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Town of Ghosts

Home. It had been months since Saga and Durnir last laid eyes upon the port town they had called home for the last few years. The last time they had seen it it had been set ablaze by a raiding party sent by Grimward, shortly after the moot at Clan Ironmound, in one of the first attacks of the war.

They had their excuses for not returning here sooner. They were busy proving themselves to the Stormjarl Einherjar, or they had to go see about helping Clan Shattered Spear to the North, Gaia protect them, or Saga needed to help out at the Hospital. But there was one other reason they hadn’t returned yet. They feared the worst.

The last time they were here their daughter, Maeva, had been ripped from Saga’s arms in a crowd of fleeing and frightened people. In addition, Saga’s entire family had been in town that night and none of them had managed to contact her since. All were missing.

In Saga’s mind, it was as if so long as they hadn’t returned here she could live with the belief that Maeva was fine. Saved by a passing stranger or found by Saga’s Mother or Sister or Father. Surely, she thought, Gaia would look out for Maeva and protect her until they could be reunited. She just needed to keep her faith in her heart and pray to Gaia the way her Mother had taught her. So long as she hadn’t returned here Maeva could survive in a sort of liminal space in her mind, somewhere between life and death.

Now, as their small boat, the very same one they had escaped in, approaches the shore she finds herself staring not at a thriving town in need of a little repair but a burnt and blackened shell of what used to be. She had hoped to see the survivors of that night hard at work on fixing what Grimward had ruined. Instead there is no one. It is eerily silent.

Of the homes closest to the docks themselves only the frames of the houses remain, none fully intact. Saga is immediately gripped by anxiety and worry. Stuck reliving the moment Maeva was lost, stuck thinking of what else she could have done that night. Breathing in and out deeply to steady her emotions, Saga scans the shoreline looking for any dock still intact enough to moor their boat.

She spots nothing. Grimward’s raid was nothing if not successful and efficient. The docks are utterly destroyed; only a few wooden posts sticking out of the water indicate where they used to be. The remains of a few ships that never managed to leave their moorings provide further obstacles for any ship trying to get near.

Seeing the near-total destruction, Durnir begins to row their vessel closer to bare shore. With a heave, he runs the ship aground slightly, enough to hold it in place as he dismounts into knee-deep water with a splash. He begins to heave the boat onto dry land, his wife still in it, that he might keep her dry. Only once there’s dry enough ground for her to step onto does he stop and consider his thoughts and words for a moment. “Saga… We should not expect to find much here. Survivors would not stay in these ruins.”

Saga sighs. “I know… but maybe we’ll find something. A note or a body or… or something.” Saga takes Durnir’s hand to steady herself as she leaves the boat taking with her the long rope they would normally use to attach the boat to a dock. Looking around she finds the remains of a signpost and ties the rope off.

Navigating the town without the landmarks she is used to is a difficult task. Her mind turns to the corridor between two close buildings where she lost Maeva, but she’s not ready to go back there yet. Not now. Not yet. Instead she focuses on other family members. “Dalla’s home should be nearby,” she says, mentioning her younger sister, “The fishmonger’s store was right near the docks and Dalla lived so close by her home always stunk of fish in the afternoons.” Saga smiles remembering Dalla’s boisterous complaints about her neighbors. “And Mother and Father lived above Mother’s clinic near the center of town. Maybe they left a sign there for me, if we can find it.”

Durnir set himself to the grim task of having to be, barring divine intervention, the one there to witness his wife’s despair. “Let us go to the clinic then.” The silence around them was deafening, punctuated only by the slight scuffing of their boots on the street’s cobblestones, and the scraping of the debris tossed by their strides. It was a silence he was normally comfortable with, one that was very familiar to him. But now it served only as a start reminder of how much had been lost. It was the absence of life and laughter. It was, in every sense, haunting.

As the two make their way through the ruins of their own home they are faced with the distinct lack of evidence of the raid left behind by the fire. There are few bodies here. Only a few white bones picked clean by animals have been left behind. No charred Grimward raiders lying dead next to the slain town guard. Saga grips Durnir’s hand tightly. “I thought there would be more here,” she says.

Durnir finds himself relieved. Though he was no stranger to corpses, they were the bodies of the freshly slain that littered the battlefield. Warriors, cut down, still fresh to the point that they might be confused with the living, given away only by their wounds and their vacant gaze. The bones, on the other hand, were so far removed from the people he knew here, that they might as well be the remnants of animals. He’s not sure he has the stomach to look upon the dead body of someone he knew in the liminal state- recognizable enough that their identity could not be denied, but decayed and disfigured enough that neither could their death.

