The Adventure Continues...

T'zarak: Sites of Interest

2010-03-05T21:56:00.000-08:00

There are few places in Valtyr as mysterious as the desert kingdom of T’zarak. A land of scorching sands and star-filled nights, T’zarak is as inhospitable to the untrained traveler as they come. And yet, this kingdom of dunes and desert wildlife holds a great many secrets.

Adventurers have spread stories of the buried treasure from forgotten Ages that lies beneath the shifting sands of T’zarak’s borders. Bards have immortalized the kingdom's vast beauty and deadly denizens. Nowhere else (save perhaps those that brave the Wildlands) is the fight for survival between man and nature as fierce as in the Kingdom of the Burning Sands. And perhaps here, of all places, are the links to the past vibrant enough that they can help scholars and mystics alike divine the secrets to the truth behind the Age of Myths. Within T’zarak, the saying goes that “between each grain of sand, history and wealth are joined in eternal secrecy”. It is no wonder then that thrill-seekers, treasure-hunters and obsessed scholars pay this kingdom homage with hopes of riches and knowledge beyond their wildest imaginations.

Within the rocky canyons, burning dunes and hidden oasis of the nation of T’zatak lay several sites of importance. The most notable are as follows:

Alhazan’s Stair:
Up in the northwestern area of T’zarak, near the peninsula known as the Fahir’s Crown, stands a shattered circle of great, blue stones. The stones form a ring that measures more than 30 feet in diameter and is completely filled with rough slabs of lapis and tourmaline. Although the stones show great signs of aging, the circle has persisted for over 2,500 years of recorded history. A great swell of white sand surrounds the circular platform, creating the impression of a giant blue coin atop a bed of white silks.

As if this were not impressive enough, the true allure of Alhazan’s Stair comes at night, when the hundreds of knife-bright stars are lit across a sky of deepest black. When the moon is dark, a strange occurrence happens at the site: a band of twisting, ethereal lights forms on the blue stone platform, creating the impression of three giant staircases ascending into the night sky. The site was first discovered by the ruling Fahir of the time, a man named Alhazan ib Jahafir. So taken aback was Fahir Alhazan that he had the sighting recorded down in the epic poem entitled “Kalem ab Halistir”, which translates into the “gods’ staircase”.

It is said that Alhazan tempted fate and dared to climb the blue stones and walk to the foot of the astral staircase before him. He marveled at the beauty of the sight and dared to touch the firmament that formed the banister before him. To his surprise, the starry railing was solid to his touch and those in his entourage that had traveled with him gasped as he placed his feet upon the lowest steps of the staircase, testing his fate as he attempted to climb it.

A voice is recorded in the Kalem ab Halistir, an inhuman and intelligible voice, that seemed to come from all directions at once. The Fahir seemed oblivious to the sound and began his ascent, growing more and more spectral as he did. He ignored the cries of his company and continued his climb, shouting down to his followers that he heard the most beautiful music and smelled fragrances he had never known before. Then, in a flash, he disappeared, and his followers wailed in their fear for their ruler.

They waited out the night, but the Fahir never returned.

In the morning, the stairs disappeared with dawn’s light and the company was forced to return to their home city of Aril-a-Vec. To their great astonishment, they found that Fahir Alhazan was already there, and what was more, he seemed to possess a fire within him that consumed his waking days, leading him to draw up new plans for roads, locations for deep wells to be dug, and an excavation which garnered much wealth for his kingdom. Although he was often questioned of the strange stair of stars, he refused to speak of what had happened, saying only that “he had been blessed”.

Today the location known as Alhazan’s Stair is a preciously guarded site that has been handed down from Fahir to Fahir ever since Alhazan’s time. If there is truth to the tales of ascending the astral stairs and gaining great wisdom, none can offer proof, as the Izulk-hai warriors of T’zarak’s elite rigorously guard the site from outsiders.

The Black Temple:
Very few places arecas reviled as the Black Temple of T’zarak. A place of roving shadows, foul curses and superstitious omens, the Black Temple is a nightmare made real. Those who have traveled close enough to the site all report the same thing: a giant temple made of shifting black sands and yawning shadows is nestled in the crook of the eastern side of the Dantroth Peaks. The place has an air of evil about it and those who get close feel their skin crawl from an unseen presence. Bands of roving scorpions, millipedes and other poisonous insects are said to swarm the land around the foul place. The wind is stale with the scent of death and water seems to dry up if exposed to the unnaturally dry air outside the temple’s grounds.

If rumors are believed to be true, then the temple vacillates between forms, constantly swirling away in eddies of black dust devils only to reform new wings and openings as the day drags on. At night, the entire structure is said to fall away, leaving mounds of black sand and ash amidst the desert floor. It is at these times when the swarms of insects come out and seem to gather amidst the obsidian grains.

Speculation runs high as to the nature of such a strange and ominous place. Some believe it to be a cursed temple dedicated to the Black Matron, Vegra. Others say it predates the dark goddess by centuries and belongs to creatures from before the Age of Myths. Still others argue that a rogue sorcerer created the temple in the Age of Wonders as a place of study, only to have it destroyed later by a rogue djinn who battled the mage with vile sorcery.

Whatever the truth of the Black Temple, none tend to go too near it. If it holds riches within its ashen halls, they have remained hidden thus far and may continue to do so for all time beyond.

Ruins of Ultark:
A couple of hours out of the town of Jatri lays a series of ruins. The locals refer to the place as the Ruins of Ultark. They say the ruins got their name from a mad merchant who proclaimed he could offer anyone any ware they desired, for the right price. According to the locals, Ultark was once a prominent businessman who made a fortune off selling silks and spices to travelers from Syr in the south. In time, he grew so wealthy that he commissioned a great palace to be built just outside of town and Ultark entertained many guests as his fame grew.

His palace was a thing of beauty in the harsh desert. Lush gardens, running water, beautiful handmaidens with sweet dates and wine, and wondrous beasts adorned his halls. Travelers from all over came to visit the merchant who offered excellent prices for some of the finest silks and exotic spices in the land. Then one night Ultark had a dream of a great woman wearing a gold and red gown that promised him even greater wealth if he would heed her call. Ultark followed her sultry voice out of his palace and into a small cave nearby where he discovered a miniature box of rosewood inlaid with tiger’s eye.

The merchant took the box back to his palace and found that it contained the ability to offer more than just his silks and spices to those who traveled to his shops. In fact, the box allowed him to offer anyone his or her heart’s desire…for the right price. It is unclear from the stories what “the right price” was, but before long people starting whispering gossip about the eccentric and mad habits that Ultark began engaging in. Less and less people traveled to the merchant’s palace and before too long the beautiful hand maidens left him and his waterways and gardens dried up and died.

Then one day, Ultark’s body was found lying beside the road just outside of Jatri. A dagger of polished ivory jutted from his heart, but the strangest thing was the look of contentment and peace that was frozen onto the dead man’s face. Most believed it to be the work of a killer and an over-indulgence in drugs, which Ultark was rumored to have partaken in, but few could shake the odd state of the merchant’s demeanor given his ghastly end.

Without the wealth and staff to support it, the palace fell into ruin and the years stripped the silk curtains and painted murals from the stone walls, leaving nothing but the sandy ghost of a once-prominent home. Today, the Ruins of Ultark serve as a chaste reminder of the corrupting power of wealth for the more frugal citizens of Jatri. Now and then though, travelers to this part of T’zarak claim to see lights in the far off distance and hear laughter from a party of merry folk out near Ultark’s palace. Some even claim that Ultark himself is not dead; that he faked his own death and still offers those who seek him out the chance to claim their hearts’ desire…for the right price.

The Lodge of Twilight

2010-02-17T21:48:00.000-08:00

In the current Age of Valtyr there exist many different factions and groups vying to entice the industrious and adventurous alike into their ranks. Many such guilds thrive off the donations and support such additions give their cause. However, every once in a while there comes a group that does not try to advertise their position, is not concerned with gaining new members, and is quite content to remain small and spend their days perfecting their craft. Although many watch as these splinter groups come and go, there is one that has persisted and, ironically, gained an underground following as a result: the Lodge of Twilight.

Established nearly 100 years ago, in the year 2756, the Lodge of Twilight began as two friends who met weekly for morning tea. Sebastian Kale and Virgil L’deyr had been friends ever since boyhood. When Sebastian followed his calling to join the ranks of the Brotherhood monks, his good friend Virgil was there to cheer him on. And when Virgil suddenly found himself possessed of the gift to see the Voss on his 14th birthday, Sebastian supported him even when Virgil was too frightened to make much sense of his new power. The two boys grew into fine young men and kept up their tradition of meeting every week at Yorberth and Munsin’s Tea Shoppe in Tessali where they had been born and raised.

As Sebastian and Virgil grew into their own power, they learned of their respective organizations’ dislike for the other. Sebastian learned of the Brotherhood’s concern of the Nezrün threat and the menace that sorcery could cause the people of Valtyr, as evidenced by Xanith’s Curse. Virgil, on the other hand, heard of the tales of stolen artifacts secreted away within Brotherhood vaults and the threat that the gods posed, as evident from the Lords of Shadow in the Great War. Despite their factions’ distrust of the other, both Sebastian and Virgil saw it fit to continue their friendship and often dove into great theological and magical debates over their tea and cakes.

After years of discussions, both men realized something. Perhaps it was not the gods, nor magic, that was the problem. Perhaps the real issue lay with the guilds to which they each belonged. It seemed to both of them that the Citadel and the Brotherhood Church were clouded by a need to be right and exert influence over the other. It was on one particular week, when the men were sharing their tea, that Virgil offered an unusual proposal: leave their groups behind and explore something together.

Sebastian sipped his tea, lost in thought, and Virgil feared he had offended his friend, but then he watched as a great grin spread across Sebastian’s face. The monk agreed that perhaps this was the true will of the gods, to be free of the chains of history and set out to create something new. Virgil readily agreed and offered that his sorcery might be emboldened by new methods and practices, which could lead to new and unknown benefits to mankind.

The two men started their own secret society and called it the Lodge of Twilight. The name had as much to do with where they had come from (day being commonly associated with Lassic, the chief god of Sebastian’s order, and night being a time of great study and importance for Virgil’s Citadel work) as it did with where they were headed (someplace in between).

The two friends spent months studying ways to combine sorcery and faith into a new form of power. They set out with the goal that whatever they created, it should serve mankind’s sense of spirit and creative vision. They felt that the Lodge of Twilight should stand for self-expression free from politics as much as possible. In the end, it was their combined talents that birthed the modern practices of Alchemy as we know it.

Although alchemy had existed prior, it was little understood and selfishly guarded by the Order of the Unbroken Circle within the Citadel. With Virgil’s help and Sebastian’s alterations, the two men elaborated on the core principles of alchemy and expanded the craft greatly. Within weeks, they were creating new potions, powders and salves that had never been seen before. What was more, the alchemical objects they made were more potent that Virgil had first expected.

Needing a way to make a living, Sebastian suggested selling the wares at the local bazaar. After one week of offering their goods, the two men were a hit with some of the local customers. Many began to flock to the Twilight stall and seek their wares. Unfortunately, the attention was not all good, and soon the Citadel and Brotherhood got wind of their actions. Threatened with excommunication and imprisonment, Sebastian and Virgil fled Tessali on a caravan headed south to Oronoch, never to return.

After several months of travel and stops, word of the “amazing alchemists” began to reach more ears. Before they knew it, students and scholars alike began to show up at their inn rooms and waystation stalls, asking for tutoring or wishing to share their own discoveries. At first the two staunchly refused to entertain the notion of taking on a following, but after time and listening to the marvelous tales of those they had inspired, they came to realize that they had begun to do what they had always talked about over tea – to offer their fellow man something creative and free from past prejudices. Alchemy was a way to unite others like them that had become disillusioned with the Citadel or the Brotherhood. It also offered like-minded individuals a focus for their budding talents.

In 2758, Sebastian and Virgil opened the first official chapter of the Lodge of Twilight. They maintained strict rules for new entries, but no longer refused such offers. They also kept the locations of their new guild a secret, lest the Citadel or Brotherhood find them out and seek to lead an inquisition against them and their followers.

Since that time, the Lodge of the Twilight has spread into parts or Syr, T’zarak and Fyron, although they maintain the strongest presence in Rynell where the guild was founded. While rumors occasionally surface of chapter houses opening in the south, no official records of the Lodge are known to exist in T’lranen, Corval, or Mierg. The Lodge lives by only one tenet: explore the science of alchemy in new and interesting ways, divorced of politics or prejudice. Given the Lodge’s recent claim to fame as masters within the alchemical art, the Citadel bears no love for the guild and openly seeks to defame their work as “uncontrolled experiments” wherever they go. Likewise, the Brotherhood denounces the Lodge’s practices as “unorthodox” and refuses to acknowledge the group as a viable entity.

The secret recipes, tomes and practices of the Lodge of Twilight are well-guarded secrets. Their members might be willing to sell their creations to the right buyer, but few (if any) would ever give up the secrets to these crafts. To those who join, alchemy has much more to offer than it currently is and the Twilight Alchemists (as they are sometimes called) are dedicated to seeing just what those offerings might be.

Blightling

2010-02-15T11:52:00.000-08:00

Not many creatures are as feared as those that carry disease, infection, or plague. To the people of Valtyr, such maladies can lay waste to entire villages and spread into epidemics that sweep the lands. It is no wonder then that the putrescent creatures known as blightlings are one of the most dreaded monsters a person can ever face.

The origin of the blightling comes from the shattered rocks of the Thelen Kor in southern T’zarak. A group of cultists that revered Vegra, goddess of death and decay, created a ritual to allow them to pervert their captives into disease-spreading humanoids that could be bound to their will. Drawing upon the dark power of their goddess, the cultists warped the flesh of their subjects with this ritual and infused the host with a potent, infectious slime that caused sickness and rampant disease if exposed to the bloodstream. Through dark magic, they stole away any vestige of humanity from the target of the spell and instead left behind a gibbering, primordial ooze creature filled with malice and hate.

The cultists set the first of the blightlings loose on the towns of Semurcha and Last Gate, reveling in the wide spread panic and death that the tainted beings delivered. Dozens died by the blightlings infectious touch alone, but hundreds more succumbed to death after a disease was loosed into the water sources from the creatures’ horrible slime. It took nearly a season of Brotherhood monks spending their time purifying the area to purge the lands of the disease afterwards.

Seeing success, the cultists were preparing to create even more blightlings and head further south to add more souls to the Black Matron’s clutches when a sudden attack on their temple by Isulk-hai hunters decimated their forces. The cultists scattered in a panic and left the blightlings to fend for themselves. Most of the diseased creatures were put down in the raid, but a few escaped into the blasted rock canyons of the Kor.

Since that day, the tale of the blightling has spread far and wide. Every once in a while, one shows up in some backwater area of the world, wreaking destruction and seeding disease wherever it goes. A sighting of a blightling is cause for great alarm, as it is a known fact now that it creates more of its infected spawn by consuming those it defeats. A single blightling can create a duplicate of itself after ingesting four infected bodies. If left unchecked, they can become an epidemic themselves, and so they are ruthlessly hunted by organizations like the Din’tarra and the Champions of the Dawn.

A blightling stands roughly 6 feet tall and possess two ropy tendrils instead of arms. Yellowed suckers ringed in small teeth line the underside of the tentacles. Their lower halves drip away into a disgusting ooze of bubbling and decaying matter and they possess a horrible stench whenever nearby. Their faces are misshapen lumps of flesh and their entire bodies are covered in puss, slime and seeping sores.

Although not technically one of the Shadowfold, blightlings are certainly a spawn of evil that deserves as much attention as their dreaded undead cousins.

Blightling……(level 3)
Battle: 10
Damage: 1D6+2
Evasion: 4 (SR 1)
Resistance: 5 (SR 1)
Health: 35

Passive Powers:
Immune: disease, poison, status effects

Infection: if the blightling causes wounds, the target must make a Fortitude skill check (SR 3) or their wounds become infected.

Stench: targets are weakened and stunned in the blightling’s presence (Fortitude (SR 2) resists for a round)

Vulnerable: fire

Active Powers:
Blight: blightlings can belch a thick oozing liquid that can infect a target with a contagious disease that causes a loss of -1 to their Brawn and Fortitude per day until cured (Fortitude (SR 3) resists). In addition, those affected by the Blight do not add their level to their Battle, Evasion, Arcane, or Resistance stats.

Mists & Shadows - Chapter 2

2010-02-14T12:59:00.000-08:00

Sevenwinters, Arim and Hjorvarth stepped into Cedar’s Rest’s only tavern, a nameless building with a peaked gray roof and several patrons milling about inside. Bits of conversation wafted from huddled groups of farmers and craftsmen regarding the day’s events. Fear was evident from the looks on their faces and all eyed the three strangers as they entered the tavern’s warm central room. Near the back a counter ran nearly the length of the building and a man with short blonde hair and a pleasant smile busily tended to a group of farmers raising their mugs for more ale. Behind him, two serving girls carried plates of warm meat, potatoes, stew, carrots and bread to hungry mouths.

“Okay, so we’re here,” said Hjorvarth. “Now what? Where’s this Patrick fellow anyway?”

Sevenwinters scanned the crowd and picked out a man sitting alone, eating a haunch of meat and washing it down with a large goblet of something frothy. When the man’s eyes met Sevenwinters, he hastily wiped the froth from his mouth and waved him over, a large smile growing across his face.

Sevenwinters pointed the man out. Arim was quick to catch on. “Looks like he’s right over there. Come on.”

As the three comrades started forward, the blonde gentleman behind the bar shouted, “Excuse me sirs. We don’t allow weapons inside on persons. Please kindly leave them bonded to the peace peg if you would.” He gestured to a rack of pegs located just by the entrance to the tavern. The three exchanged a brief glance and then complied, Hjorvarth being the last and most reluctant of the bunch. The blonde haired man nodded friendly and resumed his duties with his customers.

