Mithangee Chapter Six: Herald to the End of Days

[Journeyman]

My game needs a story hour. It’s been going since 1994, and has been a joy; however, as it has understandably gotten complicated and convoluted I owe her current players a recap. For those of you who shadow these great boards like myself I owe you the basic courtesy of explanations, and I’ll do my best to help when I can! Should this thread get no response save from my players I’ll be more than happy to talk to myself and them; however, if there are those interested who want questions answered, be patient, and I’ll answer them all.
I’m a noob here at this point so, should I break any etiquette, simply rain fire and brimstone from moderator heaven and I’ll consider myself chastised.

The current PC party, as it was in the beginning of this chapter, goes something like this:

Cade Blackbarrell– A halfling assistant to a half-wit magical fake. He is a natural inquisitive who recently found out he has a talent for casting transmutational dweomers given a little memorization and a good stout book or two (or three). Of late, his fortune has been traveling with a weasel of a man trying to make a living; yet, even being a gopher for the disenfranchised charlatan, Ike, is far better than making one’s own way through the perilous countryside of Rothloria.

Devlin Treete of Iricsus – As a dedicated follower of Iricsus* Devlin finds Fate indeed has a place for him in Havenview. Why the Lord of Destiny placed him in this hamlet he plans to find out, for true ecstasy comes from the revelations of divine predestinations. However, when the young cleric arrives with Rodrick Eryin of Iricsus to help stall the spread of a mysterious disease, Devlin soon finds that determining the future will of his lord will take more than the simple texts of temple study ever revealed.

Randall Scarbrough – Only son to a local and prosperous merchant in Havenview, Randall has grown to view himself as above the normal folk of the surrounding district. Especially since he has discovered within him the born ability to spontaneously cast. Under his father’s careful tutelage he is developing a healthy ability to crunch the numbers, and a charismatic need to lead the populace. Tonight he plans on perhaps leading in a different manner…with the local barmaid Kelsa.

Contessa Locksmith – Born imbued with an ancient family bloodline, Contessa has inherited the Tiefling aspects shared by some of her female ancestry. Naturally drawn to all things tangible (and intangible) kept beyond open reach, Ms. Locksmith has grown quite talented in building locks for the family business, and by- passing them for her own private amusement. Tonight however, she wants to by-pass sobriety, and has wandered into the Haven’s Rest for a rainy night of forgetfulness.

Tobin of Sia – Born a peasant in the southern township of Sia, raised by Kirian Starshine as a stable boy, and gentle hearted in nature, Tobin (now of Havenview) is just discovering that forces far greater than horse mites hold an interest in him and his relative small life. Most notably after his hands miraculously heal an accidental mis-shoe on a horse in Tobin's temporary care. Tonight his thoughts do not rest with his strange gift, but rather with the storm raging outside, and it's effects upon yhe stableboy's equestrian wards. Storms this large are never good.

Brishen Al’Sarna – Flamboyant, certain of his crux in all social situations, Brishen is a Tuathinkin* of potent notoriety. When his Kali* notices his potentially disastrous effect on a family marriage, he is set up to take a fall during a horse trade gone badly. The family makes a getaway while the young gypsy sits stewing in the Havenview detention. His thoughts wander in the coming month, and seemingly escape all attempts to find a desire for justice.

Da’Shen Telom – He is a mercenary from the red wastes of Gosh. Potent in his local tribe, he grows bored and journeys to the Greenlands to adventure amongst the weak. Traveling ever east, drawn by the rising sun, he wanders into the tiny village of Havenview after many months of forced captivity amongst the Greenlanders of the Cherisian city-states. An illness growing in his lungs, he vows to make things right with himself and indeed all of Mithangee.

Before I start re-capping this campaign chapter, I will attempt a glimpse/relative-setting-history of Mithangee at this point in time within the local geographic area.

[/I]*Iricsus, Mithangeean God of Fate/Destiny, is a minor god in the pantheon aligned with Law and Neutrality.