Keeping his focus on the street ahead, not willing to let his eyes wander and risk falling upon something truly grotesque, he pulls Saga towards their destination. The sheer desolation in the town did nothing to dissuade him of the notion that they would find nothing of hope here. He realizes that he hasn’t said anything in too long, and searches for something to break the silence. “Even if nothing is here… It may simply mean they fled in haste. If we find no bodies… We should take that as a good sign.”

Saga nods, “You are right, Durnir. However, it is equally likely that they died here and something happened to their bodies. It has been months. Animals may have eaten them and scattered the bones, someone could have taken the bodies and cremated them. If we don’t find them here among the dead we may never know for certain.”

Saga pauses to crawl under a fallen support beam of a nearby home that now leans precariously against the side of what used to be someone’s home. “It occurs to me that no one from our village knows that we are alive and have joined the Einherjar. They could be mourning us, Durnir. We may have had our funerals already. It’s… a disturbing thing to imagine.”

He isn’t sure how to respond. He heaves the beam out of the way when he comes to it, the clattering echoing for a moment through the vacant streets. He tries to move the conversation back a step, to where he felt he had at least slightly more to say. “Perhaps we should leave a message, the kind you are hoping to find. Others may come here looking for us in the future. We cannot wait around for them, but we can tell them we’re okay.”

Saga considers Durnir’s words thoughtfully. “With the way the town looks now white paper stuck under a rock should be easy enough to see. So long as we find a spot protected enough from the elements, someone should be able to find it. Quite a few people in the village could read and write after all.”

Then they’re standing before the clinic. The upper story has collapsed inwards but somehow the lower walls still stand. The door, swung permanently inwards, is crookedly supported by only the bottom hinge. For Saga there is a gravity to this place. A heavy emptiness that hangs in the air. A palpable sense of loss. She remembers that there was a future for her here once. She had been working in the clinic before the attack, learning under her mother’s tutelage. Her mother’s arthritis had been getting worse and though she had stepped in just to help relieve the burden of sewing wounds temporarily, she had taken to the work quickly. She was supposed to take over for her mother next year. This was supposed to be her clinic.

There are memories here too. Happy ones. Maeva was born in the clinic with Saga’s mother acting as midwife and Durnir pacing the floor and panicking. So different from his usually calm demeanor. She had first met Durnir in the clinic, her mother had decided to take up the cause of increasing literacy among the people of the village and he had shyly turned up for lessons. They spent countless days together in that room going over letters and sounds together.

But before Maeva and Durnir this was her home. When Grimward destroyed her family’s original hometown they had fled to this village, to this home. It was within those four walls of the small clinic that they had decided they could live a new life. Where they had hoped they would never face war again.

The feeling of water hitting skin brings Saga back to the present. Touching her face she realizes she has been crying. Quickly she tries to rub her tears away. “Sorry Durnir… I’m sorry.”

This is something he knows how to respond to without much second thought. He puts an arm around her shoulder, pulling her head against his chest, giving her a comforting hold and fabric to dry her eyes with. “There is nothing to apologize for. These are hard times. It is only right to grieve them.”

The two of them begin scouring the clinic from top to bottom, looking for any indication of the survival of Saga’s family. For any clue to where they might be. After nearly half a day of turning over every stray piece of furniture and rubble, they are left tired and empty-handed.

They leave a note in the clinic explaining what has happened to them and ask for any who find it to bring word to Saga’s family members. Now widening their search to the buildings and streets, including the alleyway where Maeva was lost, they find little indication of what may have happened. Then, there in the ashes, one small piece of detritus catches Saga’s eye. Pulling it off of the ground she looks in horror at the tiny parietal bone she clutches in her hand. The shape is unmistakable. It clearly belonged to a person, not an animal. The size… she turns it over in her hands. Not only is it too small to belong to an adult, the bone belonged to someone killed before the bones in their skull fused. It is too small to belong to a child. It… Saga imagines Maeva, how large Maeva’s head was when she last saw her. The bone is around the right size. It could belong to Maeva. She isn’t sure, but it could. “Durnir!” Saga calls out to her mate and holds the parietal bone out to him. Gripped with fear she is unable to say more.

The words catch in his throat as he tries to think of how to turn her away from the idea building within her. For her to believe even in a small way, even for a small moment, that their daughter is dead, he couldn’t imagine what pain that would wreak on her. It saddened him, too, deeply even, but he had already done his mourning in the days following the attack on the very village in which he stood. Maeva was dead, surely, but there was no need for Saga to suffer from such a conviction. The seconds pass. Too many. Hesitation turns to panic. He needs to say something, anything. “So many young ones must have been left behind here, it’s a great tragedy. When we find Maeva, we must let her know how fortunate she is to not have suffered the same fate.” He lies to his mate too easily. It sickens him.

