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Gates of Grief

The moon glows bright in the sky over the roaring fire. Silfurfal is much quieter than it was just a few hours ago. Warriors are still pacing the perimeter, scouting parties still searching the area. Clerics are still surrounding the Idol searching for answers. Anything to explain how this could’ve happened – how they can prevent it in the future. 

Alone in the dark just inside the gate, a man stands searching for answers of his own.

All the pieces of the broken gate are still laid across the ground. Splintered wood speckled with blood – he briefly wonders if any of it is his daughter’s. He knows the blood to the right is. Heard the allied forces talking about her facing three of his people on her own – how an archer shot her multiple times at short range in that spot. He knows she must’ve fought with everything she had. He also knows – so did they.

“Jorah?” A voice calls, several footsteps quickly following.

“Here,” He calls back, turning to see a man and his daughter, Runa, jogging towards him.

“There you are,” she says, “You weren’t back with the others, I was worried.” 

“I needed a quiet moment.” He says. The town is full of voices now, but he knows moving forward will be much quieter. So many of his friends, his packmates, are gone. The constant, bustling movement of the village will be gone soon. Everyone he knows here who survived will be moved away, who knows how many would return? 

Would he?

“We can leave you-” the man who approached speaks, but Jorah cuts him off.

“You are… Halfdan? I remember you. We sent you out months ago and you never returned.” He questions.

“We ran into their Warcamp. They cleansed our whole group that day.” Halfdan says, looking back at Runa. “Your girl tried to help me understand what was happening and came back later again to check on all of us.”

His daughter. His Runa, the girl who would’ve burned this village to the ground if it meant no lives would’ve been lost. Maybe burning it would’ve been better – maybe it could burn away the echoes of Mordok screams in his head. Screams he knows now were never Mordok. 

“I thought maybe he could help you, dad.” Runa says.

Jorah looks at her. He sees the track marks through her warpaint from tears spilling out of her eyes, sees the blood still caked in her hair and clothes, the sag of her shoulders. 

He remembers his little girl standing at the door of his forge, tears streaming down her face, back hunched and shoulders sagging with guilt, holding a broken arm ring. 

“Sorry, dad,” she whispered, “I didn’t mean to-”

“Remember what I told you about mistakes?” He asks her.

“We always try to right our wrongs,” she says. 

“Exactly.” Reaching his hand out to her, he continues, “Now come, I’ll show you how I fix these. It will never be the same, but we can try.” 

He sees her now, standing in front of him, looking just like that little girl he remembers, carrying her guilt on her shoulders. He thinks – maybe this is the closest he’s ever been to his daughter. Both beat down and broken, just the same as the gate doors strewn across the ground.

“I think I’d rather be with my daughter, Halfdan. But thank you.” He says, reaching out to her now. She takes his hand and squeezes. He isn’t sure if the squeeze was for him or her, but he squeezes back anyways.

“Of course,” Halfdan waves at them and walks back towards the main area.

“I don’t know how to help you, dad.” She says, “I couldn’t save-”

He cuts her off. “They tell me you were our warrior in the last moments. You wanted to save the villagers.”

“I tried.” She says, sagging deeper into her guilt.

“I tried too.” He says. The weight of his words sink deep into them both.

They stepped outside the outpost to sit on the wooden bridge. The orange glow of the fire illuminated the few Ulven who had been released from the cleric’s care. Their broken bodies were still wound in bandages while they await further care.

Nothing compared to the bodies outside the walls, awaiting their early morning funeral.

“What now, Runa?” Jorah says, more forlorn than she has ever heard him.

“Well, it may never be the same, but we can try to right our wrongs.”

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Morrigan Fieldcrow

PLAYED BY: Josephine

CHARACTER NAME: Morrigan Fieldcrow


PRONOUN(S): She/ Her


AGE: 28

RACE: Ulven

HAIR: Brown

EYES: Brown and bright green

OCCUPATION: Daughter of Gaia, counselor, advisor, diviner

KNOWN SKILLS: Witch magic


APPEARANCE: Dark haired and usually veiled, long robes and carrying a staff.

NOTABLE TRAITS: When unmasked her heterochromia, one brown eye and one stark green, is very notable

RELATIONSHIPS: Political representative for the Knights of the Ebon Veil

RUMORS: Considered to be clanless since she associates with a group made of mostly humans and syndar

BIO / BACKGROUND HISTORY: Morrigan grew up amongst pack Fieldcrow, raised mostly by all the matriarchs as a whole rather than a single mother. From an early age she began learning the ways of the witches, studying under the matriarch of divination. When the time came for her to step away from her pack and venture into Mardrun, she journeyed into the Great Wolf’s Hackles to fast and seek enlightenment, completing her training as a Daughter of Gaia. She came down from the mountain, claiming to have heard the voice of Gaia, and insisted it instructed her to wander Mardrun. Her quest was set; go to any in need of guidance and protection. Her gifts would be put forth to unite the broken and heal the bleeding. Fieldcrow understood and she was bestowed the title of Daughter of Gaia and equipped for her journey.

Morrigan traversed the roads between Clans for some time and helped any who requested her aid until by chance she met a small group of unique individuals. Although from different walks of life, their curiosity and proclivity towards charitable actions drew her towards them. Eventually the small group organized into the Knights of the Ebon Veil, and Morrigan took the role as Keeper Sable.

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PLAYER NAME: Bryanna Koca


CLASS– Rogue

RACE– Human

AGE – mid-20s

GENDER – Female 

HAIR – Darker blonde with normally some type of blue dye hair.

EYES – Hazel blue

OCCUPATION – Wherever she is needed

RELATIONSHIPS – “Grandmother” – Helga, “Grandfather”- Frode, and Blades of Sol through the Bulwark project.