As the party neared the solitary man at his table, the patron stood up and spread his arms wide in greeting. “Welcome friends,” he said with a large smile and a twinkle in his eye, “welcome indeed. It is a fortunate day for Cedar’s Rest that men of such courage are here today. Please, sit and share a meal with me. I’ve been expecting you.”

As Arim sat, he shot the man his own dashing smile and said, “Many thanks friend. But who might we owe this honor to?”

“Patrick’s my name,” said the man as he resumed sitting, “and my table is yours today friends.” Patrick hastily called the barmaids and ordered drinks for his three guests and made a fuss of dishing up food and seeing that everyone was situated. As soon as food hit the table in front of Sevenwinters, he began voraciously devouring it. Hjorvarth shrugged and tucked in to his plate the same. Only Arim delayed from the feast, more intent on conversation than food it would seem. And their host had plenty of that to go around as well.

“As I have said already, you are most welcome here friends. But I wish to know more about you. For example, your names.” Patrick looked first to Sevenwinters, deferring to his age and possible rank within the group. Sevenwinters paused long enough to tell him his name before diving right back in to eating. He had not had such food for seven long years and he would be damned if he would miss the opportunity now.

Next came Hjorvarth’s introduction. Patrick smiled a secret smile when the big man spoke, confirming his suspicion that the warrior from the northern frostlands. If his red hair and pale skin hadn’t given it away, Hjorvarth’s accent surely did.

Lastly, came Arim. Patrick noted the Citadel bracers on Arim’s arms and commented, “It is an honor to meet one of the sorcerers of the Citadel, Arim. This village owes you and your order many great debts.” Arim wondered briefly if Patrick was referring to the Citadel’s role in the Age of Sorrows, when Corval was constantly invaded by the Storm Knights and Geldain Ramuk’s Gray Armies, or if he meant today and the assistance both he and the elf Malinorian offered Cedar’s Rest. While Arim engaged in small talk with their host, his mind wandered to the whereabouts of the elf. He hadn’t followed them that he noticed Where had he gone?

It was then that Malinorian entered the tavern. His keen eyes picked out the group of three comrades that he had been introduced with upon meeting Tess just moments before. However, a voice in his head whispered for him to observe, to linger back and not be seen…not just yet. Moving with grace only the Elves possessed, Malinorian took a seat across from the party and kept his hood up, lest his fine Elven ears give him away. A barmaid came by asking if he needed anything, but he politely waved her away and listened to what was being said.

Patrick took another bite of his potatoes and washed it down with more ale before continuing. “It is good we have met friends. Your assistance today meant a lot to these people, and to friends of mine as well. I take it,” he said looking at Sevenwinters, “that you are familiar with the recent troubles inflicted by the baron of these parts.”

“We are now,” said Arim lightheartedly, but with a sting to it that conveyed he considered what had happened today to be nothing of a joking manner.

Patrick nodded. “Indeed. Baron Alfred Logren has lost his way and the suffering and pain he causes the people of his barony is inexcusable. Today was just a small taste of the butchery and villainy that the man possesses. I can tell you all that I have seen with my own eyes much more destruction that what was caused today over the last few months.

“Logren is a tyrant, a madman bent on bringing his people to his heel by crushing their skulls and breaking their backs. Those he does not extort, he kidnaps to work in his keep or kills. The old…women…children…none are spared his lash.”

Patrick paused, a sincere look of sadness in his eyes. “Too many have been taken. Too much has been lost. There is more blood in the Corvalian fields than there are blades of green grass these days.”

Sevenwinters looked up from his second plate of food and his eyes grew hard. “The Baron will pay dearly for what he has done. I know firsthand what his reign of terror has caused. He will not escape judgment.”

Hjorvarth let out an encouraging cheer and banged his empty mug down on the table. “I did not come to fight men in such a way, but after seeing what has happened, I will not stop until this mad dog is put down!”

Patrick smiled briefly. “Well said Master Hjorvarth. Well said indeed.” His eyes moved to Arim. “It seems like your friends here are set on seeing right replace the wrong of this village, nay…this barony. What of you?”

“Friends of mine have been affected as well. I want to help, if I can.”

Patrick’s smile widened and his face shone with pleasure. “Excellent. Then perhaps I have a way you all can aid just as you have said you would.” Leaning forward conspiratorially, Patrick beckoned their ears closer.

“I have information about a rebellion that has begun to form in these parts. The people grow tired of false imprisonments, of the senseless killings, of the kidnapping and pain that Logren has brought to their families and friends. I represent a group that assists in this rebellion. My role is to act as a kind of scout and recruiter for their cause. From what I have seen today, you three bear the marks of those I would ask to join their cause. Interested?”

Arim rubbed the day’s growth of stubble on his chin and wondered to himself what profit might lie in wait under the Baron’s keep. He had meant what he had said; he wanted to help Simon avenge his son’s death and his wife’s capture. If he could maybe bring her back…that would be something. But he also wouldn’t deny the desire to make a little something for his efforts.

“This Logren, what resources does he have at his disposal?” asked Arim as he pondered Patrick’s offer.

“Many,” said the recruiter, “He has many men, but also enough wealth from his stolen tributes to feed, clothe and outfit them. It will be dangerous but the price of freedom is always dangerous.”

Arim had his answer. The baron had wealth and that meant profit. He could do a good thing for his friend and still make a cut. Hjorvarth beat him to the punch.

“I shall stand with this group. Just point me in the right direction and let me at that bastard!”

Patrick chuckled and held his hands up for peace. Several nearby patrons had looked up at the large man’s outburst. Eyes returned to their own plates when Patrick reassured the gathered patrons that there was nothing wrong.

“This is excellent news Master Hjorvarth. I knew we could count on you.”

“Count me in too,” managed Arim, shooting Hjorvarth a wry look. Patrick clasped Arim’s hand and then turned to Sevenwinters. The old warrior was busy mopping up the last of his gravy with a hunk of bread. Sevenwinters raised his head and nodded his acceptance of the offer as well.

“Though it saddens me that this rebellion is necessary and that so much travesty has occurred here today, I am glad I stopped in these parts this week. To have met such brave souls willing to lend a hand to their unknown countrymen…well, it does my heart proud.”

The feast concluded, Patrick rose in a smooth motion. The rest of the group could see he was lithe and fit for travel. “Where are you going?” asked Arim.

“I have things to attend to in town. There are others I wish to seek out as well, to see if they possess as noble and generous hearts as yours. Please meet me back here in this tavern tonight at the seventh torch. We can discuss the details of your assistance to the rebellion at that time.”

“Much luck,” cried Hjorvarth as Patrick made his way out the door, “and thanks for the food.”

*******

The wind had picked up and a chill rain began to fall as Patrick left the tavern. Neither the muddy ground not the biting cold could hamper his spirits. After what he had just done, he was sure to receive accommodation from his superiors and put a further thorn in Baron Logren’s campaign.

Hood up against the rain and chill, Patrick hurried away to his next meeting. A sudden shiver danced up his spine and he had the strangest feeling that he was being followed. Turning to allay his fears, he came face to face with a dark-haired Elf dressed in deep red robes. The dim light of the fading day cast shadows over the Elf’s features, making him appear to be swathed in a mask of roving shade.

Before Patrick could summon his signature smile and affable manner, the Elf spoke.

“Tell me, is it true that Fort Gorwin holds an enchantress under the Baron’s orders.”

“Excuse me?” said Patrick, completely caught unaware. “What did you say?”

“You heard me the first time,” said the Elf, his eyes focused on Patrick’s. “Is it true?”

Patrick was shocked that the Elf knew this. Such information, he had been told, was private and known only to a select few. Rumors had obviously been started. He would have to remember that for next time.

“Yes, it is true,” he said. The rain suddenly lashed around the two in quick torrent and then subsided to a normal drizzle once more. The Elf merely nodded and then said, “And the men you spoke with just now, back in the tavern. Is Fort Gorwin your next target?”

Patrick saw an opportunity rising and reached for it.

“Yes, it is.” He was telling the truth. That was the target for tonight’s discussion. Although how this strange Elf knew anything about it was beyond him.

“Then I will see you at the seventh torch Patrick.” The Elf tuned to leave, but

Patrick shouted out, “Wait…what is your name?”

Without a backwards glance, the Elf replied. “Malinorian of the Tower Nethmari.”

Patrick rolled the name around in his brain as he hurried on his way. Malinorian. Had he heard of that name before? No, he decided, he had not. But he was pretty sure it would be a name many would be hearing about in the days to come. That Elf had something special about him, something…unique. As long as he was fighting for them, Patrick mused as he entered another house - that was all that mattered at the moment.

*******

The day sped across the sky and before long the torches marking the evening hours were burning across the village of Cedar’s Rest. As the seventh torch was lit, Sevenwinters, Hjorvarth, Arim and Malinorian all entered and took up seats in the tavern. The place was empty save for the blonde gentlemen and a single couple seated in the back by a roaring fire. The barkeep waved as the four comrades entered and offered them a seat. No mention to discarding weapons this time.

“Here to take old Patrick up on his offer, are ya?” The barkeep’s tone was friendly and matter of fact. He didn’t wait for an answer; none was needed. If they were here the answer was evident already. “It’s good that you are doing this for those of us who cannot fight.”

Malinorian and Arim questioned the barkeep for a bit about Patrick’s character. Who was he? Where did he come from? How long had he been coming here recruiting for this rebellion? The barkeep answered all he could but it was apparent that he knew little of the man named Patrick other than he was considered as a friend in these parts and had only ever helped Tess Brickworth and her regency through his efforts.

A chill wind announced the presence of Patrick as he hustled through the door. The evening hour had grown late in short time and darkness clung outside the tavern walls. Patrick brushed some dew form his overcoat and came in. In no time flat her was speaking to those gathered, which included a dark-skinned bald man and his red-haired female companion. The man seemed fit to be a warrior and the woman looked like some kind of wood scout from her attire. Patrick introduced them as Samson and Izumi respectively.

“Well then, let’s get down to business. You all know that I am recruiting for the rebellion to stop the madness Baron Logren has wrought on these lands. Tonight I hope we can strike back a blow that will show Logren that we are not sheep being led to the slaughter, but rams that will fight back to protect what is ours.”

Pausing to look around the room, he let that sink in and then continued. The air smelled vaguely of vinegar and wood smoke and Hjorvarth coughed once into this beard.

“Nearby there is a fort that the baron uses for staging attacks such as the one that occurred today. This place, known as Fort Gorwin, is not heavily guarded or manned. The baron is overconfident. He does not consider us to be that much of a threat. It is to Fort Gorwin that he has taken the prisoners from today’s raid. The mission before all of you is this: infiltrate the fort and recover the prisoners.”

Not a sound was made in the tavern. The candles that were lit flickered briefly from a draft somewhere. Patrick took this as a good sign.

“Since I have heard no objections I will assume you are all in?” Heads nodded and voices rose in assent. Patrick smiled his charismatic smile and clapped his hands.

“Good, good. This is exactly what we need. Men and women of strength and spirit.”

He paused for a moment and then continued again. “There is one other thing. The fort is run by a man named Trendon Vie. Commander Vie is a ruthless soldier in the baron’s service and one that should not be taken lightly. As many of you might be aware, the hierarchy of command amongst the solider class in Corval’s baronies is extreme to say the least. If Commander Vie were to fall in the battle, well his men would lose their fighting spirit and succumb to surrender until a new leader was placed before them. Such a blow would be of great service to the rebellion.”

At this Arim spoke. “How many does this Trendon command?”

“Roughly thirty men reside in Fort Gorwin and Commander Vie presides over them all. And my information sources have told me that more new recruits are being sent to the fort tomorrow afternoon,” answered Patrick. This brought some conversation amongst the two groups gathered.

“I thought you said the place wasn't heavily guarded! How are we to infiltrate and subdue so many?” asked Samson.

“It is the mouse that finds his way into the keep of men and feeds off his food stores,” answered Patrick. “Find a hole and get inside. From there you can take any tactic you wish. Just remember, the mission involves freeing innocent lives. These are not soldiers you are being sent to retrieve…”

Sevenwinters interrupted, finishing Patrick’s thought with a backwards glance at Samson. “…no, they’re innocent folk who can’t fight for themselves. We’ll find a way in, rest assured of that.”

Patrick swallowed hard at Sevenwinters’s tone. The man had taken on a brooding look at Patrick felt uneasy around the swordsman all of a sudden. He laughed nervously and nodded his head before taking a pull from a nearby mug of tea.

“There is one other piece of information I should give you. Held within Fort Gorwin is a prisoner named Emiline. You will be able to tell her by her presence alone, but look for a woman in her prime with auburn hair and eyes the color of tawny heather. My superiors wish very much to speak with this woman, so if you find her, please ensure that she make her way back here to Cedar’s Rest. I will be passing through in another few days again and will question her.”

“What importance does this woman have?” asked Hjorvarth as he sipped on his own drink. “Why call her out especially?”

Before Patrick could answer, Malinorian’s cool voice sounded. “She’s the Citadel Sorceress, isn’t she?”

All eyes turned from the Elf to Patrick. Patrick shrugged nonchalantly. “It’s true, she’s a sorceress, but I never said anything about being one of the Citadel.”

“A renegade?” Arim’s voice was tinged with disbelief. His brow furrowed and he shared a surprised look with Malinorian. “Such a thing would not be…good…for our order of magi. Renegades are not tolerated. She will have to be subjected to our laws.”

Patrick held up a placating hand immediately. “Hold on! I didn’t say she was a renegade, whatever that means. I just said I wasn’t sure if she was Citadel.”

“That means the same thing,” said Malinorian, anger showing in his voice.

“Well you will just have to find out for yourself,” countered Patrick, his annoyance showing at last. “The rebellion cares nothing for her crimes against magic. That is for you to handle master Elf. However, we do care for the information she has regarding Logren and his keep.”

“And why is that?” said Izumi, finally adding her voice to the assembly.

“Because my dear,” said Patrick, “she used to be a mistress to the baron and may possess valuable intel on his habits, keep and such things.”

“Sounds like an extra challenge,” said Hjorvarth, nodding his shaggy head. “It’ll be that much more interesting.”

“Well then I suggest you all get your rest. I have arranged for horses and a cart to be given to you in the morning to speed your journey. Also, I have procured uniforms of the baron’s guards in case you wish to use subterfuge to enter the fort. Lastly, I have arranged for a group of men who are sympathetic to our cause to join you in a horseshoe-shaped valley just to the west of the fort. You can find it by flowing this map.”

Patrick laid out a decent map of the area on the table and showed where they should travel to reach the fort and the reinforcements. He then answered any questions the group had before turning to leave.

“Good luck to you all.”

And with that, he was gone…a shadow lost to the darkness of night outside the tavern once more.

*******

The six souls spent a few minutes longer down in the tavern before heading off to sleep. Tomorrow would be a long and adventurous day. Rest would be needed and so all of them retired for the evening. All except Arim.

The call of the road, the lure of the fort’s possible treasures, the promise of excitement…all of these were too much for the young adventuring sorcerer. After the others left, he grabbed the pack Patrick had prepared and dashed off into the night. He followed the full silvery light of Ailor, the shinning moon, over looping tracks and shadowed glens until hours later he came upon the fort itself. A two-storied wall of solid stone ringed the rectangular keep. Along its wall were torches and guards who patrolled its perimeter. Only one gate led access to the fort’s interior, where Arim spied two buildings. A single three-story tower with a pointed roof was situated at the southeastern end of the fort.

Not wasting a single moment, Arim uncoiled some rope he had brought and began to scale the outer wall, timing his movements between the guard’s patrol paths. As he successfully gained the summit, he crouched in the shadows of the wall’s walk and waited. When he was sure he hadn’t been seen, he descended the other side in stealth and hid behind one of the larger buildings. Quickly, he undressed and threw on the guard’s disguise he had taken with him. Then, slipping around to the front of the building, he peered in and noticed that he had stumbled across the barracks. What luck!

Without a moment to lose, he scurried into the barracks, threw his traveling bag under an empty cot, and pretended to go to sleep. With Patrick’s story of new recruits being sent to Fort Gorwin in the morning, he hoped he could just slip by unnoticed and maybe blend into the crowd. What he didn’t plan for was the heaviness of his eyes and the fatigue that hit his body as he finally laid down to rest. Before long, he was snoring soundly, a lone ram in wolves’ clothing amidst the enemy’s camp.

*******

Morning came and with it the realization that Arim was gone. Hjorvarth and Sevenwinters went about getting the cart ready and the horses hitched while Malinorian pondered the sudden disappearance of his brother sorcerer. Before long, the group, along with Samson and Izumi, set off for Fort Gorwin. The day was surprisingly warm for a Corvalian spring and little rain assaulted their journey. Along the way, they spied a farm that had seen the devastation wrought by the baron’s men. Sevenwinters offered to help the people, but their fear of outsiders and pride at their own loss hindered his attempt at assistance. Resigned, Sevenwinters and the group went on their own way, leaving the family to suffer through their own grief and loss alone. Hjorvarth’s grip tightened on his axe and even Malinorian’s cool demeanor was flushed at the sight of the farmers’ shame.

By noon, the group had reached the valley Patrick told them about but no sign of the reinforcements could be found.

“That bastard lied to us,” shouted Samson, anger etched onto his face.

“I would keep your voice down if I were you. The wind in these parts carries sounds quite a ways.” Samson and Hjorvarth spun, each with a weapon in hand, to the sound of the new voice. They watched in amazement as part of the grassy hill around them detached itself and moved as it if had a life of its own. Suddenly other mounds of grass and plants began to move. Malinorian narrowed his eyes and smiled when he figured it out.

