A realm torn asunder

During the Great War the kingdom of Pendrell was caught up in a bitter internal struggle. On one side King Rowar II and those true to him attempted to bring the realm into the war on the side of the Enlightened Alliance. On the other, the powerful Magisterium, controlled by orthodox Presbyterians, wanted to use the growing turmoil to strengthen their grip on the people. Skirmishes, assassinations, pogroms and riots were commonplace and neither side seemed able to break the deadlock.

Chapter: Aftermath

The fourth chapter of The Black Spear.

Cast: Aegir of the Enæidùn, Mandan Bansl, Gryff Galan, Velimir Tito, Yolander van Zaar, and Toadface. Also, various NPCs.

The following takes place on 29 Octavum, YE 1022.

Following the victorious Battle of the Tower of Man, led by the Pius Cabal, various events takes place as the magicians take stock of the situation; van Zaar and Toadface takes an interest in genealogy, Bansl makes an alchemic breakthrough, two Black Friars delves into the dungeon, and nature reclaims what was taken from it.

Flying Vessels of Argos

Who rules the heavens, rules the earth.

-Vanazar, The Eternal War

Dr. Locker's Tropospheric Gondola

In 959 YE Dr. John Locker demonstrated his Tropospheric Gondola for an enraptured Pendrellian Royal Court. While the balloon was fragile, and it's flight at the mercy of the elements, it was acclaimed as reason's triumph over scepticism. Fifty-six years later, in the Corillian War, Pendrellian forces first used aerial vessels in warfare, as scouting platforms, and for dropping grenades on enemy units. These balloons were still at the mercy of the winds, and only a very few of the Argonauts were able to actually navigate these vessels to any degree.

Pendrell

This is the first post in a long overdue series on the kingdoms, empires and states of Argos. First out is...

The Kingdom of Pendrell

click map to see full size

Government: Awakened Monarchy

Ruler: King Rowar II Garwellyn

Capital: Crondor

This kingdom occupies the southern part of the Aelevian Peninsula, west of the Inner Sea. It now borders to the Elfswood to the north, and two oceans on all other sides. The Pendrellian landscape is dominated by rolling, green hills and lush valleys. As of recent, a thick forest has sprung up, all but dividing the north from the south. The climate is temperate, and the temperature may fall below freezing for a few month in the winter. The autumn and spring often see longer periods of rain, while the summers tend to be long and mild.

Before the Elfswar, the peninsula was largely covered in a thick, primordial forest called the Aelvinwoode. As the name infers, this was the homeland of an elven house, the Andradhril. This was the last of the elven houses in Eria, and the peninsula also saw some of the heaviest fighting of the centuries-long Elfswar. Over the span of several generations, the forest was burned and cleared, and battle for battle, the elves were driven off their ancient lands.

Most of this fighting were done by the legions of the Penderii tribe, led in the last century of the war by Lord Solar Aegenmar Macharius. The Pendrellian kingdom was founded in 5 YE, when Macharius led the his tribe to leave the Skythian Empire. When he was proclaimed king, he took as his seat the Oaken Throne, a large chair carved from the stem of the Heart tree of the defeated elves. Macharius, now King Aegenmar I of Pendrell, wrote the Macharian Laws that still dominates most Western Erian legal systems. In these first years of the Third Age, he also created the Cabal of Pure Thought, and sowed the seeds that would later develop into the Ministerium. 

In the system of government laid out by Macharius, the Ministerium was the third House of government, the other two being the House of Lords and the House of Commons. The king, while being the head of state, had to have the support of at least two of the Houses to levy taxes and pass laws. This system was to last for a thousand years.

Pendrellian landscape

Over the following centuries, Pendrell stayed out of the many wars that ripped the Skythian Empire apart. In this period the kingdom enjoyed a time of growth and prosperity, and slowly most of the peninsula was settled. A few lesser tribes who had lived on the outskirts of the Aelvinwoode before the Elfswar, as well as people fleeing the turbulent southern Eria, further swelled the population.

By the end of the 8th century of Enlightenment, the Ministerium had developed from being just a domestic power to being an authority in all of Western Eria. By now, the Cabal of Pure Thought consisted of more than half a dozen universities, cabals, collegiums and societies from several states and kingdoms. To prevent dogmatic wars between the various members of the Cabal, the Ministerium was made the ruling body of all these different groups. As such, the Ministerium had now become second only to the Temple of Man Supreme in Paradigmatic authority.

Another important development in the 8th century was the birth of the Presbyterian movement. This movement sprung out of the peasant-communities of northern Pendrell, and were opposed to the ownership of land by those who do not work it. Even if this led to conflicts with the nobility, the Presbyterian ideas quickly spread, and by the end of the century the Presbyterium had become a member of the Ministerium.

When the first century of Enlightenment drew to and end, the Presbyterium had come to dominate the domestic policies of the Ministerium, and had also gained a large following in the House of Commons. Following the failed Macharian plot on King Arthor XIII on St. Revan's Day in 997 YE, the Presbyterian-controlled Ministerium instigated a series of purges of prominent Macharites in the government. Later it has become clear that the plot was fabricated by central figures in the Presbyterium.

Over the generation that followed the St. Revan's Day Plot, shadow tribunals became commonplace, and in the end anyone who criticised the government stood in peril of just vanishing. By the 1010's, the House of Lords had been all but neutralized, and the Presbyterian majority in the House of Commons wrote off on any law passed by the Ministerium. The had by now become nothing more than an impotent figurehead. As magic returned to Argos, the agents of the Ministerium also carried out strict pogroms against anyone suspected of arcane connections. 

King Rowar II marches on Crondor

Things came to a boil when the Presbyterium led Pendrell to declare war on the Wezellian Syndicate in Primium 1022 YE. Shortly after the outbreak of this war a great dragon laid waste to Five Fort Vale in north-western Pendrell, and within days of this remnants of the elves of the Andradhril struck deep into Pendrell. This attack was of a nature never seen before, and the kingdom stood completely powerless to stop this old enemy's vengeance. As the elves penetrated deeper, the lands became covered by a terrible forest that sprang up over night, as if by sorcery and vile magics.

