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Tæün: Reflections (Updated 11-1-04)
- Thread starter Hjorimir
- Start date
Hjorimir
Adventurer
For anybody who is wondering what he and I are talking about, ForceUser was kind enough to take some time and introduce me to grammar. If he ever has the inclination to write for ENWorld again, you'd be doing yourselves a disservice not to read his work. He has an amazing talent for words and is a true artist.
Hjorimir
Adventurer
Time for a short update.
4 – Ask the Sheep
A quick note on Fjoti pronunciation: Ð and Þ (or ð and þ as the case may be) are pronounced with a hard ‘th’ as in word the. The letter j is spoken as the letter y and f is spoken as v (the proper pronunciation for Fjoti is ‘Vee-yo-tea’ and not as ‘F-joe-tea’).
So, with that…
Concerning Fjoti
Inhabiting the Hiemalmark, are the Fjoti, an old people with a long, bloody history of leaving destruction in their wake. The region is comprised of cold forests and icy fjords along the northeastern coast of Emoria before it finally turns east to form an isthmus with the distant continent of Darlundia.
Life in the hard lands of the north bred a hard people. Considering them little more than cruel savages, the other peoples of Emoria value the Fjoti nonetheless; their presence in the Hiemalmark providing a convenient defensive barrier against any invading Vastil hordes that attempt to cross the land bridge from Darlundia during the Low and High Burnings every few years.
In time, missionary Vascinian friars, whom are called prestrs in the tongue of the north, came to the Hiemalmark and worked to convert the fierce Fjoti from their neopagan beliefs of warring goðar (gods) while giving them the benefit of an enlightenment that only Æhüthianism could provide.
The prestrs taught of peace and joy and the value of life (even if that life belonged to another). These were neoteric concepts to the brutish Fjoti who had long consigned themselves to the forces of urðr and vyrd (doom and fate). Urðr, especially, had been a fundamental part of life in the north where it was taught to accept one’s destiny without fear, a belief the visiting friars completely failed to see as being anything other than tragically fatalistic.
Along with the proselytization of Æhüthianism, the prestrs advanced the Fjoti’s skill in working with stone and steel and with letters and numbers. This heralded a new era for the northerners who had been living in simple wooden longhouses at the time. The oral traditions that they had relied upon were recorded in the written word for the first time in history. In doing so, the itinerant clerics were able to better understand the fierce warrior people and the way they thought.
But, regardless of all the wondrous gifts the prestrs brought, Æhüthianism only ever managed to partially integrate itself into the Fjoti culture. Its presence has created a schism in their people; the fróðar (wise or enlightened) who built cities within walls of stone, worked steel, and learned the written tongue (rudimentary as it was) and the þjóði (the people or folk) who still lived deep in the wild forests and strictly adhered to the old ways while spurning the new teaching. Even the fróðar, however, continued to honor the older traditions and simply started to worship Æhü right alongside the goðar who had protected them for ages.
***
Outside Edelhorn, The Hiemalmark
The fjölkunnigr, Álfarr, had patiently waited nine days outside the hut along with his lamb. While most men would scoff at the idea of such a long tenure, he had endured learning the secrets his people call rúnar, which took years. He was a patient man, so he sat and he waited and he watched.
The völva, Hulda, who lived within the hut, was completely happy to ignore the magician whom she considered something of a witless, mongrel outcast being something between both fróðr and þjóð. Though people were often wary of such dangerous men and the power they wielded, she was unworried. As far as she was concerned, if he didn’t like it, he could complain to the Alföðr or maybe appeal to Véorr. So she left him sitting by the door to freeze.
But he and the sheep were starting to smell and with no rain in the foreseeable future things stood to get worse. Hulda found the situation becoming completely unacceptable and decided to take action.
“Leave me,” she dictated, as she lorded over him with the afternoon sun at her back transforming her into a sparkling silhouette.
Squinting up at the völva, he answered, “No.”
“I could summon the huscarls,” she threatened while pointing to the great hall of the jarl she served. “At my word they would descend upon you and leak the sword dew of your body.”
“I have summonings of my own,” he challenged. “Spare your men, Hulda.”
A bit surprised by his daring, she asked, “Who are you?”
“Men call me Álfarr, my master has called me maggot.”
“How appropriate and who is…” she started.
Already knowing her next question, he interrupted her mid-sentence. “The Dwarf.” His words caused the völva to catch her breath.
The Dwarf was in reference to Yngvi, an enigmatic and dangerous mage who was known to tamper in the calling of önd**. His reputation, which was far spread beyond the confines of the Hiemalmark, placed him as one of the preeminent conjurers in Emoria. There was more legend than fact known about Yngvi and Hulda knew this.
“Are there no prestrs within the Edelhorn to tend to whatever ills you?” she sighed, her face showing defeat. “Why must I be bothered with such things?”
“I am not ill,” Álfarr answered. “I have had dreyma* and I require your Sight.”
“You lie, why would any goð visit the likes of you?”
“Tell me,” he shrugged. “You have the white dots under your nails,” he said, looking at her hands. Such marks indicated the ability to see the urðr and vyrd; Hulda was an oracle.
Hulda returned inside and closed her door, once again leaving Álfarr to wait outside in the cold, while she considered the magician’s request for the evening. She knew she had to proceed carefully. If the upstart wizard was on some errand for Yngvi, it could prove troublesome for her not to submit to his request.
Early the next morning she exited, woke Álfarr with a rather firm kick to the chest, and said, “We will ask the sheep.” The magician had shown hubris by bringing a sacrifice with him as he was assuming she would concede and perform the ritual. This only fueled the disdain she had for him all the more.
Álfarr nodded, climbed to his feet, passed her a handful of gold coins and the leash of the lamb.
Hulda led the sheep over to a hörgr (an alter comprised of stacked stones) and started the blóð (blessing). Her hands held a horn, high above her head, as she called out to the goðar. Thrice she blew the blóð-horn, hallowing the ground.
“Hallinskíði, bright holder of the horn, hear our worthy words!”
“Véorr, mighty warder of the garðs, guard this stead for holy works!”
