[Midnight] Dark Tower's Shadow (Updated 12/10)
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The Jihad of Karhoun Esben
Story Post 27
Prologue: The Missive
Bough to bough, from great oak to weeping willow to maple to fir the letter on the oak-leaf traveled. Sid the sprite was lounging in the upper reaches of a maple when she found the leaf that was well on its way. She knew Elayle and the message was taken to Port Esben as fast as pixie’s wings could carry it.
Elayle read the letter and cried in frustration. She cried for many reasons but chiefly she cried once again at the fate of her sister, killed in Bastion almost a year ago by Sameal, or as his detractors called him, The Eel.
Frantically, tears wetting the leaves, she wrote nine missives. She wrote the same message nine times over, pressing her quill to leaf in an angry manner.
She approached the Pixie, still lounging in her upper branches, “Summon eight of your sisters.”
The Pixie protested, “Eight? As if I had eight sisters to send. If you wanna know where they’re at, ask your Northern Lover.”
The branches of the tree grasped the Pixie’s throat with surprisingly decisive speed. After the Lady of the Black Oak explained her predicament and how far she was willing to go in order to remedy the situation, the Pixie recanted, “How about seven sisters and a little earth Mephit?”
Less than an hour later nine leaves traveled the length and width of Eredane. Many read of the Dryad who was killed as her tree burned in the northern night. Most shrugged away the message, “Hard times are upon us all. Naught to do about it.”
Some went to sleep angry but fear overcame the anger and so they did nothing.
Others ventured from their homes, hollows, valleys or boroughs and were killed by a Vardatch or a superstitious Erendlander or a foul Shadowspawn.
There are those who have marshaled their fear. They are the hidden fey of Eredane, hiding in brook or glen, keeping out of Izrador’s sight, tending their secret groves. Other fey turned to the Shadow in the North long ago but still sneered at the idea of a Sarcosan Legate setting fire to a fair Dryad’s tree.
They arrived in the Bastion district on hoof, wing and foot. They were angry and ready to be led on a vengeful Faery jihad by a Northman hunter with iron in his veins and his cold, emotionless sister.
Story Post 27
Prologue: The Missive
Bough to bough, from great oak to weeping willow to maple to fir the letter on the oak-leaf traveled. Sid the sprite was lounging in the upper reaches of a maple when she found the leaf that was well on its way. She knew Elayle and the message was taken to Port Esben as fast as pixie’s wings could carry it.
Elayle read the letter and cried in frustration. She cried for many reasons but chiefly she cried once again at the fate of her sister, killed in Bastion almost a year ago by Sameal, or as his detractors called him, The Eel.
Frantically, tears wetting the leaves, she wrote nine missives. She wrote the same message nine times over, pressing her quill to leaf in an angry manner.
She approached the Pixie, still lounging in her upper branches, “Summon eight of your sisters.”
The Pixie protested, “Eight? As if I had eight sisters to send. If you wanna know where they’re at, ask your Northern Lover.”
The branches of the tree grasped the Pixie’s throat with surprisingly decisive speed. After the Lady of the Black Oak explained her predicament and how far she was willing to go in order to remedy the situation, the Pixie recanted, “How about seven sisters and a little earth Mephit?”
Less than an hour later nine leaves traveled the length and width of Eredane. Many read of the Dryad who was killed as her tree burned in the northern night. Most shrugged away the message, “Hard times are upon us all. Naught to do about it.”
Some went to sleep angry but fear overcame the anger and so they did nothing.
Others ventured from their homes, hollows, valleys or boroughs and were killed by a Vardatch or a superstitious Erendlander or a foul Shadowspawn.
There are those who have marshaled their fear. They are the hidden fey of Eredane, hiding in brook or glen, keeping out of Izrador’s sight, tending their secret groves. Other fey turned to the Shadow in the North long ago but still sneered at the idea of a Sarcosan Legate setting fire to a fair Dryad’s tree.
They arrived in the Bastion district on hoof, wing and foot. They were angry and ready to be led on a vengeful Faery jihad by a Northman hunter with iron in his veins and his cold, emotionless sister.
slowly but surely
Bastion – Breadbasket of Eredane
Scouting gave them an idea of the area. Bastion was a walled city, in the middle of a triangle of Orc-infested fortresses. To the north was the Shadow-built Holy Fortress, a nightmare of spires and walls. To the east was Fort Easterling and to the west was Fort Westerness.