* Gypsies of Mithangee, always on the road, these often-misunderstood sects of humanity are accused of base crimes and reduced to rural wanderings more often than not. They are usually found in wagon-like Trains consisting of differing Sects and families, but very rarely alone.

* A Kali is a Tuathinkin Train Leader. Oftentimes the leader of a Train's many families, a Kali, enjoys many benefits. One of which is arranging marriages amongst his Train and others which pass by.[/I]

 

[Journeyman]

Mithangee is a world I began to create back in middle school. Ah the days of my youth! I began to campaign in it back in 94’ with a close group of friends, and since then my story has evolved to the point it is at now. Five chapters have preceded the beginning of the one I am about to catch up on now, and each has built upon the last, creating a history that will take me a long time to place upon these boards. Perhaps if this story hour works out for me (as far as the amount of time it takes to write) I will begin to go back and revisit those places, both for my players’ benefit, and the interested reader.
I ramble though. Within Mithangee there exists a continent known as Olivarithis, which is split into two halves: Sol-Urithis on its western side and An-Varithis on its eastern side. In southern An-Varithis there exists an area of land long dominated by three powerful human kingdoms. In times past (roughly 3,500 years ago) these kingdoms lived in a stable peace. They traded and flourished, and in the southernmost of the three, magic was slowly giving way to industry and the dawn of what can be briefly compared to our own renaissance of Italy.
However, 3,500 years ago marked the advent of a terrible war brought to the three kingdoms by a Horde of Orcs working in concert (and as puppets to) a malevolent exiled sorcerer from of all places, The Concordant Domain of the Outlands. Reth de’Til, for this was his name, succeeded in bringing chaos to the region. Orcs poured out of the Deringer Mountains (a range which separates south An-Varithis from its northern half) and from the Cloudless Mountains to the far west. Lapan was largely spared any initial destruction from the Hordes, for her lands were buffered to the north by Cherisia, greatest in mass and physical might.
Lapan’s true strengths were in her navy and her peoples’ advancement into renaissance times. However, as the countries of Cherisia and Galdruth in the North fought a desperate battle against the Orcish hordes and the outlanders spurring them on, Reth de’Til moved against Lapan from within. The sorcerer brought Lapan too her knees when he slaughtered its key power holders through destruction of the Royal Lineage of Arron of Nal’mo-naish; by murdering the Arch, Iryouli *; and, by releasing a like-wise banished specter (known simply as the Mist) of great power into the streets of Lapan’s capitol, Lorthnisis.
Taken by complete surprise from the shock of such a quick progression of total peace to total chaos, Lapan fell to ruin within a matter of two decades. Her fall was crowned and capped by a desperate Pact signed between her greatest adventures and Mist as they fought. The party, known as the Bane of Twilight, compacted with the dread specter wherein the undead abomination agreed to fight against Reth de’Til in return for control of all of Lorthnisis. The Pact became known as the Signature of Lapan’s Nightfall, and after the agreement's signing the great sorcerer fell to the combined might of the Bane and Mist. Such is the desperation of Men when all else has failed. Some say the Bane was later corrupted by Mist into serving it and keeping the specter’s new domain safe and guarded; however, whatever befell the Bane and Mist, Lapan is a place of shadow and fear. Its lands are shunned and few tread within them and return without some markings of insanity or despair.
Lapan’s fight for survival left her in total isolation from the two allies at war in the north and further weakened Cherisia and Galdruth in their long and desperate struggle against the hordes upon her succumbing to the Pact. However, with Reth de’Til’s demise came chaos amongst the Orcish hordes and their planar compatriots. The tides of evil and chaos were turned back, but not before a weakened Galdruth fell to anarchy and civil destruction, for too many of her nobles were dead and buried; too many of her most prized adventures were missing or slain upon the fields of battle never to take her cause up again. Galdruth became a land of ruin and mercenaries. It has not regained any state of peace in the last 3,500 years and continues to be reclaimed by the Wyld and those who chose despotism and barbarism as their cause.
Cherisia’s fate was less chaotic. Her armies decimated, her Royal Lineage also ending with the Fall of the Princes, the remaining Heads of the Six Houses carved Cherisia into six city-states fearing a popular uprising should the Houses clash in a civil war for the throne. Thus ended a monarchy that had survived for nearly twenty millennia.
Our chapter begins in the city-state of Rothliras and the surrounding countryside of Rothloria. Situated on what were Cherisia’s southeastern borders, Rothliras has grown profitable, stable, and secure in the past three and a half millennia of peace. Yet now, in its southern reaches, a turbulence is growing centered in the tiny hamlet of Havenview a support town to the Township of Kalimshire who in turn supports Rothliras itself.