“Hail Oski, The Alföðr, for your wisdom and forethought in guiding us forward through the year to come and for the knowledge you have shared with us. Hail Oski!”
”Hail to Árguð for the bountiful harvest you have brought to us. Hail Árguð!”
”Hail to Hörn for the love and life we hold to our hearts. Hail Hörn!”
”Hail to all the Ases and Wanes for the mighty work that you do. Hail the Ases and Wanes!”
”And Hail to our Ancestors and Wights of the land. Hail to the All who have crossed Bilröst before. Hail the Ancestors!”
With a long, hooked knife, she skillfully slaughtered the lamb, capturing its blood within an earthen bowl. She then dipped a dark, wooden wand into the bowl and stirred its contents as she spoke in tongues. Turning to Álfarr, she whipped the wand, sprinkling droplets of blood upon him before pouring the remaining liquid upon the altar. With the blóð now completed, she delved into the spilled entrails of the carcass to see the urðr and vyrd of the magician.
The priestess smirked and pronounced, “Your doom lies within shadow, maggot.” The words sounding victorious as she delivered them.
Álfarr, understandably concerned, pressed for more, “Is that all you can tell me, woman?” His words coming harder than he intended his face softened.
“Have a care, fjölkunnigr, lest I take offense and put the mark of níðingr*** upon you!” she spat. “But, yes, there is more.”
Letting her spirit flow free, she swayed slowly, seeking the truth of his destiny with the spirits beyond the veil. Her eyes snapped open, each now a differing color, as a chorus of voices issued forth, speaking in perfect unison. “Within the lands of the eventide hunt out the snow of the nest. Therein spawns the path unto the echoes of being.”
Álfarr rolled the words in his head, attempting to decipher the meaning before he gave Hulda a final nod.
* Dreyma are visions sent by the goðar. Literally, it translates as ‘it dreamt me.’
** Önd are powerful spirits of Fjoti belief. The term can be thought to refer to any of a variety of nasty outsiders.
*** A níðingr is one without out honor. To be marked as such would make him an anathema unto all of the Fjoti who could lawfully attack him without provocation. Such punishments are rare and usually reserved for the traitorous, thieves, or those living in such a manner to be found distasteful.
4 – Ask the Sheep
A quick note on Fjoti pronunciation: Ð and Þ (or ð and þ as the case may be) are pronounced with a hard ‘th’ as in word the. The letter j is spoken as the letter y and f is spoken as v (the proper pronunciation for Fjoti is ‘Vee-yo-tea’ and not as ‘F-joe-tea’).
So, with that…
Concerning Fjoti
Inhabiting the Hiemalmark, are the Fjoti, an old people with a long, bloody history of leaving destruction in their wake. The region is comprised of cold forests and icy fjords along the northeastern coast of Emoria before it finally turns east to form an isthmus with the distant continent of Darlundia.
Life in the hard lands of the north bred a hard people. Considering them little more than cruel savages, the other peoples of Emoria value the Fjoti nonetheless; their presence in the Hiemalmark providing a convenient defensive barrier against any invading Vastil hordes that attempt to cross the land bridge from Darlundia during the Low and High Burnings every few years.
In time, missionary Vascinian friars, whom are called prestrs in the tongue of the north, came to the Hiemalmark and worked to convert the fierce Fjoti from their neopagan beliefs of warring goðar (gods) while giving them the benefit of an enlightenment that only Æhüthianism could provide.
The prestrs taught of peace and joy and the value of life (even if that life belonged to another). These were neoteric concepts to the brutish Fjoti who had long consigned themselves to the forces of urðr and vyrd (doom and fate). Urðr, especially, had been a fundamental part of life in the north where it was taught to accept one’s destiny without fear, a belief the visiting friars completely failed to see as being anything other than tragically fatalistic.
Along with the proselytization of Æhüthianism, the prestrs advanced the Fjoti’s skill in working with stone and steel and with letters and numbers. This heralded a new era for the northerners who had been living in simple wooden longhouses at the time. The oral traditions that they had relied upon were recorded in the written word for the first time in history. In doing so, the itinerant clerics were able to better understand the fierce warrior people and the way they thought.
But, regardless of all the wondrous gifts the prestrs brought, Æhüthianism only ever managed to partially integrate itself into the Fjoti culture. Its presence has created a schism in their people; the fróðar (wise or enlightened) who built cities within walls of stone, worked steel, and learned the written tongue (rudimentary as it was) and the þjóði (the people or folk) who still lived deep in the wild forests and strictly adhered to the old ways while spurning the new teaching. Even the fróðar, however, continued to honor the older traditions and simply started to worship Æhü right alongside the goðar who had protected them for ages.
***
Outside Edelhorn, The Hiemalmark
The fjölkunnigr, Álfarr, had patiently waited nine days outside the hut along with his lamb. While most men would scoff at the idea of such a long tenure, he had endured learning the secrets his people call rúnar, which took years. He was a patient man, so he sat and he waited and he watched.
The völva, Hulda, who lived within the hut, was completely happy to ignore the magician whom she considered something of a witless, mongrel outcast being something between both fróðr and þjóð. Though people were often wary of such dangerous men and the power they wielded, she was unworried. As far as she was concerned, if he didn’t like it, he could complain to the Alföðr or maybe appeal to Véorr. So she left him sitting by the door to freeze.
But he and the sheep were starting to smell and with no rain in the foreseeable future things stood to get worse. Hulda found the situation becoming completely unacceptable and decided to take action.
“Leave me,” she dictated, as she lorded over him with the afternoon sun at her back transforming her into a sparkling silhouette.
Squinting up at the völva, he answered, “No.”
“I could summon the huscarls,” she threatened while pointing to the great hall of the jarl she served. “At my word they would descend upon you and leak the sword dew of your body.”
“I have summonings of my own,” he challenged. “Spare your men, Hulda.”
A bit surprised by his daring, she asked, “Who are you?”
“Men call me Álfarr, my master has called me maggot.”
“How appropriate and who is…” she started.
Already knowing her next question, he interrupted her mid-sentence. “The Dwarf.” His words caused the völva to catch her breath.