The old King Arthor XIII now did made is probably the bravest action in his life. He fell on his sword, and leaving no direct heir, he then left the kingdom without a ruler. This window of opportunity was seized by the young Rowar Garwellyn, Duke of Ayre. Quickly raising an army, he made a claim on the Oaken Throne and marched on the capital.

The civil war was to be a short one, lasting less than two months. A cabal of magicians retrieved the Crown of Pendrell from the vaults of the Royal Bastion, and after the new king had been crowned, aided him in crossing the River Ayre undetected. In the resulting battle, the Presbyterian army was defeated, and the king could now march all the way to Crondor. It is also said that the king Awakened on the morning before the battle. In these same  days, he also struck a peace with the elves, promising that the people of his kingdom should never venture into the Elfswood.

In the months that followed, the remaining Presbyterians were driven out of southern Pendrell, and the Awakened king has devoted all his energies to reorganizing his realm. Amongst other things, he has disbanded the Ministerium, and reorganized the two remaining Houses. Much land has also been lost to the Elfswood, and the northern parts of the peninsula, with the duchies of Windshire and the Highlands, is held by the remnants of the Presbyterium. The southern duchies of Ayre, Sothershire and the Midlands have all sworn allegiance to the king.

Despite the hardships in his kingdom, King Rowar II has joined the Enlightened Alliance, and is preparing for the Great War.

[Picture source: 1 Atlas, vol. I; 2 Michel Claveau; 3 Military Art Company]

Empire of Man

By Sir Revius Athor, Crondor, YE 961

Chapter I: The Rise of the Skythian Empire

~Emperor Markelin Elfsbane~

[Source: Karen's Whimsy]

THE SKYTHIAN EMPIRE rose from the smoldering ashes of the Erian Empire. The latter, having been torn asunder by centuries of religious strife and tribal conflict, finally collapsed after the imperial capital Apeloni was burned to the ground by the Cult of Xuul.


The powerful Skythian tribe now came to dominate the Hegemony of Man, as the regions of the Erian Empire had become known. From their stronghold in the highlands of northern Corinth they quickly gathered the pieces of the broken empire and put them back together again.


In a campaign that lasted more than five years, the first of the Skythian Emperors, Flavus Pentagenal, eradicated the Cult of Xuul and placed the Corinthian tribes under imperial jurisdiction. He also made the Cult of Man Invincible the state religion, greatly helped by the deicide, and following sainthood, by his adopted son, Ares Demagos.


Even with religious unity, the young empire was wracked by internal conflict as tribal rivalries quickly started simmering again. Emperor Flavus's death, twelve years after he was named Princeps Optimus, almost ended the imperial dream in it's infancy. As he lay on his death-bed, being wounded in the battle of Amanervo, he named one of his generals, Germino Atathron, his heir.


Emperor Germinio proved to be a wise and just ruler, and his seventeen years at the helm of the Empire was marked by peace and prosperity. New areas of land was brought into the fold, and roads were built to connect every part of the Empire to the rest. He also made an alliance with the martial Penderii.


The lands of the Penderii bordered the Sielwoode, an elven realm in the middle of the Erian mainland. The tribe had long been in a state of perpetual war with the elves, and few at the time doubted that the alliance would plunge the Empire into war. Still, it would take seven years before this came to pass.


Emperor Germino died shortly after the alliance was signed, and his son, Vevio Cathago, took the purple. In his treatise on the Skythian emperors, Mirryn accuses Vevio of poisoning his father. Immediately after his instatement, the young Emperor started a purge of real and percieved enemies. Amongst those targeted were both politicians and generals. The latter would prove to be his undoing, as this left the legions under the command of men who's chief merit was their allegiance to the Emperor.


When the elves finally attacked, the legions on the Sielwoode border were quickly overrun. A large war party also attacked and razed three of the forts in the Elfswall Mountains. In one fell swoop, the Elf had crippled the Empire's legions, and now stood poised to strike at the Imperial City.


Emperor Vevio panicked fled the capital with his mistress, leaving the Empire without effective leadership. According to Sertino, he was later killed by one of his guards.


In this time of peril, Markelin, the son of St Ares, seized control of the chaos. When Vevio's purges began, Markelin had gone accross the Straits with a band of loyal followers. When he returned, he had stayed out of the Imperial City, but as soon as the crisis began, he stepped onto the stage.


Markelin ordered the Invictus Legion to close the Elfswall, and then marched to the aid of the Penderii with twelve Corinthian legions. In the three years long campaign that followed, the elven host was driven back into the forest, and the border finally fortified. By now, the legions had named Markelin Emperor, and the king of the Penderii had sworn him allegiance.


Understanding that peace between Man and Elf could never be lasting, Markelin ordered that each week a verst of forest be burned or cut down. Despite a decade of fierce skirmishing along the receeding forest-line, the massed might of Man proved too much for the non-humans. When Markelin, now named Elfsbane, died after thirteen years on the throne, he left the Skythian Empire stronger than ever before.


It would take a century of internal unrest and religious conflict, and another elven incursion, before the Empire again renewed its efforts to cleanse the lands of the elven scourge.

The Journal of Captain Gryff Galan

Source: The Earl of Northampton's Regiment of Foot

We returned to Rederhafen. Bansl, still high on his Mastery, was eager to put out the fire, and took matters into his own hands, so to speak. Had he not been stopped he would have gone on to put the entire fire out himself.

To avoid chaos breaking out in the city, Verasius, Adeptus of the Ordo Hermetica, was given the task of taking control the remaining flames. Which he did.