By the time he speaks Saga’s face has already scrunched into a terrible frown. She crouches into a ball on the ground breathing heavily clutching both the bone and her head. “It can’t be her. It can’t be her.” she blubbers, “It isn’t fair, Durnir. It isn’t fair. She was just a baby. She accomplished nothing! It’s all my fault and she accomplished nothing!” Saga wails her tears causing her whole body to shudder.

“It isn’t her, I’m sure it isn’t. She will live, and grow strong, and do great deeds, even if we are not there to see them.” His stomach is turning over on itself. “Even if she is taken in by Grimward and raised as one of them, she will accomplish much.”

“How do you know Durnir? How do you know this isn’t her? How do you know that the Great Wolf hasn’t consumed her already? I might have killed her. You should hate me. Why don’t you hate me? I might have killed her!”

First, the easy truth. “I don’t hate you. I could never hate you.” Next, an honest judgment. “You did nothing wrong. Whatever happened to you, it isn’t your fault.” And lastly, wishful thinking. A belief held tenuously. “If anything did happen… Gaia would not allow innocent souls to be destroyed so unfairly.”

“But, I dropped her Durnir. If I had held her more tightly… if you had held her… she would probably still be here. It’s my fault.”

“Enough. Do not doubt yourself, Saga. I would trust our daughter in no one’s hands but yours.”

Saga sniffles, her tears stopped. She stands and approaches Durnir laying into his chest, arms limp by her sides, the bone clenched in her right hand. He embraces her. They stand there in silence for a moment. Finally Saga speaks timidly. “The bone… it doesn’t belong to Maeva?”

“No. It cannot be. I know it isn’t.” Truth gives away to lies again. “Our daughter is not here, Saga.”

Saga considers this. Constructing for herself a new safer truth as she responds, “Gaia protected you when you were a child. She is protecting Maeva too. So this can’t be her. And if it is her… if it was her…”

“Then she would be kept safe from the Great Wolf.”

Saga rubs the tears from her eyes, “We should ask a Daughter to help us pray for her, just in case. I’m sure Ylva would know the right rites and rituals to perform.” She looks down at the bone in her hands, “What of this child Durnir? We do not even know their name, but they must have been loved by someone.”

He thinks. This may very well be a part of his daughter’s skull. And even if it isn’t, a token gesture might keep her mind at ease. “Let us take it with us, and keep it safe. Better with us than laying here on the streets.”

“Right. Let’s see if we can find any other pieces and then, let’s go home.”

The two look for bones on that street until dark but find few other pieces. Then they return to their ship and set out for home both verbally expressing their agreement that their daughter couldn’t possibly be dead but neither willing to part with the small piece of bone they found. They wrap it in a soft cloth and place it carefully in a small box, making sure to keep an eye on it as they journey home lest they lose their daughter a second time.

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Drake Carrion

PLAYED BY: Elias Lambert

CHARACTER NAME:  Born, Ark Trayes; Chosen Name, Drake Carrion

GENDER: Male

PRONOUN(S): He/Him/His

CLASS: Rogue

AGE: 14 (As of 273)

RACE: Human

HAIR: Brown

EYES: Hazel

OCCUPATION: Bard

KNOWN SKILLS: His archery skills are passable although he is more inexperienced then he’d care to admit, a passable singer, can cook… kinda.

BIRTHPLACE:  Darkport

APPEARANCE:  5’7”, short, straight brown hair that’s often untidy.

NOTABLE TRAITS: Hates Syndar. makes dark, sometimes lurid jokes. Ego can get out of hand.

RELATIONSHIPS: He calls the members of the Bardbarians his friends.

BIO / BACKGROUND HISTORY: 

Born into the upper middle class in a house on the edge of Darkport, my father and mother did not want a child. My parents called me Ark, but I hated that name. In my time in the cellar I thought of something better… Drake. Perfect! I faced a life of abuse, neglect, and entrapment in my family home. The one place my parents allowed me to go was to the bakery to buy fresh bread every week. The more money I spent on things in town the longer my parents would lock me in the dark, cramped and dusty coal cellar. That’s how I developed my claustrophobia.

That was my state of existence for the better part of my life until She came.

My savior arrived one fateful night in the form of a burglar. I was in the coal cellar at the time, I heard the screams of my parents above. I immediately started to rationalize, to make up a plausible story for the screams.