The Dwarf was in reference to Yngvi, an enigmatic and dangerous mage who was known to tamper in the calling of önd**. His reputation, which was far spread beyond the confines of the Hiemalmark, placed him as one of the preeminent conjurers in Emoria. There was more legend than fact known about Yngvi and Hulda knew this.
“Are there no prestrs within the Edelhorn to tend to whatever ills you?” she sighed, her face showing defeat. “Why must I be bothered with such things?”
“I am not ill,” Álfarr answered. “I have had dreyma* and I require your Sight.”
“You lie, why would any goð visit the likes of you?”
“Tell me,” he shrugged. “You have the white dots under your nails,” he said, looking at her hands. Such marks indicated the ability to see the urðr and vyrd; Hulda was an oracle.
Hulda returned inside and closed her door, once again leaving Álfarr to wait outside in the cold, while she considered the magician’s request for the evening. She knew she had to proceed carefully. If the upstart wizard was on some errand for Yngvi, it could prove troublesome for her not to submit to his request.
Early the next morning she exited, woke Álfarr with a rather firm kick to the chest, and said, “We will ask the sheep.” The magician had shown hubris by bringing a sacrifice with him as he was assuming she would concede and perform the ritual. This only fueled the disdain she had for him all the more.
Álfarr nodded, climbed to his feet, passed her a handful of gold coins and the leash of the lamb.
Hulda led the sheep over to a hörgr (an alter comprised of stacked stones) and started the blóð (blessing). Her hands held a horn, high above her head, as she called out to the goðar. Thrice she blew the blóð-horn, hallowing the ground.
“Hallinskíði, bright holder of the horn, hear our worthy words!”
“Véorr, mighty warder of the garðs, guard this stead for holy works!”
“Hail Oski, The Alföðr, for your wisdom and forethought in guiding us forward through the year to come and for the knowledge you have shared with us. Hail Oski!”
”Hail to Árguð for the bountiful harvest you have brought to us. Hail Árguð!”
”Hail to Hörn for the love and life we hold to our hearts. Hail Hörn!”
”Hail to all the Ases and Wanes for the mighty work that you do. Hail the Ases and Wanes!”
”And Hail to our Ancestors and Wights of the land. Hail to the All who have crossed Bilröst before. Hail the Ancestors!”
With a long, hooked knife, she skillfully slaughtered the lamb, capturing its blood within an earthen bowl. She then dipped a dark, wooden wand into the bowl and stirred its contents as she spoke in tongues. Turning to Álfarr, she whipped the wand, sprinkling droplets of blood upon him before pouring the remaining liquid upon the altar. With the blóð now completed, she delved into the spilled entrails of the carcass to see the urðr and vyrd of the magician.
The priestess smirked and pronounced, “Your doom lies within shadow, maggot.” The words sounding victorious as she delivered them.
Álfarr, understandably concerned, pressed for more, “Is that all you can tell me, woman?” His words coming harder than he intended his face softened.
“Have a care, fjölkunnigr, lest I take offense and put the mark of níðingr*** upon you!” she spat. “But, yes, there is more.”
Letting her spirit flow free, she swayed slowly, seeking the truth of his destiny with the spirits beyond the veil. Her eyes snapped open, each now a differing color, as a chorus of voices issued forth, speaking in perfect unison. “Within the lands of the eventide hunt out the snow of the nest. Therein spawns the path unto the echoes of being.”
Álfarr rolled the words in his head, attempting to decipher the meaning before he gave Hulda a final nod.
* Dreyma are visions sent by the goðar. Literally, it translates as ‘it dreamt me.’
** Önd are powerful spirits of Fjoti belief. The term can be thought to refer to any of a variety of nasty outsiders.
*** A níðingr is one without out honor. To be marked as such would make him an anathema unto all of the Fjoti who could lawfully attack him without provocation. Such punishments are rare and usually reserved for the traitorous, thieves, or those living in such a manner to be found distasteful.
Broccli_Head
Explorer
Loved the insight into Fjoti culture and all the strange language notations...I'll have to practice my ASCII!
I have a couple of questions:
1)Are you using d20?
2)How are you doing ritual magic?
I have a couple of questions:
1)Are you using d20?
2)How are you doing ritual magic?
Hjorimir
Adventurer
Hiya, Broccli_Head.
Yes, we're playing 3.5 D&D (which I consider a far cry better than 3.0 when it comes to game balance).
In regards to Ritual Magic, I utilize the rules presented in the Witch’s Handbook from Green Ronin Publishing (those guys make some great stuff).
Hulda, being marked as an oracle, gained commune as a spell-like ability. What I wrote was only a loose interpretation of the spell flavored by her culture and not an actual ritual.
Yes, we're playing 3.5 D&D (which I consider a far cry better than 3.0 when it comes to game balance).
In regards to Ritual Magic, I utilize the rules presented in the Witch’s Handbook from Green Ronin Publishing (those guys make some great stuff).
Hulda, being marked as an oracle, gained commune as a spell-like ability. What I wrote was only a loose interpretation of the spell flavored by her culture and not an actual ritual.
Lodow MoBo
First Post
Maggots are The Dwarfs favorite food. He specifically likes maggot bread with a nice maggot and mold spread. Alfarr feels that the title Maggot is an honnorific. After all, The Dwarf does not like much. 
Hjorimir
Adventurer
5 – Gathering, Part 1 of 2
Wrensford, Darion’s March
Rain had been pouring down since the midmorning hours on the 28th Day of Low Arriving and by the time Lazzaro and Aramon arrived soaking wet. There, they saw that the locals of Wrensford had started to erect a rather haphazard fence around the town as a defense from the increasing number of orcs within the area. But the rain had driven the laborers indoors leaving the fence to sway in the winds of the storm.
Lazzaro shook his head and sighed. As a businessman he appreciated quality craftsmanship and found the pitiful barrier to be woefully inadequate. He pointed the ramshackle construction out to the priest who only responded with a nod of the head.
“They can’t keep a pig out of this place with that fence,” Lazzaro complained.