The Tradesmaster was sent down to the Prince. His quarters thick with gloom when our man Drake came in with The Light of Life in his hand, giving air to the room and aid to the Prince.

Meanwhile, on deck was El Rey Mistario. A joyful sight, indeed. Though he was not as joyful himself. ”So, it has begun”, he said, staring into the flames. We greeted him, all except Yolander, who had been sent away by the emerging M’Narcl. ”You are back amongst us, at last!” ”It has been a long journey”, Mistario whispered. He is still frail.

Yolander, clear-sighted as he is, pointed out the significance of the death of Captain Armand of the Kraken. The Exarch does not produce strategically gifted brains. We took out his Number One.

I located Rowar II 7 miles south of Stafford, at Sander Bridge. And after Arkan (Arcrash getting his names confused), a tad impatient, had walked out, the rest of us quickly agreed on the course of action. I found the Royal Crown of Pendrell, Bansl apparated it out, and we travelled to the soon to be King by portal.

I was pleased to find someone trying to hinder our arrival. And even more pleased to learn that it was, as I suspected, the Argonauts, who had flocked around Rowar, the New Hope of Pendrell. There was Commander Sir Geoffrey Colomb, and 32 others. We also learned that all the Navicrons have fallen into enemy hands.

At The Crowning, The Prince Exalted spoke to The King. He has a truly fantastic presence, and speaks both sense and wisdom. ”A Crown can not be given”, he said. ”It must be taken”. He has really found his footing now, since he killed The White Stag. He will unite Man.

32 000 men on our side. 12 000 men, better equipped, are positioned to hold Sander Bridge. ”Where you cannot cross, you go around”. Not only will we cross, we will empower the Argonauts in doing so, by making them a part of The Crossing.

In The Ambush at Sander Bridge we lost 1700 men, and killed four times as many. Three thousand were captured, and three thousand fled. 8000 Repeating Rifles were won.

Valdvix, the Blue Fox, was so named by his Master.

And the King has Awakened. He was given a book I found in the library of the Blackfriars, The Mind of Man, as a parting gift.

What a day! We have crowned an Awakened King in Pendrell. The Parliament is surrounded. When it rains, it really pours.

---

Storyteller's note: This is The Captain's first post. He has been suckered agreed to do the write-ups of the weekly sessions. These posts reflect his views and experiences, and hopefully the other guys will speak up if their opinnions differ radically. I may add pictures, but apart from this note, I will only add my observations as comments.

Frostbite

It was so cold the very breath seemed to freeze before it could reach the lungs of the men on the walls. They were wrapped in wool and fur, as much as they dared. None wanted to lose their maneuverability. Wherever their flesh was exposed the frost bit like needles. Great torches were lit along the parapet, but their flames had no power over the cold.


Arbein clutched his old musket with hands he could barely feel. He remembered that someone had told him that as long as you could feel the cold you were good. Only when it stopped hurting did it become dangerous. Somehow loosing a few fingers to the frost didn't seem like such a big deal anymore. He stared into the dark night and wished he knew how to pray.

The old fort had been built long ago, in a time when the greatest threat were the ambitions of the neighbouring nobility. It overlooked the village of Wolford, and had fallen into disrepair over the years since it was built. Besides, its curtain-walls were no match for modern cannon anyway. Arbein wondered if they would offer any protection against the enemy they now faced.

The entire village had gathered inside the fort. Or, those who had survived the raid the night before had huddled together behind the half-broken walls, seeking refuge from the cold and the enemy.

Two days ago a rider had come through the village. He was grey-faced and weary, but what Arbein remembered clearest were his eyes. His eyes were those of someone who knew that all hope was lost. He had told of a great dragon burning down the Five Forts, and of elves coming in great numbers out of the North, killing all in their path. The man had only stayed long enough to change horses before he rode south. He had to warn the King, he said. Those who had heard the traveller's words found them hard to ignore. Even if they told of unbelievable things, the eyes of the speaker had caused the fear they carried to haunt the listeners.

Still, they didn't run. Where could they run? This was their home. That night they had made sure everyone was safe inside their houses, and that they had plenty of wood for their fires. The men had checked their weapons, and the women had sung soothing songs of summer to ease the minds of the children.

An hour before dawn, when all but the most stalwart had been asleep, thinking themselves foolish for having heeded the words of a madman, they came. Arbein had been awakened by his old wolfhound, ol' Toker. The rugged old beast stood facing the door, growling deep in its chest. Arbein had fallen asleep in his chair infront of the fire, his musket in his lap. The fire had almost died, and it had gotten a lot colder. He had been able to see his breath in the freezing air.

It had been so quiet. Nothing but the low growl of ol' Toker and the beating of his own heart. Then he had heard the first screams. They were faint, but still they had sent a chill down his spine. An old soldier, he had heard and seen bad things, still these screams had put a fright in him in a way he'd never experienced before. It had been like some old, long forgotten memory of horrible things had resurfaced from somewhere deep in his soul.

His old lady had woken up then. She had been made of stearner stuff than him, but then he'd always know that. She had been a camp-follower when he served as a musketman in the Corrillian War, and they had married when the war ended and he was sent home. Now she had told him to be a man and go help their neighbours instead of hiding behind barred doors like a cowering old woman. He had put more wood on the fire, put on his boots and his great-coat and left her. She had cocked the old crossbow he used for hunting and stayed behind with the dog.

Since then it had all been like a horrible nightmare no one would ever wake up from. Outside it had been freezing cold, so cold that the snow itself groaned. Other men had also left their homes to lend a hand against whatever it was that had fallen upon the poor screaming soul. They had sought together, as if guided by some deep instinct had told each of them that the only strength they had against what was out there lay in numbers. Casting nervous glances around them, clutching their weapons -- axes, a couple of spears, a halberd, crossbows and a few muskets -- they had made for the sound of the screams.