Then I felt the heat. The fire spread the smoke threatening to choke me. I ran at the locked door, smashing my shoulder into it. It didn’t give. The fire licked the door, setting the coal infused wood ablaze. The door ignited right as I slammed my arm into it. The door caved in. I ran as fast as I could through the house, I could feel death inches away as I rushed through the door. As I ran I saw a cloaked figure running away. I would learn later that the person who murdered my parents was a petty thief. Her name was Sirayira Arinwen. She’s dead now. I threw open the back door and ran out and didn’t stop, I was awestruck by the fields and valleys laid out before me as I ran by. By the next day I had run so far from home I was astounded by the world I never knew existed. I remember the last thing I did before going to sleep on the side of the road was thinking “ tomorrow is going to be a great day”

When I left home I immediately went to a small town in Clan Nightriver territory where I found a washed-up old adventurer named Tor, who would become the loving father I never had. He was as brave as he was loyal and a great traveling buddy. For a time, we traveled the world. I’m still not ready to reveal what we did or where we went, but I will say this: there is a legend told by the Nightriver Ulven, that two travelers passed through the Great Wolf’s Hackles and escaped a group of 40 Mordok very narrowly. Around the time we got back from our adventures, I met a girl named Astrid in a town in ruins, I’m still not sure which but when I saw her I knew she deserved more. At first she denied my proposal to take her away from this ruin of a town. I remember the second time I tried to convince her I believe my words were “I could give you anything you could wish for and more, a young woman of your beauty should not live in this cartwreck of a town” she responded by agreeing. So we traveled. It was a long road and not an easy one but one night Astrid said she was homesick and having watched me for the duration of the trip she apparently did not feel for me. I was disappointed but I let her go with no trouble. Tor and I continued on.  But great adventures are rarely legal so when the various charges started to stack up I had the bright idea that the best way to escape persecution was to get to sea.

We bought cheap passage on an illegal smuggling vessel. I still remember the first time I saw the sea. It was love at first sight. The boat docked at New Vandregon a month and a half after leaving due to storm complications. The crew were found passed out drunk with cargo missing. Me and Tor had fled with the smuggled goods, which we promptly and stupidly gambled away. In New Vandregon I met Robert Shet at a tavern and our fates were forever changed that day. He intrigued me from the beginning. I approached  Robert and asked if he would like to join me and Tor on a journey to the city of Newhope, and to my joy he accepted. Along the journey to Newhope, I learned many things about my new friend like his talent for the violin and dark and winding past. On the final day of our travels, I asked Robert if he would be interested in joining a group of minstrels that I had been thinking about creating for some time. Looking for an opportunity, he agreed.

Days later in a tavern in Newhope, my companions and I would pick up another member, Rethin Varthrumer, a wayward drummer playing on the streets who agreed to join from the moment we offered food.

I’ve escaped my home, I’ve found a father and I’ve found friends. I am Drake Carrion. I have no limit, I do what I want, when I want, and I will one day be recognized as the greatest individual to walk this earth.

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To the People of Mardrun

To all those it may concern The 7th of January, 274

To all the good people of and visiting Pack Bloodmoon and Clan Nightriver, I have something to inform you of.

On the 14th of December, myself and my good friend Drake Carrion, were attacked and nearly ended by the Aldorian Vincenzo Bortelli.

We spent the day around him. We’d gone on a patrol around the area with him and a few others. On the way back in from a small excursion, Vincenzo asked if myself and Drake (he wasn’t with me at the time) would be willing to guard him as he looked for mushrooms, for a silver each. When we returned to the village, I confirmed with my friend he wanted to do this, and we set out. 

We passed two men, one wearing the Order’s seal as we went out. After walking for a while, Vincenzo cast a sort of magic, pushing Drake and I away from him. As I was standing, he cast another spell, this time that stunned me a bit. He knocked me to the ground, and I watched as he stabbed Drake four times with the daggers he had been hiding. As he came over to me, the knives fell again. After the blades pierced me, all went black.

I came to in the village I had been in not that long ago. All my silver was missing from my coin purse. I was told that some scouts of the pack had found us, nearly dead, and taken us back to the village where a healer had saved our lives.

I also learned that a note had been left on our bodies. A note reading “Jericho sends its regards”.

I know not the meaning of this message, so don’t ask me. I ask that anyone willing help me find this Bortelli man, and bring him to justice.

Last I saw him, Vincenzo was wearing a dark blue cloak; a light brown scarf; a white tunic; black pants; somewhat elaborate black boots; facepaint somewhat reminiscent of that worn by the Penitent of Faedrun (or so I’ve heard); dark brown hair about down to his shoulders; and a short beard of the same color.

Luck be with you all,

Robert Shet

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Robert Shet

PLAYED BY: Daniel Sulman

CHARACTER NAME: Robert Shet

GENDER: Male

PRONOUN(S): He/him/his

CLASS: Warrior

AGE: Appears to be in mid-to-late teens. (As of 273)

RACE: Human

HAIR: Light brown

EYES: Blue

OCCUPATION:  Part of a group of bards called “The Bardbarians”.

