First Entries
Being an account of Harn mac Cormick, the Handsome Warrior, Poet of the Weedsea, Slaughterer of Sloans, Bane of Vakken, Spider-friend, et al.
Qwynn, 225 AL
Like many of the finest songs, this one begins with soft notes and an unremarkable harmony.
After having satiated my peerless lust on a number of noblewomen within Oxbow’s finer establishments, I trekked across the muddy grounds to see what riff-raff might be encountered within the Balls Blue, a wineshop bearing the name of a malady I have yet to endure.
I have always yearned to learn more about the smallfolk of the realms, to see how they shoulder the burdens of their lives. I was not to be disappointed. The Blue was filled with miscreants of all colors that evening. One man, in particular, seemed awestruck from the noble figure I portray. His name – Bocephus. He is a farmer turned statesman, it would appear, currently under the employ of one Baron Eljer Zern, a Carrick nobleman.
Being a bit short-sighted, Bocephus inquired as to what talents and skills I possess. And I, always generous with my patience for the common man, refrained from knocking him about his head for such impertinence. I informed Master Bocephus that I was a renowned warrior and horseman from the Cormick Plains and – luckily for him – I was currently without a patron.
Bocephus was not so crude as to ignore the good fortune of his encounter with me. He departed, doubtlessly gladdened from his luck, but – alas! – was soon beset upon by a ragtag group of Sloans. (Sloans, gentle reader, are like most men within Valusia. Salt of the earth types. No talent for music, no ear for a tune.) And I, having heard Bocephus’ fearful cry, burst from the inn with spear in hand. A number of mundane folk followed in my wake, attracted to my leadership as moths are to torchlight.
I shall not bore you with a recounting of that battle. Sloans cannot, as a rule, stand against a Son of Cormick. In short order Bocephus was saved, the Sloans were fled, and the guardsmen were effusive in their praise for my bravery. Such is a typical day in my life, though it rankles my sense of modesty to admit as such. I am nothing if not honest.
So it was that I was hired on the spot. Bocephus’ liege Baron Zern needed men to undertake the great and noble deeds common soldiers often prove too incompetent to endure. I agreed to his pleading, and embraced a number of the ruffians who had assisted me in the fight against the Sloans. They would be my henchmen in whatever quests I was about to embark upon.
I shall give a brief overview of these stalwart fellows. Very brief, mind you. My henchmen are not so handsome or capable as myself, naturally, but they are endearing in their own way. Each, I think, wishes to impress upon me their usefulness. So be it.
There was a Gordian, of course, for such folk are never found far beyond the tavern’s light. His name – Aknor. His specialty – beating and battering things and people that stand in his way. He looks at me as a hound would his master, and I feel that he may prove dependable in the future.
Beside him, appearing as a child next to a man, stood a Carrik named Yarrick. He jingled and jangled like the merriest limerick whenever he walked, having a large assortment of vials, salves, and sundry other items upon his person. I believe he thinks himself quite the ladies’ man; I shall endeavor to allow some of the finer sex to drift in his direction.
I cannot bed every woman within the Valus, after all – it would not be prudent.
The third member of that motley group was a tall, thin man. Lacking hair and much in the way of personality, Mahon seems a strange sort. He can read, amazingly, as I saw him flipping through a book within the tavern before we exited en masse. What other talents he might possess, if any, have yet to be seen.
The fourth miscreant was yet another bald Carrik, obviously a warrior. His name is Geoffrey. I think he wishes to be more than what he is. A noble pursuit, of course, for any man, and one in which I shall help as I may. Still, even I cannot make chicken salad from chicken droppings.
Lastly I shall discuss the two oddest members of my band. One claimed to be a halfling but in actuality is a member of that strange and elusive race of burrow gnomes found south of our Cormick Weedsea. His name is Willard, and he has a pet serpent living within his pouch. He is an agreeable sort, and shall serve well as my mascot. Do not all good kings of men save a hearth spot for their jester?
The last was a gray-robed priest of Morduk. Half his face had been melted away in some past fire, it appears, and I feel his self-esteem suffers due to his homeliness. He clings to his god because he fears the world, and worries if others will insult him because of his ugliness. As you may have heard, I am drawn to the noble cause of offering succor to the weak and the decrepit, and so I have enfolded Kyus within my embrace. Let any man who wishes to insult him first come through me. I can see the man’s thankfulness in his eyes, though he’s too shy to admit his admiration. In time, in time.
Mid-Qwynn
Baron Zern tasked me with investigating the motives behind a recent Sloan incursion along the northern border of his demesne. I led my men through the woods, a veritable pied piper followed by rodents. The tracks were easy to read, the path relatively straight, and I bowed aside so that the Gordian could march the point. Do not think less of me, my readers, for my generous nature; I want each of my followers to feel they are wanted and loved, and here was an opportunity to let the Gordian feel as if he were an integral member of my band. Leadership is shown in such ways.
In short order we found the Sloans (exactly where I thought they would be located). The mongrels were encamped upon some ridges above a narrow stream. Sensing the hesitancy in my men, I decided to lead by example. I sent an arrow at a Sloan sentry - purposefully missing - for I am not one to kill a man before he realizes he stands against the Handsome Warrior Harn mac Cormick.
The battle was bloody, though short. I fear one or two of my faithful lads would have been slain had I not stepped in front of a pair of Sloan arrows. The pem Willard, in particular, showed his gumption – he dropped two or more of the brigands with his arcane bolts. Wonders never cease.