Arbein remembered hoping that the poor bastard would just die and that the screaming would stop. It had come from the Minister's house. The Minister had come to Wolford only two years ago, a young man, and he had quickly become well liked by the villagers. He had schooled them well since he came, and all who wanted had been taught their letters by the patient and charismatic Presbyter.

They had found him, or rather, what was left of him, in front of his house. He had been kneeling on the ground, only a few steps from his door, arms stretched upwards. Arbein still couldn't understand what he had seen there. It was like there was a tree growing out of him. Even as they watched, young branches pushed through the skin of his hands, buds folding into beutiful, green leaves. From his mouth the stem of the three still stretched towards the bright stars above, budding and branching, growing thicker even as they watched. The screams had lost all semblance to anything human.

And then they had seen the fires. All the farms on the western side of the river had been burning. It had been like the spell they had been under had been broken, now every man feared for his own life, and that of their loved ones. They had run back to their homes, only to find several doors open. Arbein had rushed to his own cottage, small, built with his own hands. All he had in this world was inside those walls. His door had been open.

Snow had blown in, covering everything inside in a fine powdery coat. He rembered it being pretty. All white and serene, with the only colour being where drops of blood had landed, frozen to resemble red blossoms. Ol' Toker was lying in the middle of the floor, peaceful, like he was sleeping on a bed of crimson flowers. His old lady was on her back, cut open from groin to chin, pale and lifeless surrounded by her own flowers. There was so little blood, he remember thinking.

Since then they had only waited in fear. They had sent out their two best riders on their best horses, one to Glencaellyn and one to the Lowlands, but no one believed that any help was coming. They were alone, and out there, somewhere in the cold winter night the enemy was biding his time.

Arbein shifted his weight around, trying in vain to keep the cold from gnawing too deeply on his bones. He looked over to the man beside him, Tyme Miller, a young lad, palefaced and drawn, holding a crossbow older than himself. He tried to smile to the boy, and wished he could think of something to say that would ease his mind.

The arrow came from nowhere. It struck the boy in his neck with a soft sound, like a dagger piercing a linnen shirt. Tyme seemed suprised, then he simply fell over. Arbein could hear others fall as well. His instincts kicked in, he checked the powder on the firing-pan of his musket, put it to his shoulder and tried to find a target. Around him arrows from hidden hunters claimed more lives. He thought he saw something outside the walls and fired. The sparks burned his cheeks, and the smell of burnt beard and gunnpowder filled his nostrils. He was a soldier, and he would die like one! Powder, ball, no time for cloth or cotton, ramrod, he had never loaded a musket faster in his life. People were screaming now. Ramrod out, prime the pan, gods be damned, but he would take at least one with him.

The elf leaped onto the parapet. He was tall, ivory-skinned and white-haired, glorious to behold, clad in mail the color of snow. Arbein threw his musket to his shoulder. The elf seemed to smile as he swiped his long, slender blade across the musket. Arbein looked in wonder as he saw his left arm, the barrel of his gun, and his right hand fall to the snow. Red blossoms seemed to appear on the stones around him.

The last chapter

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The Cabal returned safely back to the Pius from Fornost, the Realm of the Frost Elves, after having rescued those who remained of the Seven Seekers.



The Seven Seekers, and their status:
Princess Ylvana Eclipseborn, alive and well. She never doubted that her dear Gryff would come and get them.


Tomas Parlay, alive, but suffering from chest rot, a form of consumption.


Brother Augustus of the Black Friars, alive and well.


Reigald Galdgrimson of the Enæìdūn, very much alive.


Thorgrim of the Enæìdūn, also alive.


Doctor Misterio, rescued earlier from captivity at the hands of the Ministerium. Lost in madness.


A servant boy, dead.


Aboard the ship, both parties wanted to hear of the adventures of the others, and so great tales were told. Princess Ylvana told of the adventures of the Seekers's, familiar to, but not neccesarily similar to Parlay's account. They had found the portal, and Misterio had calculated that the Moon of Emmeroch would indeed shine upon the plateu only a few days after their arrival. The servant boy had snuck away from the camp one night, and they never saw him again.


When the gate opened, the Seekers had followed the same path taken by the Cabal, and they had indeed come into the forest. There they had been captured by the Elves. On the escape of Dr Misterio, neither the princess or any of her compannions could shed any light. He had vanished from their prison one night, and they were suprised to hear that he was alive and on the ship.


The Great Matter of the chapter was the option presented by Huron the White. Burn the Five Forts, and thus break the seal that kept the elves from crossing into the lands of Man. Drake and Van Zaar wanted to summon the Dragon [Storyteller's note: Three times they may call for the Dragon] and put terror in the hearts of the Presbyterians, they did not however want to break the seal -- burn one fort perhaps, but they didn't want to let the Great Hunt loose on Pendrell. Captain Galan wanted to go all the way. Here he found support in Brother Augustus, "Let him who wants to avoid his enemy walk softly; he who walks to battle shall go forth boldly, with fanfare and bared steel." The debate surged back and forth for a long time.


Brother Augustus also pulled the captain aside and informed him that as a priest he had the authority to perform a wedding. He also spoke warmly of why he felt that the marriage was a Good Thing. Ylvana agreed.


The rest of the Cabal now wanted to call upon Octavian. [Storyteller's note: The relationship between Gryff and Octavian has been a matter of some controversy. There are those who are convinced that the two have a bond deeper than friendship. While this has been confirmed once by the player (and that candedness may be blamed on Single Malt), it has been denied more often.] So, as so often before, Gryff Galan sat in the light of the Elfstone and sang Octavian's name. He found him, deep in the Underdark, beneath Mount Guthûrgoth, in a dark, dead end. His retinue, numbering three Deciples, five Apprentices and three times seven Proxima when they set out, now numbered only one Deciple and two Proxima. Octavian himself lay mortally wounded on the hard stone, wrapped in his cape. It was a very moving scene when Gryff came to him in his mind.