The cleric pointed at a group of militia who were huddling under the porch of a nearby house. “Let’s hope they can, then.”
The two of them rode over to the house to speak with the guards.
“Hail, friend. I am Lazzaro and this is my…companion, Aramon. Can you tell me of affairs?”
“I know you, Master Balsorano,” said a familiar looking guardsman. “The Marquis has granted permission to build a wall as the attacks still continue upon the road. A group of Quinterion church guards with a priestess have arrived and are making plans to drive the orcs out of the area.”
“I see. How long have the Quints been here?” Lazzaro asked.
“Only two days. We hope to have the Great Road opened soon so business can return to normal,” the guard replied, looking more at the shrouded priest than Lazzaro.
“Good, good. Have you noticed any mercenaries who may be in town seeking work?” Lazzaro continued.
“Can’t say that I have, really.”
“What about the highlanders?” one of the other men added.
“Oh? Oh yeah,” the guardsman said as he turned back to Lazzaro. “Two Eduni arrived in town. One of them is big and carries even bigger weapons. I’m sure a couple of dirty pagans like them would need some work. I imagine you’d find them drinking at the inn.”
Ignoring the guard’s obvious dislike for the Eduni, Lazzaro smiled at the prospect and waved farewell as he turned his horse back down the road.
Aramon turned to the guardsman, before following, and closed with, “May your impending journeys be well.”
The guardsman shivered as he watched the priest ride off, wondering what the death priest meant by that.
The Golden Tankard
Égun, true to form, was drunk and enjoying himself immensely. He kicked his feet up on the edge of the hearth, leaned back in his chair and let the fire warm his boots. Finishing off his tankard with a long pull, he waved at the serving wench and pointed to his cup before turning to his cousin.
“Tríona, you remember Lief?” he asked.
Tríona didn’t speak the Ainurian tongue, which prominent in the March, and had been sitting quietly all day watching Égun drink himself into a comfortable stupor. Hearing her native words, she chirped up. “Yes I remember him, why?”
“Well he should be back to the Holdings soon and I was thinking the two of you might be good for each other.”
“What?” she answered, shocked at the notion. “He is betrothed, Égun!”
“Oh, her? She died during the Freeze. ‘Tis sad, really. So, now that Lief is free once again, I’m thinking the two of you could get together,” he slurred.
“Égun, you’re being an ass and you’re drunk,” she said, scolding him.
Égun rocked dangerously, nearly falling over, before catching himself on the table. “I’m not as think as you drunk I am,” he said, laughing at her.
Tríona buried her face in her hands and sighed.
The Lord’s Manor
After weeks of travel, Trevier had finally arrived to the town where he promptly presented himself to the Reeve, Émile. He had been left to wait in a sitting room for half an hour, as the reeve was already preoccupied with another guest.
The sound of melodic laughter coming from the hall announced the reeve as he escorted a strikingly beautiful woman towards the door. It wasn’t her honey-blonde hair that caught Trevier’s attention, however; it was the symbol of five orbs hanging from her neck. She was a Quinterion* priestess.
Émile noticed the knight, who was now standing, and acknowledge him with a smile, “Welcome to Wrensford, Sur Trevier. May I have the pleasure of introducing the Reverend Jacinda of Krace?”
The priestess examined Trevier with a critical eye and smiled as an afterthought. “How very nice to meet you. It is warming to my heart to see the Æhüthian salvation finally arrive.”
Responding to the priestess with a curt nod, Trevier said, “It is a pleasure to meet you, Jacinda.” Unaware of the entirety of her purpose in Wrensford, he was cautious in his greeting.
Jacinda turned back to the reeve and smiled. “I am afraid I must be going. My men need to be appraised of the situation here. We will start our search immediately.”
“Very well, Mother. I look forward to your progress and thank you for your help in resolving this matter,” Émile said as he showed her to the door. He then returned to the sitting room and Trevier.
“I’m terribly sorry about the wait. Had I been expecting you I would have been available upon your arrival,” the reeve said.
“No apology is necessary. I am Sur Trevier of the Cyrdion Order. The Most Reverend Clément Rousseau, Bishop of Ermione has sent me as a representative of Æhüthian Mother Church. I am to aid your noble lord, the Marquis Jeannot Beauvais of Arlies, by investigating the nature of the attacks that plague the Great Road and seeking a resolution to the situation,” Trevier replied, in a formal manner that displayed all the forms of propriety and decorum.
The Reeve smiled at the knight. “On behalf of Lord Jeannot, I welcome you to his manor and offer you what comforts I can,” he said with a bow.
“Thank you, Émile. I would like to discuss the latest news of the attacks and ascertain the best way to proceed in my investigation,” Trevier started.
“It just so happens that Jacinda has arrived to Wrensford along with a group of her church’s guard. They intend to scour the scir and seek out any orc encampments in order to remove them from our land. Once she has completed this, they will move down the Great Road to the next county and perform a similar function. Have you brought any men with you, Sur Trevier?”
The knight shook his head as he spoke, “I am afraid not.”
“I see. Well, perhaps you may conduct your investigation starting here in town and see if there is something you can do to ease their worries,” Émile suggested. “I suggest you start with Ewart Jardine, one of our more influential and informed merchants.”
“An excellent idea, Émile,” Trevier said. “I will start upon the morrow.”
***
Back at the Inn
Lazzaro and Aramon entered the warm inn, shook the rain from their cloaks and hung them amongst the others along the front wall of the common room. Lazzaro looked about and quickly found the clansmen the guard had mentioned.
As he was considering what would be the best manner to approach them, a group of eight soldiers entered the inn and slid past the two with an ‘excuse me, sir’ on their way to a large table near the back of the room. A few locals sitting there were asked to make way for the larger group and were happily rewarded with a few coins for their troubles.
Aramon studied them before turning to Lazzaro. “Quinterion church guards.”
“At least they were kind enough to pay for the table,” Lazzaro replied, thinking it was a decent gesture on their part.
Merla, the wench who was working in the common room, called Lazzaro and Aramon over to have a seat at a side table. “Welcome back, Lazzaro. How were things in Aranarth?” she asked.