The next post will attempt an explanation of the nature of magic, divine and arcane, and the current effects of that nature upon the Prime known as Mithangee.

* Arch is the term used to describe a Wizard who has reached the pinnacle of known power. Think Archmage if you will. Iryouli was the name of the Arch of Lorthnisis

 

[Journeyman]

** I want to nod my head to Sep who has so graciously given the public idea of valences serving as the levels of spells. I find it a fantastic idea, and I seem to recall, now that I write this, he gave kudos to someone else in his postings as well. Whoever thought it up, bravo!

I also have learned that to space between one’s paragraphs is a wonderful and pleasing thing upon the eyes when copying into the reply box. Sorry for all the strained eyes out there!**

Mithangee has long been rife with arcane energies both great and small. In its long history it has seen civilizations built solely on arcane and divine might, civilizations which shared industry and magic in harmony, and even the occasional land in which magic was simply not potent enough to survive save in mere pockets and magical artifacts from ages long past.

In the times in which Chapter Six takes place, Mithangee has undergone a somewhat recent and unprecedented turn towards a strange and uncomforting rationing of arcane energies. The exact time in history when the effects began to appear are lost and vary widely depending on the ancient scrolls and tombs consulted; however, the conditions which begin to affect the sanity of the magi and sorcerers of Mithangee as they progress in valance ascension are undisputed. Where once there were many magi and sorcerer alike, now there are very, very few. Many who make the feared first steps toward the higher Rings find themselves burned out or, at worst, driven insane by powers seeming to go counter-grain to the “ancient laws of the Arcanum”.

Worse still, are the conditions in the divine community. In Mithangee there exists a pantheon of 29 gods. Where in past eons these gods were in constant contact with the Prime of Mithangee; they are now divided. To make a long story short (for now), the gods are unable to commit their energies to only but the highest and most devout of their flock. The balance of the pantheon has been rendered to a state of absolute neutrality at the complete and utter detriment of the greater majority of the denizens of Mithangee. Those few clerics who do choose the dangerous path of ascension risk utter madness, and few can understand why; most especially the devout clerics who make it through their ascensions relatively unscathed.

If there is a magic, which has strangely flourished with the absence of Divine and Arcane balance, it is the Druidic and Wyld magicks. Ironically there are few druids left in the Wyld, as without guidance from a strong-handed god in charge of nature, the force of raw nature itself (termed the Wyld) has become irrational and completely dangerous even unto its protectors. Only those lands still harboring druids capable enough to maintain control are able to escape the tides of the Wyld and its feral denizens. In such reaches Druidic power is great, and the Green Ways* more so.

I am sure at this point there are those of you in the game or reading, which are wondering when I am going to get to the campaign proper. In fact, I am going to do so in the next post. Yay!

* The Green Ways can be best described in game terms as Druidic Spell Progression.

 

[Journeyman]

Rain. It fell in sheets tormenting the lands beneath its drenching weight and relentless mediocrity. The lighting flashed and the thunder beckoned in vociferous echoes as the tones of Mishkali* and Azakriel*, in yet another celestial argument, made their displeasures known.