Octavian told Gryff that they had indeed found what they were seeking, but in the battle that followed many had lost their life, and more still had perished in the aftermath -- something old and sinister had been stalking them. Even now, all the Hermetics could do was to keep the darkness at bay. And their light was faltering.


Of course, our heroes could not sit idly by while the brave Hermetics faced a nameless terror in the bowels of this mountain of madness. So it was that the Pius Cabal mounted an epic rescue operation, preparing a great portal-spell and calling upon no fewer than two gods to aid their efforts. [Storyteller's note: two rhymes were written, one for the spell, and one for calling on Geminon]


When the door opened into the dark subterranean chamber and light shone on the survivors the darkness reacted. Drake was unable to hold it back at first, and it was like a great, primordial hatered had become aware of their presence. Arkon's Gateposts guarded the portal, and as the light seemed to go out, Geminon, in the guise of a great Corinthian swordsmaster strode into the cavern, and drawing his sword he walked to face the Dark. Drake mustered his strength and wove a powerful ward. Enæìds now ran to the exhausted Hermetics and pulled them to safety. The portal was closed, and the connection severed. Octavian was safe.


Safe, but not out of danger yet. Drake has been studying the Arcana of Life for a while, though at this point he was still only an Apprentice. He has also been dabbling in Mythos matters (amongst other things, he stood face to face with Shaitan, the Drowned Man, in the dark storm) and when he examined Octavian's wound he found it poisoned. Something dark was deep in the wound, and it meant to kill him. Having consulted both Banzel and the ship's surgeon, dr Toombs, he believed himself capable of saving Octavian's life, although his left arm and shoulder had to be cut off.


This was Drake's Deciple-test. Assisted by the surgeon he cut deep into the flesh, so deep that they saw things no man is meant to see in any living human. Van Zaar, having offered to love Octavian on behalf of the captain, never left the patient while they cut. The captain sat in his quarters, praying to Arkon with Ylvana. At length Drake closed the wound and proclaimed the operation over. He had saved Octavian's life, and become a Deciple of the Arcana of Life. He then went on to promptly cure Parlay of his chestrot.


In the elated state of mind that followed, the Cabal decided to go to Five Fort Vale and call upon the Dragon, and leave it to the Dragon to decide what the Dragon would do. The marriage between the captain and the princess should also be performed there. Thus the Cabal again left the Pius by means of great magic.


The Vale lay peaceful in the hour before a bright winter dawn. The five forts, arrayed with some great and unknown design along key points looked peaceful and serene. The captain had scryed the valley earlier, and discovered that the forts lay upon ancient Hallows, and that apart from the structures themselves, there were no other apparent defenses.


There, on a hill overlooking the valley, by a caern built by Galan when he went hiking in the Vale three years earlier, Brother Augustus bound Gryff and Ylvana in wedlock. Then the Prince called the Dragon's name. Once. Twice. Three times. And then it came.


Coming out of the sun rising behind the mountains the Dragon flew over the Vale and landed infront of the Cabal. "You called," it said. The magicians now found it difficult to answer. Some tried flattering the Great Wyrm, others tried appearing powerful, most bowed their heads and felt insufficient. The Dragon looked at them like an enormous cat who is deciding whether or not to play with them. In the end the Prince had to speak. [Storyteller's note: His player wasn't at the table this evening, and so in effect they pawned the responsibility off on an NPC. Tsk-tsk.] He said: Break the Seal.


The Dragon took flight and circled higher and higher over the peaceful valley. Lazy as a bird of prey deciding which of these fat sheep it would devour first it soared in great circles, high in the air. Then it dived out of the sky. Like a star falling to the earth, a great comet, trailing bright fire it struck the first fort. Stones were shattered, and flames rose high in the air. Then it took flight again, only to gain altitude before again throwing itself on another fort. Now bells started ringing in the valley, and leaving the second conflagration the Wyrm flew low over the farms and villages, spreading death, fire and fear beneath its enormous wings.


The third and forth fort fell. Screams and bells ringing frantically rose to where the Cabal stood aghast. Some of them cried out to make it stop, and some might have wept. From the forest on the oher side of the River Manshield sounds could be heard, as if the forest itself was awakening. Landing infront of the last of the Five Forts, the valley burning around it, the Dragon seemed to have gotten warmed up. Spreading its wings, it seemed to draw in air, then it breathed a vast cone of fire. Fanning it with its wings it continued to breathe, whipping the flames to such a great heat that even the stones melted.


Then, as a horn could be heard from the forest, calling the Hunt, the Dragon took flight for the last time. It passed over the Cabal, standing in shock and awe on the hill, and flew off into the rising sun.


After this, the Cabal returned to the Pius, and then to Rederhafen, where they were dubbed Knights Arcane of the Order of the Golden Dawn.


Storyteller's note: Dragons kick ass! I've always loved them. And when my players leave it to an NPC to input the launch-data... Well, if my memory serves me, the Prince confessed some sympathy with the Elven Prince…


I must confess it felt extremely liberating to unleash such destructive power on my world. I want to go again ;)

Lady in Waiting

Artist: Amélie Hutt

"Junker! I bring reports from the baron Edelgade!" the rider shouted. He had galloped across the white sheet covering the fields around the windmill, reining in his foaming horse just as the faint thunder of far away cannons could be heard from beyond the forest to the south. He wore the brown and black uniform of the 4th Rederhafen Militia Regiment.

The man he addressed, Junker Hans von Stachelswein, was aloft, on the top deck of the mill, a good eight yards above the ground, in open air. A somewhat portly, quite sturdy-looking bald and bareheaded man, in a thick, wool-lined winter coat. Junker von Stachelswein had a perfect view of the serene, snow-covered landscape of southern Wezell; frozen fields, covered in an inch of new snow, the winter-bare trees distributed throughout the scenery in the subtle methodical manner of the Wezellians – here Man has tamed his world. A channel cutting a dark silver line through the picture a few yards from the windmill. Smoke rising in a lazy, unaffected tendril from the lonely farm on the other side of the waterway. All in sharp contrast to the flat, empty, gray morning skies above.