Arcane bolts, you ask? Yes, yes – it appears I travel with no less than three arcane casters. I am a loving person, my friends, and I shall not turn away folk because of such talents, despite the lessons taught to us from the Cleansing. If folk such as Willard and Yarrick and Mahon could not find protection within my tall shadow, then where should they go? No, I say – let them fall in with me, so that they may eventually see the errors of their ways, and forsake such pursuits in the future. Enough on the matter.
Late-Qwynn
I accepted Castle Camadon’s heartfelt appreciation for the job against the Sloans with a decorum befitting my august lineage. Then, without delay, I directed my merry band to head northward toward the river bordering the edge of Zern’s fiefdom. It was there that, on our first ranging, I had spotted a trio of boats. These Sloans must be taught that Harn mac Cormick now rides under the standard of Zern, and I do not suffer interlopers in my liege’s lands.
After a regrettable row across the river, we fought another battle against the fools. We killed many. Doubtless there were others within the wood that, upon seeing my prowess, fled unseen. Let them travel to their masters, licking their wounded pride. Let my enemies know and tremble, for I and my trusty henchmen have arrived to make matters right.
Qwynn’s ending
My next mission was, thank Ceria, a bit nobler in purpose. An errant peasant had disappeared and Baron Zern, like any good ruler, worried over the man’s absence. This peasant’s role was rather straightforward – he was to patrol a number of holes in the ground, feeding the spiders nesting within so that they would not prey upon the smallfolk of the realm. Without his mean labors, such vermin might threaten the lives and livelihoods of the Baron’s serfs.
We traveled from spider hole to spider hole, across the length of the Barony, until finally approaching the final such pit. Our quarry – the hapless spider-feeding peasant - was no where to be seen. I had little doubt the poor man was dead, killed by the very spiders he had tended for so many years.
Qwynn’s death
But it was not so. Even I can be wrong, at times, for despite my appearance I am not immortal nor infallible.
A cult of Vakkenfolk had penetrated the area, and it was these that we fought one night around our campfire. Vakkens, if you have not had the misfortune of seeing one, are a disagreeable lot. They mortify their flesh with piercings and tattoos. Doubtless they thought us more easy prey, but in this they were to be disappointed. We struck them down as a farmer does his wheat, and Vakken whimpering was the tune played that evening.
(I would be remiss if I did not laud the accomplishments of my fellows. They had shown their bravery in this battle, as they had in the others versus the Sloans. When we had left Oxbow, I thought to keep them with me only a little while. But now, gentle reader, I can clearly see their worth. All great men are surrounded by comrades-in-arms, and so I have decided to maintain their services.)
Following our sharp combat in the woods, we moved forward. I wanted to see the heart of these Vakkenfolk. I needed to know how many were in the area. I shall not stain these pages with talk of fear, but it took much persuading to get a few of my less stalwart companions to accompany me on this quest.
We found them near the final spider hole. They had a priest with them, perhaps more than one. This, at last, would be a battle worthy of my heritage. I charged ahead, passing even the Gordian, and stood near the edge of a noxious cloud brought about by one of the Culite priests. Glorious was the martial dance! There was much pain and anguish and no shortage of valor. After my victory I ordered my men to depart, for I was unable to convince them to descend into the final hole and seek out yet more Vakken.
But the Vakken assisted me, though they knew it not. For the blackhearts attacked us that very evening. Two waves came. The first consisted of naked men, painted in whites and blacks, and doubtless they presented a terrifying sight for my weaker-willed companions. I dispatched them, with some aid, and we turned yet the next wave. So it was done. We had slain a patrol, killed a Culite priest near his subterranean lair, and then turned aside their feeble riposte.
In all, ‘twas a good day or two, and ones that shall be crafted into song.
Qwynn’s death, night
We departed the carnage. Kyus, I fear, was more than a little shaken. Without the talents of his patron Morduk, he becomes less useful and more timid. I shall work on him as these days pass. If I am to keep him at my side, he must learn to fight even when the odds are against us.
We were followed. I could not get my companions to stand with me. We hid like rabbits within a cave, behind a magical veil of darkness. Ahh…my shame makes these words hard to pen. Yet again we fled, on horseback, as quickly as we could. I remained in the rear to delay any pursuit, the Gordian Aknor standing within my shadow.
A hard ride it was, gentle reader, and may Ceria forgive me for our horses were sorely pressed. At last we rode through the gates of Castle Camadon. A leader is judged first upon his success in the field and, second, upon his ability to return men to their hearths. On both counts did I fare well, for we had been victorious and yet not one of our number had been lost. (No small miracle, I assure you, for these companions of mine require constant protection.)
Baron Zern embraced me within the shadows of the battlements. I graciously disentangled myself and waved a hand toward my followers for they, I offered, had offered some measure of assistance. There was enough glory for all of us, and my humility forbade me to drink all of it alone. And so it was that Zern wasted not a moment before pleading with me to accept yet another task.
I accepted. How could I not? This world is filled with terrors, and Harn mac Cormick walks these lands to make weaker men strong by his example. I shall lead my men on this chase in the morning, far across the realm to the terminus of the Valflow River.
I shall write again to tell you of my victory, but that is enough for now. I have songs to pen, and companions to bolster. So sleep, gentle book, until next I pull you from my pack.