Bea’s goals and aspirations in life are to have more options, than just a pyre for your internment, she used to listen about other death practices from Frode and would like to bring them back. Other than the internment one, she was raised to just be helpful when she could. She has great appreciation and empathy for those who have been injured and those who have passed and she will take the best care she can with their bodies and loved ones.

Bea, will not remember much from her early childhood, before coming to Mardrun, Helga and Frode would both tell her, she should count it as a blessing with the way they found her in the Faedrim, with blood-covered clothes, but no injuries. Helga would recount Bea’s age to be in her toddler years when they found her. They both felt guilty leaving Bea behind with no other living persons around, just blood trails trailing deeper into the woods. So they took her in, on what they deemed the safest way of living, never staying in one spot for too long. Even in Mardrun, they kept this lifestyle out of fear for their safety, so Bea was introduced to their nomadic lifestyle.

Shortly after they found Bea, they were given passage to come on a boat over to Mardrun. They may have lied about Bea being their Granddaughter to lower suspicion about why an older couple had a toddler with them. They also were concerned about what would happen to her and all the other children who lost their caregivers from the penitent and undead, so they decided to keep Bea and call her their own. They would have called her their daughter, but they felt they were too old to be called parents again. They lost their daughter to some penitent one night, never really healed emotionally from that incident, and would break down from time to time.

The later parts of Bea’s childhood and teen years were spent learning what she could from Helga and Frode. Helga was a healer and surgeon, the main source of coin in the family, and would teach Bea about herbalism, healing, and basic first aid, later on in Bea’s teen years she learned more basic surgeries and would help Helga from time to time. When Helga wasn’t teaching Bea about healing living things and how to take care of life, she would teach her cooking and baking skills and talk around the fire for hours about strange things in the world and symptoms to watch for in life. She was very superstitious about the unknown and it kind of wore off on Bea a little bit.

Frode on the other hand would teach her about basic survival skills. Bea would enjoy the times Frode would take her out hunting and fishing. He would also do the dirty work if Helga lost a life well doing her duty or there was a battlefield nearby, he would always go ahead and collect the dead and clean them up and make sure they went to next of kin before the body looters came for them. He never wanted a corpse to be disgraced with him around as he witnessed back on Faedrun.

Both of them tried teaching Bea what they thought the right way of living was and to respect life, death, and nature.

More recently, the peaceful life was disrupted, as they were traveling between stops, after just helping a village with some sickness afflicting the population, they all fell ill. Bea was better in 3 days, but her Grandparents only got worse. 

On the fifth day of the sickness, Bea emerged from her tent and started with the morning routine, letting her “Grandparents” sleep in, after she had made breakfast for them, she walked over to their tent and called out for them, but there was no answer. She waited a few moments more then opened the tent with a dreaded feeling washing over her. They were lying on their sleeping mats looking fast asleep, but the colors in their faces were all gone, almost purplish, worse than they were the day prior. She crawled over to them first feeling Helga’s head, only to find it ice cold. The dreaded feeling turned sickening and cut deeper into her, she threw her head to Helga’s chest to hear nothing, then turned her attention to her Frode and felt he was cold too. With tears forming in her eyes and the realization that they had expired, she cried and screamed about life and she wasn’t ready yet. She knew this day would come, but she never expected it to come this soon.

When Bea finally got a hold of herself a little better, she performed the last care she could give them and marked the end of their journey through life. She marks the spot of the internment location in her book, so hopefully, she can come and visit in the future, but she feels more at peace as she leaves to continue her journey to Lumiria.

Once Bea was in Lumiria, she got the supplies she needed. The whole time in Lumiria, Bea kept seeing posters up for Seymour’s Bulwark Shield Wall projects, it sounds like they need a lot of help and support up there. She didn’t know where she was going to head next after her loss, she thought maybe this was her sign of where to go next. So Bea decided to stock up for her trip and head north to join the project. 

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And then, the sky turned dark…

By Aladrin Greywood, Bard. 

It had been a year. Laboring under the hot sun, fighting off blood-sucking insects, digging into the earth more times than imaginable. Between the toiling of Mia and Oak, they had finally obtained the last of the reagents…. It was time to begin. The chest the Guardians carried with them housed numerous plants, ores, and woods. Some mundane, crafted on a whim in a time of necessity, while others rested in thick cloth, holding in the imbued magical energy that surged throughout its being. Those were no ordinary reagents. Iron… wood… both circulating mana within their molecules, having lain and lived within the folds of Mardrun and the pulsating magic contained inside. Both as dangerous as it was mysterious, the Guardians brought the contents to Key’s Crossing, home of the Ravens, with one goal in mind. 

Stanley Lorden stared intently at his anvil, almost willing it to prepare for the intense task at hand. Resting atop was his trusty hammer and dials, ready to receive the first reagent upon its cast metal surface. Stanley grabbed the first of several pieces from the chest. A thick hunk of iron, fashioned and formed for the Guardians by the trusted tools of the Golden Hand blacksmiths. Placing it within his heated coals, he blew air underneath, forcing a hot flame to emerge and cascade across the warming metal. Moments later, he pulled it from the red hot embers, placing it on the anvil. Taking his hammer in his hand, he envisioned the shapes in his head.

“I shall make…a hammer. One worthy of a Guardian”. 