“As well as can be expect, I suppose,” he answered, before turning to Aramon. “I suppose you’d like some food and drink.”
“That would be fine, thank you,” the cleric answered.
“I also suppose you’d like me to pay for it,” Lazzaro stated dryly.
“I expect it, to be honest,” came Aramon’s answer.
“Don’t you have any money?”
The cleric nodded in affirmation. “But not much,” he explained. “When you asked for the aid of the Mother Church in this endeavor it was presumed that you would provide some amount of financial support.”
“Fine, room and board,” Lazzaro agreed, though he was unhappy about accruing further expenses. He turned his attention back to Merla and continued, “Please bring a meal and drink to the good father here and I’d like a glass of your finest red.”
“The wine will be more than usual, Laz. With the road closure, our stock has become very low,” she explained. Lazzaro sighed and let her know that would be fine.
Upon receiving his glass, for which he paid an exuberant sum, Lazzaro made his way over to the highlanders and introduced himself. He explained that he was interested in hiring them to help remove the orcs that had brought open trade on the Great Road to a standstill.
Égun took a long draw off his ale before replying. “This is my cousin, Tríona, and she’s spoken for. Don’t bother talking at her; she doesn’t know your words. Our wage is ten silvers and looting rights.”
Lazzaro turned to Tríona and switched into her native Eduni. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Tríona,” he said smoothly. Though her stark, white hair and violet eyes made her appear almost alien, he found her quite attractive.
Hearing her language brought a beaming smile to Tríona. “I’m pleased to meet you, sir.”
Égun shifted uneasily in his chair, suspiciously eyeing the charming southerner. “Do we have a deal?” he asked, once again in Ainurian.
Lazzaro shrewdly pondered the wages before answering. “What talents does Tríona bring? She doesn’t seem to be of warrior stock.”
Égun replied, “She can do…things. Also she can cook ‘n stuff. She’s very talented.”
Lazzaro was less than enthusiastic about hiring a maid. But Égun, on the other hand, looked strong and his trappings suggested he was with the Rithmílidh or had at least served with them at one time. “So you say, but this will be a bloody business. I will tell you what, five silver a week, room and board when in town, an equal cut of looting rights for each of you, and extra drink when I can provide it,” he suggested, as he looked at the four empty tankards on the table.
Tríona’s smile faded as she was once again left out in the dark. She looked at Égun and asked, “What is he saying? What is going on here? Why are you speaking Ainurian?”
Égun only smiled at her and continued to speak with Lazzaro. “How many of us are there?”
“So far, four. The two of you, me, and the cleric over there,” he answered, pointing at Aramon who was quietly sitting alone.
“Why doesn’t he come over and say hello?” Égun wondered.
“Nobody likes to talk to his kind,” Lazzaro explained.
“What kind is that?”
“He is a cleric of the grave.”
At that, Aramon made his way towards the Quinterion guards. As he approached one of the guards feigned an ongoing conversation, “…isn’t it a shame that a priest in service to the glorious Merlutat would be shown such disrespect?” His comment brought nods and murmurs of agreement from the other men gathered there.
Pretending to just now notice Aramon, the soldier welcomed him. “Ah, hail, good father. Come, join us, and have a drink.”
Aramon slid onto a bench at the table as he answered, “One does not serve His will seeking the respect of other men, instead one serves giving his respect…to Æhü.”
As the presence of Æhü was the fundamental dispute between the Æhüthian and Quinterion faiths, Aramon’s comment was especially poignant amongst those at the table. An uncomfortable silence followed.
“I’m Father Aramon Botan,” he said, introducing himself to the group.
The Quinterions each introduced themselves, their spokesman calling himself Grigor.
“So tell me, Goodman Grigor, what brings you fine men into the March?” Aramon inquired innocently.
“We’ve come from Krace to clear out the orcs and open the road for Wrensford,” Grigor proclaimed, loud enough for others sitting nearby to hear.
Aramon nodded and smiled at Grigor as he spoke the words. “I too have come for such a reason. It would seem that Wrensford is most fortuitous to have so many caring people as friends.”
“Did you bring any men with you?” the soldier asked.
“No, I’ve come alone. Well, I came with Lazzaro over there,” the cleric answered with a look at his companion.
“Just the two of you?” Grigor laughed.
Aramon looked about the table, “Just the eight of you?”
“We are led by the Reverend Jacinda, a priestess of our church,” Grigor added. “Besides, they’re only orcs.”
Seeing the man’s hubris, Aramon only nodded. “Well, I’ve brought my shovel.”
***
The Wrensford Bridge
The sun had set some time ago and, with the stormy weather, the bridge was cloaked in shadow as the guard peered from around large, wooden gates at the lone rider. A nervous mood had already settled in on Wrensford due to the increased orc activity. Men riding out of the wilderness in the dark hours of night were not met with open arms.
The stranger patiently waited for entrance upon his unnaturally still horse. After what seemed to be more than enough time, he called out to the gate a second time, “Hoy!”
“The gate is closed!” called the guardsman. “The road is overrun with orcs!”
The rider made a point of looking back over both shoulders looking for orcs that were nowhere to be seen. Satisfied he was indeed alone, he shrugged and turned back to the bridge. “I have coin!” he called back.
The guardsmen of the gate conferred on the manner and agreed it was in their best interest to take the traveler’s money and let him through. They pushed open one of the gates wide enough for the man to ride through before stopping him.
“There is a tax for shipping freight over the bridge.”
Again, the newcomer looked about, this time looking for any sign of cargo.
“What are you importing into fair Wrensford?” asked the guard.
The traveler shrugged and answered, “I have no import.”
A cagey look came to the guardsman as he eyed the odd horse. “Livestock!” he said greedily. Livestock was one of the more expensive products to move through Wrensford.
As that, the stranger climbed down from his horse, waved his hand in an odd pattern and the horse disintegrated into the fog of the night. “What livestock?”
Common folk hold few things more fearsome than magicians and the visitor’s display of power shook the guardsman who stammered, “Welcome to Wrensford, Master.”
