Xorn
First Post
The wide base of the tower was rounded, built from huge stone blocks that showed a small amount of weathering from their exposure to the winds atop the bluff that Winterhaven was built on. Moss and thin vines grasped the sides of the tall structure in places, but it was apparent that someone occasionally tried to clear off the vegetation, even if it was a half-hearted effort. Once inside the heavy double-doors, they had been presented with a typical entry room, with several small tables, a worn, but well-made floor rug, and various bookshelves, all filled with row upon row of matching bindings of various red and blue shades, most slightly muted with dust. A set of narrow stairs climbed away to their left, curving sharply to the right in order to follow the curvature of the structure. Following the instructions that had been left for them by the owner of the tower, they began to ascend the tower stairs.
At the landings for the second and third floors, they only found sturdy double doors between them and what was presumably an unused floor, judging by the dust gathered on the handles and on the floor, save footprints leading up to the next floor. An acrid bite of incense assaulted Omar’s nose as he reached the landing for the fourth floor, where the stairs stopped leading up. Another pair of doors, identical to the previous two, except for showing obvious regular use, thudded heavily as the dwarf pounded on them with his gloved fist three times.
Immediately the click of a latch reported from the other side and the left door swung inward spilling a combination of day and candlelight into the stairwell. A middle aged human wearing a simple brown robe with no decoration finished a deliberate sweep of his hand in the direction the door had opened, and then purposefully moved his hand through the air in the other direction, and the second door swung open with an equaled steady gait. As the man finished his second arcane motion and the doors were both wide open, a second figure was visible.
There was no mistaking which of the two was Vrax. Compared to the man who was presumably Valthrun, the wizard’s garb was extravagant. The rich fabric was the same dark crimson hue as pooling blood, contained in the gold piping that traced the edges of the robe and coalesced into fighting dragons. As he turned on the stool where he sat, the silvery image of the dragon sire, Bahamut, flittered across the back of his robe before they caught Vrax’s visage.
Omar had seen many dragonborn during his travels, and held them in fair regard as a race. They were dependable, honorable, and had an integrity that dwarves could easily respect. From the stare he noticed from the halfling, neither of them had been prepared for exactly what Daichot meant when he said runt. While the draconian wizard was straightening his posture as a toothy crease parted his face, it was already apparent that there was effort involved, and he was using the haft of a spear he leaned on the support him. All dragonborn had leathery skin and clustered scales, much like other races had body hair. But Vrax’s flesh and scales were pale by comparison to most of his race. Rather than a rich brown or vivid red, his skin looked more like a fine layer of chalk scattered over earth. Both caught themselves gawking at the mage, but Daichot had already strode heavily into the room to greet his old friend.
“Vrax!” he exclaimed as his heavy boots impacted the wooden floors, and his companions fell into the room behind him.
The dragonborn gripped his spear with white-knuckled determination as he willed his legs to support the weight of his torso, half-rising to his feet before the tiefling clasped his outstretched arm and yanked him to a full stand and pumped his clasped forearm heartily.
“How are you, old devil?” the dragonmage rasped.
Daichot smiled broadly at him, only emphasizing his features more, and the crease in Vrax’s face deepened, accompanied by a weak chuckle that ended in a small fit of coughing.
“I see that your mastery of the arcane has done little for your back.” The warlord spoke to Vrax in a critical tone, but he smiled as he did so. It wasn’t clear if he was ridiculing the wizard or teasing as he added, “Perhaps you should have been learning to do a push up instead of hurling fireballs, no?”
Vrax nodded his head in agreement. “I tried to join the city guard when I heard you left, but they told me I wasn’t nearly stupid enough to take your place.”
Daichot laughed hoarsely at the insult, and the others relaxed as they recognized friendly banter, as opposed to hostilities rising. The warlord held onto Vrax’s arm as the wizard lowered himself back to his seat, then Daichot spread his reach out behind him to introduce the others.
“Let me present to you Omar Irontoe,” Omar bowed, “and Percy Padfoot!”
Percy nodded slightly, “Hey.”
“Percy the Dragonslayer, by the news I’ve heard…” added Vrax.
The halfling immediately perked up. “That’s correct! Wow, I’m famous!”
“Yes…” said Vrax softly, “Everyone in Fallcrest knows of you by now.”
Percy stalled at the compliment, and a look of alarm flashing across his face for a moment, which didn’t escape Omar. “Ye look startled, lad—thought ye’d be glad ta be known ta all!” The dwarf clapped him roughly on the back as he laughed hard at the idea of Percy being embarrassed by the attention, while the halfling gulped down the sudden realization, thankful his face was misinterpreted.
“Yeah,” he chuckled with passing conviction, “I guess I’m just not used to it, yet.” He changed the subject abruptly, “So I guess you’re Valthrun?”