He brought down his own hammer with resolve, feeling the iron underneath move and mold into the desired piece. After a length of time, he moved the other ingot into the coals to begin warming and preparing for his anvil. The two pieces would provide structure within the weapon, keeping the giant head aloft and firmly in place. After having shaped the two iron ingots into position, he steadied his nerves with several swigs of a nearby flask of ale. Reaching his gloved hand into the chest, he pulled forth several large pieces wrapped in a thick cloth. The energy contained could be felt radiating and vibrating from his fingertips into his very soul. The mana deep within him responded and danced within his body, rejoicing in the embrace of these infused reagents. Focusing deep within himself, Stanley connected the streams of mana and concentrated on each of their individual resonances. Iron and wood, soul and mind. He collected the pieces and unfurled the cloth upon an available tree stump. The metal glinted at the flames flickering in his mobile forge, while the dull browns and grays within the wood absorbed the warmth of his fire. Calling forth his knowledge of the arcane, Stanley took to the pieces with fervor and thrust the metal into his coals before taking his immense carving knife and shaping the wood into a handle. The rush of mana swirled about the clearing, as the metal warmed in the fire. His hammer anticipated the new material to grace its surface, and Stanley obliged, pulling the hot iron from the coals and taking to shaping their new design.

Wiping the beads of sweat from his head, having spent a long and arduous amount of energy with the reagents at his fingers, Stanley let out a deep breath of air. The hammer before him was complete. With a great sigh, he stood, lifting the hammer from the warm, hardened surface of his anvil. The massive weapon gleamed in the daylight, tremoring with the energy contained within.

“I shall name thee ‘Guardian’s Oath’. He said, holding the hammer in his hands. “For you shall reflect honor in the hands of your wielder”. 


Elzerith carefully examined the tools within his bag. Calipers, magnifying glass, vials containing various mixtures of oils, sanctified moon water, gems and magic bobbles. All of these assorted items, seemingly random in nature, carried an important task. A task that no one they knew had completed before, or yet dared to attempt outside cloistered pockets.

Today would be like any other day, one thought. The sun hung high in the air, as the satchel, freshly packed the night prior, swung from his shoulders, onto the dew-kissed earth. The contents rattled about inside, grimacing at the jostling, advising to calm one’s nerves. No matter how many times said it was “just another ritual”, it was known otherwise. While being a master of the arcane arts, one to stand toe to toe with the greatest of casters, imbuing an item, let alone a dangerous weapon, with mana and magic could be deadly.

There in the clearing awaited his friends. Compatriots beside whom he had fought a year’s worth of battles. Guardians. Golden Hand. These brave men and women had all combined their efforts to keep Mardrun safe and secure against the rising tide of Mordok and, as of late, Undead. They stood naught to gain personally from this enchantment, and could have found anyone else to aid Elzerith in his ritual. But, instead, they offered themselves and their own lifeforce in an attempt to see to its success. These were people he could call friends. Warriors, mages, clerics, and even Bards. Putting their lives at risk to aid him in creating their first magical weapon. 

Nodding solemnly in their direction, an air of stillness hung about them. One could feel the pulsation of the mana stream. It clung to one’s aura and called out. Responding with a silent prayer and an offering of comfort to the agitated magic hanging in the clearing, the caster closed his eyes, feeling the hairs on his arms and neck tingle as the mana flowed about and through his being. Grabbing at every tendril of power held with the soul. One could feel it. Their nervousness. And they could feel his.

With a heavy breath, he steadied his gait and opened his eyes. It was silent. All bodies nearby faced his gaze and awaited his word. Retrieving the ritual powder from a small chest brought along, he plunged a hand inside and began spreading it around, forming a large circle around the ritual mat emblazoned with personal runes. Within this shape, he placed several smaller circles and his own runes of power. Symbols that called forth his own life essence and expressed his connection to the mana stream. They meant as much to him as anything else, and reflected his openness to the swirling storm of mana that danced about the clearing. The Bards both Guardians and Golden Hand, began to fiddle with their strings and instruments, tuning them for what would be certainly the most dangerous song they would ever play. Several warriors stood by, courtesy of the Guardians and Ravens, prepared to defend the ritual members against any intruders that might attempt to disrupt, and ultimately call about the demise of the casters involved.

After finishing the circle, he finally spoke, calling forth for the weapon to be brought forward and placed in the middle, upon his mat. Surprise took him, as Stanley walked forward, putting the hammer haphazardly within the center of the symbolized circle of cloth. This was, without a doubt, the largest hammer Elzerith had ever seen, and after quickly remembering the Guardian’s stories about an immense man, clad in blackened armor having recently joined Shieldhaven, he shook his head. Clearly, the one capable of wielding this weapon must be one in the same. Elzerith struggled to reposition the hammer, feeling, firsthand, the considerable weight. Barely had his hands touched the handle then the coursing mana within the weapon surged through his fingers and into his body. This was truly a masterpiece of crafting and the magic within would be a fine vessel for his own arcane power. 

It was time. The hammer was in place, blue finch leaf lay carefully surrounding the weapon, ready to be consumed in the process, as his timers and tools sat nearby. The sun beat down on the gathering of people with a fierceness that echoed the intensity of the ritual about to happen. His friends in the Guardians stood in place in the smaller circles, having offered themselves, their mana, and their lifeforce for this task. Within the ritual circle, Liala, a cleric, Stanley, a warrior blacksmith, and Aladrin, his Bard and friend all extended their hands, ready for the process to begin. Nodding his head toward the assembled instrumentalists, Elzerith began.

With the soft playing of music behind them, the enchanter called forth to the mana in the air, asking it to calm and steady itself. The magic within the clearing responded, swirling about and dancing around Elzerith, filling his body with their song. With a smile, he could feel his own mana respond in turn, connecting to the world around him. Eyes closed and head held high, he absorbed the rays of the sun and basked in the heat generated both by its shine and the vibrating mana around him. He moved about the circle, chanting softly to himself the arcane teaching of his past and former life. Songs of Faedrun and the words of his masters. People he had long since left in the dust of time, he still remembered their utterings and held close all he had learned. Taking pieces of charcoal in his hand, he called to the people within the circle.