“Very clever,” said the Elf to the moving grass. “A perfect disguise in such a place.” He pointed out that the “moving sods of earth” were actually men camouflaged with bits of the green terrain to blend in with their environment. Sevenwinters and Izumi approached the closest of the disguised men. He extended a hand in friendship and announced himself as Alaster.

“These are my men. We’re archers from Willowheart. Patrick told us about you. Pleased to meet you.”

The rest of the day was spent discussing tactics and points of attack. It was decided that Sevenwinters, Hjorvarth and Samson would pose as guards returning to the fort in the baron’s service. Malinorian would be their “captive” they found in a recent raid. Izumi and Alaster and his men would stay behind and launch an attack of flaming arrows upon the fort at Sevenwinters’s signal as dusk fell. The hope was the it would seem as if there many more rebels attacking the fort than there actually were. Alaster would spread his men out and use the cover of darkness to conceal their smaller force. With the distraction underway, the group infiltrating the fort would make haste to find and free as many of the prisoners as they could. If they happened upon Commander Vie, so be it.

Little did the group know that the day had been spent with chores and various tasks performed by Arim posing as one of the guards inside the fort. After being roused early for duty, Arim (going under a fake name) reported to the Quartermaster and Sergeant, a man named Ar’rham with a patch over one eye and a temper to match a fierce winter storm. He toiled for the day scraping out roof gutters of clogged leaves, guarding the larder near the kitchen (where he stumbled across a hidden treasure of silver, jade and an ornate miniature dirk in the pantry’s floorboards) and finally was sent to man the front watch at the wall above the main gate. It was here that Arim would end up seeing his comrades from the day before marching up a lonely road as darkness began to overtake the day once more.

As Sevenwinters, Hjorvarth, Samson and Malinorian approached the gate, guards at the top of the wall hailed them with calls of warning. However, when the guards saw that they all wore the uniform of the baron’s men (all save Malinorian of course) they readily opened the gate after bantering a few words with Sevenwinters. Inside the party found the place teeming with guards. Making their way straight for the main hall, Hjorvarth pushed Malinorian to further their ruse of escorting a prisoner to the cells.

“Watch it northerner,” whispered Malinorian through clenched teeth.

“Sorry,” muttered the big man as they passed through the arches leading into the fort’s main hall. Inside Sergeant Ar’rham and several armed guards were conversing over a series of documents and maps splayed out on a table. Out of the corner of his eye Sevenwinters saw Arim dressed as a guard walk past them and into the hall, heading for a series of stairs on the right hand side of the building’s interior. Arim chanced a quick glance at Sevenwinters and nodded as if to say “I’ll wait for your signal.”

Sevenwinters wasn’t sure he trusted the boy, but Arim hadn’t betrayed him yet. He may have run off to get here first for his own reasons, but until Arim showed his intentions to be false, Sevenwinters would give him the benefit of the doubt.

Sergeant Ar’rham looked up from his papers with his good eye and barked out an order to his attendant before heading over to see what all the fuss was about in his hall.
“Who in the hells are you and why have you brought this ‘glow worm’ into my hall?” The sergeant used the derogatory term some men had invented for Elves. It came from their ability to shed light when they wished and was also a play off the term “shining folk” that referred to their Faerie parentage.

“We found him in our last raid,” said Sevenwinters reciting his practiced line. “He’s a sorcerer and we were told to being him to the cell blocks.”

“Who gave this order?” asked Ar’rham, his eyes squinting at the Elf before him.

The answer never came as just then a flurry of flaming arrows arced through the night sky and fell upon the buildings and interior of the fort’s grounds. The cries of “Attack!” and the following alarm bells sounded quickly over the grounds. Ar’rham barked out orders and suddenly guards were running everywhere; some to put out fires, others to man the eastern walls where the attack had spawned from, and still others to gather up comrades in other parts of the fort.

The timing of the attack by Alaster and Izumi had been perfect. Sevenwinters had told them to start the attack only after they were inside the main building and night had fallen. Without wasting a second, Hjorvarth lashed out and attacked Ar’rham, while Samson laid into one of the guards to his right. Sevenwinters likewise attacked a nearby guard and Malinorian summoned tendrils of black fog to strike fear into the hearts of two more men.

The battle was on.

Guards flooded the room and the shouts of panic became the cries of battle. Blood flew and sword and sorcery joined the fray. Hjorvarth, Sevenwinters and Samson each held their own amidst the growing tide of the baron’s men. Malinorian used his magic to damage and terrorize those nearby, giving his fighting comrades the edge they needed to defeat so many. Amidst the fighting, Arim managed to even wound a few with bolts of blue magic that flew unerringly to strike both Sergeant Ar’rham and his attendant men nearby.

Sevenwinters looked up from the fighting after laying another guard to rest permanently. Nearby, out in the courtyard beyond the main hall, he saw two men in robes hurrying to join in his fight. They wore strange straps and belts over their chests and waists stocked with vials of some type of liquid. Although he couldn’t tell what the contents of the bottles were, he could read the intentions of the men in the way they grabbed a vial each and made as if to throw it at him and his friends.

Moving as quickly as he could, he used his shield to ram into one of the men, sending both him and the robed figure sprawling on the ground. In the last possible second, he closed his eyes and buried his face into his chest. An explosion of thunder and bright light lit up the courtyard and Sevenwinters could feel the vibrations thrum through his body as the several of the vials cracked open. A cry of pain and surprise from the other robed figure told Sevenwinters his tactic had succeeded. When he regained his feet, it was child’s play to end the writhing man’s life.

Back inside, Hjorvarth managed to finally land a critical blow on Ar’rham’s left side. Following up in his companion’s wake, Samson slashed the sergeant’s back while Malinorian’s fire erupted from afar and engulfed the hapless man in writhing tongues of flame. Ar’rham fell to the flow, a lifeless husk.

Arim cast his own spells and sent more guards tumbling into enchanted sleep as Hjorvarth and Samson quickly set upon the last two men standing. Seeing the situation well in hand, Arim watched as Sevenwinters rejoined the fray and shut the double doors leading into the room. Then, Arim spun on his heel and headed back down the set of stairs, turning to face a door to his left. He knew if he traveled to his right, he would find a series of cells, ten on each side of a long stone passageway. He had located the prisoners before and now it was just a matter of how to free them to safety. But first things first: the door in front of him now was locked and there was only one reason to lock a door. Treasure.

Grabbing at his tools, Arim made quick work of the lock and found himself within a private study. A desk adorned with papers and writing quills sat in one corner. A bookshelf filled with ledgers lined a wall. A thorough search of the room revealed a little coin and papers detailing the supply trains, recruit schedule and plans of Fort Gorwin. Arim smiled as he pocketed both the money and the papers. The rebellion could certainly use the intel. Taking the steps three at a time, he came back up to reunite with his new friends and tell them of his discovery: he had found the prisoners.

Now to find this Emiline woman and a way out.

To be continued...

Orrery of Stones

2010-02-09T10:03:00.000-08:00

In the idyllic time of the Age of Wonders, before the birth of the Elves and the Cerenoth, the sorcerers of Valtyr explored their new gift of magic in peace and prosperity. It was a time rife with experiments, great discoveries and magical crafting the likes of which the world has never seen since. In these days, only the Tower Verseth on Nilea and the Tower Tethion in Syr stood as halls for the sorcerers to practice their art within. There, they created artifacts of great arcane power and bound within them pieces of the living Voss, using the lost ritual known as the Genalagas Verun, so that the magic would never die. One such artifact that was created during this time is the fabled Orrery of Stones.

Designed to allow sorcerers to tap into the divinations of their rivals, the Brotherhood, the Orrery was a miniature construct of swirling gemstones that orbited a star sapphire carved with the symbol of the Citadel. It is said that the artifact allowed those who knew how to use it many powers: the ability to see into the near future; the power to discern truth from lies; the ability to power their spells to untold heights; and even more dangerous powers such as the ability to bind targets within the orbiting gemstones and gain control over the astral power of the moon and stars themselves!

The Orrery was primarily used as a way to guide the hands of the decision makers within the Citadel of the time, helping the order to flourish by reading the loom of Fate. It alone is attributed with the decision of where to build each of the other Towers during the Age of Wonders. It guided the High Council’s hand when establishing the Citadel’s hierarchical system, and is even said to have predicted notable sorcerers who would live in legend or infamy (such as the traitorous Nezrün Janus Blackthorn or the powerful Ord-Akana Kain Brashyr) well before their time.

Such an artifact was beyond its measure in worth and was guarded carefully by the High Councils that maintained it. But all of that changed in the fall of 2226, when the attacks against the Citadel had reached the shores of Nilea and threatened the very heart of the organization, the first Tower Verseth. The High Council of those days watched in bleak misery as the swarms of Storm Knights overran their villages and towns, leading a destructive path to the Tower Verseth. In an act of final desperation, the High Council stole the Tower Verseth and all its magic away from the world of Valtyr. But for reasons that are not fully understood, the Orrery of Stones, which had been housed in the tower for over 1,300 years, did not travel with it.

After the Tower Verseth returned to the world, the Citadel launched a secret campaign to uncover the missing object of power and return it to their vaults. Hundreds of sorcerers took on the task, but to date none have been successful. A story has arisen of a few sorcerers who had found the Orrery of Stones but did not elect to take it from its hiding place. These individuals speak of a great danger that could befall all magic in Valtyr if the Orrery was ever returned to the Tower Verseth. Unfortunately, these tales are probably false, as magical interrogations by the Citadel’s chief Councilors have detected an alteration in these sorcerers’ memories, leading the High Council to believe such tales are not entirely true. Perhaps the presence of the magic within the Orrery has shifted from its original intent, showing visions of false futures and deceptions rather than the truth. None within the Citadel can be certain until someone succeeds in returning the Orrery to one of their towers for study. For now, the legend of the Orrery of Stones remains a mystery, and one the High Council of the current Age would very much like to solve.

Orrery of Stones
Type: Artifact

Description: A polished, glowing star sapphire roughly 7 inches in diameter with a silver Citadel rune in its center orbited by 6 gemstones (ruby, diamond, emerald, topaz, amethyst, and moonstone), each bearing the ancient mark of one of the first High Councilors

Powers: all are not known, but those documented are as follows:
Farsight: one can look into the future and determine the answer to a single question a month
Truth: in the presence of the Orrery, lies and illusions fail to work
Conjoin: a sorcerer may double his own Arcane, Resistance and Ward SR stats once a day
Imprison: a target may be imprisoned within one of the six orbiting stones for a single year
Starfire: calls down a torrent of 20 silver comets from the night sky that each cause 10D6 damage in a medium area, rounded down, once per evening
Transform: can shift a target into any other humanoid or beast form for up to one week

The Wildlands Sites of Interest

2010-02-07T17:10:00.000-08:00

There is no place in Valtyr quite like the primal stretch of land known as the Wildlands. Filled with life, the Wildlands are so named for the nature they evoke to all who have seen them. The immense woods known as Hunter’s Grove stretches for miles, its great trees rivaled in size only by the silverleaf forests of T’lranen. The Rainesh River cuts a swath through the middle of the Wildlands’ fertile plains and rolling savannahs so deep and wide in parts it is believed to flow into other worlds. The giant Bloodclaw Valley hosts creatures of epic proportions and caves that are said to dazzle all that look on them from crystals the size of wagon wheels that catch the sun’s bright rays. And the split twin peaks of Fenrath and Teyr form the highest points in the entire world, and rumors persist of a mystical site at their cleft base.

Wherever one travels in the Wildlands, life is just more intense than anywhere else. Colors are more vibrant, smells are stronger and the air is charged with an energy few can put into words. Here, great giants of beasts roam the lands and the elements hold court over a place virtually untouched by the spreading civilization of mankind or the other races. In fact, only the race of blue-skinned giants known as the Bloodsworn inhabits these lands.

Despite its captivating beauty and pristine essence, the Wildlands pose great threat to overland travelers. It is no accident that those traveling north or south do so by way of ship most of the time. The Bloodsworn do not take kindly to any who intrude into their realm’s borders. Aside from that obvious deterrent, the storms that sometimes visit the open places of the Wildlands can swallow explorers in their raging path. And if either of those don’t get you, then the denizens that call these wild places home certainly will: all manner of deadly creatures live in the forests, plains, valleys, steppes and mountains of this natural realm, and many see travelers as another way to fill their bellies.

Despite the Bloodsworn’s inhospitable temperament and the unchecked violence of nature, the Wildlands have been explored (in daring attempts) from time to time. From the mouths and manuscripts of thrill-seeking explorers come tales of sites that defy explanation or comparison. A few of those sites are detailed below (with more to follow in later posts):

Devil’s Vents:
In the northern part of the Trivaunnel Savannah sits a series of cracks in the earth, some of which stretch as much as half a mile wide. Situated on a plain of solid rock and red clay fields, these cracks are known for the geysers of steam and boiling water that shoot out of them at regular intervals. Some of the resulting blasts can send plumes of steam upwards of 250 feet into the air. Hundreds of these cracks make up the site known as the Devil’s Vents, so named by the Syrian sailors who sail Brightwater Bay and who describe the vents as “the anger of Mezodan himself escaping up from the blood soaked earth.”

Not much is known about the vents other than the fact that the geysers fire off all hours of the day and night. The plumes are tinted a dirty yellow in color and smell vaguely of sulfur. As noted above, even passing ships, miles away, can see the sign of the Vents when they are active. Some reports from sailors have also claimed to see creatures rising up from the cracks in the earth and bathing in the scalding spray of the geysers. If this is fact, no evidence has been brought to light yet.

The red clay nearby the geysers is extremely valuable. If dissolved in certain solutions, it is said to make a solvent that can dissolve anything. If hardened under fire, it creates a last material just as strong as brick. If mixed with water and the plant known as heart’s fern, it can create a regenerative salve that heals wounds in stunningly little time. For these reasons, the red clay is sought after by alchemists, healers and artisans and fetches an amazing price for those brave or foolhardy enough to tempt fate by entering the scalding and poisonous landscape.

Lastly, the Devil’s Vents are featured in an ancient myth surrounding a lost set of magical orbs. The story goes that once a sorcerer of great power created nine orbs to help him devise a way to contact other worlds. On the morning of his first contact, the sorcerer used all nine orbs to open a gate to another realm, a place far from Valtyr. However, the sorcerer’s magic was unprepared for what came through the gate and he battled unspeakable horrors in an attempt to save his life. Sadly, the sorcerer was defeated and the gate sealed as he died, but not before the foul creatures that had come through escaped into our world.

With his dying breath, the sorcerer scattered the orbs to the far reaches of Valtyr, burying their magical signature deep within the earth so that the creatures he had unleashed could never find them. He feared, even as he passed on, that if the creatures recovered the orbs, they would use them to open another gate and allow more of their nameless entities into this world. The unspeakable horrors chased after the orbs, but could not find them, so they began to dig in the area where they believed they might be. It is this digging that created the cracks and giant chasms of the Devil’s Vents, and the story says that the creatures continue to dig to this day. Such obvious tall tales are probably not the reason for the Vents’ existence, but with sailors spinning tales of strange creatures climbing out of the earth to bask in the geysers, one can never be too sure.

Red Wash Falls:
Within the primal forest of Hunter’s Grove, the Rainesh River splits, creating two impressive, but smaller, rivers that join back again into one after 30 or more miles. Where the two smaller rivers meet and rejoin the Rainesh, a great waterfall plummets more than 1,400 feet to the river below. A great canopy of mist and spray blankets the ground for more than 500 feet in every direction. Thunderous noise fills the air and it is said that standing amidst the cloud at the shore, one can feel their bones thrum with the power of the falls.

The falls get their name from the sediment above the falls, which bears a deep red color. When the water flows over the edge it becomes tinted red and creates the impression of a giant torrent of blood cascading down the side of the cliff. Strangely however, the mist and spray is almost completely white, creating a cloud that the “bloody water” flows into. Near the base of the falls, the water once again returns to its normal whitecaps and blue coloring, giving those few who have ever seen it the impression that the cloud “purifies” the tainted water as it passes through.

Red Wash Falls is the largest recorded waterfall in Valtyr. Aside from earning this distinction, it also has the added wonder of having immense carvings of thousands of cupped hands etched upon the cliff wall to the side and behind the raging falls. Most of the hands are the size of a normal human, but there are other hundreds that are gigantic in proportion or miniscule, as if from a newborn babe; still other carvings represent taloned or hoofed paws and some defy any explanation at all. None are sure whom or what first created the hand carvings but they have been around since before the dawn of man’s recorded history.

What draws people to risk seeing Red Wash Falls lies within these hard carvings. Many believe that drinking or submerging one’s self in the pools of captured water these hands hold instills great vitality and long life; the larger the pool, the more life that will be extended to the person. There are even rumors of ever-lasting life if one bathes in the largest of the cupped hands. But to reach the falls, one must first survive the dangers of the open plains and Bloodsworn tribes, and then brave the rumors of the Dark Hunter and its pack of savage beasts that claims Hunter’s Grove for itself. The irony is that, in the end, not many are willing to risk such a flirtation with death just to fulfill the promise of immortality.

Labyrinth’s Gate:
Valtyr is a big place. There are thousands of miles of land and many more than that of open ocean. Distant islands that many will never see sit on unnamed seas. Hidden passages within the tallest mountain ranges sit silently, untouched by man. Cities and towns dot the landscape in such number that one would be hard pressed to travel to each before he died. Who knows what mysteries lie within the heart of the jungles and forests of the world, within the shadows of the underdark, within the sweeping dunes of sand that form T’zarak’s great belly. To those who wish to know the answers to these questions, there is a way: the Labyrinth’s Gate.