Álfarr brushed past the men and made his way towards what appeared to be a sizeable inn.
*The Quinterion heterodoxy formed from of a schism in the Æhüthian Mother Church. They preach that Æhü, while great, had retreated from Tæün and left it in the care of the five angels of the Exustius Optivus whom they worship in His place. Their symbol, the Five Orbs, represents the five moons where the Seraphim dwell. This belief system stems from a failed ‘commune’ to Æhü by His Holiness The Canon Ciro III nearly three hundred years earlier.
Originally seen as a harmless group of radicals, the Quinterion faith gained momentum in the remote frontier of Darion’s March where the Mother Church had long been absent from the small townships and burgs. This oversight by the Æhüthian orthodoxy is considered of critical importance by the current Papacy that, unofficially, pushes for Reunification. The inclusion of women within the priesthood remains a prominent difference between the two churches.
Krace is a city in the Ainurian Kingdom of Tol’Cathul where Queen Saranna, who is appreciative of a priesthood that includes women as equals and a faithful Quinterion herself, rules. Her law recognizes the Quinterion Faith as the official religion of the state and subsequent tithing has filled the young church’s coffers.
Pronunciation Guide
Æhü (EYE-who)
Émile (ay-MEEL)
Wrensford, Darion’s March
Rain had been pouring down since the midmorning hours on the 28th Day of Low Arriving and by the time Lazzaro and Aramon arrived soaking wet. There, they saw that the locals of Wrensford had started to erect a rather haphazard fence around the town as a defense from the increasing number of orcs within the area. But the rain had driven the laborers indoors leaving the fence to sway in the winds of the storm.
Lazzaro shook his head and sighed. As a businessman he appreciated quality craftsmanship and found the pitiful barrier to be woefully inadequate. He pointed the ramshackle construction out to the priest who only responded with a nod of the head.
“They can’t keep a pig out of this place with that fence,” Lazzaro complained.
The cleric pointed at a group of militia who were huddling under the porch of a nearby house. “Let’s hope they can, then.”
The two of them rode over to the house to speak with the guards.
“Hail, friend. I am Lazzaro and this is my…companion, Aramon. Can you tell me of affairs?”
“I know you, Master Balsorano,” said a familiar looking guardsman. “The Marquis has granted permission to build a wall as the attacks still continue upon the road. A group of Quinterion church guards with a priestess have arrived and are making plans to drive the orcs out of the area.”
“I see. How long have the Quints been here?” Lazzaro asked.
“Only two days. We hope to have the Great Road opened soon so business can return to normal,” the guard replied, looking more at the shrouded priest than Lazzaro.
“Good, good. Have you noticed any mercenaries who may be in town seeking work?” Lazzaro continued.
“Can’t say that I have, really.”
“What about the highlanders?” one of the other men added.
“Oh? Oh yeah,” the guardsman said as he turned back to Lazzaro. “Two Eduni arrived in town. One of them is big and carries even bigger weapons. I’m sure a couple of dirty pagans like them would need some work. I imagine you’d find them drinking at the inn.”
Ignoring the guard’s obvious dislike for the Eduni, Lazzaro smiled at the prospect and waved farewell as he turned his horse back down the road.
Aramon turned to the guardsman, before following, and closed with, “May your impending journeys be well.”
The guardsman shivered as he watched the priest ride off, wondering what the death priest meant by that.
The Golden Tankard
Égun, true to form, was drunk and enjoying himself immensely. He kicked his feet up on the edge of the hearth, leaned back in his chair and let the fire warm his boots. Finishing off his tankard with a long pull, he waved at the serving wench and pointed to his cup before turning to his cousin.
“Tríona, you remember Lief?” he asked.
Tríona didn’t speak the Ainurian tongue, which prominent in the March, and had been sitting quietly all day watching Égun drink himself into a comfortable stupor. Hearing her native words, she chirped up. “Yes I remember him, why?”
“Well he should be back to the Holdings soon and I was thinking the two of you might be good for each other.”
“What?” she answered, shocked at the notion. “He is betrothed, Égun!”
“Oh, her? She died during the Freeze. ‘Tis sad, really. So, now that Lief is free once again, I’m thinking the two of you could get together,” he slurred.
“Égun, you’re being an ass and you’re drunk,” she said, scolding him.
Égun rocked dangerously, nearly falling over, before catching himself on the table. “I’m not as think as you drunk I am,” he said, laughing at her.
Tríona buried her face in her hands and sighed.
The Lord’s Manor
After weeks of travel, Trevier had finally arrived to the town where he promptly presented himself to the Reeve, Émile. He had been left to wait in a sitting room for half an hour, as the reeve was already preoccupied with another guest.
The sound of melodic laughter coming from the hall announced the reeve as he escorted a strikingly beautiful woman towards the door. It wasn’t her honey-blonde hair that caught Trevier’s attention, however; it was the symbol of five orbs hanging from her neck. She was a Quinterion* priestess.
Émile noticed the knight, who was now standing, and acknowledge him with a smile, “Welcome to Wrensford, Sur Trevier. May I have the pleasure of introducing the Reverend Jacinda of Krace?”
The priestess examined Trevier with a critical eye and smiled as an afterthought. “How very nice to meet you. It is warming to my heart to see the Æhüthian salvation finally arrive.”
Responding to the priestess with a curt nod, Trevier said, “It is a pleasure to meet you, Jacinda.” Unaware of the entirety of her purpose in Wrensford, he was cautious in his greeting.
Jacinda turned back to the reeve and smiled. “I am afraid I must be going. My men need to be appraised of the situation here. We will start our search immediately.”
“Very well, Mother. I look forward to your progress and thank you for your help in resolving this matter,” Émile said as he showed her to the door. He then returned to the sitting room and Trevier.
“I’m terribly sorry about the wait. Had I been expecting you I would have been available upon your arrival,” the reeve said.