“Take heed. As the mana comes forth and into the weapon, combining with the reagents, you will feel pressure. Keep your hands extended and draw the following symbols upon them”. Handing each of the participants a piece of charcoal, he continued. “You are this one’s Warders. You shall contain the mana you channel into this weapon, as this one conducts the ritual. You must always keep your concentration forward and intentional. Do not falter, and do not yield to the force of the mana as it responds”.

In turn, he instructed the Warders to channel their own mana. Slowly. Bit by bit. Painstakingly contributing their arcane and divine connections to the mana stream, they, keeping their hands held aloft, pushed their power into the weapon. Elzerith continued walking about the hammer, taking measurements, adjusting the position of the weapon accordingly, and moving about his own magical powers to accommodate the flow of mana around him. And just when all mana had been channeled into the hammer, he began deconstructing the reagents and imbuing them with the lifeforce of those around him. 

Soon, the sun began to disappear. The winds within the clearing swirled angrily, sending leaves and twigs in all directions, and then, the sky turned dark.

Thunder echoed across the woods, causing shivers to run along the spines of the bards. Elzerith could feel their hesitation shouting toward them.

“DO NOT STOP! Warders! Lift your hands to the heavens!” Walking to each he clasped their hands with his own, as the sun blotted from the sky with darkening clouds. “Lend this one your willpower. Do it now!”

One by one, he drew from each of the Warders the essence of their being. The very elements of their existence. Containing it within his vessel, he held the heartbeat of life of the Guardians. Mana flowed rapidly through his body as energy pulsated and repelled against the intruding person’s lifeforce. Quickly turning, from each person contributing, Elzerith allowed the essence to transfer to the weapon, feeling it absorb the power within him, each time pulling further and further, his own energy. The strength within his legs was beginning to fade, and from the faces of his Warders and friends, he could tell they were quickly losing their own ability to remain standing.

“We’re almost there, hold on!” He shouted, having transferred the last of Aladrin’s lifeforce into the weapon. Gripping it, Elzerith could feel all the power leave his fingers and flow freely into the hammer. His left hand no longer able to close, he gathered his remaining resolve, and using his right arm lifted the weapon into the air, feeling the swirling magic about the clearing drawing to it as a moth to flame. Thunder crashed about and the sky lit up with dancing beams of light. The sun had all but gone as clouds and rain poured down upon the gathering.

“Manastream!” He bellowed into the sky, as all those around him held their increasingly shaking hands against the powerful waves of magic, emanating from the weapon. “Take this hammer as your home, fill it with your essence as we have, and accept it as your own!” With a final rush of his own magic, Elzerith pulled the weapon from the sky and thrust it into the earth, creating the bridge of mana from the air to the ground. Connecting his soul and body to those around him, and the wailing winds of magic to flow into the hammer. With this final transfer of lifeforce, all within the circle crumpled to the ground, Elzerith included, gasping for air.

Several minutes passed. The winds faded. The latent, cascading mana that flowed through the clearing subsided, and the world calmed to silence and peace. Stillness hung in the air, as the panting members of the Guardians gathered their strength, bringing themselves to their knees to catch their breath. There, before them, the hammer sizzled and steamed in the drops of rain that still poured from the darkened sky. Emanating magical force, the massive weapon almost shined with an iridescent glow, filling the onlooking gathering with awe.

Elzerith was the first to speak, slowly bringing himself to his feet, as he put a hesitant hand upon the pommel of the immense hammer.

“It is finished. This one gladly presents to you… Guardian’s Oath.”

Carefully, lifting the hammer to his chest, he quietly said a few words to himself, focusing his energy once again into the vibrations of the mana flowing within the hammer. With a flurry of his hands, he channeled mana through the hammer toward Aesa Nightriver, a nearby friend of the Guardians. As if by intent, an aura of magical energy transferred from the weapon to the awaiting Ulven. A soft blue glow could be seen surrounding Aesa. While unsure immediately of the effects herself, the surrounding Guardians with connections to arcane magic quickly understood that she was now protected under the hammer’s power.

It had been done. Their first enchanted weapon had been completed, and despite those involved feeling worse for wear, excitement loomed, as all congratulated Elzerith and Stanley. The two shook hands, nodding with respect at the other’s accomplishments. This marked a new beginning for the Guardians. A new type of magical item that could turn the tides forever against the invading armies of corruption. And even in the pouring rain, all celebrated with anticipation of what this meant for their small faction.

Elzerith, amidst the cheering gathering of friends and allies looked up at the sky and the disappearing sun. All around him, mana swirled, dancing off his body and soul as if thanking him for including them in the ritual. Turning in the clearing once again, he smiled. This merry group of adventures had rekindled his connection to the manastream and given him a new sense of responsibility and strength. 

He stood there, in their presence… the Celestine, Elzerith, an enchanter.

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October 2023 – An End to the Madness

Word spreads from Clan Shattered Spear. Their prolonged war effort against the Mordok is showing promising signs of coming to a final conclusion. Thanks to the strength of the Shattered Spear warriors as well as the unquestionable support from some of their trusted allies, the Mordok forces have been pushed back to where this all began: the village of Silfurfal, known to some in whispers and rumors as “The Maddened Village”

Reports have come in that the village has been bolstered and barricaded and that a large Mordok force has taken up residence inside along with the same villagers that have been plaguing the area. More alarming is that several reports have included mention of one of the mysterious blue-clad Mordok seemingly leading the forces within the village. This combined force has dug in deep and in response the Shattered Spear warpacks have surrounded the village and begun the process of setting siege.