KNOWN SKILLS: Robert has trained with a sword and shield, and can fight well enough. He is intermediate at the violin.

BIRTHPLACE: Robert was born in the outskirts of Newhope, in the healer’s wagon of the nomad caravan his family lived in.

APPEARANCE: Robert is around 6’0”, with short, straight brown hair and blue eyes. Usually wears simple armor, and when he doesn’t, simple clothes.

NOTABLE TRAITS: Is missing one eye. Slight pyrophobia, as fire has destroyed his life more than once. Honorable, yet jaded and cynical, despite being only in his late teens.

RELATIONSHIPS: Other members of the Bardbarians; Ivar Shattered Spear; Bjorn and Astrid Shattered Spear; villagers of Lowestoft.

RUMORS: He’s missing an eye. Why would a half-blind swordsman join a group of bards?

BIO:

I was born into a group that never stayed in one place for long.

They were the Few That Traveled Together, a group of nomads, and they went around Mardrun (and Faedrun before) trading, exploring, and whatever the hell they wanted. Soon after the flight from Faedrun, I was born.

My mother died birthing me, and my father stopped caring about me once that had come to pass. My uncle raised me, but when a fever took him, I was left with only my fathers ruthless and plentiful beatings. Once, he beat me so badly that I ordered a sword made, and the Few’s blacksmith, a kindly Syndar man, gave it to me free of charge. I trained with it near every day. When I came of age, I chose to apprentice under Fret, the caravan’s bard. At seven-and-seventy, he was the oldest of the group. When my father learned of this, he beat me even more and harder. The only reason I got was that my mother had sung in life, and this fact made him hate all music, apparently enough to beat his only son over it.

One night, when he was red-faced and drunk out of his mind, my father returned  to our wagon to find me playing the violin Fret had gifted me. In his rage, he beat me mercilessly. At the peak of his fury, my father grabbed the knife with which he cut his steak and cut out my eye. I remember the pain, the hellish feeling as the knife slashed over my eyeball. The helplessness I felt had half my vision was stolen in a matter of moments. My father went off to his curtained off part of the cart, and I passed out from the pain. When I woke, Torlan, the healer’s apprentice, saw me lying on the floor of the wagon. He swore and turned. He returned with the Few’s healer, and she fixed me up.

When I was strong enough to leave her wagon, I returned to my wagon to gather my things. As I was preparing to leave, my father stumbled in, drunk to hell and back. He murmured something and passed out. I left the wagon for the last time. From then on, I slept outside, carrying all my possessions. That might be why I was the first warned when everyone and everything I knew was torn away overnight.

I know that the Few had camped somewhere in Grimward territory, far from any major settlement, but a few hours walk from a respectably large town. I couldn’t sleep, and was studying the stars. I heard low voices off to the side, and what sounded like many feet stepping over the grass. Then a scream, and all hell broke loose.

A voice near me called out something. Battle cries echoed through the night. I got to my feet and belted on my sword. I ran to Fret’s wagon as I saw Ulven with crude weapons attacking and burning. Just as I approached his door, a brute broke the window and threw a torch on the ground. Before I could do anything, the wagon erupted in flames. I stabbed the bastard who’d done it and looked around. Torches were being tossed at wagons, and Ulven with pitchforks and shovels were doing the throwing. The flames quickly engulfed the brush, trapping most of the Few in a circle of fire. I knew what I had to do. I ran back to my bedroll and gathered my things. I ran into the countryside, tears streaming down my face, and didn’t stop until the sun pierced the sky.

Soon after dawn, I hit a creek, where I refilled my waterskin. I continued through the wilderness until I ran into a small dirt road. I followed that until I came to a small town. I was ushered into the inn by a plump Ulven woman, who brought out a large bowl of stew. Did I really look that hungry, that she would bring food without my asking for it? As I greedily ate, a strong hand grabbed my shoulder. I turned to see an Ulven man holding an axe.

“These are bad times, son. I won’t have any who wish us ill in my village. Do you fight for us or against us?”

Perplexed, I said, “I fight only for myself.”

The man furrowed his brow. “Bare your teeth.”

I did, and a grin spread across his face. “We haven’t seen humans for years! You’re welcome here in Lowestoft, son. And don’t worry, none of us will try to kill you. We all think it’s good to get more people to help out, even if they’re from another continent!” The man’s name was Ivar Shattered Spear, the leader of the village.

I stayed in the village that night. I meant to leave the following day, but I talked, and soon enough, the sun was setting. Rather than sleep in the inn, as I had last night, a farmer named Bjorn offered his hospitality. He had a daughter named Astrid, who was around my age and had long, black hair.