The river, the Queen’s Tears bi-sected the triangle. All around were the villages and manors that administered to the breadbasket of the continent. When carts came to take early harvest grain to the silos in the forts, they were drawn by Ogres and surrounded by Orcs.
Legate taskmasters lived in the manors just as knights and lords would have long ago and Orcish taskmasters drove the harvest. The many Orc who lived in the villages had been here for almost a hundred years. Many of them were fat and content, happy to be away from their former homes in the deep north. Some villages no longer had humans and only the sons and daughters of Izrador remained.
Scouting went well with the Snow Elf and I doing most of the leg-work. One of the advantages of hiding in the bosom of the Shadow is that the constant parade of Orcs was keeping the Fell from becoming a nuisance so far. While sitting around a smokeless fire nestled in the broken tower we called home, we talked about strategy and how to make ourselves a thorn in Sameal’s side without committing suicide.
Bastion – Breadbasket of Eredane
Scouting gave them an idea of the area. Bastion was a walled city, in the middle of a triangle of Orc-infested fortresses. To the north was the Shadow-built Holy Fortress, a nightmare of spires and walls. To the east was Fort Easterling and to the west was Fort Westerness.
The river, the Queen’s Tears bi-sected the triangle. All around were the villages and manors that administered to the breadbasket of the continent. When carts came to take early harvest grain to the silos in the forts, they were drawn by Ogres and surrounded by Orcs.
Legate taskmasters lived in the manors just as knights and lords would have long ago and Orcish taskmasters drove the harvest. The many Orc who lived in the villages had been here for almost a hundred years. Many of them were fat and content, happy to be away from their former homes in the deep north. Some villages no longer had humans and only the sons and daughters of Izrador remained.
Scouting went well with the Snow Elf and I doing most of the leg-work. One of the advantages of hiding in the bosom of the Shadow is that the constant parade of Orcs was keeping the Fell from becoming a nuisance so far. While sitting around a smokeless fire nestled in the broken tower we called home, we talked about strategy and how to make ourselves a thorn in Sameal’s side without committing suicide.
Derulbaskul
Adventurer
Bumping for very selfish reasons: I really like Midnight and I want some more inspiration for my own campaign... plus you really do write extraordinarily well.
Cheers
D
Cheers
D
Derulbaskul
Adventurer
Bump... 'coz I really like Midnight.
A Korred's Tale
A Story Hour Apology to this who have waited
He appeared to be a squat man with the tangled, tendrils of a reddish beard hanging down from his face, onto his chest. He sat on a standing stone, one of the last in this region.
Once there were many, he thought. Once the good people on these plains gave wheat and milk to the good neighbors but no more. He looked at Bastion, visible from here. Cooking smoke was rising into the sky. Orc were cooking, you could smell the human on the air.
A dirty man with a walking stick approached. One of the Korred's threads of beard went into his pocket, grabbed a pipe. He didn't light it but sat there with it in his mouth. The cherry of the fire could attract attention, best just to chew on it, though.
The Korred began the phrase, "Where are the shadows at noon?" It was a magicked phrase, created by the Witch Queen of the Elves. None who knew it could willingly say it to a Shadowspawn or minion. It was a difficult bit of magick but when your age isn't measured in decades, or centuries but has spanned Ages of man, such spells are available to you for a price.
"They are still there, only they are underfoot," the man replied, identifying himself as one of the Queen's eye and ears. "My leige sends her regards and wishes you well."
The little fey on the rock grunted, "I'll wish her well when she stops sitting in her safe city and leads her people as she should. We're dying out here."
"She does the best she can," the dirty man defended, his Queen the only force he had ever heard of that fought against Izrador. She was a person and an idea that he would give his life for. In some ways he already had.
"We've heard tales of this Ironblooded man. They say he led the Fey folk in a daring raid against the Shadow. They are saying he kidnapped a Samael's son and put him in his enemy's hands. They are saying he works for the Shadow by rebelling against the Shadow. They are saying he is the spawn of an evil demon."
The Korred nodded, "I'd say they were right on all counts but no one bits of that story tell his true tale."
"What is his true tale?"
"Come within my circle of stones. It is a ragged bunch," he said, pointing at the stones, like broken stone teeth jutting out of the earth. There seemed to be a shifting of the rocks at such a statement, as if the stones took umbrage to such a remark. "I can offer you no bread and no beer. It has been decades since any villager brought me and mine an offering. But I can offer you safety for the night and a warm fire that within the circle won't be seen due to glamours and I can tell you the Ironblood's tale. I will tell it to you so you can go into Bastion and tell others."