As the camps come together Shattered Spear sends out a request for aid once more. From their request it’s clear that they feel this will be the final battle of this campaign and they seem almost excited to share this moment with the people of Mardrun as a whole. There is even promise of a great feast for any who come to help see this bloody chapter to its conclusion.

All this being said, it’s clear that aid will still go a long way in this endeavor. While Shattered Spear may be able to front the bulk of a siege force to bring Silfurfal to heel, any prolonged siege will in all likelihood spell the death for any Ulven still within the village as the Mordok inside would turn to devouring them long before they were able to be starved out. A large showing of force will allow Shattered Spear warriors to move north around the village and cut off any incoming Mordok reinforcements while a second overwhelming force presses into the village to remove the Mordok foothold once and for all.

People from around Mardrun flock to Shattered Spear lands, eager to see to the end of this most recent Mordok invasion and show once again that the people of Mardrun stand united against the Mordok onslaught. The banners of several Shattered Spear allies are already present in the various siege camps, no doubt personally invited by Shattered Spear leadership ahead of the public calls.

Soon the lands surrounding Silfurfal are filled with people from all walks of life, ready and willing to lay siege or support those who do.


Under the banners of Shattered Spear and their allies, the warriors marched on Silfurfal. Though an early winter chill gripped the landscape the people found themselves stalwart in their task. Unfortunately the opposition was quick to meet them. A couple of skirmishes broke out on the road leading up to the village as the allied forces worked to push the Mordok and their corrupted villagers out of the way.

The battles were brief, but incredibly bloody. The allied forces suffered severe damage to their bodies and their equipment, but held firm and were able to rout, kill, or capture their enemies. A small handful of villagers and even an unfortunate corrupted Ulven trader that was caught in the area were able to be taken back to the camps to be cleansed and healed.

The second skirmish of the day saw the return of the Alpha that plagued the allied forces during their last push into the area some months back, but more alarming was the appearance of one of the strange, Blue-Clad Mordok. It appeared smaller than the other Mordok, but dressed in much finer clothing and showed a preference for deep, rich blues. Despite its smaller stature, the rest of the Mordok showed it an incredible amount of deference, often hunching even lower when it was nearby. The Blue-Clad Mordok and the Alpha pulled out of the fight early, seemingly satisfied with the damage and poisoning that they had caused. With this, the allied forces were able to push the Mordok and their corrupted Ulven allies back to the village.

With the village outskirts cleared, Shattered Spear and its allies moved their siege camp up. Removing any remaining stragglers and saving a couple more villagers, the new camp was set up on a hill across from the village and the sound of blacksmithing and horns of war could be heard as the siege reached a new phase.

After an engineer assessed the defenses, the next couple of hours had the allied forces bring a battering ram to the gates of Silfurfal and, through a torrent of arrows and spells, set to the tedious, back-breaking work of turning the proud gate into splinters. Villagers and Mordok spilled through cracks in the wall and assaulted the flanks of the siege party and at times forced them into a retreat to reorganize. The Blue-Clad Mordok’s poisoned arrows nearly caused multiple deaths, but equally shocking was when a handful of warriors heard it mock them in their own tongue as they retreated. Each round of ramming the gate caused great amounts of broken equipment and bloodshed, but the allied forces remained stalwart and returned repeatedly to see the job through.

Before the gate was able to be broken, one of the allied warriors stepped forward and challenged the Alpha to an honor duel. The Blue-Clad Mordok spoke up in trade speech and accepted the duel, sending the Alpha forward as its champion. A tense energy held the collective warriors as they watched the duel progress. Both combatants fought with unrelenting force, and the Ulven warrior was repeatedly thrown around the fighting ground as the Alpha’s ax struck with an unstoppable pushing force. In the end they both fell to each other’s blades in the grips of their unbridled rage, and shock took both armies before the brief silence was broken. The Mordok attempted to claim the body of the fallen Ulven warrior, but the allied forces charged forward with fury and were able to push in to reclaim him. The warrior was successfully rescued during the chaotic fighting and brought back to camp where he was immediately tended to by a healer. 

Breaking down the gate and holding the Mordok forces proved to be a great challenge, and the Warpack leader and rest of the siege camp found themselves having to make a difficult choice. They had only been somewhat successful with saving villagers during the gate sieging, and many more villagers were dying during these fights than in the outskirts. The opinions of all were taken into consideration as it was to be decided if the new focus would be saving the villagers at the cost of taking the village, or if they would still focus on taking the village and accept the increased casualties of the corrupted people of Clan Shattered Spear. After heated discussion and a close vote, it was decided that the village had to be taken at the cost of the villagers. While some additional villagers were able to be saved as the siege continued, many more had to die to keep the siege successful.

With the cracking of wood and a hail of splinters, the gates of the village were shattered and a volley of arrows and magic spewed outward from the village as the allied forces pushed their way inside. The Blue-Clad Mordok was seen laughing and taunting the allied forces as its body dissipated into the mana stream, taking with it the fallen Alpha’s seemingly enchanted ax. Any semblance of order quickly dispersed as fighting spread throughout the village. A small number of villagers were captured and brought to the camp to be cleansed, but the majority had to be cut down and executed where they lay. In the final minutes of sunlight, surrounded by the blood of Ulven villagers, a team of ritualists cleansed the Corruption Idol in the middle of the village that is believed to have jump-started this entire brutal chapter in Shattered Spear history; hopefully bringing it to a close.

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October 272 – News and Rumors

The harvest season is in full swing across Mardrun. The areas that are not currently locked in battle with the Mordok have started building up their stores for the coming winter. Luckily Clan Goldenfield has had a bumper crop year and they’ve already begun to set aside excess grains and vegetables to be sent to Shattered Spear to make up for their lost harvests. As people mill through towns and villages, trying to get the most of the last few warmish weeks before things begin to wind down they bring with them News. And. Rumors!