After we supped, Bjorn offered me his bed. I went to sleep almost instantly.  A noise in the common room woke me in the middle of the night. I clothed myself and headed out to see what it was. Astrid was sitting at the table, gazing at the stars. She turned and saw me, and pulled out the chair next to her. I sat. Astrid leaned her head on my shoulder. We stayed like that for the rest of the night.

Before I knew it, I had become a villager of Lowestoft. I would work beside Bjorn in the field during the day, and play music in the inn at night. Astrid and I grew closer, until we affirmed our love for one another. Life in Lowestoft was perfect. I preferred it infinitely to life with the Few.

Until that day. There’d been no rain for a week or two, so everything was dry. A lantern must have been knocked over in the bakery. I was heading over to the tavern after the day’s work when I saw it coated in fire. As I looked, to my horror, the roof collapsed just as the baker was running out. A burning wall fell onto the ground, just close enough to spread the flames to the building next to it, a butcher. I ran to the tavern, where everyone was sure to be in the evening. I called out, “Fire, fire!” People were only on their first tankard, and sober enough to get up and rush to the well. By then, three or four buildings were in the blaze. Just as Bjorn was running into our house to find Astrid, the thatched roof caught a spark and went up in a burning crescendo. I heard Bjorn yelling from inside, and saw Astrid burst through the door just as the front wall fell inward.

“No!” I cried. “Bjorn,” I said quietly, tears beginning to stream down my face. I slapped myself, clearing my head, and ran to the well to help fight the fire. As the sun grew low, the fires did as well, until all that was left was the ruined ash of Lowestoft. Left standing were only the well and tailor’s, and even that was missing a roof. I picked through the wreckage of my house, finding my sword and nothing else. My violin was safe, as I’d set it by the well before the inn collapsed. Deep in my heart, I wanted to stay, and help these people I’d known for months, but I knew I had to go. So I said my goodbyes, swearing to all that I’d return. Astrid begged me not to, but I kissed her and left.

I went south-east, to Bladehome and Shieldhaven to get to wherever I was going. To earn money for food and board, I would play for the inns and taverns in the town and villages. Thrice during my journey, I sold my sword, once to defend some rich person or another, once to dispatch some bandits, and finally to escort an overland shipment to Aylin’s Reach. From there, I saved up coin until I bought cheap passage upon a cargo ship to New Vandregon. In New Vandregon, I did much of the same, performing in taverns or getting my allegiance bought for a day. One day, though, a lad around my age named Drake approached me. Him and his father, Tor, were traveling to Newhope, and he wanted to know if I would go with. I had heard stories about the city, and figured I could make a nice living there. I accepted. On the road to Newhope, I learned that both were good singers. Upon our arrival in the city, Drake asked if I would be interested in joining the group of bards he was trying to assemble. I agreed. After we’d been in Newhope a few days, I spied a drummer playing on the curb. He joined up with us, and that’s how the Bardbarians were formed.

I was born into a group that died out. My father beat me as a child, and I began training under a bard. My father took one of my eyes from me. Everything I knew was burned overnight by angry villagers, angered only at our existence. I fled, and found a life and love in Lowestoft. When that too was taken from me, and I made my way to the south shore, I met people I could trust. Now I am part of a group of bards, and I can play without fear of losing an eye. I may seem like a dishonorable man, but I am anything but. I fight to stay alive, and I fight for honor and justice. However, I’ve seen my fair share, and am jaded enough. I may often bloody my sword, but I won’t turn it on one without. I’ve seen the world through many lenses, both good and bad, and still have some hope for it.

My name is Robert Shet.

I fight for honor. I fight for the world.

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December 273 – News & Rumors

Clan Nightriver has once again been made the center of attention among the Allied forces of Eastern Mardrun. After the attempted murder of two young boys in Pack Bloodmoon’s territory, the new Clanleader, and still Bloodmoon’s Pack Leader, Sylvir Bloodmoon has made it clear: this violence will not be tolerated in her lands. While she is unable to remove herself from the important task of readying the Clan for the likely heavy uptick in the war when Spring arrives, her choice to appoint a trusted member of her pack was well-received by both her pack, and the Clan Shattered Spear refugees who expressed concern about their safety in the area.

Jarl Zorwyn Bloodmoon is the appointed representative that should be contacted with any information pertaining to the attempted double-murder in Pack Bloodmoon’s territory. Information that leads to the capture of the criminal may be rewarded. 

On another warfront: Clan Whiteoak has begun making preparations for a Mordok attack they anticipate to come in early-Spring. The lack of activity from the Mordok in the last few months has been very unusual, and the Clan believes this can only mean another large-scale offensive, not unlike the Silfurfal attack, should be expected from them. Being that they are solely-focused on the Shield Of Mardrun and not the Conquering, Clan Whiteoak expects to be more than ready to meet the Mordok threat swiftly and harshly, especially with the support of the other neutral clans.