The storms moved across the northern plains of Rothloria with terrible swiftness, for the winds backing them would not slow their progress for any trivial need of sightseeing or leisurely saunters of normal west to east progression. This was a storm with a purpose. It was a storm intent on fulfilling prophecy and ushering in a new age on the Prime, even if those below, organic and inorganic both, did not know such a turn of events was taking shape.

The drought ending tempests moved ever southward, and upon finally meeting the superior temperate crosswinds, came to a deafening halt. The storms fought their fates for a time before beginning to burn out over the course of the night. However, for the citizens of the Kalimshirean District below, and the Wylds accompanying them, the drenching and unrelenting rains held in stasis above were a horrid omen indeed.

So began the Night of Eternum. Many would look back on that storm with a longing for simpler times, perhaps as a moment where their lives may have taken a different course. Yet the cogs of the mill stop for no mere wish of the teeth; the river moves inexorably on despite the protestations of Her eddies and currents within.

Havenview weathered the night as best a small hamlet could in those days. The Havenroot had overflowed its banks sometime around twilight flooding the cross haired main streets with a thin (yet rising) layer of muddy water. Many of the torches and few streetlights lit at nightfall had long since guttered out despite the attempts of Robb Freemason to relight them. Nights such as these made the Torchlighters a ruthless and thankless guild to owe one’s life too, yet the guildsman continued his ruined fight while curious townsfolk watched from the safety of their random homes or patron empty shops.

Kirian Starshine gazed too out of his favorite window behind the bar of the Haven’s Rest all the while drying the last pewter mug from a lunch that seemed far, too far, in the past. Placing the used and quite spent washcloth under the counter top within its bucket of cleaning water, and without even pausing to think, he began preparing another round of full ale mugs for the overworked Kelsa to distribute to paying customers. Why the citizens demanded to come and frequent his establishment on a night such as this was beyond him, but it made money and as a Founder* he was not about to disappoint.

Taking a deep breath, and filling the last mug full, Kirian noticed the humidity building in the room again. Uttering a small cantrip under his breath he returned the balance of the common room’s dampness to a less oppressive weight, for now at least.

“My, my, my, but Robb is going to catch fever out in that tempest.” Kirian mused as he observed the Torchlighter wander by, curses muted by the thick pained window. Hazel Elven eyes reflecting back at him, Kirian began to worry at his Irti* wondering whether the storm was an omen, or simply answers to the many overheard prayers of his patrons wishing for water and rain to end the recent rash of droughts. Whatever its cause, this storm’s nature was unlike the greater majority the mage had witnessed in his long Elven life. Storms very rarely lingered with such intensity for so long a time. If the drenching torrents did not fizzle out or move their anger on soon, Eredricht was going to have his poor hands full. He would need to make a note of this night in his journal for sure the mage contemplated.

That last thought jarred him, for of all of Havenview’s populace not to have shown up in the Rest on a night such as this, Eredricht was the last man Kirian would have placed upon a list detailing such. As the small township’s Knight Appointed Commission, and as acting sheriff, the middle aged human would do well by calming, greeting, and mingling with the slew of townsfolk hunkered down for a long night of drinking and carousing here. Not that this was the best evening Kirian had managed to arrange for entertainment.

The Nobae* peered through squinted eyes at the disaster taking place on the stage opposite his position in the common room. What could only be described as a self-made shell of a charlatan was currently attempting to amuse Kirian’s customers with a claim of creating a magical talking cane of high intelligence. While patrons shuffled their feet across the straw covered floor, dug at ear wax, or picked at their food, this Ike, as he named himself, motioned and gestured like a flailing and off balance amateur tight rope artist. Kirian could understand why Ike’s small halfling assistant, sitting on the stage’s edge nearly out of sight, was attempting to hide a grimace of self-loathing. Then the halfling’s hands began to move. In a series of gestures nearly concealed from Kirian’s trained eyes, the smallman cast a spell.

The Talking Stick of Iridar, for Ike had so gloriously named it, began to speak in a slow and deliberate speech all the while glowing with a ruddy, red light.