“No apology is necessary. I am Sur Trevier of the Cyrdion Order. The Most Reverend Clément Rousseau, Bishop of Ermione has sent me as a representative of Æhüthian Mother Church. I am to aid your noble lord, the Marquis Jeannot Beauvais of Arlies, by investigating the nature of the attacks that plague the Great Road and seeking a resolution to the situation,” Trevier replied, in a formal manner that displayed all the forms of propriety and decorum.
The Reeve smiled at the knight. “On behalf of Lord Jeannot, I welcome you to his manor and offer you what comforts I can,” he said with a bow.
“Thank you, Émile. I would like to discuss the latest news of the attacks and ascertain the best way to proceed in my investigation,” Trevier started.
“It just so happens that Jacinda has arrived to Wrensford along with a group of her church’s guard. They intend to scour the scir and seek out any orc encampments in order to remove them from our land. Once she has completed this, they will move down the Great Road to the next county and perform a similar function. Have you brought any men with you, Sur Trevier?”
The knight shook his head as he spoke, “I am afraid not.”
“I see. Well, perhaps you may conduct your investigation starting here in town and see if there is something you can do to ease their worries,” Émile suggested. “I suggest you start with Ewart Jardine, one of our more influential and informed merchants.”
“An excellent idea, Émile,” Trevier said. “I will start upon the morrow.”
***
Back at the Inn
Lazzaro and Aramon entered the warm inn, shook the rain from their cloaks and hung them amongst the others along the front wall of the common room. Lazzaro looked about and quickly found the clansmen the guard had mentioned.
As he was considering what would be the best manner to approach them, a group of eight soldiers entered the inn and slid past the two with an ‘excuse me, sir’ on their way to a large table near the back of the room. A few locals sitting there were asked to make way for the larger group and were happily rewarded with a few coins for their troubles.
Aramon studied them before turning to Lazzaro. “Quinterion church guards.”
“At least they were kind enough to pay for the table,” Lazzaro replied, thinking it was a decent gesture on their part.
Merla, the wench who was working in the common room, called Lazzaro and Aramon over to have a seat at a side table. “Welcome back, Lazzaro. How were things in Aranarth?” she asked.
“As well as can be expect, I suppose,” he answered, before turning to Aramon. “I suppose you’d like some food and drink.”
“That would be fine, thank you,” the cleric answered.
“I also suppose you’d like me to pay for it,” Lazzaro stated dryly.
“I expect it, to be honest,” came Aramon’s answer.
“Don’t you have any money?”
The cleric nodded in affirmation. “But not much,” he explained. “When you asked for the aid of the Mother Church in this endeavor it was presumed that you would provide some amount of financial support.”
“Fine, room and board,” Lazzaro agreed, though he was unhappy about accruing further expenses. He turned his attention back to Merla and continued, “Please bring a meal and drink to the good father here and I’d like a glass of your finest red.”
“The wine will be more than usual, Laz. With the road closure, our stock has become very low,” she explained. Lazzaro sighed and let her know that would be fine.
Upon receiving his glass, for which he paid an exuberant sum, Lazzaro made his way over to the highlanders and introduced himself. He explained that he was interested in hiring them to help remove the orcs that had brought open trade on the Great Road to a standstill.
Égun took a long draw off his ale before replying. “This is my cousin, Tríona, and she’s spoken for. Don’t bother talking at her; she doesn’t know your words. Our wage is ten silvers and looting rights.”
Lazzaro turned to Tríona and switched into her native Eduni. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Tríona,” he said smoothly. Though her stark, white hair and violet eyes made her appear almost alien, he found her quite attractive.
Hearing her language brought a beaming smile to Tríona. “I’m pleased to meet you, sir.”
Égun shifted uneasily in his chair, suspiciously eyeing the charming southerner. “Do we have a deal?” he asked, once again in Ainurian.
Lazzaro shrewdly pondered the wages before answering. “What talents does Tríona bring? She doesn’t seem to be of warrior stock.”
Égun replied, “She can do…things. Also she can cook ‘n stuff. She’s very talented.”
Lazzaro was less than enthusiastic about hiring a maid. But Égun, on the other hand, looked strong and his trappings suggested he was with the Rithmílidh or had at least served with them at one time. “So you say, but this will be a bloody business. I will tell you what, five silver a week, room and board when in town, an equal cut of looting rights for each of you, and extra drink when I can provide it,” he suggested, as he looked at the four empty tankards on the table.
Tríona’s smile faded as she was once again left out in the dark. She looked at Égun and asked, “What is he saying? What is going on here? Why are you speaking Ainurian?”
Égun only smiled at her and continued to speak with Lazzaro. “How many of us are there?”
“So far, four. The two of you, me, and the cleric over there,” he answered, pointing at Aramon who was quietly sitting alone.
“Why doesn’t he come over and say hello?” Égun wondered.
“Nobody likes to talk to his kind,” Lazzaro explained.
“What kind is that?”
“He is a cleric of the grave.”
At that, Aramon made his way towards the Quinterion guards. As he approached one of the guards feigned an ongoing conversation, “…isn’t it a shame that a priest in service to the glorious Merlutat would be shown such disrespect?” His comment brought nods and murmurs of agreement from the other men gathered there.
Pretending to just now notice Aramon, the soldier welcomed him. “Ah, hail, good father. Come, join us, and have a drink.”
Aramon slid onto a bench at the table as he answered, “One does not serve His will seeking the respect of other men, instead one serves giving his respect…to Æhü.”
As the presence of Æhü was the fundamental dispute between the Æhüthian and Quinterion faiths, Aramon’s comment was especially poignant amongst those at the table. An uncomfortable silence followed.
“I’m Father Aramon Botan,” he said, introducing himself to the group.
The Quinterions each introduced themselves, their spokesman calling himself Grigor.
“So tell me, Goodman Grigor, what brings you fine men into the March?” Aramon inquired innocently.
“We’ve come from Krace to clear out the orcs and open the road for Wrensford,” Grigor proclaimed, loud enough for others sitting nearby to hear.
Aramon nodded and smiled at Grigor as he spoke the words. “I too have come for such a reason. It would seem that Wrensford is most fortuitous to have so many caring people as friends.”
“Did you bring any men with you?” the soldier asked.