The Junker had been trying to capture all of this in watercolor for the last hour, and seemed almost relieved by the disturbance. Stepping back a pace, he took his sword, handed to him by his old bugler. "Not altogether bad, if I have to say so myself," he said, as if speaking to himself while fastening  scabbard to baldric.

"I've seen better, Hans," the scruffy old soldier said as he took down the easel and packed up the tools of the artist.

The officer gave his subordinate a hard glance, muttered something about his general contempt for the uneducated, and descended backwards down the ladder, into the belly of the mill.

The currier, a young man, not much more than a boy stood shivering at attention, trying not to rattle his teeth too loudly. The four blue-coated troopers of Stachelswein's Dragoons had left their cards and now sat watching the newcomer with the anxious patience of veterans. Beneath their winter coats each man wore breastplates of tempered steel. Junker Stachelswein tutted at the men as he climbed the last steps.

"Let's not waste more time before you get a blanket and some schapps, lad", he said as he stepped up to the freezing soldier, folding his hands behind his back and tilting slightly forward on his feet as he stopped. The private was not a large man, still he had a good head on the much older officer. "No good to anyone dead, now are you?"

The messenger seamed to have stumbled in his rethorics, and managed no better answer than a confused stutter.

"Well?" The Junker raised his voice slightly and squinted his eyes. "Let's have it, man!"

Duty overwhelmed his confusion, and the baron's dispatch rider straightened up, looked ahead, and made his report: "Junker von Stachelswein, baron Edelgade sends his compliments and wishes to inform you that the Pendrellians have been locked down in battle at Arber Bridge, three-quarter league south-east of Zaarbrügge. The strength of the enemy is twelve thousand infantry, rifles all. They field four and a half dozen of their best cannon, as well as three lesser batteries. Four regiments of horse have been confirmed – three thousand Ironbellies, and the Kings's Own Blackriver Cuirassiers."

"The baron informs you that while the artillery will no doubt prove costly, he is confident that he will carry the day, Justice willing. What small matter of discomfort he begs you assist him in is that Lady Thorne and her Black Coats have not been accounted for."

"Heh!" The Junker turned to the closest of his men, a hawk-faced, ushaven lance-corporal and was handed a rugged brown, ceramic bottle. Turning again on the militiaman he said, "Not as dumb as you look, are you lad?" He further unbalanced the poor man by handing him the bottle. "Distracting me with open blasphemy while delivering my orders." The old Junker tutted, and muttered something about heathens in general, and youth in particular.

"So the Black Thorn is loose under the good baron's skirts, and now he feels it's time for me to earn my pay?" He had held the question so that the messenger was interrupted as he was about to take a drink. "To end your duty here, Citizen, does His Grace wish to inform me of anything else?"

"Only that he bids you make haste, and not dally, Junker." It was apparent that the young militiaman enjoyed delivering the insult from behind the shield of the messenger.

Von Stachelswein laughed, clapped his hands, and shouted upwards, "Bugler! Sound the Lance! Let's hunt!"

Turning again to the currier, he said, "We'll leave you a meal, that bottle, and I'll send you a fresh horse shortly. Tell your master that he can worry about the cannon, and I will keep his backyard clean."

From the top of the windmill, an insolent, defiant, clear, call to arms rang over the landscape. Immediately a murder of crows took wing from a lonely oak across the channel. From the nearby wood faint command-cries arose, and within minutes a long, gray line of horsemen faded into view along the forest-line.

The four troopers had left the mill, and now sat mounted outside, awaiting the Junker and his bugler. One of them had unfurled a white standard with a black hedgehog, von Stachelswein's coat of arms. Inside the old officer stood bent over a map he held down to the deserted table, while the last of his men came climbing down the ladders from above. The messenger stood discarded, trying not to be in the way, and not long after he stood alone in the windmill. The sound of the horses faded, and around him silence descended. Nineteen years old, a university student, called to fight in what the Pendrellian Parliament have named the Witch's War.

As the six riders galloped off, the line of horses by the woods merged into two long columns and cut across the fields to meet up with their commander. The regiment moved with the effortless efficiency of veterans, confident and proud. They were mercenaries, and some of them had followed the Hedgehog-banner in wars all over Eria for more than a dozen years. While few of them nurtured any loyalty to any royal house, every man would follow the old Junker to the edge of the Abyss, and perhaps even further. Bastards and cutthroats all, yet they were amongst the best paid in the Wezellian army.

The bugler's horn sounded again, and while the regiment came to a halt five officers spurred their horses and rode up to the Junker. There followed a short discussion, and before long the officers returned to their men. Orders were given and distributed down the lines by shouting corporals. Two companies spurred their horses and wheeled off, one heading north along the channel, the other south, towards the distant thunder of the artillery. Only minutes later, the rest of the unit rode west at good speed.

After having put a league behind him Junker von Stachelswein ordered a halt in a small forest and dismounted. He walked a few paces off the road and stood there, gazing off between the trees for a time before calling for his bugler.

"What do you think she's up to?" he asked when he could hear the steps in the snow behind him.

"The Lady Thorne, you mean?"

"Off course, you goat-faced old fool! There's no reports of her or her Black Coats since yesterday when they burned the village of Anster."

"Why do you always talk to me about things I know naught about, Hans?"

"I'm not talking to you, I'm talking to myself. I just like the company." The Junker picked up a wooden pipe carved like a naked woman and started the process of filling it.

"She has one of the best outfits the Parliamentarians have fielded, yet she does not take battle," he continued. "She's not a soldier, she's a killer."

Behind him the bugler drew out his own pipe and for a while the two men occupied themselves with the familar ritual. From around them the sounds of horses and men, waiting patiently, came through the winter wood.