The newest member of the Newhope Council, Duke Aailmyr, has been hard at work since he took up his new title. The Syndar District of Newhope has seen a great amount of activity in the recent months. It seems that the invention of Enchanting has caught the eye of many of the Syndar of Newhope as they see it as a way to help work toward restoring some of the cultural glory of their peoples on Faedrun. To this end Duke Aailymr put forth the capital to start a training program for young Syndar within the city who wish to take up this trade and help to bring back the delicate beauty of Syndar magic works. The pale blue arcane lamps that recently began to illuminate the Newhope Market District have been revealed to be the first of many projects that Aalimyr has planned to bring a kiss of Syndar culture to Newhope. Only time will tell how this young Duke will leave his fingerprints on Newhope.

Further news from Newhope! The Council has been hard at work building diplomatic ties with the strange Syndar from the Outlands. It seems that these efforts have begun to pay off. A small delegation of Northern Syndar have agreed to travel to Newhope and to develop a proper understanding of the people in the South. Duchess D’Argent sent a ship along the west coast of Mardrun and picked up the visitors from the outpost on the western side of The Outlands and brought them back to the docks of Newhope. The voyage went well and reports say that the seas were calm and that little more was seen than Ulven fishing boats off the coasts of Grimward territory. Newhope has pulled out all the stops and will spend the next few months attempting to ingratiate themselves to their new guests.

A chronicler has been working their way through Shattered Spear lands and recording the stories of any of the Ulven who were able to be saved from the grips of the strange madness that has been plaguing their lands. This scribe has begun detailing their findings in a book that they no doubt plan to sell, but some of the stories have escaped their grasp and found their way to the ears of eavesdroppers giving way to a series of rumors that have spread over the continent. The core truths that all of these rumors seem to hold is that the maddened Ulven all believed themselves to be fighting Mordok warriors at every turn when in reality they were fighting Ulven and Colonists the entire time. They also seemed to have believed the real Mordok to be nature spirits that had come from the forests to help them battle back the “massive Mordok army”. It is very common for these Ulven to pass out upon being cleansed and when they awake the last thing they remember is being surrounded by Mordok. Hopefully the assault on Silfurfal will see this bleak chapter in Shattered Spear history come to a close.

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Bella Shroom

PLAYED BY: Brenna Norton


GENDER: Female

PRONOUN(S): She/her

CLASS: Rogue

AGE: 26

RACE: Human


EYES: Hazel

OCCUPATION: The best damn cook this side of the Great Forest

KNOWN SKILLS: Cooking, Knives

BIRTHPLACE: Doesn’t get into it. She’s from a Village in Nightriver. Stop asking questions.

APPEARANCE: Usually wearing an apron or large gloves to protect from the fire, Bella is often clad in practical clothing to be ready to cook in any environment.

NOTABLE TRAITS: Would fight you for a potato. Doesn’t care if she’d lose if the potato looked tasty enough

RELATIONSHIPS: United Bulwark of Mardrun project (BoS) – Heard someone was looking for talented, brave people to help out in efforts along the Shield. Hate the thought of yall dying on an empty stomach or coming back after watching others die. Figured a good stew can go a long way.

RUMORS: Occasionally contacts the blackmarket for… harder to obtain ingredients. Just as likely to trade in food as with standard currency


Bella Shroom was raised alongside a roaring hearth and an abundance of food from what she can remember. Her early years on Faedrun are all but a memory as she grew and adjusted to the hustle and bustle that accompanies being a colonist on Mardrun living near Ulven territory. However, the land itself was healthy and invited all manner of flora and fauna to grow. All the nearby fields held herbs to season the meat the forest creatures gave, the water bubbled up to become stew and mead, and even the cool air helped keep food fresh for longer. Alas, she had to outshine the cooking she grew up with and decided to travel nearby townships and cities seeking new recipes and flavor combinations. All in search of her final destination – a town full of flavor so enticing she hoped to never leave.

Her travels took her far and wide, but never settling in any place for two long. Newhope, Aylin’s Reach, Bladehome… all manner of Ulven townships bringing forth unique and delicious dishes graced her travels. Occasionally, she’d stop by the small home at the border of Clan Nightriver and Newhope to check in with her parents and share some of the more interesting recipes discovered along the way. Food is best seasoned through sharing with those you care for and those you stand against opposition with – something Bella learned rather quickly during her travels in more dangerous climes.

Hearing of recent calls to aid for Clan Shattered Spear pushing back the Mordok Bella pivoted her interests: perhaps on the frontlines of battle her blooming skills could be put to the test; her skills to the skillet. Bella joined the effort under the United Bulwark of Mardrun and started the long journey north to feed those poor, flavor deprived soldiers. Her goal is simple: give a spark of light to those burdened by the defense of Mardrun through the warmth and comfort of home cooking.

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A Shadow of Hope

Journal date 214 of the Commonality Calendar, 2nd night of Oasis post defense:

Nights here are unsettling at best and screams are often heard from dusk until dawn. Waves of dead bash against our shields and every moment we find ourselves on the hard chairs of the nearby tavern are a luxury. We lost several after darkness fell, but that’s become standard as we travel across the desert no matter where our garrison stops. 

Tonight, however, was a bit different.