“No, I’ve come alone. Well, I came with Lazzaro over there,” the cleric answered with a look at his companion.
“Just the two of you?” Grigor laughed.
Aramon looked about the table, “Just the eight of you?”
“We are led by the Reverend Jacinda, a priestess of our church,” Grigor added. “Besides, they’re only orcs.”
Seeing the man’s hubris, Aramon only nodded. “Well, I’ve brought my shovel.”
***
The Wrensford Bridge
The sun had set some time ago and, with the stormy weather, the bridge was cloaked in shadow as the guard peered from around large, wooden gates at the lone rider. A nervous mood had already settled in on Wrensford due to the increased orc activity. Men riding out of the wilderness in the dark hours of night were not met with open arms.
The stranger patiently waited for entrance upon his unnaturally still horse. After what seemed to be more than enough time, he called out to the gate a second time, “Hoy!”
“The gate is closed!” called the guardsman. “The road is overrun with orcs!”
The rider made a point of looking back over both shoulders looking for orcs that were nowhere to be seen. Satisfied he was indeed alone, he shrugged and turned back to the bridge. “I have coin!” he called back.
The guardsmen of the gate conferred on the manner and agreed it was in their best interest to take the traveler’s money and let him through. They pushed open one of the gates wide enough for the man to ride through before stopping him.
“There is a tax for shipping freight over the bridge.”
Again, the newcomer looked about, this time looking for any sign of cargo.
“What are you importing into fair Wrensford?” asked the guard.
The traveler shrugged and answered, “I have no import.”
A cagey look came to the guardsman as he eyed the odd horse. “Livestock!” he said greedily. Livestock was one of the more expensive products to move through Wrensford.
As that, the stranger climbed down from his horse, waved his hand in an odd pattern and the horse disintegrated into the fog of the night. “What livestock?”
Common folk hold few things more fearsome than magicians and the visitor’s display of power shook the guardsman who stammered, “Welcome to Wrensford, Master.”
Álfarr brushed past the men and made his way towards what appeared to be a sizeable inn.
*The Quinterion heterodoxy formed from of a schism in the Æhüthian Mother Church. They preach that Æhü, while great, had retreated from Tæün and left it in the care of the five angels of the Exustius Optivus whom they worship in His place. Their symbol, the Five Orbs, represents the five moons where the Seraphim dwell. This belief system stems from a failed ‘commune’ to Æhü by His Holiness The Canon Ciro III nearly three hundred years earlier.
Originally seen as a harmless group of radicals, the Quinterion faith gained momentum in the remote frontier of Darion’s March where the Mother Church had long been absent from the small townships and burgs. This oversight by the Æhüthian orthodoxy is considered of critical importance by the current Papacy that, unofficially, pushes for Reunification. The inclusion of women within the priesthood remains a prominent difference between the two churches.
Krace is a city in the Ainurian Kingdom of Tol’Cathul where Queen Saranna, who is appreciative of a priesthood that includes women as equals and a faithful Quinterion herself, rules. Her law recognizes the Quinterion Faith as the official religion of the state and subsequent tithing has filled the young church’s coffers.
Pronunciation Guide
Æhü (EYE-who)
Émile (ay-MEEL)
Broccli_Head
Explorer
Nice work H.!
Thanks for the information on the Quinterions. Looks like the group will turn out to be formidable...now that the magus has entered the story
Are you using the Book of Exalted Deeds for the holy types? Aramon looks like he might be an aesthetic.
Thanks for the information on the Quinterions. Looks like the group will turn out to be formidable...now that the magus has entered the story
Are you using the Book of Exalted Deeds for the holy types? Aramon looks like he might be an aesthetic.
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Hjorimir
Adventurer
Hey there, Broccli_Head. I am indeed using the BoED (I pretty much use all the WotC 3.5 Hardbacks). Aramon is not an aesthetic, however. He is a multi-classed cloistered cleric/monk who wears no armor so he can enjoy his Wis bonus to AC. His player (Dennis) is the kind of guy who gives DMs nightmares.
You can look at his character sheet and see that he will choose some rather innocuous looking feat or spell. This will continue over levels of the character's career. Then, one day, his master plan comes together and he has produced some kind of scary monster that just decimates everything you throw at him.
Every time he asks if some feat/spell can do X, I get really hesitant to set a precedence that will make me cry later. Heh, I love having sly players, keeps things interesting.
Álfarr (the magus) will be very interesting to see played. He is a conjuration specialist who has selected two powerhouse schools for his opposition: Evocation and Transmutation. Kyle (his player) is, much like Dennis, especially cunning. I have no fear that he will be adversely affected with his spell selection.
BTW, I do have an ascetic in my other Tæün campaign (Tæün: Masquerades) that I run every other Monday. Soon as I get off my lazy butt, I will start that thread if you care to take a look.
As always, thanks for reading.
You can look at his character sheet and see that he will choose some rather innocuous looking feat or spell. This will continue over levels of the character's career. Then, one day, his master plan comes together and he has produced some kind of scary monster that just decimates everything you throw at him.
Every time he asks if some feat/spell can do X, I get really hesitant to set a precedence that will make me cry later. Heh, I love having sly players, keeps things interesting.
Álfarr (the magus) will be very interesting to see played. He is a conjuration specialist who has selected two powerhouse schools for his opposition: Evocation and Transmutation. Kyle (his player) is, much like Dennis, especially cunning. I have no fear that he will be adversely affected with his spell selection.
BTW, I do have an ascetic in my other Tæün campaign (Tæün: Masquerades) that I run every other Monday. Soon as I get off my lazy butt, I will start that thread if you care to take a look.
As always, thanks for reading.
ForceUser
Explorer
Aramon's player graduated summa cum laude from law school and Alfarr's player is a software programmer, so what do you expect?
I'm eager to see how Dennis will abuse the rules with Alaois, his kensai in the Monday game. I keep hearing him mutter "12th level, oh yeah, 12th level..."
I'm eager to see how Dennis will abuse the rules with Alaois, his kensai in the Monday game. I keep hearing him mutter "12th level, oh yeah, 12th level..."
