Sepulchrave II
Legend
A Revelation, A Reconsideration and A Regrettably Drunken Bard.
Unfortunately, my notes on Wyre are about as organized as the rest of my life - which is to say not very. I think publication is unlikely.
Honestly, its a pretty standard campaign world in a lot of ways.
Thanks for the kudos, though
**
"What did Rintrah say to you?" Nehael asked.
The Succubus sat with the Duchess, Tahl, Ortwin, Mostin and Eadric in a small reception room near the great hall. Nwm was absent.
Eadric looked surprised.
"Have you consulted with him?" The Paladin asked.
Nehael smiled. "What did you learn?" she inquired.
"That things are very simple," Eadric said. "I was alone in the mountains for ninety-nine days. I found an abandoned cottage, near a small stream, and decided that it would be sufficient to my needs. I prayed, undertook the repair of the building and erected a small shrine. I ate fish and, for the first few weeks, berries. Later, I gathered nuts. As the snows deepened, I became colder and more tired. Finding dry wood for a fire was difficult, but I did not invoke the protective aspect of the deity."
"He required that you suffer?" Ortwin asked. Typical, he thought.
Eadric shook his head. "I was gathering my strength," he said.
"After six weeks," the Paladin continued, "an old man joined me. He said nothing. He stayed with me for only one day. But during that time, he ate all of the fish that I’d frozen in the ice, consumed all of the nuts that I’d gathered, and burned all of my wood in a large fire. I did not complain – although I was tempted. He smiled, and left me. He had not spoken a word. I guessed that he was a Celestial.
"I went to gather the few remaining nuts that still clung to the trees, although by this time most were rotten. When I returned, the old man had reappeared. He was pulling the stones from the wall of the house. He pulled the whole cottage apart, brick by brick, until there was nothing left except a pile of rubble. Then he departed again."
I’d have smacked him, Ortwin thought, Celestial or no.
"I took the remaining stone that I could, and built a modest shelter," Eadric said. "The few timbers that were left, I laid across the top of the walls. There were still some cracked clay shingles, and I tied these with twine across the timbers to form a rude roof. I made a door of deerskin. There was barely enough room to sit up inside.
"I went to try and catch another fish, but with no success. When I came back, the old man was sleeping in the shelter. He looked well-fed and content. When I tried to enter, he kicked me and rolled over to the door. He wouldn’t let me in. That night I slept in a chimney between two rock faces. I nearly froze.
"The next morning, I returned to the hut. The old man was sitting outside. He had built a fire, and was roasting a suckling boar. I was famished. I sat down and said nothing, but waited patiently. After the meat was cooked, he consumed it all. I was left with skin and bones. I sucked the marrow out, and chewed on the burned hide. He watched me eat in silence."
Mostin thankfully considered the fact that he was not religious.
"Finally," Eadric went on, "the old man spoke to me.
"‘Do you know who I am?’ He asked.
"‘I believe that you are a Celestial,’ I replied.
"‘Is that significant?’ He asked.
"‘I do not understand,’ I said.
"‘Meditate upon the question,’ he instructed, and left.
"He returned a day later, and asked me again.
"‘It is not significant,’ I replied.
"‘Why not?’ He asked.
"‘Because, whoever you were, I should still have given everything to you without complaint,’ I replied.
"‘Why?’ He asked. More questions followed. Day, after day, after day he returned. ‘Why this?’ and ‘Why that?’ and ‘What if?’ Midwinter came and passed. The questions gave way to instruction and tutelage. Finally, one morning, as the days were lengthening, he said to me,
"‘Taking the life of another human being is never, under any circumstances whatever, a justifiable act. It is the ultimate sin. You must take the lives of many, and some of them will be wholly innocent. Do you understand the paradox?’
"‘No,’ I cried.
"‘Nor do I,’ he smiled. ‘Not all things are revealed to me.’ His visage changed, and his form grew tall and statuesque. His pinions unfolded, and his light almost overwhelmed me. It was certainly Rintrah. When he spoke again, it was from his mind to mine.
DEFEND TREMPA, he commanded. DO NOT ALLOW IT TO FALL. BUT INITIATE YET NO WAR BEYOND ITS BORDERS. THIS IS YOUR FIRST TASK. I WILL CONTACT YOU AGAIN. And then he vanished."