"Little good a tale is going to do these folk as they starve and watch their families get eaten by Ork." The man mumbled the words while walking towards the circle. He was stopped by the Korred's hand, a stout and strong hand, hard like the rocks.
"If you aren't believing in the power of a tale, then leave, go back and tell your queen that nothing of consequence happened here. I won't be wasting palaver on those who don't believe in what it can be."
The man nodded, "I believe."
"Then come in and listen careful and be sure to go and tell folk that it wasn't Brownies or Satyr or the Witch-Queen herself responsible for what has happened in this district. What happened here are the deeds of one man. Now listen..."
A Story Hour Apology to this who have waited
He appeared to be a squat man with the tangled, tendrils of a reddish beard hanging down from his face, onto his chest. He sat on a standing stone, one of the last in this region.
Once there were many, he thought. Once the good people on these plains gave wheat and milk to the good neighbors but no more. He looked at Bastion, visible from here. Cooking smoke was rising into the sky. Orc were cooking, you could smell the human on the air.
A dirty man with a walking stick approached. One of the Korred's threads of beard went into his pocket, grabbed a pipe. He didn't light it but sat there with it in his mouth. The cherry of the fire could attract attention, best just to chew on it, though.
The Korred began the phrase, "Where are the shadows at noon?" It was a magicked phrase, created by the Witch Queen of the Elves. None who knew it could willingly say it to a Shadowspawn or minion. It was a difficult bit of magick but when your age isn't measured in decades, or centuries but has spanned Ages of man, such spells are available to you for a price.
"They are still there, only they are underfoot," the man replied, identifying himself as one of the Queen's eye and ears. "My leige sends her regards and wishes you well."
The little fey on the rock grunted, "I'll wish her well when she stops sitting in her safe city and leads her people as she should. We're dying out here."
"She does the best she can," the dirty man defended, his Queen the only force he had ever heard of that fought against Izrador. She was a person and an idea that he would give his life for. In some ways he already had.
"We've heard tales of this Ironblooded man. They say he led the Fey folk in a daring raid against the Shadow. They are saying he kidnapped a Samael's son and put him in his enemy's hands. They are saying he works for the Shadow by rebelling against the Shadow. They are saying he is the spawn of an evil demon."
The Korred nodded, "I'd say they were right on all counts but no one bits of that story tell his true tale."
"What is his true tale?"
"Come within my circle of stones. It is a ragged bunch," he said, pointing at the stones, like broken stone teeth jutting out of the earth. There seemed to be a shifting of the rocks at such a statement, as if the stones took umbrage to such a remark. "I can offer you no bread and no beer. It has been decades since any villager brought me and mine an offering. But I can offer you safety for the night and a warm fire that within the circle won't be seen due to glamours and I can tell you the Ironblood's tale. I will tell it to you so you can go into Bastion and tell others."
"Little good a tale is going to do these folk as they starve and watch their families get eaten by Ork." The man mumbled the words while walking towards the circle. He was stopped by the Korred's hand, a stout and strong hand, hard like the rocks.
"If you aren't believing in the power of a tale, then leave, go back and tell your queen that nothing of consequence happened here. I won't be wasting palaver on those who don't believe in what it can be."
The man nodded, "I believe."
"Then come in and listen careful and be sure to go and tell folk that it wasn't Brownies or Satyr or the Witch-Queen herself responsible for what has happened in this district. What happened here are the deeds of one man. Now listen..."
The Korred, a squat Fey creature, beholden to standing stones as the stones are beholden to him welcomed the human into his circle. The human was typical of his race, dirty, frightened and desperate. He gave a password that none could willingly give to a minion of Shadow without breaking a glamour as ferocious as a thunderstorm.
The Fey welcomed the dirty human into his ring, a broken ring of stones that one stood tall and majestic, marking off solstice for holy folk and collecting offerings of beer and milk from the local peasants who wanted nothing more than good crops and no enmity from the good neighbors.
Once they had respect, the Korred thought, as a tendril of his prehensile hair held his pipe and tapped it on the bottom of his boot, shaking out old tobacco. Now they only know fear.
"I'm, I'm in between your standing stones, Fairy. What is this tale of the Northerner with Iron in his blood?" the mortal asked greedily, as if the tale were food.
The Korred stood in the circle and his beard moved like red serpents of tangled hair hanging down from his face.