Located in the lower reaches of the Steppes of Kala bordering Mierg from the Wildlands sits a black gate. It formation changes as the day does. During the morning, it appears as a monolithic twin door of arched black stone. As the day progresses, is shifts into a circular portal ringed in twisting black points, like some overgrown thorn bush. During the evening, it is said to be an inverted triangle that is covered in a sluggish bronze colored liquid. And finally, in the dead of the night, it is a yawning crack in the hillside, so dark and black that it seems no light can escape it.

The Labyrinth’s Gate is an old structure, but one created by the hands of mankind. During the early days of the Age of Wonder, after the formation of the Citadel, a quad of sorcerers gathered together and decided to pool their power to create a thing of wonder. They wanted a place that could transport them to anywhere in Valtyr that they wished to go. Using powerful spells and ancient rituals taught to them by their draconic patrons, they sorcerers managed to create the Labyrinth’s Gate. At the time, the gate was located on the island of Nilea. Quick to test their creation, the sorcerers did in deed find out that they had succeeded in creating a place that connected all space in one location.

What they did not prepare for was the treachery that would befall the group. Two of the sorcerers plotted against their brothers and sought to steal the gate’s secret for themselves. In an act of treason, the two usurpers brutally killed the their comrades. When the dark deed was done, one turned then upon the other until both were killed from the magic employed that day. The tragedy was that all fell who knew the gate’s secrets and without the sorcerers’ collective magics to bind it, the gate began to shift. No longer was it simply a single point that connected all space together, allowing travel to any place in Valtyr, but it became more. The magic within it warped and changed allowing travel to other places beyond the world’s boundary. And that was not all. The gate gained the power to transport those who entered it to different points in time as well. The magic became unstable and in a great storm of raw Voss the gate disappeared from Nilea, only to reappear at its present location. The Citadel is not quite sure why the Labyrinth’s Gate remains in the Wildlands; perhaps it is the place’s attenuation to great flows of Voss that helps to bind it there.

These days, the Labyrinth’s Gate is both a curiosity and a fear. Any many enter it, but few (if any) know how to navigate its twisting paths of magic to arrive when and where they desire. Most who enter never come back out again. Those that do are sometimes stricken mad by what they have seen. But some have found a way to travel the labyrinthine passageways of the gate and claim to have seen wonders and gained riches people can only dream about.

The Hundred Men

2010-02-05T13:10:00.000-08:00

In the current era, not many organizations hold as much respect as the wandering group of knights and warriors known as the Hundred Men. Officially created in the Age of Sorrows, at the tail end of the Great War, the Hundred Men stand for the tenets that the Storm Knights abandoned in their quest for ultimate power: peace, justice and the protection of those who need it.

The origins of the Hundred Men began in the birthplace of mankind, the prosperous nation of Syr. An older knight named Gannon Coldriver, in service to the Syrian Riverlords in the south, had grown tired of the politics and bickering amongst the nobles of his district. Gannon had grown up from a poor family on the outskirts of Sorin. He had been taught the value of community and aiding his fellow man by his father when he was just a child. As many children do, he admired the Riverlord Knights growing up and when the time was right he joined the order. But all was not as he had dreamed about and throughout his thirty years of service he watched as politics replaced ethical codes.

The various counts, barons and dukes were constantly vying for power, using their position and money to influence the king at court and send the Riverlords to whatever duty served the interests’ best. While the nobles’ intentions still created good for the people they protected, their politicking often left areas of the country unprotected in a time where vigilance was paramount. To Gannon, the Syrian elite seemed to care more for their lands and their popularity at their keeps and castles, than they did the welfare of the people as a whole.

Finally tired of it all, Gannon decided to resign from his post and take up his own banner to help Syr in a different way. He elected to become a free-roaming mercenary, but instead of working for coin or title, he dedicated his service to those in need most. Gannon was a respected member of the Riverlords. He had won several accommodations during his many years of service. When he stepped down, a ripple hit the Riverlords, and some of those who called him friend started to follow in his stead. Gannon tried to dissuade them, for fear of the knighthood’s ranks been depleted too greatly, but in the end ninety-nine other men refused to listen to his pleas. They too had grown tired of the aristocracy’s attempt to use the military for their own ends, rather than the nation’s benefit. Together, one hundred men left the Riverlords and set off to do what their king could not seem to: shore up the weakness in nation’s defenses by aiding its common man and teaching them the principles of justice by action.

Word of this group started to spread like wildfire as the Age of Sorrows was coming to a close. Others joined the “hundred men” in the quest to help restore what had been lost by the greedy Storm Knights. As the group grew in size, they began to spread out, relying on monthly meetings in secret locations and traveling messengers to help keep the budding knighthood well connected to its more distant members. Cells of the group appeared as far south as Mierg and Corval and even penetrated the rocky barrier of the Dantroth Peaks to reach the refugees in what would one day become Rynell. They were even instrumental in assisting the Brotherhood in destroying Geldain Ramuk’s Gray Army at the end of the War. And everywhere they went, the words of their deeds preceded them.

Today, the Hundred Men is quite a bit larger than it started, but it maintains the name as a reminder to the group’s humble beginnings. It was the people that first began calling them thus; the same people they swore to protect referred to them as “true knights” and “saviors”. As a result, the organization honors those it serves by bearing the title the people have given them with humble pride. The Hundred Men are not a secretive organization, but they also do not promote their presence openly or allow any within their ranks to claim fame or stature as a result of serving the group. Such acts, they believe, are the reason for the downfall of the Storm Knights and they will not see this mistake repeated once more. Therefore, the Hundred Men tend to spread word of their presence to those in the know with signature marks on posters, walls and through simple catch phrases with signature responses. It is even said that they possess a hand signal that can be used to mark members of the knighthood.

Those that serve the knighthood and stray from their practices (whether that be by claiming fame in the name of the Hundred Men or by using their position to exploit others’ goodwill) are stricken from their ranks and marked on the back of their left hand with a sideways H. Such a practice lets all that see the shunned know that he/she is no longer in favor with the Hundred Men, and in fact, may soon be considered an enemy. Given the people’s love of the knighthood, such individuals often find more harassment from shop owners and common folk than they do the knights themselves.

The Hundred Men are most active in areas where corruption, tyranny and exploitation of the common man can be found. They maintain a sizeable presence in Rynell and Mierg’s inner cities and towns. To a lesser extent, members of the knighthood can be found in the other nations of the world, including T’zarak where they are presently trying to establish a treaty of support with the current Fahir.

While is has been centuries since Gannon Coldriver first took the brave step to leave the Riverlords and try and make a difference for his fellow man, the spirit of his courage and bravery lives on in the Men, Elves, Dwarves and Cerenoth who, these days, continue his stride towards a better tomorrow by first tackling the problems of today.

Explore a world beyond the borders of reality. Get your copy of Valtyr Chronicles today and find out just how many other groups, sites and mysteries await you inside.

Errata

2010-02-05T08:29:00.000-08:00

Well what gaming book wouldn’t be complete without the Errata section? I noticed two small errors in print that I will clarify here:

1. Players that choose to specialize in Battle at character creation should be able to spend 1 VP to add +2 points of damage to a successful Battle attack instead of +1.

2. The Core spell Faerie Dust’s Hit Effect should affect the targets for the entire scene instead of just 1 round; however, the targets are allowed to make a Spirit skill check (or half their Resistance stat for NPCs, rounded down) (SR 2) each round to see if they wake up. No change to the Miss Effect text.

That’s it. Enjoy, and if you still don’t have your copy of Valtyr Chronicles, well then…what are you waiting for…pick it up today and help support my efforts to keep this game alive and strong in the RPG community.

Screeching Sloth-Rat

2010-02-04T16:02:00.000-08:00

There are many reasons to beware the tangled depths of the Nivenesh Jungle in Valtyr. Be it the forest drakes that prowl the ground floor, the giant bloodthorn serpents that cling to the upper branches of the vine-choked trees, or the swarms of blighter wasps that nest in the shallows of the Whitetail River, Nivenesh is surely full of its fair share of dangers. Dozens of dangerous fauna (and flora) exist in the jungle’s green canopy. One such danger is the screeching sloth-rat.

Somewhat of a curious creature, the screeching sloth-rat is tree dwelling mammal that appears as a cross between a three-toed sloth and a giant wharf rat. Its matted brown fur can have tinges of red or black mixed within it. Its head resembles a rodent and it even has a vestigial tail. It travels on all fours and has four, three-toed paws, the fore of which possess incredible strength, enough to crush a man’s skull. They measure up to 2.5 feet in length and can weigh as much as 15 pounds. Screeching sloth-rats tend to live in communities of several dozen, thereby increasing their chances of a successful catch when they decide it is time to eat.

Where the creature gets its name is from its peculiar form of attack. The screeching sloth-rat is a notoriously lazy beast that prefers to sit about in treetops and sleep most of the day. However, at night they become active and possess excellent night vision. Screeching sloth-rats will lie in wait for hours watching for prey to pass below their branches. When a target does, the screeching sloth-rat will literally drop from the air, emitting a high pitched screeching sound as it does. Such a sudden burst of noise (coming from multiple beasts) usually renders the target helpless momentarily, buying them the second or two they need to land squarely upon their prey. Once on a target, they latch on and literally crush the creature to death with their vice like grips.

Screeching sloth-rats are thankfully indigenous only to the Nivenesh in Mierg and fairly easy to avoid if one knows the secret: a liberal coating of anoxa oil harvested from the self-named plant. The oil produces a smell that screeching sloth-rats abhor. Also, once they have dropped, they become quite vulnerable to other predators, as the screeching sloth-rat is clumsy in its ground movements. All in all, they are a bizarre creature you could go your entire adventuring life never encountering and be none the worse for wear.

Screeching Sloth-Rat……(level 1)
Battle: 6
Damage: 1D6+2
Evasion: 2
Resistance: 1
Health: 12

Passive Powers:
Screech: when a screeching sloth-rat drops on a target to attack, the target must make a Cunning skill check (SR 2) to avoid being helpless for the next round.

Active Powers:
None

Moruk's Charm

2010-02-03T22:56:00.000-08:00

Not every story in Valtyr Chronciles involves a reluctant hero embarking a quest to save his homeland from disaster, or the discovery of ancient magic, or even the rescue of a damsel in distress. Some stories are just about normal people who end up doing unusual things by accident. The story of Moruk is one such tale.

In the present Age – the Age of Trials as many call it – Moruk was a cerenoth in service to a human sorcerer named Talos Lindergaard, whom he owed a debt for saving his life. The cerenoth had been involved in a fight with an elder chimera just outside of the town of Jarras in Rynell when the creature had delivered a near fatal wound. It was all Moruk could do fend the great beast off, when out of nowhere great surges of lightning struck out from the air and killed the chimera instantly. Moruk looked back into the smug face of an approaching older man in brown robes. His pride wounded, Moruk was infuriated with the meddling sorcerer, who had stolen his glorious death by intervening. Talos was at first overcome with shock at the Cerenoth’s agitation, but quickly dismissed the raging Moruk as “more than half mad, and much too concerned with his own death to make any sense.”

That would have been the end of it, but Moruk knew that he could not allow his pride to suffer further indignation. Following the age-old Cerenoth adage “a scale for a scale”, he pledged his life to the sorcerer until such time that he could repay his debt and save Talos’s life in turn. Being a shrewd man, Talos saw great promise in this and agreed to Moruk’s proposition. He asked Moruk to accompany him to the whispering town of Myzzen where he sought out fellow “comrades” he needed to speak with. Moruk was not too happy about a trek that far west, for the route would take nearly a week of travel through some inhospitable terrain. But he had promised the sorcerer and the word of a Cerenoth is always something of value.

For days they traveled over broken plains, across rocky fields and through small copses of unnamed woods until finally they reached the main coastal road and turned south to Myzzen. All the while Moruk endured the lectures and self-important speeches that Talos prattled on and on about as they neared their destination. There did not seem to be a rodent, bird, plant, or rock that Talos was not an expert on. Time crawled and Moruk wished only to see a battle unfold so that he could fulfill his promise and leave the talkative human to his own company. But, alas, not a single threat (other than boredom) assaulted the two as they went about their way.

When they finally reached the walls of Myzzen, Talos bid Moruk to stay outside a two-story herbalist shop while he conducted his “business”. The sorcerer entered and was gone a long time before finally returning once more. He seemed pleased with whatever had transpired and he made his way to another stop, a local sorcerer’s shop, where he had “friends that could lend him what he needed.” Sighing heavily, Moruk continued on, but did not have to travel far before they arrived at the place.

This time Talos asked Moruk to enter with him and make a show of being his bodyguard. Moruk was about to refuse, but Talos explained that inside was a danger greater than most. Moruk was curious and hoped for a way to free himself of his debt. He agreed and the two entered the cluttered shop.

Inside, bottles, beakers and vials of dust sat in shelves filled with strange tools and books. A spicy odor lingered on the air and Talos moved quickly towards a large, fat man behind a counter with rimmed glasses and several piercings in his ears and nose. Not seeing any sign of danger, Moruk felt betrayed by Talos’s lie and began to wander about the shop. The two men were deep in conversation over a bag of gems that Talos had withdrawn from his robes and did not notice it when the Cerenoth accidentally knocked a large beaker filled with a bronze sludge into a case with a jeweled beetle necklace and a row of fine yellow powder. Moruk tried to stop the beaker from spilling but he wasn’t fast enough. The container hit the dust and beetle charm with a solid crash and the liquid spilled everywhere.

The two men had enough time to look up in surprise as a cloud of gas started to bubble and grow from the mixture of dust and sludge. A great clicking noise issued from the cloud and Moruk backed away hastily, grabbing his large bladed-axe he kept close at hand.

From out of the cloud sprang a giant replica of the beetle, except that it was covered in a shifting bronze texture that resembled treated glass. The beetle sprang out and Moruk dodged to the side, striking out with his axe. If the creature felt the blow, it didn’t register it. Instead it headed straight for the two men at the counter.

Thinking fast Talos lashed out with a spell that sent a dizzying series of electrical bolts spinning into the animated beetle, but it only seemed to aggravate the creature further. The beetle grabbed the sorcerer by the leg and flung him bodily into a series of bookshelves. Moruk was quick to drag the man free from the creature’s next attack and this time delivered a crushing blow to the beast’s head. With a whimper and a sudden tick, tick, tick, the creature shrunk impossibly small and fell to the ground as a lifeless bronze beetle of normal size.

Aghast at the damage, the owner shooed Moruk and Talos out and threatened to call the guards if they did not leave immediately. In addition, he savagely kicked the beetle at Moruk, which spun up into the air and landed in the cobble-stoned outside the shop. Talos hurried away, calling after Moruk to follow him, lest the guards come and “truly make this day even worse.” Moruk only smiled, for he had done as he had promised and no longer was bound to aid the talkative sorcerer. The beetle would surely have killed him if Moruk had not intervened. At least, that’s what the Cerenoth told himself and who knew…it might have even been true. Bending down, he grasped the bronze beetle and put it in his pack. Not really caring if there was more surprise to be found, Moruk could think of only one thing: the beetle had saved him from his debt and he was free once more.

Moruk left Talos sputtering in anger and watched as the sorcerer dashed down a street and vanish around a bend. Fingering the beetle, Moruk threaded it through a piece of leather and placed it around him neck, calling it his “good luck charm” from sorcerers everywhere. Then he turned and was gone, only to show up years later with quite a few more “beetle charms”. He had found he possessed the talent to wield alchemy and put those gifts to good use, manufacturing more of his “good luck charms” for those with the funds to pay for them. These days it seems everyone in Rynell has either owned one of Moruk’s famous charms or at least knew someone who had.

Moruk’s Charm
Type: Alchemical amulet

Description: bronze beetle charm for a necklace with the letter M inscribed on the back

Powers: grants its wearer +3 dice to Cunning Fate and can avoid one Disaster per game

Special Cerneoth Power: if the wearer is a Cerneoth, the charm can also animate into a larger version of itself once per week upon speaking the command word “ezkara”, which means “freedom” in Draconic. The beetle has the following stats and persists until destroyed or 3 rounds go by, whichever comes first:

Battle: 7
Damage: 1D6
Evasion: 3 (SR 2)
Resistance: 4 (SR 4)
Health: 20

Passive Powers:
Void Voss: if a spell has a Miss Effect, ignore it when cast on Moruk’s Beetle

Fyron's Sites of Interest

2010-02-03T17:54:00.000-08:00

The northern forested lands of Fyron are filled with frost, snow and cold nights all year round. Even as the temperature begins to climb above freezing in the harsh winters to the warmth of summer days, winter never leaves the lands. Many speculate as to why, but the truth is due to a tear between the boundary that separates Valtyr from an otherworldly realm of constant snow, ice and hoar frost. A traveler to the lush evergreen forests and ice harbors of this mystical land will often be amazed at how the air feels like summer but the ground is still swathed in white, as if new snow had just fallen moments before.

To the industrious and fiercely proud Fyronese that call this land home, there is nothing more important than honoring their history and proving themselves worthy before the eyes of their comrades and ancestors. Fyron is a fierce landscape, filled with elemental creatures, savage weather and dangerous travel for those not used to its temperament. But to the Fyronese, it is a gift – a wonder – that offers up rich resources, solid borders and a prosperous life filled with hard work and hard play.

Unlike many other nations on the continent of Amarel, Fyron does not possess a single one of the Tayrin (ta-RIN), the places of mystery that seem to defy explanation amongst the intelligent races of the world. Nor does it have any ruins of major importance, at least none that have been uncovered so far. Fyron did not play too large a role in the Great War and although battles have been fought in the frozen northlands before, none have left major scars upon the lands. Perhaps it is a blessing that the snow covers all that has happened before - a way to forget the past and start fresh.

This is not to say that Fyron does not have notable sites of interest; far from it. In fact, there are three areas of note that I will detail below, each adding to the wonder and danger that makes up the icy northlands. And if you haven't yet ordered your copy of Valtyr Chronicles, grab it today and see for yourself just how many other spectacular areas there are to explore.

