic events that followed (3). They were among the first native nobles to take an oath of allegiance to the Drachen king and the latter, recognizing the barony for the steady source of income that it was, shrewdly left the NeMorens in charge of it. And each new Baron added to the wealth stored in the now-infamous NeMoren’s Vault... Then, about 40 years ago, young Paytro NeMoren became the new Baron of Westwood. Shortly after succeeding his father, he wed a local girl named Amelia. Alas, tragedy struck. Not a month after the wedding, the Baron’s wife was apparently abducted by brigands while on her way to visit her parents, and her escort brutally slaughtered. According to the locals, the Baron’s heart died that day, and so he exiled himself to his family’s mansion and the life of a recluse, keeping only two servants for company till his death in 397 AC. As the mayor was finishing his summary of past events, Eirak cut in with an amused comment. “C’mon Varnsen, tell them about the ‘curse’ too. It’s worth a good laugh.” Kel Varnsen threw him a horrified look before answering. “Please master Eirak, do not jest about it. To us, it is very real. You see, friends, as our liege went into self-imposed exile things around here slowly.. [I]degenerated[/I]. First, there was the plague that struck Weston but a few years after the Baroness’ abduction. A third of the village’s population died from it and some still catch it these days! Those that were left tried to restore prosperity to what had been their home for generations but nothing worked. It was as if a pall of ill luck had been cast over Weston. The loggers’ guild was the first to go. It moved to Hollobrae. Then, the local temple closed, its priest having died from the plague, and none was sent to replace him. Finally, people started to disappear.” “Disappear? How so?” interrupted Kalveig. The mayor shrugged helplessly. “All that is known is that someone disappears about once every four months. At first, people thought the missing folks had just given up and left but when they failed to show up in the other villages of the barony, we grew concerned. Yet, the militia failed to uncover any evidence of wrongdoing. Of course, it didn’t take long for people all over the barony to associate the problems of Weston with the situation of the Baron. Some started to whisper he had offended the gods in some way and had been cursed in return, curse that affected the villagers too since they lived in close proximity to his manor. That caused some of them to flee to other parts of the barony, or even the kingdom, in hope that distance would be enough to avert doom. The end result is that a once-thriving community has been reduced to less than a hundred souls all hiding in fear as soon as the night comes and praying they won’t be next. Still, they refuse to leave. Their families have lived here for so long in peace and prosperity that they simply can’t admit the need to relocate. How long that will last, I don’t know but I fear this place is bound to become a ghost town sooner or later.” “And what of the new Baron?” asked Pelrind. “Well.. you see, Baron Paytro insisted on the need to cremate his body right after his death and-” “Cremation? That old custom? (4) That’s highly unusual these days, no?” interjected Siubhan. “Yes and no” answered the mayor. “Many natives of our barony still honor the old ways. Even so, no NeMoren had been cremated in living memory. Thus, it surprised quite a few people, most of all the King’s men who arrived too late to see his remains and accept trust of the barony on the King’s behalf. From what I understand, it made dissolving the NeMoren’s baronage more.. [I]problematic[/I]. The matter has been dragging for more than two years now, though I suspect the Orgothian invasion of 398 AC and the failed coup last year had something to do with the King’s inability to devote time to it. To make matters worse, there is the added problem of the annual elven woodcutting. It always takes place during fall. Baron Paytro died in the early winter 397 AC, after that year’s yield had been secured. At first, it seems the Suressian authorities weren’t aware of it, so the event took place as usual in 398 AC. Last year, however, the lumberjacks who tried to cross the border found themselves face to face with a full company of the Forest Ghost battalion whose officers calmly yet coldly informed them that unless a new NeMoren became Baron, no more wood would be cut on their territory. Apparently, it has something to do with a ring Kragor NeMoren received from the elven King. Trouble is: no one knows where that ring is. Baron Paytro didn’t have it on him when he died. We know for sure he had it once because some old folks remember seeing him wearing it on the day he became Baron. Some [I]think[/I] he may have given it to his bride as a wedding gift.. in which case it disappeared along with the Baroness when the latter was abducted. Even