"I have a hunch," the officer said when both pipes had been lit and smoke hung around their heads like clouds obscuring mountain peaks.

The old bugler knew all about his commanders hunches. They had been riding together for a generation, and the Junker had always had a way of guessing what their enemies were up to. Some of the men even believed that their commander had the Gift. He didn't say anything. Instead he drew deep from his pipe and let the smoke pour slowly from his nostrils.

"She knows she's being hunted," the Junker finally said, "that's what she wants. She will try to draw us into a battle where her dismounted carabineers can use their repeating guns to full effect."

After a pause to send a few smokerings up among the branches he continued. "She will find a soft target, likely a town behind the lines, and she will make sure we find her. She will burn and kill. She hopes that we will become too enraged by the plight of the poor citizens to think clearly and storm the streets." He spat in the snow and stuffed the pipe back in his pocket just as the sound of a galloping horse could be heard coming towards them.

"Junker!" The young private reined in his horse, its hooves kicking up powdery white snow as it came to a standstill. "Rittmeister Fegel sends me! He has found the enemy in Erstmannshof a league and a half from here. Black smoke can be seen rising from the center of the town. Peasants say scores of black-coated soldiers rode into town less than an hour before we came there."

"So it is as I thought," the Junker said. He turned to one of his officers. "Ride in all haste to baron Edelgade. Tell him that he is free to die in front of the enemy's cannon, the Black Thorn is lodged behind him, and I will make sure it breaks when it comes out."

Other orders were given, riders bearing dispatches galloped off, and then the bugle called the Hedegehogs to advance.

As the day wore on into afternoon, Stachelswein's Dragoons moved up to within sight of the town of Erstmannshof. The town seemed small and insignificant, almost unreal contrasted against the snow, ocean and sky, all in shades of grey. Normally there would be smoke rising from the many chimneys, instead only a thick, dark tendril snaked upwards from the middle of the town.

Von Stachelswein took up possition on a low ridge about three furlongs from the nearest houses. In front lay the town, behind it a dense thicket of trees. From here he could respond to any attempt to escape. He kept half his strength hidden behind it and had three companies line up along the crest. The remaining two stood in plain view a little to the left.

The Junker dismounted, cursing the cruel fate of old age as his joints groaned at the effort. Pulling up his telescope he took in the scene. "Good ground," he muttered, "if the enemy behaves."

"Order Fegel to advance on the town," he said to the bugler. "Let's see what she's got," he added, to himself this time.

The two companies to the left trotted down the gentle slope in two columns. They stayed in formation until they had covered half the distance, then they split up. One company continued ahead on the road, the other broke off and advanced on a farm about one and a half hundred yards from the nearest houses.

From the ridge the movements on the field were watched carefully. Some held their breath, others muttered thanks to fate or even gods for not having been chosen to test the enemy's guard. Those who grew too bold in their blessings were quieted by gruff corporals.

The company, looking like a small, grey line against the white to those on the ridge, closed the distance at a carfree trot. One hundred paces. Seventy. The spectators held their breath. They could do nothing but wait and watch. The Junker had his telescope trained on the houses in front of the small force. Fifty paces. Twenty. The bugler swore a foul oath under his breath.

The company halted, and after a short moment a single rider continued ahead. On the ridge the men looked on, intently, as if they were watching a juggler try a particularly difficult trick and expecting him to fail.

The bugler stepped closer to the Junker. "Something ent level here, if I know anything about killing," he said in a low voice.

"I agree," the Junker replied, "I've had a bad feeling since I first saw the infernal town. There's something here I can't put my finger on..."

"Shall I sound the recall?"

"No, it is too late. The game is afoot."

The lone rider had vanished between the houses. The thin line of horsemen sat motionless. The company headed for the farm had dismounted and were occupying its buildings. The men on the ridge stood silent, behind them restless horses snorted, their riders standing beside them fiddling their weapons. Black smoke coiled upwards from within the town. Not a sound could be heard. A lonely sparrow landed on a naked shrub not five feet from the hedgehog standard.

Then the rider returned to his company, and not long after the men dismounted. As they fell into ranks around their banner a dispatch sped off towards the ridge. He had not covered half the distance when a single strand of smoke seemed to speed towards the dismounted soldiers from one of the outer houses. Only a heartbeat after, seven more shot forth. As the first reached its mark there was a voilent burst of fire and smoke, then as the rest struck the company vanished in snow and soil and smoke. To the men on the ridge the sound that reached them was like that of a cruel nightmare bearing down on the guilty dreamer: long banshee-wails followed by hard knells of thunder.

Before the dust had settled, hundreds of black-clad riders sallied forth from the northern edge of Erstmannshof. They cut straight for the ridge, threatening the flank of the three dismounted companies holding it.

The Junker reacted swiftly, and gave orders for the five companies behind the crest to mount up. Just as the bugle's challenging call rang across the field shouts came from the thicket behind the ridge The shouts were quickly drowned by a volley of gunfire. It sounded almost like a coarse, wet canvas was being torn by strong hands.

Junker von Stachelswein looked down to where now several men fell from their steeds, and almost obscured by the thick smoke from discharged powder he saw black-coated soldiers kneeling behind his own troops. He saw the same man fire twice without reloading his musket before he vanished in the smoke and chaos. All along the edge of the thicket gunfire could be heard, no longer the massed volley, but the sound of repeated shots, fired at close range at an enemy who had been caught unawares. It all lasted perhaps half a minute, and when it was over nothing but screams of men and horses, dead, wounded or panicked, scattered command calls, and the increasing thunder of approaching cavalry could be heard on the ridge.

The old Junker lay on the eastern slope, away from town. The ground he lay on was trampled and cold. He had caught a stray bullet in the throat, and his life was running steadily into the soil. On the hill the remainder of his men prepared for their last stand.