Llocna’s Tor:
An isolated pinnacle of towering striated white and blue rock, Llocna’s Tor is a major landmark and a notable moment in history for the Fyronese. The story goes that in the year 2173 a Field Marshal within the Silver Lancers (the national knighthood of Fyron) named Faerend Gilles discovered a fleet of Storm Knight scouting ships off Starcap Bay. Fearing that the enemy might be looking for a suitable location to dock their larger war fleet to the south, he signaled his men to launch a surprise attack.

The attack was successful and the Storm Knight ships were damaged beyond repair. The prisoners that survived were transferred to the budding village of Bend until a decision could be made as to their fate. While surveying the confiscated goods, Faerend found orders that detailed the Storm Knight’s plan: they were indeed looking for something, but it was not a staging point for their war in the north. Instead, they sought out a lonely peak of rock with blue and white striations near Starcap Bay. There, they hoped to find an item of great magical power that General T’rang wished to use to turn the tide of the war even more in his favor.

Faerend reported his findings to his superiors and a thorough interrogation of the prisoners revealed that the item, known as the Servian Seal, was believed to bestow amazing powers of command on the wearer. If Eldric T’rang were to get such an item, the forces that opposed his mad campaign would surely perish. Knowing the general would send more ships once these did not arrive, the people of Fyron decided to act and find the lost artifact for themselves. A Elven sorceress by the name of Llocna of House Ryzal accompanied the party, for the item was to be entrusted to her care and delivered back to the Tower Argetur in Fyron for further study.

The expedition made the arduous climb up the sheet sides of the tor. Strong winds and blizzards rained down on the party for fifteen long days. Finally, the party reached the summit of the tor and followed the instructions they had found, locating a cave that led within the giant spire of rock. Now they had to descend, but as they did the air grew warmer and snatches of ethereal singing could be heard in the darkness of the mountain’s belly.

They did not travel long before they came to a chamber of rough rock with tendrils of orange and white light flaring from strange crystals growing from the chamber’s floor, walls and ceiling. In the center of the chamber was a ruined, single story house. The party approached the ramshackle building, amazed by what they were seeing. Inside, they found the Servian Seal, placed on a pillow of crushed gold and red threaded runes. Llocna determined the object to be unaffected by any magic she knew and proceeded to take it. However, once it was removed from the pillow, the walls began to shake and light flared outside with such intensity that it blinded those that had been left outside on guard.

A great earthquake hit the tor and the expedition tried to escape. Several of the beams of light began to snake about, as if they had a life of their own, and attacked those closest. The party rushed to ascend and escape, but Llocna knew that the attempt would fail; whatever they faced now was the cause of a power beyond her understanding…perhaps beyond all of the Citadel’s ken as well. In a last ditch effort to save as many of her kinsmen as she could, she summoned her power and teleported those in the party to safety, just as the chamber folded in upon itself, crushing the life from her and locking the Servian Seal away in a tumult of rock.

Those that survived returned to their homes and spoke of the sacrifice that the sorceress gave to save their own lives. The Silver Lancers and the members of the Citadel sorcerers of Tower Argetur both honored her passing with a grand wake, which was and still is the way of the Fyronese. They began calling the spire of rock Llocna’s Tor in her honor and the name has stuck for generations. It is often used as a symbol of camaraderie and glory, even at the price of death – something the Fyronese can relate to in a land filled with difficult challenges.

Anul Harbor:
Situated off the eastern edge of Fyron’s icy coastline lies the busy and exotic port town of Anul’s Harbor. Named after a young merchant’s daughter, who later went on to become a musician within the king’s court in Kiril, Anul’s Harbor offers travelers sailing to Fyron a safe place to dock. Aside from this obvious advantage (as overland routes into the northlands can be quite deadly just given the extreme cold at nights), the port town also offers a very large and active bazaar whereby many goods trade hands daily. The fine ice crystalline wares forged within the foothills of the Cloudspire Peaks are sold in wide abundance here, more so than anywhere else in the world. Exotic spices and specialty weapons enchanted by members of the Citadel can also fetch a fine price here. But there is even more to this town of several thousand souls than crowded seaside merchant stalls and warm ale to chase away the chill from travel – the presence of the Bân-fâth (BAAN-faath).

Created during the Age of Myths, the Bân-fâth is a being of radiant beauty and power. It appears as a vaguely feminine humanoid with silvery skin, tendrils of light for hair and a shimmering gown filled with living eyes that see into the many dimensions of Time. The Bân-fâth found its way to the bustling port town more than a century ago and, for reasons no one knows, chooses to stay. Its voice has a lilting tone and it seems to possess the ability to speak any language that is needed. If there is more than just one in the world, it is a mystery to all, for no other has ever been sighted.

For decades now, the Bân-fâth has gifted those that come and paid tribute to it visions of their future. But these visions allow for ways to turn the tide of Fate and create the destiny one seeks. Such information does not come without a price as all who seek out the Bân-fâth must adhere to a powerful geas, compelling them to perform some service for the creature first, before their questions are answered. Still, the allure of a self-created destiny is a great draw, and many flock to Anul’s Harbor in search of their wildest dreams. How many actually find it is another matter entirely.

Dwarven Gate of Eszen-Dar:
In the southern stretch of the Cloudspire Peaks, just before the Enaleth hills break the great mountain’s spine, sits the massive frost-covered gates of Eszen-Dar. One of only six entrances into the subterranean realm of the Dwarves, the gates are carved to resemble two giant Dwarven guards holding aloft great shields, as if to protect those that travel beyond them.

Perhaps the second most used Dwarven Gate (the first being accorded to the gate of Hammen-Dun in Rynell), Eszen-Dar (which translated roughly to “the white sentinel”) offers access to the crystalline forges of Fyron’s chief natural resource, ice crystal. Mined from the southern offshoot of the Cloudspire peaks, ice crystal is a malleable but sturdy material known for its beauty and lightweight nature. It can be used to create everything from ornaments worn in a woman’s hair to blades used on the field of battle. Characterized by a light bluish-white hue, ice crystal appears in its unrefined state to be little more than colored quartz. But under the craftsmanship of the Dwarves, the material can be molded into something similar to molten steel or silver.

Eszen-Dar has stood for longer than the before first human travelers set foot in the icy north. The purpose that the gate served before the Dwarves came along is still a mystery. It stands as the only Dwarven Gate to not have been created by the bearded folk's hands and is viewed with superstitious caution from most Dwarves who are not native to the area. Still, whether by coincidence or some latent power within the gate itself, the ice crystalline wares produced by the Dwarves’ capability is arguably the best among all the crafts the race has manufactured.

The Dwarves also share a tale from the first of their kind that came upon the gate. They speak of a great battle with an unnamed creature. When the beast was defeated, it breathed out a word in a foreign tongue and the doors to the gate suddenly started opening, flooding the shadows with light. The Dwarves cowered in fear and pain from the harsh rays of the sun and all but two fled the scene, escaping into the darkness’s cool embrace. The two that did not flee were never seen from again, but after the Dwarves explored the exterior of the gate, they noticed a depiction of two Dwarven warriors carrying great shields emblazoned on the giant stone doors. As they beheld it, a feeling of peace and confidence overcame them and from that moment on, the light near the gate seemed less intense to their sensitive eyes.

The attendants of Eszen-Dar, like many of the Dwarven Gates, does not usually permit the races of the sunlit world to pass its boundary, but the labor and connection to the Dwarven community that the gate provides has helped ensure Fyron remains financially strong in the present Age.

Aetheram (A- thir-am)

2010-02-02T09:39:00.000-08:00

The aetheram (both singular and plural) are an elemental storm of wind, lightning and steam rolled into a serpentine shape. They possess four great wings of lightning and a cloud-like sail fin upon their backs. Adorning their ephemeral body are bits of engraved stone that cover large sections of their vaporous mass. Seeing one of the aetheram is looking at a statue of a great, winged snake - some twenty feet long – that has broken free of its stony casing and pulses with cyclonic steam inside. Lightning flashes within its eyes and sharpened bits of stone line its reptilian jaws.

The aetheram possess no legs or hands and are not known to ever cease flight. In fact, the only time they grow still is in death. Not much is known about where the aetheram first came from. Some speculate they are one of the mad results of the experiments at the Tower Xanith during the end of the Age of Wonders. Others believe they come from beyond the world’s border, from a realm of constant storms and floating kingdoms. There is also an old proverb that speaks of the aetheram as servants for a being known as the Lord of Aeshir. Whatever the truth, the aetheram are a rare and dangerous site to behold.

When spotted they usually appear near volcanoes, tall mountain peaks, or trapped within the confines of magical wards where they serve as guards. The aetheram are intelligent (judging from their combat tactics and ability to learn from their environment) but if they possess their own language or culture, it has not been uncovered so far.

Alchemists and sorcerers sometimes seek out rumors of slain aetheram, for it is said that when they die they explode, causing the area around them to fall under a scalding shower of superheated steam and electricity. The resulting explosion leaves behind minute crystals that are said to have benefit in creating a dust that allows one to mimic their lightning and steam-based attacks by coating weapons with the fine powder. The crystals have also been combined with certain potions to create tonics allowing the user to fly for short periods as well.

Aetheram……(level 4)
Battle: 11
Damage: 2D6
Evasion: 6 (SR 1)
Resistance: 7 (SR 2)
Health: 42

Passive Powers:
Ethereal: can’t be hit except by spells or magic weapons

Immune: disease, fire and lightning attacks, poison, stun

Active Powers:
Steam Pocket: can unleash a blast of super-heated steam that causes 3D6 damage on up to 3 close targets (Agility (SR 3) halves damage, rounded down)

Wing Shock: can dive down and sweep their wings through a target, causing 1D6+3 lightning damage and stunning them for the next round (Agility (SR 3) halves damage, rounded down, and avoids stun)

Mists & Shadows - Chapter 1

2010-02-01T23:28:00.000-08:00

Fair warning, entries marked with the label Session can be much longer than normal. These chronicle an actual gaming session from my group. If you are interested in following and don't mind a good read, check out the Session link on the right hand bar. Each session will be labeled with a Chapter. Now...on to the campaign entitled Mists & Shadows.

Rain fell in a light, gray mist over the sleepy village of Cedar’s Rest. Fog clung to the surrounding meadows and glens of the lush landscape. All was quiet as the morning turned to early afternoon and the rain abated under the warmth of a pale sun.

From the porch of the local tavern an elf, with eyes like dark steel, sipped mulled wine and watched the afternoon wind pull at the pennants of the town’s wooden walls. All around him, men, women and children went about their chores. Snatches of song carried on the chill air and carts full of tools for a day spent working in the fields trundled along muddy roads. Involuntarily, the elf pulled his rich red robes tighter about his slight frame and took another drink. The spice of the mulled wine warmed his insides and dispelled a little of the grimace from his face.

“Stuck,” he said to himself. “Not even a week out and already I’m stuck.” He had hardly left the forested borders of T’lranen, his homeland, when foul weather had forced his ship to dock and detoured him onto an overland route through Corval, the land of fog and green meadows. Now, less than a week after he set out, he was stranded with reports that the roads further east were barricaded for some reason.

“Need anything else Master Malanorian?” A young woman, barely thirteen summers old, with wispy brown hair and a handful of freckles dancing over her cheeks poked her head out at the elf. Malanorian smiled casually and waved her off. The girl smiled back before ducking inside to tend to the other patrons.

A new sound greeted the elf’s ears. Several new wagons could be heard making their way towards the village’s center near the tavern. Men were shouting, calling out for healers and the town militia. Malanorian sat up slightly and watched as a line of men appeared from between the one-story wooden homes and businesses of Cedar’s Rest. They were not dressed like the patrons of this place and his eyes narrowed for a moment.

A young man with a bandage on his left hand and a bloodstained shirt waved some of the wagons to a stop by a local herbalist shop. Malanorian eyes focused on the heap of bodies that were piled within the cart. Several of them groaned and two tried to rise before other men appeared and told them to be still.

“What in the name of the Towers is going on?” Malanorian’s voice issued like a whispered secret on the wind.

Near the front of the group he spied an older human, perhaps in his fiftieth year, grizzled and lean as if he had just climbed out of a prison cell. A scar traced an angry gash across the man’s nose and his hair was short, matching the unshaven stubble on his chin. Standing next to him was another man, this one larger and full of muscle. His red hair and beard marked him as one of the northern men from beyond the great Wildlands, in the frost covered nation of Fyron. The warrior’s mien bristled with danger, as swords, daggers and axes cling to him everywhere the elf looked.

“Trouble,” said Malanorian and he reached inside himself to pull upon the Voss, the essence of all magic. Quickly the power surged within him, singing of the glory that would be found when it was unleashed, when his spell tumbled from his spirit and became a thing of power unto itself.

“Guards! Guards!” One of the men from the procession called out, waving his hands wildly in the air. Several villagers had gathered to watch, some hiding behind windows in their homes, others standing in the streets and alleyways with their mouths agape.
Several men bearing the symbols of great cedar trees on their leather armor rushed up to meet the procession.

“What is the meaning of this?” called out one of the the guards. “What has happened?”

“The baron’s men…they are after us,” answered the man with the bandaged hand. “We escaped from Fort Shyall. They will be here any minute. You must hurry!”

Fear passed over the guards’ faces as they raced to sound the alarm bells. Malanorian stood in one smooth motion. The baron’s men are chasing these people? Shouldn’t that make them fugitives? But the way village guards were reacting, it would seem the baron was not a popular man.

The sounds of horses’ hooves pounding the ground were audible in the distance. To the east, dozens of silhouettes could be seen as the mist began to once again curtain the land in moisture. A scream erupted from somewhere far off, followed by cries, and then more screams…this time closer.

The line of men who entered Cedar’s Rest stooped to take up swords, axes and clubs, whatever they could find, and began to stand shoulder to shoulder with the guards of Cedar’s Rest. Malanorian noticed the big Fyronese warrior smile and shout something playful to the older man with the scar. The older veteran grabbed up a sword and began to move slowly, with a noticeable limp, his face a mask of fierce determination.

A rider emerged frist from the mist, followed by a rush of men, all bearing the symbol of a black bear’s head set on a red diamond field. These new men took up the fight to any man, woman or child that stood in their way. They smashed windows, broke down doors, and begin to systematically engage the villagers in combat. Nearby a woman screamed as three guards barreled into her home. Two of the men spied Malanorian and moved to intercept him as the elf made his way to the woman’s aid.

Stuck, he thought to himself as the fine rain covered him in shimmering drops of dew.

*******

Sevenwinters moved with practiced skill as he dodged the horseman’s flail. Although his left leg was stiff from the cold and the limp he carried from old war wounds, he was able to evade the younger man’s attack. A swift stab from below and a smack of his blade on the man’s horse was enough to unsettle his assailant. Although the warrior still clung to his mount, the unorthodox tactics the older man employed took him aback.

The rain created a curtain of slick mud and gray haze as the man called Sevenwinters evaded another blow. This time he was not quick enough though and the horseman whipped the flail back, catching him soundly on the shoulder. A bright blossom of pain erupted in Sevenwinters’s mind. For a moment he reeled, but only a moment. Then the seven long years of imprisonment at the hands of the baron of these lands flooded his memory. The constant cries at night from the malnourished. The beatings. The cold cell. The nightmare-filled nights. The deaf ears that surrounded an innocent man who was falsely imprisoned for no wrong-doing. All of it came flooding back in that instant.

Without a word, he ducked the horseman’s next attack and lashed out with a backhanded strike at the warrior’s exposed arm. The man cried out in pain and the flail fell from his hand as a vicious wound traced a crimson path up his arm. The horseman fell and Sevenwinters smacked the rump of the horse, sending it galloping away.

Toe to toe, they battled. Ducking and feinting, slashing and thrusting, the two combatants played out their deadly dance. In the background Sevenwinters caught glimpses of his new traveling companion, Hjorvarth, battling another two of the baron’s men. If it had not been for the northerner, he would still be sitting in a cell within the confines of Fort Shyall. As it was, Hjorvarth proved to be a godsend. Sevenwinters mentally checked himself to remember to thank the big man again, after he finished with these savage dogs.

Nearby a rebel that fought with Sevenwinters fell under the swords of his attackers. A woman cried out and was beaten back as she tried to run to her husband. Sevenwinters had enough of his dance and moved in for the kill. With expert timing, he led his attacker in to a false sense of confidence and then soundly defeated him, his sword plunging deep within the man’s ribcage. He moved to remove the blade but it caught on a piece of bone. Raising his bad leg, he placed his muddy boot on the man’s chest and heaved the sword free, stumbling backwards slightly as he regained his balance.

Moving as quickly as he could manage, he joined the other rebels in their fight without a second look back.

*******

“That was delicious Simon. You truly do know how to prepare a feast fit for a king.” Arim smiled as he picked the remaining bits of roasted duck from between his teeth with a wooden toothpick. Sitting back, he kicked up his feet and tossed a stray lock of sandy blonde hair aside as his green eyes took in the cup of ale in his hand. It had only been a week ago he had been traveling along the forgotten coast of the southern reaches of Corval, looking for hidden treasure, lost artifacts, old jewels…the usual. The cold, rainy nights and foggy days were far from good company, and he had found nearly nothing in his travels. Well, almost nothing. The stories of Fortune’s Point being haunted were certainly true. A shiver danced up his spine and he chased away the fearful memory with a long pull from his cup.

Sitting across from him was an old childhood friend named Simon Fallweather. Tall and somewhat lanky, Simon had long black hair and eyes the color of the sea on a summer’s day. His usual easy smile and affable manner were clouded behind his recent despair. Arim cast his eyes downward as Simon moved to join him at the table. Who could blame the man, thought Arim as he watched his friend put up a good show. His wife had recently been taken from their home on a raid not more than three weeks prior. His eight year old son had been struck down by some bastard guard in the baron’s service when he tried to stop the men from taking his “mommy”. Suddenly the duck in Arim’s belly went sour and he coughed as he shifted in his seat.