Mostin twitched reflexively. Nobody spoke for a moment, until Ortwin piped up.
"That’s all very nice," the Bard said flippantly. "If you’re religious and all. Speaking of which, Ed, I suppose someone ought to tell you about Nwm…"
**
"Sixty?" The Paladin asked Nwm.
"Sixty," Nwm groaned. "The poor bastards never had a chance. Only a handful survived the first few seconds."
The pair sat at Deorham in the newly-refurbished reception room. A gnome, covered in stone dust, sauntered past whistling.
"Are you nearly done?" Nwm asked the diminutive mason.
"All but," the gnome replied.
"What’s the damage?" Nwm asked.
"To you, Nwm, a flat five thousand," the gnome replied.
"That’s a damn good deal," Eadric gasped.
"I did a lot of the big stuff with magic," Nwm explained. "I also agreed to help them out if exorcists from the Temple descended on their warren."
"I hardly think that’s likely," Eadric scoffed.
Nwm shrugged. "Times are changing. People are getting zealous or paranoid, or both. The feys are becoming jittery – they don’t like organized religion. Anything is possible."
"I will protect the rights of the Goddess worshippers in Trempa, Nwm," Eadric said.
"It’s those in the rest of Wyre that concern me," Nwm sighed.
"No persecution has occurred yet, though?"
"Not unless you include another thirty percent tax-hike," Nwm grunted.
"Increasing the incentive to convert?" Eadric asked.
Nwm nodded.
"You need to decide how you’re going to deal with this," Eadric said.
"Yep," the Druid replied., "I know."
**
A vision long before imagined by Eadric came to pass.
Ortwin was drunk.
The Bard leaned heavily on the bar of the "Three Ploughs", the largest inn in the town of Trempa, and recounted his exploits to a rapt audience. The plan had been to have a quiet drink with Nwm, in an attempt to bring a smile back to the Druid’s face. Ortwin had conveniently overlooked Nwm’s tolerance of alcohol, and matched him drink for drink.* Nwm didn’t mind. He had adopted his preferred alter ego – that of a toothless crone – and was content in his anonymity. Besides, watching Ortwin make a fool of himself was usually a cheering distraction.
Mostin sat stiffly next to the Druid – he wasn’t generally one for inns, much less rowdy, semi-rustic ones. He, too was disguised – since his transcendence, his eyelids had fallen away, leaving pupil-less, emerald orbs which unsettled those who looked at him. He sipped daintily at a glass of wine with a sour expression upon his face.
Ortwin was delighted at his reception, and played the crowd like the professional that he was, pausing to sip his firewine at critical moments which made the onlookers wait with baited breath until he resumed his account. His audience was varied and, for Trempa, cosmopolitan. Locals, merchants, entrepreneurs, travelers from the South who defied the ban. The initial hysteria which had followed Brey’s appearance and proclamation had subsided, three months had passed and, although the borders of the Duchy had been sealed, no act of war had been launched by the Temple. Either complacently or, perhaps, realising that the good times would soon end, the townsfolk of Trempa – swelled by many who had entered the fief soon after the Duchess had rebelled – were determined to enjoy themselves while they could.
Ortwin recounted the summoning and imprisonment of Rurunoth, his stirring the citizens from their apathy in Morne before the trial of Eadric, and the assault upon the Necromancer Feezuu (called ‘Glissin’ by Ortwin). In all cases, he effortlessly placed himself in the central role, whilst downplaying or altogether failing to acknowledge the ‘help’ that his companions had given him.
Mostin sighed. At least the Bard had had the good sense to use a pseudonym for the Cambion – not that those gathered here would have ever heard the name anyway. The old hag – Nwm – sitting at the table cracked a toothless smile, more out of pity than amusement, as Ortwin’s stories became more and more improbable and his voice more and more slurred. How could anyone thrive on this, the Druid wondered.
"Tell us another, Ortwin," they said.
"Yes! More! More!" They yelled.
"What would you like to hear?" Ortwin asked in response. "I have a thousand stories at least." He bragged.
"Have you never been outsmarted, Ortwin?" Someone asked.
"Certainly not," Ortwin lied. The crowd laughed approvingly.