The older man nodded as he rose from his chair. “Valthrun the Prescient, by the town records; I serve in an advisory capacity to the guardians of Winterhaven, and do what I can to read portents of danger as they approach. Please, come and sit at my table. I have some simple snacks prepared here, as Vrax and I have been discussing dark matters that abound in these lands.”
Valthrun sat back down lightly and waited for the others to join them. Daichot quickly pulled out a stool from beneath the heavy table and sat next to Vrax, while Omar and Percy set to the left of them, all facing Valthrun across the long planks. He was wearing a brown robe with no adornments, held by a single strip of stiff brown cloth that was functioning as a belt. A plain wooden staff, decorated with some rough carving work at one end was leaning against the table next to him, but using the judge of his well-trimmed mustache and beard, flecked throughout with grey, he did not need the implement to walk. His eyes held a spark that many adventurers had, but were supported by bags of skin long since worn out from squinting at obscure script and scrawled runes on parchment.
Valthrun pursed his lips and pressed the palms of his hands together as he thought back to the conversation Vrax was having with him, and decided where to resume. Daichot spoke first, however.
“Where is Douven Staul?”
Omar noted a flicker of something in the dragonborn’s eyes, as their gazes met for a moment. Vrax answered as the twinkle disappeared. “I do not know. I have a clumsy map that the old man at the inn drew for me, but it is south, past the graveyard, deep into the forest.”
“I heard you wiped out a kobold warband on the way here, why didn’t you go find the guy?”
Vrax nodded, “Yes, but that battle was out of necessity. Defending myself on a traveled road is different than going into the deep dark places of the world looking for danger.” Vrax held up his thin hand, one slender finger ending in a talon extended to emphasize he wasn’t finished speaking. “Of course, had you not returned in the next hour, I was going to try, anyway.”
The tiefling looked grim. “What do you know already?”
“Only what Valthrun and the other townsfolk have shared. He was staying at the Wrafton for the last two weeks, heading south with two diggers each morning. From what tales I’ve heard from the innkeeper, he claimed to have found the burial site of a dragon, and hasn’t been heard from since.”
Daichot’s shoulders slumped a little. “How long ago was that?”
Vrax shrugged, “If their recollection is correct, the last time they saw him was four days ago. He sent a message via ritual to me the day before that, from what Valthrun tells me.”
The older human nodded in agreement. “Yes, I attached a brief message from Douven five days ago by sparrow, to the Emerald Tower in Fallcrest, the same day I sent the call to arms to deal with the kobolds on the Lord Warden’s behalf. We’ve reasoned that either Douven has fallen upon trouble, or else he’s found buried treasure and hasn’t returned for fear of leading others back to it.”
It was plain that Vrax was only entertaining that idea as an option to the alternative, and Daichot did not need long to reach the same feelings on the matter. “Then it’s settled, we’ll head south and find him, Vrax.”
“I dinnae mean ta butt me head inna ye’re dealin’s with yer kin, Daichot… but… what about the note we found?”
Daichot felt an urge of protest thump in his chest for a moment but knew that Omar was right. Valthrun seemed immediately interested.
“Note, you say? From where—the kobolds?”
“Aye,” was all that Omar offered, as Percy produced the folded note from his pouch and handed it to the sage.
Valthrun held the note some distance from his face and scanned the dirty scrap of parchment for several long seconds. His eyes lazily drifted down the page, quickly taking in the contents of the letter, and then he set the document on the table, and pushed it towards Vrax, who picked it up and read it quickly, much faster than the human had.
“Who is Irontooth?”
“Tha biggest goblin you ever seen.” Said Omar, “Plus tha leader o’ them kobolds ‘at we found. So if’n I read that right, an’ I think I did… ye got ye at least one spy.”
“Spy?” asked Valthrun incredulously, “a spy for whom?”
“Our best guess,” offered Daichot, “is an Orcus cult, and specifically someone named Kalarel.”
“Orcus!? Well there hasn’t been any cult of the sort in this area for several decades...” he drifted off, “But there have been omens pointing to something dark on the horizon.”
“I don’t think it’s that far off anymore, mister.” Said the halfling flatly.
“The lad’s right, them kobolds was werkin’ fer sum’un else.” Added Omar.
“The ritual mentioned in this letter, foretells something ominous that has lay dormant within striking distance of Winterhaven for a century.”
“The keep?” asked Vrax.
“Yes. I fear that dark place has returned to haunt us. I have felt the dark touch of the place for some time, but I hoped that my premonitions were only one possible future.”
“Do you think someone is trying to undo the seal, then?”
“Why else would a cult of Orcus be operating in the area, or need spies in the town and kobolds to occupy any meddlers? I fear that what is coming to pass is tr—“
“Stop!” Daichot exclaimed as he pounded his fist loudly onto the table. “Some of us were busy obtaining that note from a goblin bent on cleaving us in half. What keep?”