“Well I am glad you liked it my friend,” said Simon, wiping his hands on his shirt. “It’s a nice surprise to find you in Cedar’s Rest. It isn’t often we…I mean I…get guests.”

Arim breathed out slowly. He didn’t much want to get involved, but he couldn’t watch his friend suffer like this.

“She’ll come back Simon. We’ll find a way.” His hand reached out to comfort his friend.

“And how do I get my boy back Arim? Huh?! Tell me that!” With a sudden flare, Simon stood and walked away from the table.

“Look Simon…”

“I’m, I’m sorry Arim.” Simon’s voice quivered with anger and sadness. “I truly am. It’s just…hard.”

The shouts of men and the screams of a woman rouses the two friends from their conversation.

“What in the hells?” said Arim as he raced to the front door and flew into the streets. Around them, men wearing the badge of a black bear’s head set on a red field were everywhere. They pushed those not quick enough to get out of their way and started grabbing young men and women and subduing them.

“What’s going on?” asked Arim, turning his face to his friend. The look of horror on Simon’s face was stunning.

“It’s the baron’s men. They’ve come back.”

Arim took it all in. In the blink of an eye, he had grabbed Simon’s sleeve and hauled him out of his house. They were running before the men saw them. Racing down alleyways, they were nearly free when three of the baron’s men blocked their path. Simon shouted a warning and the men started to charge.

With a word and gesture, Arim let fly the magic within him and two of the guards sunk to the muddy ground fast asleep. The third retaliated with an axe. Arim had enough time to push his friend to safety as the axe glanced down his back.

“Run Simon!”

The two men retreated down the alley, dodging crates and stray dogs as they ran. All the while, the third guard pursued them with a vengeance. Arim turned, diving down a side passage and let loose another volley of magic, this time blue darts, which sped into the chest of their assailant. The warrior’s cry of pain only roused his anger more and soon the chase was on again in earnest.

The alleyway emptied into a large square. Fortune found them both as Simon and Arim neared a three-story guardhouse tower. Guards and villagers, assembled with a ragtag group of fighters to defend against six of the baron’s men, were already locked in a heated battle.

“Make a run for the tower,” shouted Arim. “We need to find cover!”

Simon nodded and ran, forcing his body to respond faster. Into the fray they dove, weaving between the press of bodies, until at last they stood within the guardhouse walls. The shouts of battle rang in their ears and each man gave unto the fight what he could. Arim let loose his magic, sending more of their attackers into a magical slumber. Following that, he sped his magical darts like shooting stars into the attacker’s midst. As the battle continued, both the baron’s men and the village guards fell until there remained only two of the baron’s men left.

“Inside the tower, quick!” shouted Arim as he shoved Simon and himself behind the stout, wooden doors and threw down the heavy beam. They were safe, for the moment.

*******

The spring air was fierce in Hjorvarth’s lungs as he strode into the village of Cedar’s Rest. Dew clung to his full beard and steam puffed from his nose as he carried the heavy bundle of supplies and extra weapons for the rebels he traveled with. Only a month ago he was a stranger in these parts, seeking signs of his past amidst the Kingdom of Mists known as Corval. Now, however, he had a new purpose…assisting in the rebellion against a baron turned tyrant from the port city of Arnos. This baron, called the Red Claw by the villagers and townsfolk he has met, was savage and bloodthirsty, giving way to acts of brutality in his iron rule over his lands. It did not take much for Hjorvarth, a born hunter and warrior from the frozen north, to sign up with the rebels and even less time to make friends…like the grizzled old man that traveled by his side and who went by the name of Sevenwinters.

When he had pulled Sevenwinters from the prisons of Fort Shyall, he had thought him weak. But in the fight to flee the fort and the ensuing battle he now found himself in, he can see that he was wrong. The man fought like a bear and kicked like a mule…reminded him of his father back home.

With a grunt and a heave, he ducked a swing of an axe meant for his head and launched his attacker in a somersault over his own head. With a crash, one of the baron’s men landed on his back. Seconds later Hjorvarth’s own blade finished the job, skewering the man through his belly. With a jerk of his sword arm, he continued the attack against a new man and felled the warrior as well, just as he watched Sevenwinters disembowel his own attacker.

Then a sudden blast of heat filled the air. Hjorvarth turned and spied a young man…no, elf…in red robes flinging bolts of fire into another of the baron’s men. He watched as a storm of black fog gathered over the elf’s head and then came rushing down, folding upon the elf’s arms and shooting out into tiny black globes that struck another of the baron’s men repeatedly. A woman in a nearby house held her beaten and bruised face and grasped for a piece of wood that has come free from her porch in the fighting. She stared with hatred at the man fighting the elf and gripped the wood with murder in her eyes.

Seeing the elf was still outnumbered as another of the baron’s men joined the fray, Hjorvarth rushed to his aid, slicing into one of the men’s backs just as the elf was hit by his attacker’s sword. Immediately the black fog gathered over the elf again and the woman struck out at man, hitting him on the back with her club. Hate filled the warrior’s eyes and he moved to strike the woman, but the move would be his last. With a word, the elf sent more black globes, tiny skulls in fact, racing into the man’s chest and he fell over dead before he even hit the ground.

Hjorvarth and the elf exchanged a glance as the woman slipped to the mud sobbing once more. The battle was over, at least here. With resolve, Hjorvarth sheathed his claymore and approached the elf further.

“Well met friend,” says Hjorvarth in fluent Elvish. He noticed the elf raise one delicate eyebrow in acknowledgment of his efforts.

“Indeed,” answered the elf. “Many thanks for your aid in the battle.”

Hjorvarth shrugged and simply pointed the way to the sound of more fighting.

“It ain’t over yet friend.”

The elf nodded once. “I am called Malanorian.”

“Hjorvarth.” The big man stretched out his hand and shook the elf’s in greeting. “Let’s get to it then.”

With a nod, Malanorian and Hjorvarth moved to continue the battle elsewhere.

*******

After a brutal battle in front of the lone guardhouse in Cedar’s Crest, the four strangers – Sevenwinters, Hjorvarth, Malanorian and Arim – were officially introduced and regrouped. Seeing that the battle has concluded, Sevenwinters made his way to the village’s temple to assist the Brotherhood monks in the healing of the wounded.

It had been several years since he had called upon his healing talents, but he knew the good monks would be in need of anyone with such skill after a day like today. Indeed, Brother Jeremy and his assistant were overjoyed at his assistance.

Sevenwinters cast his eyes about the crowded chapel and cured when he saw the dozens of wounded and dying lying about. The baron would surely pay. Once done, Sevenwinters bade the monks a good day and exited the house of healing, only to find Hjorvarth and the elf sorcerer Malanorian and traveling adventurer Arim being led by a middle aged man with dark hair and an air of command. The man stopped when he saw the grizzled veteran and called out to him by name. He introduced himself as Sergi Palthuk, Captain of the Guard in town. Apparently the regent of Cedar’s Rest wishes to speak with all of those strangers who assisted in the battle today.

Sevenwinters shot Hjorvarth a glance, but the big northerner merely shrugged as if to say, let’s see where this goes. Finally they arrived at a longhouse bearing the same symbol as the village guards. Inside, the air was warm and sweet. A woman in her late thirties with curling brown hair and a face set to business greeted them with a smile.

“I am Tess Brickworth, regent of this village. To whom do I owe my thanks for your aid on this dark day?”

Introductions followed again and Tess wasted no time in filling in those gathered with the state of affairs in Cedar’s Rest.

“For several months now, Baron Alfred Logren has led a tyrannical campaign against his people. Without mercy he has demanded unfair taxes from us, seized more than the required share of crops and cattle, and killed those whom he suspects of insurrection. Recently, a rebellion has formed and has been gaining favor with the oppressed folk of these parts. It is because of this destructive baron and his hunger for brutality that you have found themselves caught in today’s battle.”

Tess looked at all four individuals and asked them to speak to a man within the rebellion named Patrick. “You will find him in the tavern. He’s expecting you. I don’t expect you to feel obligated to helping us out any more than you already have today, but if you find it in your heart but to hear Patrick out, perhaps you will find a common cause with the rebels of this barony.”

With that, the all but Malanorian bid their farewell from the regent and headed towards the tavern to speak with this rebel. After what they had seen today, each had their own reasons for helping these people out, be it justice, excitement, or assisting a good friend.

Alone the elf inquired once more about the state of the roads heading east. Malanorian sought anyway possible to continue his quest out of these lands and seek out the black rock Tower Xanith far to the northeast in the Wildlands. Tess merely shook her head sadly and explained that while he was free to attempt it, she thought the chances of success slim, given the baron’s control over the roads.

“Besides, rumor has reached my ears that a sorceress is imprisoned in a nearby fort…Fort Gorwin I believe if my information is correct. Isn’t the Citadel obligated to help those of its order who are in such trouble? The last I checked, the laws of magic were not meant to be governed by mad barons and tyrants.”

Malanorian knew she spoke the truth. If such a member of his order was captured wrongfully, he was honor bound to assist. Saying nothing more than thanks, he exited the longhouse and wondered if he would rue the day he set foot in Cedar’s Rest. Hurrying against the growing fog and rain, he moved with speed to reunite with the others he had met that day.

To be continued...

Warden's Crest

2010-02-01T08:52:00.001-08:00

In the year 1237, a young man named Branoc Tessguard led a group of like-minded men against a tyrant in the northern part of Mierg. It was a dark and stormy night. Lightning flashed in the black sky and rain pounded the muddy ground as Tessguard and his fellows stormed the tyrant’s keep and liberated the people of the times from his iron rule. Heralded as champions once they were done, Branoc gathered his men around him and decided to dedicate his life to the pursuit of seeing justice done in the burgeoning kingdoms of men. He formed a knighthood that night and called them the Storm Knights, for it would be in dark and stormy times that mankind would need them most.

Branoc’s legacy traveled far and wide and many warriors sharing his love for peace and justice flocked to his new banner. The ranks of the new Storm Knights swelled and the banner of a rider bearing a shield with a lightning bolt on it flew proudly from castle to town walls in the south. Branoc led the Storm Knights against bandits on the highway, tyrants in the cities and the foul Primordials that prowled the edges of civilization. His knighthood were seen as defenders for the common man and served no king directly until the coronation of King Cyrus in Mierg in the year 1256, where they pledged their loyalty to the southern kingdoms of men.

During their rise to power and the years of peace that followed, they became a favorite with the common people of the world. Men could relate to their bravery. Women swooned for their heroes in shining armor. Children sang songs about their heroics and played at being a Storm Knight in the backyards and alleyways of the world. All was good, for a time.

The knights’ symbol was a rider with a shield emblazoned with a lightning bolt on it, but this was not their only great treasure. Before Tessguard’s passing he made a deal with a band of Brotherhood monks. In exchange for a service that the monks required (the return of a sacred relic that a rock Primordial horde had overrun) they would fashion Branoc, and all his knights, special armor that would aid them in their fight for the light. Branoc agreed and shortly thereafter delivered the missing relic to the Brotherhood’s care. True to their word, the monk had armor made and prayed over it, blessing it with great vitality, strength, and most of all purity of spirit.

The Storm Knights donned this new armor and called it the Warden’s Crest for the protective symbols that were etched into the leather, scale, or steel surfaces. For generations, new knights would inherit the Warden’s Crest from their fathers. When a set was lost, it was sought out at all costs. Even with this diligence, many Warden Crests were lost even before the Great War began and turned the Storm Knights from their roles as protectorates to the people.

These days the story of the Warden’s Crest has all but faded from history. Some of the descendants of the Storm Knights living in Has Esperia in Mierg still know the tale of the special suits of armor, as does the Brotherhood who fashioned them so long ago. But few possess the sacred items in this modern time of trials. Those that do keep it to themselves, hoping that one day the merit of a true knighthood will rise up again and resume what the Storm Knights were once charged with. Some believe that the new group known as the Hundred Men might be such knights. Others hold out hope for a reformed Storm Knight to rise again, like Branoc once did, and lead the group to salvation. Still others believe that there can never be another who will wear the Warden’s Crest again.

The truth remains to be seen. All that is known is that unless you are pure of spirit, selfless in thought, and righteous in action, the Warden’s Crest is nothing more than common, light armor.

Warden’s Crest
Type: Blessed armor

Description: leather, scale or steel armor with sigils and holy words inscribed on its surface

Armor Bonus: considered heavy armor (+2 to Armor SR)

Powers: +2 to Evasion, +15 to total HP, allows the use of Cunning or Fortitude Fate twice per session

Requirements: only works for those without selfishness or greed in their heart; must have Spirit 4 or greater and at least 3 powers from either the Combat Mastery or Tactician talent trees.

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Using Talents outside of combat

2010-01-31T16:02:00.000-08:00

So you’ve just survived a battle with a group of roaming Ithrak along the southern ridge of Shadowrock Pass in Rynell and your GM lets the party know that the end of the scene arrives. This usually means every player gets their Talent and Voss Points back in full. And now your players begin to heal themselves up to full using Healing Touch, creating a whole truck load of alchemical potions using Alchemist’s Fire, and dispelling the magic wards blocking their path, using Counterspell, with no thought to watching their points. This is all fine and good until you realize, as the GM, that there is no rule to govern using talents outside of battle. Do they just keep using their talent points infinitely? Is there some kind of drawback to using talents outside of battle?

Well the answer is no, there isn’t. According the rules, you can use Talent and Voss Points in combat until you run out and then they refresh in full at the end of the scene (usually when the combat is over). Outside of combat, there is nothing to regulate their use. However, if you are like me and like to always present the players with cost/benefit scenarios, then try out this optional rule.

Whenever a player wants to use one of the talent powers or spells outside of combat, let them, provided they can pay the cost. Keep track of this usage. If they run out of Talent or Voss Points, they cannot use their powers or spells again until they rest. For every hour in the game world that their character rests, they gain 1 TP or VP back. This will mean that the players will be forced to watch their expenditure of their TP and VP in between battles, lest they are forced to stop and rest somewhere often. And we all know what happens if you rest too long in short periods of time…random combat encounter. ☺

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Good gaming to all.

Mierg's Sites of Interest

2010-01-30T10:31:00.000-08:00

Mierg is a shattered kingdom, a broken land filled with danger, intrigue and perhaps even a little hope left for one day seeing a true leader that will unite the kingdom. Made up of jungles teeming with deadly wildlife, dormant volcanoes with caldera communities, high plains where highwayman and outlaws roam and an expansive swamp and moor to the south, Mierg is not the first place you’d want to travel to in Valtyr. However, for all its inhospitable terrain, the “lands of the Broken Crest” (as it is derogatorily called elsewhere in the world) are active with brilliant politicians, specialty groups selling almost any service you can find, and the fabled gates leading to the place where Lords of Shadow were banished from the world at the end of the Great War. It is a place filled with ancient history and secretive factions that still fight hidden battles against once another.

Like most other nations, Mierg boasts a few places of wonder that exist outside its busy cities and cloistered towns. Within Valtyr Chronicles, you can explore many more places like those listed below, but these are some of the more noteworthy sites within the lands of the Broken Crest.

Sunken Keep:
Half submerged deep within the Mordish Swamp in the south of Mierg lies an amazing site: a great building made of limestone and a strange green rock. The structure is covered in moss, lichen and other forms of plant-life. Five great towers sprout up from a curving wall like thorns on a vine. The building’s perimeter forms a type of rounded pentagram. In the center of the monolithic keep are several smaller buildings with domes roofs made of the same green stone, each damaged and ravaged by time. The keeps southern end dips down lowest into the swamp, actually submerging most of the lower level and lending the building its name – the Sunken Keep. Strange creatures and wildlife have formed their lairs within the abandoned keep, creating a bizarre habitat for deadly beasts.

No one is sure who built the Sunken Keep, or what its original purpose was. It was discovered sometime in the middle of the Age of Wonders, after the establishment of Mierg as a new nation by King Cyrus. Those who have visited the site say they hear half-spoken whispers and see things shifting in the corner of their eyes. Samples of the strange green rock have been gathered and studied from those brave and lucky enough to venture inside the keep and return alive. However, the rock dissolves to a greenish slime that emits a foul stench within a few days of leaving the confines of the swamp’s border. The Citadel believes the rock to have some connection to the Voss in a way they have never seen before and often hires expeditions of thrill seekers as escorts to see if they can learn more about what this could mean for magic and the world.

Most folk that know of the Sunken Keep steer far clear from both it and Mordish Swamp. If the attacks from over-sized alligators, water Primordials, and disease carrying insects aren’t enough, the rumors of groups of Ithrak and Dark Elves roaming the swamp sure are. Recently, tales of the Indigo Children (a group of such foul beings led by a demon) taking up residence in the Sunken Keep have cropped up. Strange multi-colored glows have been reported near the Sunken Keep and a blood-curling howl sometimes echoes across the swamp in the dead hours of the night. Whatever the Sunken Keep once was is still a mystery, but some are more concerned with what the keep might one day become.

Ruins of Tower Gur’rathi:
One of the greatest tragedies to befall the Citadel was the destruction of the Tower Gur’rathi in Mierg during the first days of the Great War. One a spire of dark stone with blue-whorl designs carved into its surface and two prominent minarets, Tower Gur’rathi was an early haven for those born with the gift of magic. It also served as the leading Tower of its days for transporting students to the Tower Veresth in Nilea for their final test into the ranks of sorcery. In the Age of Wonder, the High Council in the Tower Verseth administered all final tests for young apprentices. Tradition dictated that, when the time came, apprentices and their teachers would travel twice a year to Nilea to undergo this ritual. Tower Gur’rathi held sway for being the most convenient place to study prior to the test.