While I stood ready, bones shaking from the shriek of a nearby Banshee, I heard a disturbance from the direction of the tavern – a Wraith. Cloaked in black as if in permanent mourning, the Wraith almost glided through the side gate. I dare say that we would have all perished there had the Wraith decided to take advantage of the confusion. Just as fast as she appeared she was gone; sliding back into the shadows cast by the dancing lanterns nearby. I was later told she likely recalled out, but it was strange to think why. All undead seek only death and destruction, so why was the Wraith unlike the rest. The lingering thoughts were soon forgotten as I turned to face the still present danger of the Banshee and a few lingering zombies.

Calm soon followed the Banshee’s retreat. Cleaning wounds, tending to the fatigued, and doing our best to bury the lost filled some time after the onslaught. Left to my own devices and finding a brief respite I sought out the tavern once more. I was savoring stew and honey buttered bread when one of the May’kar squad leaders gave an exclamation of panic. Undead, and just standing in the camp waiting for… something. Once more, the Wraith was amongst us. I barely got a glance of the light on her skeletal form as once more the shadows claimed her. With no need for me to draw my sword, I finished my stew with an increasingly unsettling feeling forming in my stomach. Why was the Wraith waiting for us? During the day I’d witnessed her might in casting down the stalwart Vandregonian and May’kar alike. While likely above my paygrade I found myself locked into finding the answer to the newfound undead riddle. 

As midnight approached, I readied myself for a change of the guard. My chance to pray even more fervently that the undead find other places to corrupt with their presence. Locked in my thoughts, I heard one of the tavern ladies approach. She was a friendly sort, if not slightly addled by the grotesque times we now live in. I first thought she only came to complain of unruly tavern goers, but then more information matched previous descriptions of the Wraith… All black, quite even when offered all manner of beverages and refreshments – seeming to want something but unable to convey what.  I watched as the Tielorrien mage walk forward and began quiet conversations. 

We were speaking with an undead; not a Blood Mage, not a Penitent addled and lost with calamity, but with undeath itself. A crowd gathered within the tavern just inside the lantern light and I inched as close as I could without leaving my post. I heard whispers throughout the crowd as we watched with bated breath. My hand hovered over my sword, certain that I could not save the mage but confident to at least shield the nearby caravanners. I watched once more as the impossible happened – the Tielorrien walked away, back turned to the Wraith as she melted into the black of night. We hadn’t just spoken with the dead, we’d survived without a fight and without our blood on the ground. I found myself near tears at the thought of Illyara blessing us tonight.

I returned to my watch, unable to slip away from my duties to ask more of our mysterious visitor. Luckily, I was stationed close enough to a few squad leaders talking over the recent events with our most brave mage. The Wraith was a mother looking for her child and was worried we’d hidden them away from her embrace. A mother like the countless we’d had to place on caravans to move towards the coast as we buried their children. Like the countless more who undoubtably joined the lost as they ran back into contested ground at the sliver of hope their child’s safety had. I had heard about the Oasis’s dire situation some time ago upon arrival, with tales of children being tasked to dig to safety until tunnels collapsed and food ran scarce. I fret to think this Wraith’s, this mother’s, child was amongst those buried in near futile attempts to escape the Undeads’ push towards the Oasis. Perhaps it was so. 

I write this tonight as I find myself unable to sleep after the new happenings. The undead are not all willing participants of carnage and corruption. Not all seek our total annihilation and break from sanity; some simply willed for an impossible future so ardently they remained alive after death to seek resolution. They became undead through love to find their child. 

The Wraith will soon find we know not of her child. Perhaps the mages and those of better understanding will be able to quell her rage and loss and peacefully ferry her away. I will send another prayer to Ilyara for it to be so. I now hold my blade understanding that we will one night need to bare arms against the Wraith, but I can now only see myself baring it against a mother. I know what I must do; but do I have the strength to carry through? Only my desperation will tell.

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Latać Sokolov

PLAYED BY: Ryan Ulatt

CHARACTER NAME: Latać (pron: LAH-TAHch) Sokolov



CLASS: Cleric

AGE: 25

RACE: Human

HAIR: Brown

EYES: Blue

OCCUPATION: A Wandering Medic. Latać dedicates his life to the healing of others, no matter who. He charges nothing and expects no payment, after all, what time is there for payment when one is dying on the floor or recovering from a grievous wound? To further his purpose, Latać joined the charitable Golden Hand, a group of like-minded comrades who share the same overlapping goal of the free assistance of others and who have the support structure to make sure he, himself can survive.

KNOWN SKILLS: Latać is primarily skilled, or at least knowledgeable, in various medical practices.

BIRTHPLACE: Latać was born in a small village on the southwestern coastline of the Kingdom of Vandregon on Faedrun. He was the tenth son of eleven children born to the village doctor, Casimir Sokolov and his mother Masha Dragunova. He wasn’t particularly close with many of his siblings, only his younger sister of two years, Yulia. Because his parents were busy most days, either with caretaking or housework, Latać spent many of his days looking after Yulia and playing doctor, lovingly mimicking his father’s work.

APPEARANCE: Latać tries to keep as clean of an appearance as possible for a wanderer. He typically wears a cloak or coat of some sort, some gloves, and a pair of traveling pants and boots.

NOTABLE TRAITS: Latać is an ordinary fellow, his only outstanding trait is that he prefers to wear gloves to every occasion–it’s an extension of his medical profession and personal preference to keep as clean as he can.

RELATIONSHIPS: Other than his ties with his fellows of Golden Hand, his sister Yulia, and adoptive father Arend Falk, Latać has no other relationships. As a wandering medic, he goes where needed for a while then leaves. Of course, his rapport with patients is well and all, but further personal attachment is flatly rejected.

RUMORS: Latać is rumored to have murdered a man via purposeful malpractice. Who that man is varies from telling to telling, even the implements of the malpractice are different in each story. The only constant is that the murder was long and torturous for the victim 


Latać Sokolov was born to a family with ten other siblings in a small village on the southwestern coast of the Kingdom of Vandregon on Faedrun. His father, Casimir Sokolov, was the village doctor. Latać admired his father’s work and would mimic his medical practices when not looking after his younger sister, Yulia.

