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.
Friday, February 5, 2010
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Screeching Sloth-Rat
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
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
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Moruk's Charm
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
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
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.
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.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Aetheram (A- thir-am)
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)
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)
Monday, February 1, 2010
Mists & Shadows - Chapter 1
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...
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
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.
Get your copy of Valtyr Chronicles today and let your own adventures begin.
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.
Get your copy of Valtyr Chronicles today and let your own adventures begin.
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