“I am the great cane of Iridar! Fear my wrath and heed my master’s needs!” came the obvious attempt at ventriloquism. A patron in the back of the room guffawed. An apple core flew, true to its wielders aim, right into the forehead of poor Ike’s braincase. As Ike, startled, dropped the “The Great Cane” patrons mocked and jeered having finally found an outlet for their qualms concerning the tempest outside. Yet, as Kirian helped his sole barmaid Kelsa balance a new round of twelve pints on a platter, he couldn’t help but frown himself when the young halfling, attempting to distract the crowd back to the cane, caught the small device on fire with a carefully obscured cantrip. Freshly laid, and quite tender, straw began to smolder.

“Nobody is better than somebody when it comes to entertainment!” Kirian muttered as he pushed his way through the bemused spectators to douse the small fire with the bucket of cleaning water from his earlier exploits. He nearly threw the remaining liquid over the embarrassed Ike, but remembering his composure simply gave the simpleton one of his region famous stares of contempt while returning to his bar-side post. Traveling showmen would have a hard time in the future convincing Kirian, even when desperate, that they were able to pull off unrehearsed performances of any quality.

“Kelsa! I’m going to check on Tobin in the yard. You’re in charge, set Ike down at a table in back, and by Nefrotis we shall have a less than disastrous evening by my return.” were the words flying from the mage, turned innkeeper’s, mouth as he exited through the kitchen door. Sympathetic townsfolk began to sing inn songs to make the room less oppressive, and so it was that Randall Scarbrough and Tess found the Haven’s Rest upon their inauspicious arrival.

* Mishkali, Mithangeean goddess of storms, is a minor goddess aligned with chaos and neutrality.

*Azakriel, Mithangeean god of nature, is a minor god aligned with neutrality and good.

*A Founder is the term in Rothloria given to a settled adventurer commissioned by the Senate to found a new township, or take over governing of an existing one.

*An Irti is a tightly braided piece of hair signifying a Nobae’s profession as a practitioner of magic.

*A Nobae is my term for wood elf.

 

[Journeyman]

The horses were tense. So nervous were they that Tobin felt the near panic rising and wafting from them in waves. The boy moved with as much confidence as he could muster throughout the darkened stables while lightning illuminated various saddles, bridles, and assorted equestrian gear hanging from their homes within. As Tobin rechecked each steed’s knots to make sure bolting was not an option (should another particularly powerful blast issue forth from the heavens) he thought about the omens the storm brought with it.

“Nonsense is what the storm brought with it, panic and nonsense. Is your life really going anywhere?” came his thoughts unbidden.

Shrugging off his bad humors, and with little ease, he quietly chastised himself for daydreaming with so much work to do be done. This was not a friendly night at all, and the sheer amount of patrons within the inn was a bittersweet situation. Many people meant much work; yet, with many people came many steeds to watch. Tobin shook his head as his mind tried to grasp the tongue twisting thought. Storms never helped, but the pay would be good this night.

Yes, that was easier to spell out.

The warm sounds of revelry came suddenly from the inn as Tobin contemplated how to explain nearly twenty horses stampeding out the stable doors and into the storm’s embrace outside due to daydreaming. Puddles, long since created by the various leaks in the ceiling, continued to confound the stable hand’s efforts to keep the straw of the shelter dry and comfortable; Tobin sighed. Night’s such as these caused Tobin no amount of frustration and endless repetitive work. Just as one stall was re-fitted to his exact standards another, worked on not more than an hour before, would invariably become inhospitable for it’s host.

It wasn’t that Kirian held the young lad to any exact standards of perfection, or would look down on Tobin should the stable of the Rest become like any other mundane temporary equestrian lodging:

“It’s just that these creatures deserve more, and I have a desire to see myself do the best job that I know I can do,” Tobin finished the thought aloud.