When the Storm Knights began their pogrom of the sorcerers, they chose Gur’rathi as their first place to attack. Thinking that if they cut the tree at its stump, they could stem the flow of magic into the world, they besieged the ill-prepared Tower Gur’rathi and laid waste to it. Hundreds died that fateful night and magic was dealt a great blow to be sure. Even Gu’rathi’s animated guardians, the golems, could not stem the tide of devastation wrought by the Storm Knights. The tower was torn down and destroyed in equal parts siege and magical wards.

These days all that remains are the foundation stones and pieces of giant rock that lay scattered about a strip of plain. If one looks closely enough, they can still see some f the faded whorl patterns in bits of the scattered rock walls that once formed the keep. Any magical treasures that might have once been buried under the explosion have all been excavated. Still, hundreds of sorcerers travel to Mierg and visit this site if for no other reason then to see a living piece of their history and pay homage to the souls that died to defend their gift.

There is a legend within the Citadel that the secrets to controlling the now free-willed golems were lost with Tower Gur’rathi. A member of the newly formed Lodge of Twilight (a group of alchemists, defected Citadel sorcerers and wayward monks) named Edrund Cole claims to have discovered a manuscript that had escaped Gur’rathi during the raid, which details part of the ritual to command the golems. Edrund is a savvy man and knows well that such a document is priceless in the right hands. If the rumors are true, the Citadel would do anything to get their hands back on that manuscript.

The Lost Outpost:
The Lost Outpost is a bit of a joke among the more militant members of Mierg. Not really an outpost at all, the structure is actually an old lighthouse that helped ships sail between the Tradesgate Bluffs and the tip of Syr’s L’lorith peninsula into Brightwater Bay. The saying was coined because the lighthouse was used as a lookout station and emergency port during the Great War. However, no great threat even came from Syr’s navy within the confines of Brightwater Bay. In fact the outpost never saw a single day of fighting, despite it being so close to rival armies. Those knights or mercenaries assigned to the lighthouse were either seen as incompetent or were being punished for some transgression against a superior. For all intents and purposes it was a dead end task and an insult to those assigned there.

Today, the Lost Outpost still stands and continues to perform its original task as the guiding light for ship captains sailing to and from the bay. What is interesting to note about this location though is that it has a series of natural caves that stretch some ways under the lighthouse itself and wind down to the seashore and into the cliff face. Within these tunnels are pockets of rooms where those who were once assigned to man the station hid stolen or valuable treasures. Few know of these caves and even fewer of the hidden riches that were left there when the tide of the War shifted. Occasionally someone will arrive at the lighthouse and disappear from the caretakers’ eyes, reappearing days later with sacks filled with bulging items. Perhaps some great secret still lies within the belly of the Lost Outpost, or perhaps it was not such a dead end assignment after all to those who knew where to look.

Citadel ranks

2010-01-27T09:29:00.000-08:00

The Citadel is the chief organization for sorcerers and sorcery in Valtyr. Constructed in the Age of Wonders, it was to be a beacon for arcane learning and a haven for mastering the esoteric nature of magic. Throughout Valtyr’s history, the Citadel has gone from savior to mystery to hated enemy. In the wake of the Great War it is viewed as a symbol of hope for some and suspicion for others, for within its secretive halls the tests of magic await those born with the gift to see and weave the Voss.

Within the Citadel there are ranks of authority. No social organization escapes the hierarchy of power and the Citadel is no different. A person entering the Citadel may progress through some or all of these ranks throughout their career as a sorcerer. The ranks are as follows:

Apprentice
Any person entering the Citadel for the first time begins their training as an Apprentice, the lowest of the ranks. Not technically a Sorcerer yet, these people are students of magic, learning all they can in two years of study in preparation for their final test. They answer to all ranks above them, but chiefly to the Errai.

Sorcerer
Once an Apprentice has passed their final test, they are given the title of Sorcerer and are able to freely leave the Tower where they studied and venture into the world beyond. Those who have gained this title can seek shelter, information and rest at any Tower, but can also be called upon for Citadel business. The bulk of the Citadel exists at this rank.

Errai (air-RYE)
Those Sorcerers who have dedicated themselves to learning specific paths of magic can be awarded the title of Errai. The Errai represent sorcerers who have dedicated themselves to a depth of magic, rather than breadth. They usually become teachers to new Apprentices, each dedicated in at least three special types of magic. The Errai hold immeasurable respect within internal Tower affairs; often the Ord among them are called upon to speak with the Councilors before important decisions can be made. Errai can be identified by their signature blue robes trimmed in silver sigils at the hem and cuff. These robes are purely ceremonial, but most Errai wear them out of respect and pride for their accomplishments.

To become an Errai, a character must attain at least 4 Master spells, as well as Counterspell and all Alchemy talent powers.

Akana (ah-KHAN-ah)
Known sometimes as the traveling wizard, the Akana represent the advanced Sorcerers within the Citadel that spend the bulk of their time traveling and aiding the world through action instead of instruction. In many ways they are the opposite of the Errai: they spend much of their time away from Tower affairs, they seek out lost magic and they do not usually take on students. Some Errai see the Akana as selfish in this regard, but the Akana play a vital role in the Citadel: they usually act as a face between the Tower Councils and the outside nations and groups the Citadel works with. To this end, they are both praised for their talents and watched carefully for signs of temptation. Like the Errai, the Akana likewise have ceremonial robes marking their station within the Citadel - red robes trimmed in the same silver runes.

To become an Akana, a character must attain at least 6 Elite and 10 Advanced spells, as well as Natural Linguist, Silver Tongue and all 7 Advanced Arcana talent powers.

Ord
The title Ord is actually a prefix to an existing title, be it Sorcerer, Errai, or Akana. It is taken from the old speech and means “honored”. It refers to any person within the Citadel of Sorcerer or higher that has been recognized by their peers for exemplary service. Gaining the title of Ord marks the sorcerer as a step above his peers and usually confers respect and some token of thanks from his direct superiors. This award may come from an Errai or Akana and be bestowed to a Sorcerer. For an Errai or Akana to receive it, it must come from a Councilor. Councilors may not possess the title of Ord, as they are already the highest rank within their Towers. Only the High Council may choose to elevate a Councilor to their supreme status.

The Ord are marked with a silver rune etched upon the blue stones set in their silver foci bracers. In this way, all Ord can be recognized by others for their accomplishments.

To gain the title Ord, a character must perform some great service to the Citadel and prove that in all ways they serve the tenets of the organization in mind, body and spirit.

Councilor
The Councilors are the ruling body of each active Tower in Valtyr. There are five Councilors in each Tower. All matters involving the Tower are decided by this elite group. Their word is law, unless overruled by the High Council in the Tower Verseth. Only the most advanced Ord-Errai or Ord-Akana can be selected for the role of Councilor. In the Ages past, the Errai usually win out over the Akana, but in more recent times, the Towers have seen more Akana taking on the role of Councilor.

A Councilor may only be selected if a present one dies, is selected by the High Council to join them, or steps down. A vote is cast from the remaining four Councilors in any case and remains in play until they come to a decision. If they are deadlocked for more than a season, the High Council will intervene.

Councilors wear deep purple robes trimmed in silver runes, marking them as the highest station within their respective Towers. A separate marking based on the Tower that they service adorns their robes above their heart; in this way other Councilors from foreign Towers can recognize each other when called to assembly by the High Council.

High Councilor
The High Council sits over the entire Citadel organization. They oversee each of the six remaining active Towers, as well as keep an eye on the black Tower Xanith. They are the most powerful sorcerers in the world and are usually chosen from the Tower Councils, one from each. There are six High Councilors at any given time. They reside within the Tower Verseth in Nilea and act as ruling governors over the entire spell-shrouded isle as well. To be asked to join the High Council is the greatest reward any sorcerer with a mind for politics could ask for.

Similar to the Councilor, a High Councilor may only be selected if a present one dies or steps down (although there has only ever been one case of a High Councilor stepping down since the Citadel’s creation nearly 2,000 years ago). The remaining five High Councilors must deliberate and select a candidate from among an existing Tower Councilor.

High Councilors were robes of white with silver sigils and four dragon scales, one for each type, sown into the collar. In this way, the High Council pays homage to the dragons who once gifted their kind with the power to see and use the Voss.

What's so special about Jade and Azurite?

2010-01-25T23:54:00.000-08:00

So if you’ve got the book, by now you know that there are three forms of currency in Valtyr: silver (used for most transactions), jade (used for alchemy and dealings with the Brotherhood) and azurite (exclusive currency for sorcerers). Just as in our own world, the type of currency depends heavily on where you are and what you are trading for. But is there something special about jade and azurite? The book seems to hint at it, and the answer is yes, there is something unique about these two currencies.

As in all the House Rules I post, this is purely supplemental and not required at all. But if you want to add a little depth to your games try this on for size.

Jade can be used to augment anyone using the Alchemy talent tree. As the book states, anyone with Alchemy can make up to 3 types of egg, potion, flask, dust, or stone. But if they combine jade in the creation, the result is something far more potent. By adding a certain number of jade pieces into recipe (listed in [ ] below) when creating an alchemical items, the following benefits occur:

* Eggs [10 jade] = affects a large area and either adds +1 to Armor SR (fog) or stuns targets (sound)

* Potions [20 jade] = can affect 2 targets (adaption), heals 20 HP (mending), or -2 to damage caused (reflexes)

* Flasks [20 jade] = affects a medium area (explosion) or disintegrates small amount of magical matter (solvent)

* Dusts [ 30 jade] = lasts for 1 scene (doorway) or can hear through surfaces as well (window)

* Stones [50 jade] = restores both TP and VP (swallowed) or immune to stun and poisoned as well (crushed)

The Brotherhood receives no special bonus for possessing jade; it is a spiritual stone to them and they revere it purely for its aesthetic and symbolic properties. Still, that symbolism is generally the way to pay for healing, purification, blessing and auguries into the minds of the Twin Gods.

Azurite is another matter entirely. Coveted by sorcerers of all walks of life, these small, blue crystal shards are very valuable to magic users. It has three main uses, any of which can be used by a sorcerer in possession of one:

* 1 crystal of azurite can be crushed to restore 1 VP to the caster, or

* 1 crystal of azurite can be used to add +2 to an Arcane skill check, or

* 2 crystals of azurite can enhance a single spell by either adding +1D6 damage or +1 extra target

In addition, azurite is required for the creation of talismans using the Alchemy talent power. A minimum of 5 + the normal cost of the spell in azurite crystals must be sacrificed when creating a talisman. So, for example, if a sorcerer was creating a wand to store Lightning Lash, it would cost 6 azurite crystals during the creation (5 + 1, since the normal cost is 1 VP for Lightning Lash).

With the versatility azurite offers, it is prized amongst sorcerers from all over the globe. Given its rare nature, it is usually quite scarce, traded openly only where large arcane shops can be found (in places like the Citadel Towers, Nilea and to a lesser extent Syr and some underground markets in Rynell).

Cinder & Ash

2010-01-25T17:46:00.000-08:00

During the Age of Wonders, a young man named Gregor set out from his home village of Tolas View in Syr on a quest to find himself. The fourth son of a cobbler, Gregor had larger plans than sweeping up shavings from his father’s store or tending to his younger two sisters while his older brothers were apprenticed off to various trade crafts. So one night Gregor devised a plan to sneak away from home and join a caravan of traveling gypsies and performers as they made their way through Tolas View and on to Illyic in the north. His plan worked and before the following sunrise, he was miles from home, free as a bird and part of the traveling troupe known as the Silver Hearts.

For years Gregor worked as a stagehand, an acrobat, a juggler, a dish washer, a runner and a magician’s assistant in the traveling fair. He became fast friends with his fellow performers and even fell in love once or twice with the girls in the towns he passed through. Life was good, until the day the Silver Hearts settled in the village of Thavel.

It was a day like any other. The tents and stages were being erected. People were bustling to and fro, putting on makeup and practicing their lines. The villages of Thavel were eager for their evening entertainment and many young boys and girls danced around the performer’s camp just outside of town, eager to spy a peek at what majesty was sure to come.

Gregor had grown into a fine young man and was finishing his juggling practice with Cerese, his partner, when a man dashed into his tent holding his side. Blood seeped from between his fingers and he spilled into Gregor’s arms, his eyes wild with fright. His lips moved in a fervor and Cerese screamed as Gregor and the man went crashing to the ground. Gregor disentangled himself from the man and rolled him over to examine the stranger’s wounds. He didn’t need to be one of the faithful to realize the man was dying.

In a sudden burst of strength, the man grabbed hold of Gregor’s tunic and pulled him close. He whispered the phrase, “Protect them boy. Don’t let them get the blades! Find the moor and end it!” With that, he pushed a rolled up lump of oilskin into Gregor’s hand that he had been clutching to his side.

Gregor yelled for Cerese to get help and she fled, calling for aid. Almost immediately, the man’s eyes widened in fright and he struggled to rise, moving as if to flee. Gregor tried to restrain him, but the man’s strength was born of fear and he pushed Gregor away roughly as he stumbled towards the tent opening. A sudden darkness overtook the tent and all went black. Gregor heard the man scream in muffled agony. Then the lights returned and the man was gone.

People flocked into the tent and stared at the bloody stains on Gregor’s hands. He tried to explain what happened, but few believed his tale. Only Cerese stood by him as the day’s light faded and people returned to their tasks, for the evening performance was soon to begin. Distraught at what he had seen and the lack of faith in his fellow troupe mates, Gregor skipped the show that night, taking comfort alone by a nearby village campfire. It was then that he unrolled the oilskin the crazed man had given him and found two daggers wrapped inside: one had a blade of glimmering red steel and the other a black obsidian shard strapped to a handle of wood. The daggers were both slightly curved and bore strange insignias on their blades.

Curious, Gregor lifted one of the blades in his hand, the red one, and felt a name whisper into his mind: “Cinder”. Fingering the other, he heard the same voice whisper “Ash”. His mind reeled for a moment as he saw a vision of a staircase descending into a lake on an isolated moor filled with scrub brush and the sounds of water wildlife. A compulsion overcame him and he felt certain that he needed to find that place, to set foot on those stairs and to uncover what lie underneath.

As if waking from a dream, Gregor looked upon the distant sight of the Silver Hearts performing and realized that his true calling lay elsewhere. He must take Cinder and Ash to the moor in his vision and find the stairs that led under the lake.

Without another word, Gregor disappeared that night, never to be seen again. A chill wind blew on the village of Tolas View as Gregor set out.

Since that time, the twin daggers known as Cinder and Ash have appeared in various hands, from kings to thieves to sorcerers, sometimes as a set and other times as single blades. Always they guide the hand that holds them towards the other in the set and finally to the lonely moor and the stairway under the lake. If any have found the key to what lies underneath, none have come forward with that information yet. Many who have carried Cinder and Ash have disappeared without a trace. The daggers have become legend in certain circles and obsession in others, for rumors exist that whatever lies underneath the lonely lake in the vision has the power to grant unspeakable power to the bearer of the blades.

Cinder
Type: Lesser arcane weapon

Description: steel dagger with a curious red tinge and a curving cross guard

Damage: 1D6+2

Powers: grants its wielder +2 to Battle

Ash
Type: Lesser arcane weapon

Description: obsidian dagger with a wooden hilt bearing three horns

Damage: 1D6+2

Powers: grants its wielder +2 to Agility skill checks to hide and sneak

Set bonus: possessing both daggers gives the following bonuses: +4 to Initiative and half damage from fire or frost.

Compulsion: while the dagger(s) are in your possession, you must make a Spirit skill check (SR 3) each day not to quest for the lost moor and the stairs that lead under its lake.

Get your copy of Valtyr Chronicles today and let your own adventures begin.

Smet Hog

2010-01-24T17:01:00.000-08:00

Within the twisted and dense jungles of Mierg or the primal forests of the Wildlands roam the Smet Hogs, savage boar-like creatures with a reputation for being unclean beasts.

A typical smet hog can grow as big as 4 feet long and stand 3 feet tall. They can weigh in as much as 300 pounds and possess four sharp tusks, two larger ones which curl out and up from the bottom teeth (measuring 12 or more inches in length) and two smaller ones that grow down from their upper canines (these can be as much as 6 inches in length). The smet hog usually has a dirty brown coat, with small grey eyes set into its broad pig head. Its four hoofed feet are small but powerful, allowing it to run quickly when needed, but not so adept at turning or maneuvering in tight quarters.

Smet hogs are notoriously bad tempered. They can be found alone or in small packs of up to 5, but they don’t often stay together, as their disposition will undoubtedly bring about a fight amongst the group before long. Smet hogs are not terribly bright, but know enough about survival not to attack creatures that are bigger than themselves or have proven to be capable opponents. The only exception to this is if the smet hog’s young or food source is threatened; in either case, the beast will make its best show of scaring off the intruder.

Most creatures tend to avoid smet hogs whenever they can, but it has little to do with their foul moods. The reason is that smet hogs tend to leave trails of their own excrement and filth as they travel. They also aren’t opposed to rolling around in their waste, leaving their coats bristling with filth and harmful bacteria. Many stories of lost travelers in remote forested places coming into contact with the smet hog and escaping with infected wounds, or worse…disease…are all too common. For this reason alone, the smet hogs are given wide berths.

Adult Smet Hog......(Level 1)
Battle: 7
Damage: 1D6
Evasion: 2 (SR 1)
Resistance: 1 (SR 1)
Health: 16

Passive Powers:
Infection: if the smet hog gets a Critical Strike, the target must make a Fortitude skill check (SR 2) or their wounds become infected.