if the ring could be found, Aniel tells me it would be of no use unless there was a NeMoren to wear it.” “My [I]E’ith Braeh[/I](5) cousin speaks the truth” announced Pelrind. “I know of such items, rare as they may be. They are keyed to the blood of those who receive them - a singular honor by the way. Anyone could wear it, but only blood-relatives of the late Baron would be able to unlock its powers.” He added, as if in warning, “And any elven mage could tell instantly the difference if deception was attempted.” “So, even if the baroness had somehow survived all these years and was found wearing the ring, it would us do no good?” asked the mayor. “That assessment is correct” responded Pelrind. “Recovering the ring and giving it to whomever the King nominates as new Baron wouldn’t work either.” The mayor groaned. “It’s even worse than I thought. The loggers’ guild filed a formal protest to the Lord High Chancellor (6) but now I doubt it will solve anything” he lamented, with much wringing of hands. Kalveig narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Mayor Varnsen, you are still holding back something. I can feel it. What is it?” Kel Varnsen looked at him in surprise before replying sheepishly “Ahrm.. I may have accidentally omitted to mention that the loggers’ guildmaster, Aberwell Tegman, is the last living relative of Baroness Amelia. Her nephew to be precise. That’s why he vindicates his rights to the annual woodcutting in Suress. You have to understand that the barony’s prosperity has always been tied to the guild. If they can’t gain access to the elven trees anymore, they stand to lose much money. Possibly be ruined. And thus, so will we...” “Ye mean yer village will, don’t ye?” added Eirak sarcastically. The mayor blushed with shame but didn’t deny his assertion. “Bah! T’is none o’ our business anyhow. Get to the bloody point and tell us how much money this heritage is worth!" “Master dwarf!” shouted out Kalveig. “Please be so kind as to show some respect for these folks’ plight. We are not vultures about to tear a corpse!” Eirak shot him a dangerous look. “The name be Eirak, boy. I dinna like the way you say ‘dwarf’. And I’ll say whatever I want ‘cause there ain’t anyone here capable of makin’ me shut me trap.. though ye’re welcome to try.” He grinned evilly and started to get up. “I know Kragor, he is a good man if a bit pig-headed.” Everyone turned to Musadoc, astonished at what he had just said. “Er.. I mean, [I]he[/I] knows.. er, no! We.. er.. no, that’s not it either.” The halfling turned a deep red and seemed to sink into his chair. “What I meant is that I know someone who kne.. er.. [I]heard[/I] of him.” Seeing the others were still looking at him incredulously, he quickly added “He was a Warden (7), wasn’t he?” The mayor raised an eyebrow. “Why, yes, he was. The NeMoren family was always extremely devoted to the Earth-Mother. From what I understand, the dwarves who built the vault for them even added a chapel that is rumored to be a work of art and-” “WHAT!?” exclaimed Eirak. He swore loudly. Kalveig looked ready to knock him senseless while Siubhan blushed. Musadoc, Kel Varnsen and Aniel cringed in unison. As for Pelrind, he shook his head sadly. “Please master Eirak, calm down!” begged the mayor. “My apologies for wasting your time with our problems. You are right. It is no concern of yours. I promise I will get down to the heart of the matter now.. if you could just sit down first.. please?” The dwarf grumbled but complied. Since he was looking at the mayor, he didn’t catch Siubhan gazing at him pensively. Kel Varnsen mopped his brow with a handkerchief nervously before continuing. “This text was penned by Baron Paytro himself before his death. I was told it is a direct message to his heirs.” He broke the seal on the letter, opened it and started to read: [COLOR=Silver]The Last Will and Testament of Paytro NeMoren, Baron of the Westwood region, heir to the NeMoren Manor, and sole survivor of the respected NeMoren bloodline. Gathered to hear my final words should be four fortunate persons, each possessing a single silver key. How you received this key is unimportant. However you came to possess it, I hope it was given in the spirit that I initially intended: as a reward, as compensation, as a way to lessen my own guilt. Though of noble birth, in my youth I was a vain and pompous man, and did not live up to the ideals of my station. I have kept a dark secret during my lifetime, and it is a secret that I will take to my grave. My shame was not always easy to hide, and often, I took drastic, necessary steps to protect my image and my good name. To each of those that suffered so I could live with false dignity, I gave a token: a single silver key. These keys have passed through generations, across borders, and between many hands, I am sure, but at last they have gathered together to fulfill their true purpose. Hundreds of years ago, my ancestors