"Tell us about your encounter with the wizard, Troap," a single voice carried above the din in the bar room. The inquiry had issued from a young woman with olive skin and clothes which testified to her foreign origins – most likely from the Thalassine far south of Wyre, an area of many islands surrounded by warm, shallow seas.
Ortwin shot an accusing glance towards Mostin, but the Alienist shook his head in denial. He hadn’t told anyone.
"Alas, I know no Troap," he lied, "although I have met many wizards. The conjurer Ephrael, for example…"
"That’s not what I heard," the woman persisted. "I heard that he bound you as his sex-toy, and you had to wear a skirt and make tea for him."
The crowd, including Nwm, laughed uproariously. Mostin cackled despite himself: the part about making tea was true, at least, but how did she know?
Ortwin laughed along with the others, giving the impression of genuine amusement.
"I fear that you must have mistaken me for someone else," the Bard said convincingly. "Sadly, there are many ortwins in the world although, of course, only one Ortwin…"
"For that, at least, let us be thankful," the woman smiled, holding her glass up.
"I do not know your name, madam," Ortwin said smoothly. "You have me at a disadvantage."
"I fear that your knowing my name would not remedy that," she replied with equal ease.
The crowd laughed again.
Ortwin nodded with mock gravity, and looked deeply into his own glass.
"I am afraid that firewine, in fact, renders me insensible," he said. The audience laughed appreciatively, but the simultaneous innuendo which accompanied the statement was: DESIST NOW, OR I WILL KNOCK YOU OUT.
"Firewine has little or no effect on me," she said, "but I will gladly share some tea if you care to make some. Lemon, but no sugar, please."
The crowd went wild, but completely missed the counter-entendre veiled by the biting satire: YOU COULD NOT, IF YOU TRIED. MY BLADE IS SHARP.
Ortwin held out his palm. "Shall we?" He said.
The woman smiled, stood up, and drew her rapier.
As the less brave hearted amongst the audience hastily exited the inn, and others moved back to the walls and placed bets, Mostin looked at Nwm.
"Did I just miss something?" the Alienist asked the Druid.
"It’s a game," Nwm sighed. "Ortwin just upped the stakes. I should have known that he was itching for a fight. He wants to try out his new pick"
"Should I disintegrate her?" Mostin asked.
"No. That’s against the rules."
"Ahh," Mostin nodded. It all seemed very esoteric to him.
Nwm, retaining his crone form, stood up, hobbled over to Ortwin and cast ‘Neutralize Poison’ on the Bard. His drunkenness evaporated immediately, to be replaced with a mild hangover.
The woman held up her hand. "Hey," she said, "what do you think you’re doing? You know the forms, Ortwin."
"I am eliminating the alcohol from his system," Nwm said.
"So you claim," she complained. "How do I know that its not a ward or magical protection."
"You don’t," said Nwm. "But bear in mind that I just dissuaded that man, there," Nwm pointed to Mostin, "from disintegrating you."
The young woman nodded. It seemed like a fair point.
As Nwm sat down, Mostin spoke again.
"It hardly seems reasonable," the Alienist pointed out, "that wards are disallowed. Ortwin bears two potent enchanted weapons – surely that alone constitutes an unfair advantage."
"I agree," Nwm nodded, "but the rules are the rules. Rules are seldom sensible – although I suppose that a ‘Stoneskin’ or ‘Ironguard’ would unfairly tip the scales. These are among the few rules that Ortwin observes."
"Has he done this before, then?" Mostin asked.
Nwm’s expression said everything.
"Either of us can yield and forfeit the match at any time." Ortwin said to his opponent. "Nwm will be second to us both, as death is not a desirable outcome for either of us. If we are rendered unconscious he will use his powers to resuscitate us. You don’t mind, do you Nwm?"
The Druid sighed.
"Nwm?" People in the crowd whispered. "Nwm the Preceptor? Here?"
Oh Sh*t, thought Nwm.
The woman hopped onto a bar stool and, with a slight shift in her weight, effortlessly moved it onto one leg whilst maintaining perfect balance.
Hmm, thought Ortwin.
"Are you ready?" She asked.
Ortwin nodded.
Her speed was breathtaking.