Vrax calmly turned to the agitated tiefling who he had known for several years, and calmly answered him. “The Keep on the Shadowfell, Daichot. It would appear that someone, most likely named Kalarel, is trying to open a rift to the Shadowrealm.”
At the landings for the second and third floors, they only found sturdy double doors between them and what was presumably an unused floor, judging by the dust gathered on the handles and on the floor, save footprints leading up to the next floor. An acrid bite of incense assaulted Omar’s nose as he reached the landing for the fourth floor, where the stairs stopped leading up. Another pair of doors, identical to the previous two, except for showing obvious regular use, thudded heavily as the dwarf pounded on them with his gloved fist three times.
Immediately the click of a latch reported from the other side and the left door swung inward spilling a combination of day and candlelight into the stairwell. A middle aged human wearing a simple brown robe with no decoration finished a deliberate sweep of his hand in the direction the door had opened, and then purposefully moved his hand through the air in the other direction, and the second door swung open with an equaled steady gait. As the man finished his second arcane motion and the doors were both wide open, a second figure was visible.
There was no mistaking which of the two was Vrax. Compared to the man who was presumably Valthrun, the wizard’s garb was extravagant. The rich fabric was the same dark crimson hue as pooling blood, contained in the gold piping that traced the edges of the robe and coalesced into fighting dragons. As he turned on the stool where he sat, the silvery image of the dragon sire, Bahamut, flittered across the back of his robe before they caught Vrax’s visage.
Omar had seen many dragonborn during his travels, and held them in fair regard as a race. They were dependable, honorable, and had an integrity that dwarves could easily respect. From the stare he noticed from the halfling, neither of them had been prepared for exactly what Daichot meant when he said runt. While the draconian wizard was straightening his posture as a toothy crease parted his face, it was already apparent that there was effort involved, and he was using the haft of a spear he leaned on the support him. All dragonborn had leathery skin and clustered scales, much like other races had body hair. But Vrax’s flesh and scales were pale by comparison to most of his race. Rather than a rich brown or vivid red, his skin looked more like a fine layer of chalk scattered over earth. Both caught themselves gawking at the mage, but Daichot had already strode heavily into the room to greet his old friend.
“Vrax!” he exclaimed as his heavy boots impacted the wooden floors, and his companions fell into the room behind him.
The dragonborn gripped his spear with white-knuckled determination as he willed his legs to support the weight of his torso, half-rising to his feet before the tiefling clasped his outstretched arm and yanked him to a full stand and pumped his clasped forearm heartily.
“How are you, old devil?” the dragonmage rasped.
Daichot smiled broadly at him, only emphasizing his features more, and the crease in Vrax’s face deepened, accompanied by a weak chuckle that ended in a small fit of coughing.
“I see that your mastery of the arcane has done little for your back.” The warlord spoke to Vrax in a critical tone, but he smiled as he did so. It wasn’t clear if he was ridiculing the wizard or teasing as he added, “Perhaps you should have been learning to do a push up instead of hurling fireballs, no?”
Vrax nodded his head in agreement. “I tried to join the city guard when I heard you left, but they told me I wasn’t nearly stupid enough to take your place.”
Daichot laughed hoarsely at the insult, and the others relaxed as they recognized friendly banter, as opposed to hostilities rising. The warlord held onto Vrax’s arm as the wizard lowered himself back to his seat, then Daichot spread his reach out behind him to introduce the others.
“Let me present to you Omar Irontoe,” Omar bowed, “and Percy Padfoot!”
Percy nodded slightly, “Hey.”
“Percy the Dragonslayer, by the news I’ve heard…” added Vrax.
The halfling immediately perked up. “That’s correct! Wow, I’m famous!”
“Yes…” said Vrax softly, “Everyone in Fallcrest knows of you by now.”
Percy stalled at the compliment, and a look of alarm flashing across his face for a moment, which didn’t escape Omar. “Ye look startled, lad—thought ye’d be glad ta be known ta all!” The dwarf clapped him roughly on the back as he laughed hard at the idea of Percy being embarrassed by the attention, while the halfling gulped down the sudden realization, thankful his face was misinterpreted.
“Yeah,” he chuckled with passing conviction, “I guess I’m just not used to it, yet.” He changed the subject abruptly, “So I guess you’re Valthrun?”
The older man nodded as he rose from his chair. “Valthrun the Prescient, by the town records; I serve in an advisory capacity to the guardians of Winterhaven, and do what I can to read portents of danger as they approach. Please, come and sit at my table. I have some simple snacks prepared here, as Vrax and I have been discussing dark matters that abound in these lands.”