ruled this resource-rich land. To oversee it, a manor house was constructed, and under the manor house was carved a mighty vault, protecting the vast hoard of our clan. Four special keys were created, all of which are needed to open the vault and reveal the riches within. Those keys were passed down from one generation to the next, until at last they were given to me. I had hoped to pass the keys on to my heirs - but alas, it was not meant to be. Shortly after my marriage, a curse fell upon my wife, my name, and the good people of Weston. I was to blame for this horrible curse, and I knew that I was unworthy of the treasure that my noble ancestors had gathered. So, sealing the entrance to the vault, and giving away the keys to those I had wronged, I hid away the hoard for as long as I lived... And now, after my death, Fate has brought the silver keys home - and with them, four deserving souls to reclaim the lost treasure. In the wine cellar, along the north wall, you will find a ten-foot section of wall that does not match the surrounding material. Take sledgehammers to this wall, and behind it you will find the doorway to the NeMoren family vault. Be forewarned: the vault will not easily yield up its riches. Generations of my family have installed deterrents, and who knows what may have happened to the structure in the many decades since it was sealed. Deep in the vault you will find a room with four evenly spaces keyholes. Insert your keys into the locks to activate the final mechanism, and the vast hoard of the NeMorens will be yours. Perhaps then I will have made amends for the wrongs I have committed. May it convince Maal to allow my soul to rest more peacefully than did my living spirit. I would request one thing of you. This vault was not only meant to protect our fortune but also to house the earthly remains of our ancestors. Take the treasures; they are yours. But please do not vandalize the tombs. My dead relatives were guilty of no crime. I wish them to enjoy a peaceful afterlife. Signed, Paytro NeMoren. [/COLOR] A bit shaken by the revelations, the mayor put back the letter on the desk and slowly looked at the four prospective heirs. “Lady and gentlesirs, it is up to you now. Will you accept the inheritance and brave the vault’s perils? Aye or nay?” “Aye, I would like to see this place dedicated to the one you call the Earth-Mother” answered Pelrind with a smile. “In the name of the Holy Mother of St-Martha, I humbly accept if it can help bring peace to this troubled man’s soul.” Siubhan bowed her head and began a short prayer for the late Baron. “As long as there is some digging involved, count me in!” Musadoc was grinning like a child about to receive a gift. Silence. Everybody turned to Eirak. The dwarf’s hands clenched convulsively his chair and his face was pale as if he had seen a ghost. [I]A vault. It had to be a cursed underground vault. Battle-Father, give me strength! Can’t let them see me like this.[/I] When he spoke finally, it was through clenched teeth. “I.. accept.” ********** (1) Yes, Stone Elves look exactly like Drows.. except the latter are unknown (or are they..) on this world. (2) In those days, Drachenhold didn’t exist yet. It was the time of the Traladaran kingdom of Pellham, which covered roughly the area of the present-day duchies of Karameikos and Pellham. Back then, Suress was still an independent elven kingdom which held all its neighbors at bay in an effort to remain free of their cultural influence. (3) Pellham’s last High King was brutally murdered during a civil insurrection that resulted from the Cataclysm. The kingdom existed in a state of anarchy for close to 70 years during which time the Orgothian Empire easily subjugated half of it. Then, the Drachens arrived and conquered what was left, turning it into Drachenhold. Slowly, they expanded its borders again, retaking the lands stolen by the Empire and adding new territories to the East and the North. (4) During the Third Epoch of the world, the Deceiver tricked Terak (god of war) and Tinel (god of magic) into fighting each other. Both gods died in that fratricidal battle, and from their death arose Mormekar (god of death). Morwyn (goddess of life) gave him her divine spark so that he could bring back the fallen brothers to life. He did so by burning their bodies on a funeral pyre. So, in the old days, many races had adopted the custom of burning their dead to symbolize the hope that they would be reborn to a better life. In the immediate aftermath of the Cataclysm, many abandoned that particular tradition as they felt all hope had fled the world. (5) “Free Folks” (aka Forest Elves) in the elven language. (6) High-ranking member of the government in charge of diplomats, officials, royal heralds, and - most importantly - tax collectors. (7) Wardens are the holy warriors of Rontra (goddess of earth). ********** [/QUOTE]
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