*Druids of sufficiently high level are, of course, immune to all organic toxins.
Unfortunately, my notes on Wyre are about as organized as the rest of my life - which is to say not very. I think publication is unlikely.
Honestly, its a pretty standard campaign world in a lot of ways.
Thanks for the kudos, though
**
"What did Rintrah say to you?" Nehael asked.
The Succubus sat with the Duchess, Tahl, Ortwin, Mostin and Eadric in a small reception room near the great hall. Nwm was absent.
Eadric looked surprised.
"Have you consulted with him?" The Paladin asked.
Nehael smiled. "What did you learn?" she inquired.
"That things are very simple," Eadric said. "I was alone in the mountains for ninety-nine days. I found an abandoned cottage, near a small stream, and decided that it would be sufficient to my needs. I prayed, undertook the repair of the building and erected a small shrine. I ate fish and, for the first few weeks, berries. Later, I gathered nuts. As the snows deepened, I became colder and more tired. Finding dry wood for a fire was difficult, but I did not invoke the protective aspect of the deity."
"He required that you suffer?" Ortwin asked. Typical, he thought.
Eadric shook his head. "I was gathering my strength," he said.
"After six weeks," the Paladin continued, "an old man joined me. He said nothing. He stayed with me for only one day. But during that time, he ate all of the fish that I’d frozen in the ice, consumed all of the nuts that I’d gathered, and burned all of my wood in a large fire. I did not complain – although I was tempted. He smiled, and left me. He had not spoken a word. I guessed that he was a Celestial.
"I went to gather the few remaining nuts that still clung to the trees, although by this time most were rotten. When I returned, the old man had reappeared. He was pulling the stones from the wall of the house. He pulled the whole cottage apart, brick by brick, until there was nothing left except a pile of rubble. Then he departed again."
I’d have smacked him, Ortwin thought, Celestial or no.
"I took the remaining stone that I could, and built a modest shelter," Eadric said. "The few timbers that were left, I laid across the top of the walls. There were still some cracked clay shingles, and I tied these with twine across the timbers to form a rude roof. I made a door of deerskin. There was barely enough room to sit up inside.
"I went to try and catch another fish, but with no success. When I came back, the old man was sleeping in the shelter. He looked well-fed and content. When I tried to enter, he kicked me and rolled over to the door. He wouldn’t let me in. That night I slept in a chimney between two rock faces. I nearly froze.
"The next morning, I returned to the hut. The old man was sitting outside. He had built a fire, and was roasting a suckling boar. I was famished. I sat down and said nothing, but waited patiently. After the meat was cooked, he consumed it all. I was left with skin and bones. I sucked the marrow out, and chewed on the burned hide. He watched me eat in silence."
Mostin thankfully considered the fact that he was not religious.
"Finally," Eadric went on, "the old man spoke to me.
"‘Do you know who I am?’ He asked.
"‘I believe that you are a Celestial,’ I replied.
"‘Is that significant?’ He asked.
"‘I do not understand,’ I said.
"‘Meditate upon the question,’ he instructed, and left.
"He returned a day later, and asked me again.
"‘It is not significant,’ I replied.
"‘Why not?’ He asked.
"‘Because, whoever you were, I should still have given everything to you without complaint,’ I replied.
"‘Why?’ He asked. More questions followed. Day, after day, after day he returned. ‘Why this?’ and ‘Why that?’ and ‘What if?’ Midwinter came and passed. The questions gave way to instruction and tutelage. Finally, one morning, as the days were lengthening, he said to me,
"‘Taking the life of another human being is never, under any circumstances whatever, a justifiable act. It is the ultimate sin. You must take the lives of many, and some of them will be wholly innocent. Do you understand the paradox?’
"‘No,’ I cried.
"‘Nor do I,’ he smiled. ‘Not all things are revealed to me.’ His visage changed, and his form grew tall and statuesque. His pinions unfolded, and his light almost overwhelmed me. It was certainly Rintrah. When he spoke again, it was from his mind to mine.
DEFEND TREMPA, he commanded. DO NOT ALLOW IT TO FALL. BUT INITIATE YET NO WAR BEYOND ITS BORDERS. THIS IS YOUR FIRST TASK. I WILL CONTACT YOU AGAIN. And then he vanished."