Stories are power, he thought. Want a story, dirty human? Here's a story for you and yours. "Word was sent out. Somehow this Iron Blooded Dornishman sent out missives among the dryads. His tale of revenge was written on oak leaves from one side of the Eredane to the other.
"Sameal or as we call him, The Eel had offended someone greater than himself. The Prince of the Bastion District had burned a gift from the Shadow in the North, a Black Oak ported down by Oruk on a cart the size of a small keep with a twisted Dryad creature, born in the North under the hateful gaze of the only remaining God.
"When she spurned his advances he took oil to her oak and watched them burn. Her screams even disturbed the blood-soaked dreams of the surrounding Orc. Sameal left the charred stump in the courtyard, a reminder that he would burn those who refused him to cause fear in his enemies.
"It did not have the desired effect.
"Some say the Iron Blood was sent by the very Oruk who brought the Shadow's gift to Sameal, others say it was a conspiracy of Shadow women-folk called the Courtesans of Izrador. Others say it was the Shadow himself and others go the other route and proclaim a Dwarven Prince from the east who has set up court a broken keep in the Fortress Wall."
The human interrupted and hissed, "Which is it?"
"None know. It is not in my wyrd to tell you what a stunted little Fey of the stones thinks. I only know what I met him.
"He was a bear of a Northman with scars and eyes that took in every details. He had spilled blood, of that you can be sure. I could smell it on him just as I could smell the iron in his veins. He hid any family crests or maybe he was a lost bastard, raised by some beast in the northern wastes. He was a hunter, a creature that could track an Orc through the bottom of the Pellurian Sea.
"Among his soldiers were a Satyr who had pretended to be a Demon. He had made his living play-acting as a minion of Hell for bumpkin Legates far from the educated climes of Theros Obsidia. He was a ragged old goat, sly as a fox.
"No less than three centaurs answered the call. They walked proudly with wooden lances at their side and short bows on their backs. They were majestic creatures who had once ruled the plains. It was their ancestors who had welcomed the Halflings to the plains, showed them how to be nomads and live under the stars.
Almost none are left now, and after this business done here, fewer still.
A Snow Elf girl with no ears aided him. She was silent as a drift on the wind and deadly as a winter's night. She cut off her own ears in order to pass as a human maiden. Her filthy hair, hides her heritage and her knifework makes short work of those who see through her ruse.
"A raggedy human, filthy as you, human, but who had made his life in honing his body into a weapon against the Shadow. He taught those who would learn his skills as a Defender and fought Orc and Troll with naught but his fists and sharpened stones. Noble or stupid, hard to say.
"Together they did terrible damage to the Shadow's folk here in Bastion. They terrorized the chiefs of the tribes with dreams of fire and hunger. They kidnapped a Sameal's son and heir, sold him into slavery. None know where Sameal's heir is now.
"Finally, when they could wait for the Folk to gather no more they struck.
"Fires lit all over the district. Orc poured out of the Holy Fortress and Fort Westerness and Fort Easterling. Ogres were used like beasts of burden to bring in grain from local graineries. Much grain was saved. But not enough.
"Sameal knows that his days are numbered. He has taken a retinue south to find his son, who turned up at Port Esben somehow, held hostage there by Vildar himself. The Eel knows that when the grain doesn't come he will hang or worse for allowing the fires of a fortnight ago to rage through the fields that were his only responsibility.
"In the coming months the Shadow will have to make a choice. They will have to feed one front this winter or feed the other. Which will it be, I wonder. Will they feed the frightened fools who make their way into the Whispering Woods of the Witch Queen or will they send grain and gruel to the miserable bastards who spill a hundred Orc's blood for every inch won in the Dwarven tunnels to the east?"
The human listened to the story as if his life depended on it and then asked, "Where did the leader go? Where did the Iron Hunter go?"
"I heard he lived and ventured south. They say he had unfinished business among the cities of the Pellurian Sea. Perhaps he will hunt the Pirate Princes or find his masters at the dark tower of Theros Obsidia or hunt pret for the likes of Vildar Esben. Impossible to say."
"South?" the human confirmed.
"South," the Korred nodded, hair putting the unlit pipe into his mouth.
The human scurried away as if he had been given a loaf of bread and made his way back to the city of Bastion.
The Korred poked at the ground with his staff, looking over the broken circle stones that were his home, pointing out of the ground like teeth in a hag's mouth.
The pixies came out from their hiding places and addressed their Korred host, "Did he believe you?"