However, at the age of eight, with the Southern Army of Vandregon being decimated by the undead horde emerging from the destroyed Kingdom of Aldoria, Latać and his family made haste to evacuate from Faedrun to Mardrun. However, on the journey over to Mardrun, the majority of Latać’s family perished from consumption and hunger, leaving him and Yulia the only two survivors. The sight frightened Latać to no end, watching his family die, falling like flies owing to sickness. The day his beloved father died, Latać vowed to become a healer and act to prevent disasters like this from happening again.

Upon arrival at New Hope, Latać and Yulia were taken in by one of the medics sent to examine the refugees from Faedrun. The kind, old doctor Arend Falk, a man with no children nor wife, adopted the two orphans; Dr. Falk took the two as apprentices to his medical work, educating them as best he could. By the age of twenty, Latać had become a knowledgeable young medic and decided to head out on a journey, to heal as many people as he can. Yulia, another promising student, decided to stay behind and help Dr. Falk in his clinic.

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Edric Haye

PLAYED BY: Tucker Burdick

NAME: Edric Haye

CLASS: Warrior

AGE: 20

RACE: Human

HAIR: Blond

EYES: Blue 

OCCUPATION: Roaming mercenary before joining the Golden Hand

KNOWN SKILLS: Armor Proficiency, Two-Handed, Tough.

BIRTHPLACE: The small village of Penshaw outside of New Aldoria

RELATIONSHIPS: Penshaw, due to his failure with his previous mercenary group, he was shunned from the town.


Edric Haye was born in a small settlement on the rugged continent of Mardrun called Penshaw a day’s travel from New Aldoria. The settlement was plagued by frequent raids from bandits and rare raids from Mordok. The land’s untamed wilderness and the constant threat of Mordok attacks shaped Edric from an early age. Edric’s father was a fairly renown mercenary in the area and with the popularity also came the consequence of living in a constant state of possible attack. Gilbert, Edric’s father, saw that this was very mentally taxing on them, and he deemed that this area was far too dangerous of an area to raise his family, and not an environment he could see his young son thriving in. He would ultimately make the decision to move to a small port town named Birchwood and retire from his life as arms for hire. 

At the ripe age of fifteen Edric was volunteered by his father, Gilbert Haye, to join a small band of mercenaries that had been contracted to protect Birchwood, as they didn’t encounter much danger and to keep the family tradition of working as arms for hire. Here Edric learned how to fight and become a mercenary. After one year Edic’s contract was completed and he decided to form his own mercenary band, with some minor retaliation and kickback from his dad, with other young fellow fighters in Birchwood that he had become very close with. His new group was called Blacklake. Blacklake’s first mission was to escort a pretentious up and coming elite whose first thought wasn’t to invest money into his escort rather to save a few coins after investing most of his trip’s money on clothes and hearty food. While this elite was in the town news spread quickly to neighboring criminal groups where plans for an ambush were quickly drawn up to attack the small caravan after its departure from Birchwood.

The night was cold and crisp, bundled with newly hand woven and sewn garments from the young mercenaries’ parents as a wish of good luck on their journey they departed with their newly acquired employer. As the night grew on the boys became tired so they decided to take shifts watching the caravan. As it came time for Edric’s turn to watch the sun had just barely graced the horizon and the birds had just begun to sing. The grass was covered in a half-frozen dew and a light crisp breeze graced his face as he poked his head out of the wagon. A large section of his watch went well, nothing out of the ordinary, everything was quiet, the only sound that emitted from the caravan was the sound of hooves on half frozen mud, creaky wagon axels, and the occasional cough from the wagon drivers. Before his watch Edric found it very hard to get to sleep out of his pure excitement that they were finally on their first detail, let alone a detail from a nobleman, he thought this was too good to be true. This left Edric waking up groggy and unfocused by the time his watch had come around. About fifty yards down the path a small trap lay where thieves built up a sizable force ready to attack the unsuspecting caravan. The trap was a small pit dugout with a blanket of foliage covering the top. By the time the caravan had reached the trap it was too late. The front left wagon wheel of the lead wagon fell in and suffered heavy damage. This was exactly what the band of thieves had hoped for. In one instance a flock of cloaked individuals with face shrouds darted from bushes and trees lunging at the lightly defended caravan. Edric, not completely knowing what was happening, drew his sword and clashed with one of the burglars. In the commotion the rest of the Blacklake mercenaries jumped from their wagon that they were resting in half awake and hastily equipped armor. The novice fighters were no match for the veteran thieves that were attacking. Before anyone truly got their sense the caravan was destroyed. Edric, finally fending off his attacker, he would turn, ready to face the rest of this attacking faction, would spin to his horror to see the rest of his band of brothers cut down. The sheer sight of seeing his close friends sent him into a panicked frenzy, ultimately deciding to drop his weapons and dart into the dark unknown woods. In freight of returning to his town and deemed a coward he chose a voluntary exile. Edric, being as young as he was, had no idea how to properly survive in the wilderness. For the next week he would wander aimlessly through the labyrinth of trees, forging whatever berries he was taught were safe to eat during his youth, he would eventually find himself starved. After succumbing to his malnutrition, he slumped over accepting his fate. But like a holy hand extending from the heavens a group marked with purple banners and a golden hand insignia came to his aid. They offered him food and shelter, and in return he signed a contract to work for the group as a personal bodyguard for the elites of the group. To this day he still remains a loyal and unwavering guard of the group that helped him when his world was stripped away from him.