Mostin twitched reflexively. Nobody spoke for a moment, until Ortwin piped up.
"That’s all very nice," the Bard said flippantly. "If you’re religious and all. Speaking of which, Ed, I suppose someone ought to tell you about Nwm…"
**
"Sixty?" The Paladin asked Nwm.
"Sixty," Nwm groaned. "The poor bastards never had a chance. Only a handful survived the first few seconds."
The pair sat at Deorham in the newly-refurbished reception room. A gnome, covered in stone dust, sauntered past whistling.
"Are you nearly done?" Nwm asked the diminutive mason.
"All but," the gnome replied.
"What’s the damage?" Nwm asked.
"To you, Nwm, a flat five thousand," the gnome replied.
"That’s a damn good deal," Eadric gasped.
"I did a lot of the big stuff with magic," Nwm explained. "I also agreed to help them out if exorcists from the Temple descended on their warren."
"I hardly think that’s likely," Eadric scoffed.
Nwm shrugged. "Times are changing. People are getting zealous or paranoid, or both. The feys are becoming jittery – they don’t like organized religion. Anything is possible."
"I will protect the rights of the Goddess worshippers in Trempa, Nwm," Eadric said.
"It’s those in the rest of Wyre that concern me," Nwm sighed.
"No persecution has occurred yet, though?"
"Not unless you include another thirty percent tax-hike," Nwm grunted.
"Increasing the incentive to convert?" Eadric asked.
Nwm nodded.
"You need to decide how you’re going to deal with this," Eadric said.
"Yep," the Druid replied., "I know."
**
A vision long before imagined by Eadric came to pass.
Ortwin was drunk.
The Bard leaned heavily on the bar of the "Three Ploughs", the largest inn in the town of Trempa, and recounted his exploits to a rapt audience. The plan had been to have a quiet drink with Nwm, in an attempt to bring a smile back to the Druid’s face. Ortwin had conveniently overlooked Nwm’s tolerance of alcohol, and matched him drink for drink.* Nwm didn’t mind. He had adopted his preferred alter ego – that of a toothless crone – and was content in his anonymity. Besides, watching Ortwin make a fool of himself was usually a cheering distraction.
Mostin sat stiffly next to the Druid – he wasn’t generally one for inns, much less rowdy, semi-rustic ones. He, too was disguised – since his transcendence, his eyelids had fallen away, leaving pupil-less, emerald orbs which unsettled those who looked at him. He sipped daintily at a glass of wine with a sour expression upon his face.
Ortwin was delighted at his reception, and played the crowd like the professional that he was, pausing to sip his firewine at critical moments which made the onlookers wait with baited breath until he resumed his account. His audience was varied and, for Trempa, cosmopolitan. Locals, merchants, entrepreneurs, travelers from the South who defied the ban. The initial hysteria which had followed Brey’s appearance and proclamation had subsided, three months had passed and, although the borders of the Duchy had been sealed, no act of war had been launched by the Temple. Either complacently or, perhaps, realising that the good times would soon end, the townsfolk of Trempa – swelled by many who had entered the fief soon after the Duchess had rebelled – were determined to enjoy themselves while they could.
Ortwin recounted the summoning and imprisonment of Rurunoth, his stirring the citizens from their apathy in Morne before the trial of Eadric, and the assault upon the Necromancer Feezuu (called ‘Glissin’ by Ortwin). In all cases, he effortlessly placed himself in the central role, whilst downplaying or altogether failing to acknowledge the ‘help’ that his companions had given him.
Mostin sighed. At least the Bard had had the good sense to use a pseudonym for the Cambion – not that those gathered here would have ever heard the name anyway. The old hag – Nwm – sitting at the table cracked a toothless smile, more out of pity than amusement, as Ortwin’s stories became more and more improbable and his voice more and more slurred. How could anyone thrive on this, the Druid wondered.
"Tell us another, Ortwin," they said.
"Yes! More! More!" They yelled.
"What would you like to hear?" Ortwin asked in response. "I have a thousand stories at least." He bragged.
"Have you never been outsmarted, Ortwin?" Someone asked.
"Certainly not," Ortwin lied. The crowd laughed approvingly.