Valthrun sat back down lightly and waited for the others to join them. Daichot quickly pulled out a stool from beneath the heavy table and sat next to Vrax, while Omar and Percy set to the left of them, all facing Valthrun across the long planks. He was wearing a brown robe with no adornments, held by a single strip of stiff brown cloth that was functioning as a belt. A plain wooden staff, decorated with some rough carving work at one end was leaning against the table next to him, but using the judge of his well-trimmed mustache and beard, flecked throughout with grey, he did not need the implement to walk. His eyes held a spark that many adventurers had, but were supported by bags of skin long since worn out from squinting at obscure script and scrawled runes on parchment.
Valthrun pursed his lips and pressed the palms of his hands together as he thought back to the conversation Vrax was having with him, and decided where to resume. Daichot spoke first, however.
“Where is Douven Staul?”
Omar noted a flicker of something in the dragonborn’s eyes, as their gazes met for a moment. Vrax answered as the twinkle disappeared. “I do not know. I have a clumsy map that the old man at the inn drew for me, but it is south, past the graveyard, deep into the forest.”
“I heard you wiped out a kobold warband on the way here, why didn’t you go find the guy?”
Vrax nodded, “Yes, but that battle was out of necessity. Defending myself on a traveled road is different than going into the deep dark places of the world looking for danger.” Vrax held up his thin hand, one slender finger ending in a talon extended to emphasize he wasn’t finished speaking. “Of course, had you not returned in the next hour, I was going to try, anyway.”
The tiefling looked grim. “What do you know already?”
“Only what Valthrun and the other townsfolk have shared. He was staying at the Wrafton for the last two weeks, heading south with two diggers each morning. From what tales I’ve heard from the innkeeper, he claimed to have found the burial site of a dragon, and hasn’t been heard from since.”
Daichot’s shoulders slumped a little. “How long ago was that?”
Vrax shrugged, “If their recollection is correct, the last time they saw him was four days ago. He sent a message via ritual to me the day before that, from what Valthrun tells me.”
The older human nodded in agreement. “Yes, I attached a brief message from Douven five days ago by sparrow, to the Emerald Tower in Fallcrest, the same day I sent the call to arms to deal with the kobolds on the Lord Warden’s behalf. We’ve reasoned that either Douven has fallen upon trouble, or else he’s found buried treasure and hasn’t returned for fear of leading others back to it.”
It was plain that Vrax was only entertaining that idea as an option to the alternative, and Daichot did not need long to reach the same feelings on the matter. “Then it’s settled, we’ll head south and find him, Vrax.”
“I dinnae mean ta butt me head inna ye’re dealin’s with yer kin, Daichot… but… what about the note we found?”
Daichot felt an urge of protest thump in his chest for a moment but knew that Omar was right. Valthrun seemed immediately interested.
“Note, you say? From where—the kobolds?”
“Aye,” was all that Omar offered, as Percy produced the folded note from his pouch and handed it to the sage.
Valthrun held the note some distance from his face and scanned the dirty scrap of parchment for several long seconds. His eyes lazily drifted down the page, quickly taking in the contents of the letter, and then he set the document on the table, and pushed it towards Vrax, who picked it up and read it quickly, much faster than the human had.
“Who is Irontooth?”
“Tha biggest goblin you ever seen.” Said Omar, “Plus tha leader o’ them kobolds ‘at we found. So if’n I read that right, an’ I think I did… ye got ye at least one spy.”
“Spy?” asked Valthrun incredulously, “a spy for whom?”
“Our best guess,” offered Daichot, “is an Orcus cult, and specifically someone named Kalarel.”
“Orcus!? Well there hasn’t been any cult of the sort in this area for several decades...” he drifted off, “But there have been omens pointing to something dark on the horizon.”
“I don’t think it’s that far off anymore, mister.” Said the halfling flatly.
“The lad’s right, them kobolds was werkin’ fer sum’un else.” Added Omar.
“The ritual mentioned in this letter, foretells something ominous that has lay dormant within striking distance of Winterhaven for a century.”
“The keep?” asked Vrax.
“Yes. I fear that dark place has returned to haunt us. I have felt the dark touch of the place for some time, but I hoped that my premonitions were only one possible future.”
“Do you think someone is trying to undo the seal, then?”
“Why else would a cult of Orcus be operating in the area, or need spies in the town and kobolds to occupy any meddlers? I fear that what is coming to pass is tr—“
“Stop!” Daichot exclaimed as he pounded his fist loudly onto the table. “Some of us were busy obtaining that note from a goblin bent on cleaving us in half. What keep?”
Vrax calmly turned to the agitated tiefling who he had known for several years, and calmly answered him. “The Keep on the Shadowfell, Daichot. It would appear that someone, most likely named Kalarel, is trying to open a rift to the Shadowrealm.”