He nodded, "Yes, he will go back and tell his Legate masters all that I've said of that you can be sure." The Korred lit his pipe, not caring who saw the fire of his smoking now. "The Orc will come soon, to rip my stones out of the ground and take pieces of my beard from my corpse."
The pixies looked at their old friend and asked, "What can we do?"
The Korred shrugged. "Leave this place and live. Make sure no odd animals are following your trail. I told myself I would live to see Sameal die and he shall die soon enough. When he does die, if you could be so kind as to find his grave and put this stone on it.
"When Sameal was crowned the Prince of Bastion, crowned by Izrador himself in the first decades of the Last Age, he carved his name into one of my stone circles. Such hubris could not be suffered to live. Put this stone on his grave or his tossed aside corpse so that his spirit will know how his fate came, who was the architect of his wyrd."
The pixies took the small polished stone and left.
The Korred looked at hthe distant castle in the city of Bastion and smoked his pipe and said to his friends, "They are coming, my friends. We'll stand to the last together, as we always knew we would. When humans to come hear of where this circle once, let them know it to be haunted by the restless spirits of the Shadow's minions who wrongly thought they had easy prey.
Let's paint the earth with their blood and teach them stone lessons."
Epilogue
Karhoun Esben left burning fields and spinning wheels of Shadow and death in his wake as he trekked northward, towards the Fortress Wall. The wall isn't literally a wall but a string of keeps that were built in ages past by strong Northerners to hold back the Shadow. They had never held much interest to him but there is one keep that caught his attention when it was described to him.
There is a keep that no Shadow creature has held for long. It is silent and deserted, a relic of ages past. Most keeps now hold the Shadow's armies but not this one.
Turning his back on the bloodshed behind him, Karhoun made his way north to Karhoun Keep, sun at his back, his shadow pointing northward.
To Be Continued in a New Story Hour Thread: The Riddle of Midnight
The Fey welcomed the dirty human into his ring, a broken ring of stones that one stood tall and majestic, marking off solstice for holy folk and collecting offerings of beer and milk from the local peasants who wanted nothing more than good crops and no enmity from the good neighbors.
Once they had respect, the Korred thought, as a tendril of his prehensile hair held his pipe and tapped it on the bottom of his boot, shaking out old tobacco. Now they only know fear.
"I'm, I'm in between your standing stones, Fairy. What is this tale of the Northerner with Iron in his blood?" the mortal asked greedily, as if the tale were food.
The Korred stood in the circle and his beard moved like red serpents of tangled hair hanging down from his face.
Stories are power, he thought. Want a story, dirty human? Here's a story for you and yours. "Word was sent out. Somehow this Iron Blooded Dornishman sent out missives among the dryads. His tale of revenge was written on oak leaves from one side of the Eredane to the other.
"Sameal or as we call him, The Eel had offended someone greater than himself. The Prince of the Bastion District had burned a gift from the Shadow in the North, a Black Oak ported down by Oruk on a cart the size of a small keep with a twisted Dryad creature, born in the North under the hateful gaze of the only remaining God.
"When she spurned his advances he took oil to her oak and watched them burn. Her screams even disturbed the blood-soaked dreams of the surrounding Orc. Sameal left the charred stump in the courtyard, a reminder that he would burn those who refused him to cause fear in his enemies.
"It did not have the desired effect.
"Some say the Iron Blood was sent by the very Oruk who brought the Shadow's gift to Sameal, others say it was a conspiracy of Shadow women-folk called the Courtesans of Izrador. Others say it was the Shadow himself and others go the other route and proclaim a Dwarven Prince from the east who has set up court a broken keep in the Fortress Wall."
The human interrupted and hissed, "Which is it?"
"None know. It is not in my wyrd to tell you what a stunted little Fey of the stones thinks. I only know what I met him.
"He was a bear of a Northman with scars and eyes that took in every details. He had spilled blood, of that you can be sure. I could smell it on him just as I could smell the iron in his veins. He hid any family crests or maybe he was a lost bastard, raised by some beast in the northern wastes. He was a hunter, a creature that could track an Orc through the bottom of the Pellurian Sea.
"Among his soldiers were a Satyr who had pretended to be a Demon. He had made his living play-acting as a minion of Hell for bumpkin Legates far from the educated climes of Theros Obsidia. He was a ragged old goat, sly as a fox.