"Tell us about your encounter with the wizard, Troap," a single voice carried above the din in the bar room. The inquiry had issued from a young woman with olive skin and clothes which testified to her foreign origins – most likely from the Thalassine far south of Wyre, an area of many islands surrounded by warm, shallow seas.
Ortwin shot an accusing glance towards Mostin, but the Alienist shook his head in denial. He hadn’t told anyone.
"Alas, I know no Troap," he lied, "although I have met many wizards. The conjurer Ephrael, for example…"
"That’s not what I heard," the woman persisted. "I heard that he bound you as his sex-toy, and you had to wear a skirt and make tea for him."
The crowd, including Nwm, laughed uproariously. Mostin cackled despite himself: the part about making tea was true, at least, but how did she know?
Ortwin laughed along with the others, giving the impression of genuine amusement.
"I fear that you must have mistaken me for someone else," the Bard said convincingly. "Sadly, there are many ortwins in the world although, of course, only one Ortwin…"
"For that, at least, let us be thankful," the woman smiled, holding her glass up.
"I do not know your name, madam," Ortwin said smoothly. "You have me at a disadvantage."
"I fear that your knowing my name would not remedy that," she replied with equal ease.
The crowd laughed again.
Ortwin nodded with mock gravity, and looked deeply into his own glass.
"I am afraid that firewine, in fact, renders me insensible," he said. The audience laughed appreciatively, but the simultaneous innuendo which accompanied the statement was: DESIST NOW, OR I WILL KNOCK YOU OUT.
"Firewine has little or no effect on me," she said, "but I will gladly share some tea if you care to make some. Lemon, but no sugar, please."
The crowd went wild, but completely missed the counter-entendre veiled by the biting satire: YOU COULD NOT, IF YOU TRIED. MY BLADE IS SHARP.
Ortwin held out his palm. "Shall we?" He said.
The woman smiled, stood up, and drew her rapier.
As the less brave hearted amongst the audience hastily exited the inn, and others moved back to the walls and placed bets, Mostin looked at Nwm.
"Did I just miss something?" the Alienist asked the Druid.
"It’s a game," Nwm sighed. "Ortwin just upped the stakes. I should have known that he was itching for a fight. He wants to try out his new pick"
"Should I disintegrate her?" Mostin asked.
"No. That’s against the rules."
"Ahh," Mostin nodded. It all seemed very esoteric to him.
Nwm, retaining his crone form, stood up, hobbled over to Ortwin and cast ‘Neutralize Poison’ on the Bard. His drunkenness evaporated immediately, to be replaced with a mild hangover.
The woman held up her hand. "Hey," she said, "what do you think you’re doing? You know the forms, Ortwin."
"I am eliminating the alcohol from his system," Nwm said.
"So you claim," she complained. "How do I know that its not a ward or magical protection."
"You don’t," said Nwm. "But bear in mind that I just dissuaded that man, there," Nwm pointed to Mostin, "from disintegrating you."
The young woman nodded. It seemed like a fair point.
As Nwm sat down, Mostin spoke again.
"It hardly seems reasonable," the Alienist pointed out, "that wards are disallowed. Ortwin bears two potent enchanted weapons – surely that alone constitutes an unfair advantage."
"I agree," Nwm nodded, "but the rules are the rules. Rules are seldom sensible – although I suppose that a ‘Stoneskin’ or ‘Ironguard’ would unfairly tip the scales. These are among the few rules that Ortwin observes."
"Has he done this before, then?" Mostin asked.
Nwm’s expression said everything.
"Either of us can yield and forfeit the match at any time." Ortwin said to his opponent. "Nwm will be second to us both, as death is not a desirable outcome for either of us. If we are rendered unconscious he will use his powers to resuscitate us. You don’t mind, do you Nwm?"
The Druid sighed.
"Nwm?" People in the crowd whispered. "Nwm the Preceptor? Here?"
Oh Sh*t, thought Nwm.
The woman hopped onto a bar stool and, with a slight shift in her weight, effortlessly moved it onto one leg whilst maintaining perfect balance.
Hmm, thought Ortwin.
"Are you ready?" She asked.
Ortwin nodded.
Her speed was breathtaking.
*Druids of sufficiently high level are, of course, immune to all organic toxins.
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