Rumors of strange Syndar spending time in Newhope have finally been met with solid answers. The Syndar being escorted through the City-State are none other than the same Northern Syndar that have been in the city for over a year already. Now that they’re being shown around, there seem to be even more questions than before. What is their business here in the Southern lands? And, do they have anything to do with the other Northern-populace, the Stonetooth? 

Duke Aailmyr, the newest member of the Newhope Council, having been deeply focused on his project of creating a training program for up-and-coming Enchanters, has finally announced that the program is ready to open enrollment! With this project of his concluded and the Market District’s very fancy Enchanted Lamps still burning strong, many are watching excitedly to see what the new Duke’s next big move will be.

In news of the Conquering, many have reported sightings of a traveling bard group from Newhope traveling along frontlines and playing their music for the fighters there. Spirits are notably lifted everywhere they go, noticeably enough for their actions to be talked about long after they’ve moved on to another stage.

In one final update from Clan Nightriver regarding the Conquering: the strip of land known as “The Pass” is still mostly controlled by Grimward forces. However, all flanking routes have been cut off completely, and there is enough land controlled by Nightriver that nearby homes and villages should rest easy, knowing that their warriors stand as a mighty buffer between them and the enemy.

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December 2024 – Keeping Warm with Nightriver

=Event Story=

The Autumn season has nearly concluded with Mardrun seeing its first dusting of snow ahead of the upcoming Winter solstice. Though war weighs heavy on the minds of the continent, so too does the pressure of new leadership weigh on Clan Nightriver. With the dramatic conclusion of the Moot last month, the newly elected leaders are already hard at work in their positions to keep the Clan safe, secure, and warm over the winter season.

Many eyes have turned to Pack Bloodmoon in particular in this time of great change. Not only has their Pack Leader become the new Clanleader, but Pack Bloodmoon has stepped up to be the first to take action in carving out space for Clan Shattered Spear refugees. While both the Clan and Pack feel confident in their ability to make the preparations themselves, supporters from near and far have come forward to help, not just in Pack Bloodmoon, but all across the Clan. 

Pack Bloodmoon has now inadvertently become a hub of activity. With merchants setting up wares, tradespeople plying their trades, or even tired travelers finding a safe space to take a seat, it can be certain that Pack Bloodmoon is not turning away any of those helping hands.

=Event Summary=

Spirits were high throughout the day as Pack Bloodmoon welcomed newcomers from near and far. Trees were felled, war equipment was repaired, songs were shared, socks were puppetted, and food was passed around the fire. Camaraderie was thick in the air among the incredibly diverse gathering – almost as though the cold brought with it a new calm for warriors and friends to relax for the first time in, for some, an incredibly long time. Between stories of wintertime celebrations and drunken benders in faraway lands, Pack Bloodmoon made a warm and happy environment despite the cold and vicious climate.

As travelers cleared out of the area, packing up their tools and getting ready to find their way to shelter for the night, a Nightriver patrol made its way towards an empty unfinished hamlet. In the low-light of the setting sun, the details could almost be missed, but the scent of blood is always unmistakeable. 

Two teenage humans lay, gored open and gasping. As the boys were carried to the nearest healer, one of the patrolmen notices another anomaly. A note lay among the pooled blood, its contents familiar to some.

“Jericho sends its regards.”

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November 2024 – Nightriver, Together

=EVENT STORY=

As fighting on the northern front comes to a close, Clan Nightriver has continued its grinding fight in The Pass and is making preparations to supply itself for the coming year of war. The large clan is known to wield great combat power, like during the previous civil war, although fully mobilizing and supplying across its large territory has proven to take time. While keeping fair amounts of its warpacks on the frontline, many of their people return home to help take in the harvest and make preparations before winter sets in. Nightriver’s people are not alone in this, as the fighting is expected to die down across both sides of the fronts as winter sets in which will interrupt travel and clans will be able to take limited action without risking exhausting supplies going into the next year.

Internally, Clan Nightriver finds itself at a tense junction as they have been leaderless, with their warleader having been deciding the clans direction in the conflict; bloody and retaliatory. Holmar Bloodmoon, Warleader of Clan Nightriver, has promised the clan that Clans Grimward and Stonetooth will pay for their dishonorable slaying of Clanleader Branthur Nightriver as he has personally marched Nighter’s warpacks west to war. With Holmar’s strong backing from his revenge-seeking clan he announced his nomination for Clanleader, and many believe Holmar to be a strong military leader and proven Warleader, although his questionable past that lead to the title gives some pause and concern to his ability to lead during future peacetimes.