“So you do, Tobin. I could not have asked for a better arrangement when asking for your transfer here from Sia,” came Kirian’s startling voice from the shadows of the rain soaked yard outside.

The Nobae’s frame was silhouetted briefly by a predominant burst of lightning plunging from the angry skies above. Tobin nearly jumped a foot off the sodden ground, and several of the horses in his care took the liberty of showing their astonishment even if their ward could not show his own. After having been in the employ of Kirian for nearly a year the distinctive innkeeper still possessed the ability to enter Tobin’s presence in the most startling of ways, and this bothered him immensely. How could one do the best job possible when he did not understand or precipitate his employer’s comings and goings? The storm continued to roar about the innkeep and hired hand as Tobin thought of a suitable response.

“Err. You didn’t come out to hear me talk to myself master Kirian,” came the feeble, quiet response. “Great. Good reply. Show that backbone Tobin,” came the inner vocalization.

“No, no I must confess I did not,” Kirian sighed as he walked into the shelter from the tempest’s rage outside. Rain literally ran off his cloak in streams. “I actually was going to send you inside to do two things for me if you would be so kind. One,” and a single Elven digit rose, “I would like you to eat and get something warmer to wear. Two,” yet another digit, “I want you to ask, no tell, that idiot Ike to meet me out here as soon as you get inside. Should you have forgotten who he is you won’t mistake -,”

“The small, greasy man on stage?” Tobin finished with more confidence than he felt.

Kirian paused before replying, eyebrows arched, “Yes, that’s quite right”.

- - - - MMM- - - -

Cade’s thoughts whirled past him as he sat on the edge of the stage’s sanded side, head in his hands. How, by Imoriv*, had he found or agreed to accompany this fool on a trip to see the great land of Rothloria?

When you ran out of food. When you were alone in the world. When you realized that you could read the magic Ike struggled every day to understand. You fool of a halfling.

The smallman cringed as his thoughts tormented him with their barbs. He felt trapped. He felt embarrassed by yet another of Ike’s failed attempts to win them free lodging, and if lucky, possible coin in a purse. Cade still could see the innkeep’s expression when he all but pushed his own customers over to extinguish the fledgling mages’s cantrip. Just as he realized he should more than likely be apologizing to Ike for nearly burning their host’s establishment down, he was pulled to his feet by an all too familiar tug.

“You ignorant, stupid little man! It was going so well until your feeble attempt at lighting the prop distracted my oratory! How dare you continue to ruin this show? Get the Nefrotis*-be-damned stick!” Ike muttered as he nearly shoved Cade off the stage toward the device lying in light wisps of spent smoke on the inn’s floor.

The sudden movement caused the halfling to wave his arms wildly for balance resulting in many of the Rest’s patrons laughing with pointed fingers. Several voices could be heard asking him to dance, and that perhaps he could make the show worth their while by doing a few tumbles and fool’s speeches. Cade, blushing furiously, hustled toward Ike’s beloved prop. He could literally feel the man’s thoughts considering the crowd’s propositions, and the possible judgment thoroughly worried Cade.

This was going to be a long, long evening. One day soon though Cade would know enough magick to get away from Ike. If only the bully of a human had more books of it lying around. Picking up the charred cane, Cade wondered as he wandered through the inn about the good life to come. Ike was suddenly busy talking to a young boy while looking furtively toward the kitchen door throughout the hushed conversation. As such, it looked as if Cade was going to have some free time to his own self, if only for a few minutes, and so the cane was tucked inside his dirty, stained jacket, forgotten, for the time being. He did think it odd while climbing up and onto his barstool that the boy, straw on his muddy shoes, looked more nervous than Ike as he led the stage man, hands wringing, into the kitchen.

* Imoriv, Mithangeean god of commerce/trade, is a minor god aligned with good and law.

* Nefrotis, Mithangeean goddess of luck/love, is a minor god aligned with chaos and neutrality.

 

[Burne]

Howdy. Nice to be able to read this. Keep it up.

PS Give us the body, mmmm tasty.