"No less than three centaurs answered the call. They walked proudly with wooden lances at their side and short bows on their backs. They were majestic creatures who had once ruled the plains. It was their ancestors who had welcomed the Halflings to the plains, showed them how to be nomads and live under the stars.
Almost none are left now, and after this business done here, fewer still.
A Snow Elf girl with no ears aided him. She was silent as a drift on the wind and deadly as a winter's night. She cut off her own ears in order to pass as a human maiden. Her filthy hair, hides her heritage and her knifework makes short work of those who see through her ruse.
"A raggedy human, filthy as you, human, but who had made his life in honing his body into a weapon against the Shadow. He taught those who would learn his skills as a Defender and fought Orc and Troll with naught but his fists and sharpened stones. Noble or stupid, hard to say.
"Together they did terrible damage to the Shadow's folk here in Bastion. They terrorized the chiefs of the tribes with dreams of fire and hunger. They kidnapped a Sameal's son and heir, sold him into slavery. None know where Sameal's heir is now.
"Finally, when they could wait for the Folk to gather no more they struck.
"Fires lit all over the district. Orc poured out of the Holy Fortress and Fort Westerness and Fort Easterling. Ogres were used like beasts of burden to bring in grain from local graineries. Much grain was saved. But not enough.
"Sameal knows that his days are numbered. He has taken a retinue south to find his son, who turned up at Port Esben somehow, held hostage there by Vildar himself. The Eel knows that when the grain doesn't come he will hang or worse for allowing the fires of a fortnight ago to rage through the fields that were his only responsibility.
"In the coming months the Shadow will have to make a choice. They will have to feed one front this winter or feed the other. Which will it be, I wonder. Will they feed the frightened fools who make their way into the Whispering Woods of the Witch Queen or will they send grain and gruel to the miserable bastards who spill a hundred Orc's blood for every inch won in the Dwarven tunnels to the east?"
The human listened to the story as if his life depended on it and then asked, "Where did the leader go? Where did the Iron Hunter go?"
"I heard he lived and ventured south. They say he had unfinished business among the cities of the Pellurian Sea. Perhaps he will hunt the Pirate Princes or find his masters at the dark tower of Theros Obsidia or hunt pret for the likes of Vildar Esben. Impossible to say."
"South?" the human confirmed.
"South," the Korred nodded, hair putting the unlit pipe into his mouth.
The human scurried away as if he had been given a loaf of bread and made his way back to the city of Bastion.
The Korred poked at the ground with his staff, looking over the broken circle stones that were his home, pointing out of the ground like teeth in a hag's mouth.
The pixies came out from their hiding places and addressed their Korred host, "Did he believe you?"
He nodded, "Yes, he will go back and tell his Legate masters all that I've said of that you can be sure." The Korred lit his pipe, not caring who saw the fire of his smoking now. "The Orc will come soon, to rip my stones out of the ground and take pieces of my beard from my corpse."
The pixies looked at their old friend and asked, "What can we do?"
The Korred shrugged. "Leave this place and live. Make sure no odd animals are following your trail. I told myself I would live to see Sameal die and he shall die soon enough. When he does die, if you could be so kind as to find his grave and put this stone on it.
"When Sameal was crowned the Prince of Bastion, crowned by Izrador himself in the first decades of the Last Age, he carved his name into one of my stone circles. Such hubris could not be suffered to live. Put this stone on his grave or his tossed aside corpse so that his spirit will know how his fate came, who was the architect of his wyrd."
The pixies took the small polished stone and left.
The Korred looked at hthe distant castle in the city of Bastion and smoked his pipe and said to his friends, "They are coming, my friends. We'll stand to the last together, as we always knew we would. When humans to come hear of where this circle once, let them know it to be haunted by the restless spirits of the Shadow's minions who wrongly thought they had easy prey.
Let's paint the earth with their blood and teach them stone lessons."
Epilogue
Karhoun Esben left burning fields and spinning wheels of Shadow and death in his wake as he trekked northward, towards the Fortress Wall. The wall isn't literally a wall but a string of keeps that were built in ages past by strong Northerners to hold back the Shadow. They had never held much interest to him but there is one keep that caught his attention when it was described to him.
There is a keep that no Shadow creature has held for long. It is silent and deserted, a relic of ages past. Most keeps now hold the Shadow's armies but not this one.
Turning his back on the bloodshed behind him, Karhoun made his way north to Karhoun Keep, sun at his back, his shadow pointing northward.
To Be Continued in a New Story Hour Thread: The Riddle of Midnight
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