Active Powers:
None

Elder Smet Hog......(Level 2)
Battle: 9
Damage: 1D6+1
Evasion: 3 (SR 1)
Resistance: 1 (SR 1)
Health: 25

Passive Powers:
Infection: if the smet hog gets a Critical Strike, the target must make a Fortitude skill check (SR 2) or their wounds become infected.

Active Powers:
Charge: can knock targets Prone if it scores 3 more success than it needs on its Battle skill check.

The Broherhood's Calendar

2010-01-24T09:36:00.000-08:00

The Brotherhood of the Twin Gods forms more than just the leading spiritual organization in Valtyr. It has also served as a place of learning and teaching for centuries. Long before the Citadel was formed after the gift of magic was given to men by the dragons, the Brotherhood was the chief order associated with learning. In those early days, when mankind was but a child in the world, taking its first steps into a strange and wondrous land, the Brotherhood acted as guide and teacher to his fellow man.

One of the first things ever recorded in the written word was the Valtyrian calendar. The Brotherhood knew it needed a way to track the passage of time. As they began their arduous task of recording mankind’s progress, they developed a system of marking the passage of days and seasons. Thus was born the same calendar that, nearly 3,000 years later, is still in effect. It is described below:

The passage of a year is marked is marked by 10 months. Each month is exactly 30 days long, with days being 24 hours in length (12 dedicated to the Champion of Light, Lassic, and 12 belonging to the Wandering Star, Annwyn). Beginning with the first month in the year, the passage of months looks like this:

Newthaw, Showerfall, Rosebloom, Brightsky, Firewind,
Larksong, Harvestmoon, Frostspell, Whitedawn, Hearthfire

These 10 months form what we know of as the four seasons. Spring lasts from the 1st day of Newthaw to the middle of Rosebloom. Summer starts from the middle of Rosebloom and ends on the last day of Firewind. Autumn begins on the first day of Larksong and carries through till the middle of Frostspell. Winter then begins on the second half of Frostspell and ends on the last day of Hearthfire.

In this way, the people had a system for tracking their own passage of time and the monks of the Brotherhood developed a way to catalogue their past for future generations to revisit and learn from. The Valtyrian calendar is universally accepted in the present Age.

Initiative

2010-01-24T09:35:00.000-08:00

All right, so it’s not so much a house rule as it is one that should have been explained in the published book. Not sure how I missed that, but here goes (it’s really simple):

Initiative describes the order in which players and enemies act in a battle or other type of contest. Anytime the GM calls for a battle or a test of skills where order is important have the players each roll 1D6 and add their Cunning skill to the result of the roll. Ties are solved by the player with the highest Cunning going first. If two or more people have the same Cunning skill, compare Agility. If those are still tied, just have them roll off to see who goes first (highest number goes first).

Remember (as a GM) to roll for the enemies as well. Note all the numbers and the initiative order goes from highest to lowest. When everyone has taken his or her turn, start back again from the top of the initiative order under the battle or challenge is concluded.

It’s as simple as that. Sorry for the omission.

Enjoy.

The Din'tarra hunters

2010-01-24T09:33:00.000-08:00

For the inhabitants of Valtyr, the Great War that ravaged the world for over two hundred and thirty years has come to and end. For most, the scars of that dark time have faded, replaced with the hope for a better tomorrow and the quest for new adventure. For some however, the War’s effects can never be forgotten and they pass down the whispered dangers of the Demonfold and Shadowfold to the generations to come in stern warning.

But for yet a few, the War is still very much alive. The Demonfold and Shadowfold still exist in scattered pockets throughout the world, corrupting those they find and killing the rest. As if this were not bad enough, the Primordial Hordes also pose a threat in the more remote places of Valtyr. While the masses might feel safe in this new Age of Trials, there are groups that know better. The Din’tarra hunters are one such group.

Formed in the early days after the end of the Great War, sometime in the month of Larksong in the year 2333, the Din’tarra began as a group of warriors who drove out pockets of demons, undead and Primordials from the outlying towns and villages of Mierg’s western borders. Led at the time by a fanatical elven hunter named Atherô, the early members of this group were some of the most ruthless fighters and skilled trackers of the times. Atherô knew that the dark tide had been pushed far back by the defeat of the dark god Mezodan and his puppets, the Storm Knights, but he would not rest until he was sure that every last demonic force that served Mezodan and his consort Vegra was destroyed.

To this end, he rallied those of similar mind and passion to his cause. He named his group the Din’tarra, which means “shadow hunter” in Elvish. Alone, he led over sixty men, dwarves, cerenoth and elves into the belly of the Nivenesh Jungle and began his pogrom of the remains of the Demonfold and Shadowfold. When he came across Primordials, he slew them. When he found occasional bands of Ithrak, he didn’t hesitate to take their lives. And when his hunting party found the demons or undead they primarily sought, he unleashed such fury and skill that he could not be stopped.

Those that followed Atherô cleansed the land of the foul taint of the Dark Lord’s power with each passing year. Many died in his service, but many more joined. Atherô himself finally succumbed to old age and found his own death in the glory of one final hunt far from Mierg’s boundaries where he had begun the Din’tarra. In the month of Rosebloom in the year 2545, he led a raid against a powerful kiz’mahr and its host of wraiths and wights just outside of Last Gate in the far northern reached of Rynell. The attack proved successful and Atherô discovered the whereabouts of a breach between this world and the Lands of the Dead. Quickly enlisting some of his group’s supporters in the Brotherhood, he managed to seal the rift, but not before a strange new type of undead burst free and claimed his life. The spirit was a horrible amalgam of decay and dark energy and it fled the confines of the area before the distracted Din’tarra hunters could stop it.

Atherô’s body was buried in private by those present on that day. A new leader was chosen from among the Din’tarra ranks, and after two days of mourning, the remaining Din’tarra set of at once to track and destroy the spirit that had killed their former leader.

To this day the Din’tarra still hunt the rumors of Demonfold attacks and Shadowfold sightings throughout the world. While only a few can stomach the hard lives they lead and gruesome sights they have witnessed, all realize the debt they own such a group for doing what they cannot. The Din’tarra are fanatics for their cause (and some say even a little deranged from the horrors they have witnessed) but there is no argument that they are some of the best hunters in Valtyr and the foremost authority on the practices, habits and powers of the Demonfold, Shadowfold and Primordial Hordes.

Casting without a focus

2010-01-22T09:14:00.001-08:00

Alright, so I already have a simple House Rule for any of you wishing to try it out when playing Valtyr Chronicles. This is completely up to your GM and entirely optional.

Any time someone wishes to use the Voss to cast a spell and they do not have their focus (usually the silver bracers given by the Citadel), they may do so but at a heavy cost to their life. Fictionally, the Voss is so volatile that sorcerers must channel it through their focus when shaping their magic. This allows them to safely use the Voss to power their spells. However, when a sorcerer is bereft of their focus for any reason, casting even the simplest magic can cause excruciating wounds. These wounds manifest as burns or sores that cannot be healed by alchemy or Devotion's Healing Touch power; they must be healed naturally, making the process take that much longer.

In game terms, if a sorcerer casts a spell without his or her focus, they lose 10 HP for every VP it would have cost to cast the spell. So, for example, if a sorcerer wanted to cast the Pacify spell, he would lose 20 HP instantly (since the spell costs 2 VP to cast normally). Casting silently without a focus is impossible unless the character makes a Spirit skill check (SR 4 or greater). If the character would shift to Dying as a result of the HP loss, they can still perform the action, but doing so immediately forces them to mark 1 box next to Dying.

Not that I recommend your players try such casting, but in a pinch, it's good to know that they can, albeit painfully.

Good gaming all.

Corval's Sites of Interest

2010-01-22T09:11:00.000-08:00

Corval is a nation filled with foggy seashores, quiet forests, hidden glens and sprawling farmland. It is a peaceful place (for the most part) where people lead somewhat sleepy lives. Their days are filled with earnest work and simple pleasures. But it was not always so, for the Great War raked its claws over the southwestern lands of Valtyr the deepest, and no nation saw greater strife than Corval. After over 500 years of reconstruction and grief, the Corvalians had finally returned to their humble roots as farmers and fishermen, eager to forget the past and use the fog that surrounds their lands a shield from the outside world of politics, war and intrigue.

To those seeking adventure, Corval is not usually the first place that comes to mind. Rich in natural resources and primarily an export nation of timber, fish, cloth and food stores, Corval doesn’t boast many exotic treasures, or great guilds for that matter. But even among the “westward green”, as it is sometimes called, there are places of interest. I will describe three of them in this post: the Alabaster Rook, Fireglow Mound and Fortune’s Point. Pick up your copy of Valtyr Chronicles today for even more insight into the world and game of Valtyr.

The Alabaster Rook:
North and a little west of the bustling port town of Arnos stands a site which has baffled scholars, sorcerers and priests alike. A 350-foot tall leaning tower of weathered white stone sits buried in an expansive sward of green fields. The tower’s only feature is its slightly crenelated top; no doors, windows, or other signs of entry are present on its surface. All attempts at magical teleportation into the Rook have failed to date. Even the Brotherhood’s faithful have been unable to beseech the Twin Gods for information as to the nature or interior (if one even exists) to this strange landmark. The first traveler to ever come across the marvel (a man named Heldon Craw) dubbed it the Alabaster Rook; he named it after its similarities to a game of strategy called jarai, where pieces are moved on a checkered board in an attempt to defeat an opponent’s dragon. The tower reminded Heldon of one of the pieces to the game and the name stuck.

Throughout the centuries, many scholars have traveled to the Rook seeking ways to decipher a set of engraved glyphs that ring the Rook in swirling pattern. To date, the language (if indeed it is one) has not been broken. However, an old manuscript found near the Dwarven Gate of Kazak-Tem in the year 2416 speaks of a great citadel in the south that holds "the gateway to the stars within its halls of bone”. Some believe that this passage might refer to the Rook, but since none have found a way inside, no one can be sure. To the people of Corval, the Alabaster Rook represents a strange element in their otherwise normal lives and many are superstitious of the white tower, as it reminds them that mystery and intrigue are still present, even in their secluded corner of the world.

Fireglow Mound:
Far in the remote northwest of Corval lies a series of low hills and valleys that burn constantly. Despite Corval’s damp atmosphere and nearly constant fog, this area seems charged with a different kind of energy. Pockets of small fires erupt from a mixture of gas trapped within the earth and a special gray soil that alchemists believe has kinetic properties. The result is a patch of land that smolders constantly and occasionally grows into pockets of wildfires. Resilient trees, known as Coalbark, grow in leafless patches through the rocky hills. Gray soil mingles with silt and ash to form a sandy ground of burnt offerings. From a great distance, the air seems to shimmer orange through the fog, but on a clear day the glow intensifies so that it can be seen even in daylight from as far away as the town of Perch.

Within Fireglow Mound are two things of note: the nesting places of the gray drakes of Corval (smaller cousins to the great dragons and treasured mounts of the Gray Drake Knighthood) and a tribe of human shamans and hunters known as the Izuma. The Izuma are completely isolated from the rest of civilized Corval and prefer it that way. The Izuma claim to have a special connection with the land in this inhospitable place and make their homes just on the outskirts of the burning hills. Although they keep to themselves, many in Corval’s military are wary of the Izuma’s tribal practices, which involve constant battles with the Fire Primoridals of the area, as well as the Izuma’s penchant for blood sacrifice and strange rituals. Still, most people never venture close enough to Fireglow Mound to take notice, and many Corvalians believe the stories of barbaric humans, flaming hills and gray drake eggs to be nothing more than a myth.

Fortune’s Point:
Once a busy seaside port town like Voscold and Arnos, Fortune’s Point fell hard to the raids of Geldain Ramuk’s men in the Great War. Its three story narrow house flats and crowded canal streets were decimated under the fighting. The once serene monuments and bustling port marketplace were torn down and burnt during a vicious raid. Now, Fortune’s Point is a ghost town filled with bitter memories and dead dreams. The town used to hold a population of nearly 2,100 people. It had a series of roads connected by arching bridges that could take travelers on foot over the cobblestoned streets and into such quarters as the bazaar, port, housing districts and temples dedicated to the Ever Maiden, Annwyn. However, in addition to roads, the people of Fortune’s Point also constructed canals where large flat barges carrying cargo, or smaller gondolas carrying passengers, could travel as well. These waterways linked to most of the same areas around town and offered travelers a different tour of the city. In addition, the canals granted those who knew where to look access to the underground gambling dens, whorehouses and specialty taverns of Fortune’s Point.

These days, rubble lines the once broad streets. Buildings lie fallen over or stand as burnt out husks. The waterways are covered in thick seaweed, creating a verdant carpet of undulating vegetation on the shifting tides. The once lively ports now sit dormant and ravaged like broken teeth jutting from the face of the city. Few know that, despite its ruined appearance and rumored hauntings, there is still one force active within its walls. A group of pirates and thieves calling themselves the Lost Fleet makes their home within the Point’s harbors.

The Lost Fleet harasses merchant vessels sailing between Voscold, Russic and Whitecliff in Mierg, seeking treasure and new recruits for their nefarious activities. Careful not to tread too far east into the territory of the Wyvern’s Lash, another rival pirating group, the Lost Fleet has persisted despite the Gray Drake Knights' vigilance because of an ancient artifact their captain (a cerenoth female named Irela) found within the town’s sunken walls. Irela carries with her a polished abalone shell carved into the shape of a ship surrounded by waves. Upon her command, the artifact allows her ships to be lost in a blue mist and then sink beneath the sea, where she docks in underwater caves after her raids. The shell confers the power for her and her crew to breathe underwater just long enough to exit into one of the abandoned gambling dens in Fortune’s Point. In this way, she has eluded capture or detection so far.

What is Valtyr?

2010-01-21T12:58:00.000-08:00

Great question...I'm glad I asked. :)

Valtyr is a world where fantasy is alive. It is my own creation and something I have labored on for over 13 years. Now I know what you're thinking...wow...get a life! Thirteen years is a little much to create a fantastical world. Hell, we all do it each day a bit as we dream and escape the rigors of our lives from time to time.

Well Valtyr is a little different. It's a lot more fleshed out than a daydream, or even a short story. It's a place filled with diverse nations, teeming with strange cultures. It has a mythical past, complete with all the things history usually has included in it: wars, romance, magic, dragons, kings, betrayal, faith and lost items of power. It has the staple of common fantasy - other races, warriors, sorcerers, magic items - but it has more as well. The strange fog that covers the lands and is visible only to those with the gift of magic, known as the Voss, permeates everything and defies explanation. Towering structures of ancient design, long before mankind set foot on the earth, loom like colossal giants over curious populations. Rifts in the space between time and creation allow dangerous beings to pass in and out of the world.

In short, Valtyr is a place I created to breathe life into one of my biggest hobbies: role playing.

After spending some time constructing a world, I went about creating a game system to go along with it. I loved playing other popular RPGs (that's role playing games for those not in the know...man I am a geek) like D&D and Whitewolf (and still do, when I can) but for me there seemed to be a gap between telling a good story in a world filled with color and opportunity, and playing a good game with balanced rules that helped me feel like I was doing the two things I loved most about RPGs:

1.) growing my character and
2.) getting cool loot

With Valtyr, I created a system that was aimed at the casual RPG player...someone that wanted to game but either never had because they were scared off by the rules, or had gamed a bit but grew tired of always flipping to tables, charts and expansion books. I wanted Valtyr Chronicles (my name for the RPG game) to be accessible to any that wanted it. And I wanted it all in one book.

So I colored within my own lines. I drew up plans, changed them, tested them, found out my "brilliant new mechanic idea" was a flop with the group, changed it, tested it again only to find that some of it worked and other parts didn't.

And I did this over and over and over again, until I had something that most people I gamed with agreed met my criteria: it was approachable, it kept the spirit of RPGs alive with a good setting and story opportunities, it advanced the characters nicely and most of all it was fun.

Now I am certainly not saying Valtyr Chronicles is perfect. Far from it. Each person has their own opinion of what works for them in these kinds of games. But what I am proud to say is that not only did I do it (published in Dec 2009), but that even after all the time playing it and the iterations, it still manages to keep players interested.

Which brings me to this blog. I wanted a place to expand on house rules, tell stories of some of the background for the world, and maybe even add a few creatures of two to my repertoire. To that end, I will go forward labeling each of my posts to help people find topics easier.

The labels will be:

* GROUPS - for any post that details a guild, culture, customs, or a person of note
* LOCATIONS - for any post that details a place of power, nation, or site of interest
* CREATURES - for any post that expands on creatures in the book or adds new ones
* ITEMS - for any post that details powerful magic items or historic artifacts
* SESSIONS - for any post that talks about my gaming sessions that I run
* HOUSE RULES - for any post that I share some of the rule alterations/additions I might come up with from playing

I game 2-3 Sundays a month with a group of friends. We've been playing Valtyr for over 2 years solid with no changes. In fact, I am just starting up a new campaign now. So look forward to the occasional SESSION post starting up soon.

Well, off to work. But hopefully this blog will serve as a good tool to expanding on a passion of mine and perhaps even offer those of you who get the book some extra meat for your own games.

And if you feel like trying out the game, or just reading some good fantasy, or hell...even just supporting a guy who's trying to be a writer, then pick up my book. It's called Valtyr Chronicles and you can find it at www.lulu.com.

Good games to you all.

A place to continue the fantasy...

2010-01-20T21:35:00.000-08:00

I am new to blogging, but I wanted a space where people could come to learn more about the world, creatures and mysteries of Valtyr, a place of high fantasy, without paying any additional cost. As you will soon see, these posts will be structured around deepening your understanding of Valtyr and its inhabitants. If you haven't already purchased your copy of the new RPG book entitled Valtyr Chronicles, you can do so by following the links in this blog. Otherwise, I invite you to enjoy a ride through my imagination, and hopefully inspire you to use yours.

But enough exposition. Let's talk about Valtyr.