A tiny, brown sparrow landed on the hilt of a discarded sword stuck in the ground only a few feet from the old man. It sat there, unaffected, watching with its black, unblinking eyes as Junker Hans von Stachelswein died.

The Frost Elves of Fornost

~Huron the White~

Again, I turn to Kerem Beyit for visualisation.

From chapter seven in 'A Short History of the Five Forts', by Sir Rojer Arrenwall.

Old men in the Five Forts region sometimes tell tales of ancient paths, deep in the wild woodlands north of the River Manshield. They say that if you go deep enough into the forest, the trees will herd you onto these paths and not let you leave. They say that if you find one of these paths you will become lost, and that deep in the forest there is something old. They say that the last remnant of the Aelvinwoode lies beyond the river. They say that the forest hates humans. Some also say that deep in the Fornost Forest the unseelie still hold court, waiting for the day when they can visit upon Man the pain they have born since the Great War.

It is my belief that there are indeed such things in the woods north of the border. The realm of Fornost lies beyond the Pale, accessible only through a few dangerous paths. There are also still elves here; the last of the once illustrious House Andradhril. The Frost Elves of Fornost are the last survivors of their line, driven from their lands by humans wielding fire and steel.

Even when the world was young, an elven birth was a rare and wonderous thing, a miracle shared by the entire House. Likewise, the death of an elf is a deep tragedy, one that strikes grief into the hearts of all elves. Thus it is that when elves go to war, they accept death, both their own and that of their kin -- the elven word for war is sier'elāndal, literally meaning storm of madness.

The Frost Elves of Fornost have seen the great Aelvinwoode that once covered the Pendrellian peninsula burned, they have seen their people ravaged and killed, they have seen Man conquer their land, and they have gone mad. Led by the last Prince of the Andradhril, Huron the White, they wait, in the last elven bastion in the world of Man.

Awakening

"Find her! Find the cursed witch!"



The angry voice of the scarred soldier seems to come from right beside her. The girl presses her small body further into the narrow crawlspace beneath the floor. A sharp rock catches her already tattered dress and she feels the jaws of panic snap at her mind. She has always been afraid of the dark, but she has no choice now. She has to hide.


The soldiers came this morning -- it seemed a lifetime ago that she crossed the virgin snow between the houses to see to the animals. It had seemed like any other day. Still, something was wrong. It had been like an unknown threat gnawing at the back of her consciousness. She had tried to push it away, but in the small of her mind a tiny, urgent voice had kept screaming at her to run. Run, before it was too late. Ignoring it, she had started milking the two cows.


And then it had been too late. She knew it the instant she heard the horses. Too many to be travellers seeking to buy milk or cheese from her father. "Run!" the voice had shouted inside her head. "Run before they see you!"


She had heard his father greet the soldiers. Her father, the infinitely strong man who was never afraid of anything. This time there had been something she had never heard in his voice: fear. That had sparked something new in her. Anger. Anger of the kind that makes the whole world seem small and pitiful. She had understood what her father was afraid of.


He had been afraid of what the soldiers would do to her, his only daughter. Too many stories had made their way across the countryside the last years. Stories of rapine and plunder, of violence and death. The Ironbellies of the Parliamental Army were a law unto their own, some had said. They took what they wanted, and soldiers, she had heard the miller say once when no one thought she was listening, wants nothing more than women and wine.


Her father had waved it off when she had asked him about it. "They're only after the Macharites," he had said. "We're safe here. Most in our village are Presbyterians, my sweet dove." He always called her that.

Outside the barn she had heard a coarse voice ask her father how many people were on the farm. "Only myself and my daughter," her father had answered. The other voice had told him to call for her. Her father had told the soldiers that they were all good people of Reason here, and that they could take what they wanted. He had been pleading. The soldiers had laughed. She never thought laughter could sound so terrifying before. Her anger had grown, bathing her world in a blinding white light. Then the voice had told her father that hindering the will of the Parliament was punishable by death.


The shot had seemed to blank out all other sounds from her world. Without seeing it, she had known her father was dying. She had known that they were mocking the man who, while his life ran red into the fresh snow, begged them to spare his daughter.


When the door to the barn was opened and two of the soldiers had come in, her rage was like a white-hot fire, bathing her vision in sharp, cold light. She saw them laugh and call out to their companions when they laid eyes on her. One of them had made a grotesque face at her, his pale tongue licking the air. She had seen them grab her, as if from outside her body, and drag her out into the snow. The other soldiers had shouted, laughed and made obscene gestures when they saw her. They had groped at her, tearing at her clothes. The soldier who had shot her father, his face disfigured by countless ugly scars, had smiled at her. He had said something to the others that made them roar in laughter.


Then she had seen herself smile. Everything had seemed to slow down, to become clearer in a way. And then she had released all her anger.


It had been like a burst of light that seemed to boil the flesh of the faces and hands of the soldiers closest to her. Their clothes had been shredded, and their breastplates had buckled and cracked. Horses had screamed, throwing their riders, their manes and tails burning. Soldiers farther off, their eyes burst by the light, slipped and fell as they tried to escape.


Then she had fallen to her knees, empty. Her anger spent. The sound had come back into her world. Men and beasts cried in terror and pain, some dying. She had crawled to her father. She had cradled his head in her lap, holding him as his soul left his flesh.


His last words had been, "run, my sweet dove."


As she fled, she had seen the scarred soldier stagger to his feet. He had shouted for someone to kill her, but as she ran across the fields towards the village no shots had been fired. No horses had been spurred in pursuit.


Now she is hiding beneath the floor of an empty house. Its inhabitants has been killed earlier in the day when more soldiers came to find the witch. The little village has been turned on its head. All the women has been gathered on the square in front of the scholae. The men have been been killed or mutilated. The only sounds except the shouting of the soldiers are screams and unanswered cries for mercy.


She is terrified, but deep inside her she feels her anger build again. In the narrow, cold, dark space she starts to smile.