His is not alone though, as Packleader Sylvir Bloodmoon’s name is placed forward by her followers. Being the leader of Pack Bloodmoon, Sylvir has become known for her strong command within her pack and her sternness in keeping her people honorable. While many acknowledge her effective leadership and reliable kinship with adjacent packs, some worry for her ability to manage the clan due to its larger scale than just a single pack.

Furthermore, Jarl Laela Nightriver has recently begun her steps further into the spotlight. Her notable actions as an ambassador to aid in striking peace between Clan Grimward and Clan Stormjarl years back were when her name first became known to outsiders, and she has grown into a confident leader trained by Branthur Nightriver himself until his brutal demise by Grimward hands. While many of Branthur’s supporters have moved to follow her, her declaration to remove Holmar Bloodmoon from his position as Warleader if she is named Clanleader has many worried for the clan’s ability to be led on the field during the ongoing war.

While other names for leadership have come and gone, these three strong contenders have remained. Many Packleaders, Chieftains, and other notable figures aim to be present at the soon upcoming moot, along with travelers from other lands. While outsiders will not have a vote in this matter, many expect there to be opportunities to rub elbows and potentially even sway opinions. Tensions are high as leaders meet, Clan Nightriver’s future will soon be sown.

=EVENT SUMMARY=

The Nightriver Moot kicked off quickly, with the several Nightriver representatives and the 3 Clanleader candidates being introduced and immediately being whisked into conversation by both outsiders, and with each other. Each representative had their own concerns and reservations, and several hours went by with each of them bringing those concerns to each of the candidates. Drinks were shared and food was served from the many cultures of Mardrun, and outsiders had the opportunity for their voices to be heard and to pledge aid to the different packs of Nightriver who faced various difficulties. Even though outsiders were not part of the vote, many developed relations to give or ask for aid going into the winter and the upcoming year of war. 

Before the representatives could have their final assembly, a letter arrived addressed to Nightriver leadership from Clan Ironmound. Ironmound’s leadership has declared their official entry into the war. Honoring their Ironward alliance, they have joined the side of Grimward and Stonetooth with the intention to begin marching to fight.

At the end of the Moot, in an impressive show of unity, the representatives made a unanimous vote to promote Sylvir Bloodmoon to the station of Clanleader – however, the promotion came with stipulations. The first stipulation: Clan Nightriver should take in Clan Shattered Spear refugees; the second stipulation: Jarl Laela should be kept close to the new Clan Leader as a political ambassador. 

The representatives made a bold and surprising third stipulation: Warleader Holmar Bloodmoon should step down from his station and instead take up the mantle of being The Champion of Clan Nightriver, with the single goal of avenging Branthur Nightriver and the Clan’s honor in this war. Perhaps even more surprisingly, Holmar begrudgingly accepted this stipulation. As he stepped down from his station as Warleader, one name was nominated for the position: Halfrid Bloodriver, the Chieftain of Pack Bloodriver who was already in attendance of the Moot. While the nomination by her peers seemed to be entirely unexpected to her, she did not hesitate to accept it. Halfrid’s acceptance of the position along with Clanleader Sylvir’s approval to all stipulations brought the Moot to a close on a note that showed the continent that Nightriver is far from broken, and sparked hope for the future for many of those in attendance.

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Byrkit Bloodhawk

PLAYED BY: Bryan Richmond

CHARACTER NAME: Byrkit Bloodhawk

GENDER: Male

PREFERRED PRONOUN(S): He/him

CLASS: Mage

Birthyear: some thirty odd years ago, around 240, but who keeps track?

RACE: Ulven

HAIR: Salt and pepper, with a darker beard

EYES: brown

OCCUPATION: Pack Bloodhawk falconer

KNOWN SKILLS: Hawk breeding, training, and handling, jerky making, negotiating.

BIRTHPLACE: Pack Bloodhawk lands

APPEARANCE: usually wearing black, browns, and greens. His attire might a bit fancy for a Steinjotunn

NOTABLE TRAITS: Byrkit is always willing to contract out work for his hawks, seeming to enjoy the process of negotiation.

RELATIONSHIPS: Pack Bloodhawk, some traders, any contracted client (for the duration of the contract, anyways), falconers of Clan Steinjotunn, his brothers

Muki and Chiko

RUMORS: Byrkit seems almost flippant towards Clan Steinjotunn’s stated neutrality. He wants to see how far his Clan’s declaration of being “open for trade” goes.

He’s an ambitious one, that Byrkit. Its like he wants to be a hersir or something. Hear he’s a mage. Weird.

BIO / BACKGROUND HISTORY:

Another summons by the Falconers of Pack Bloodhawk. This happened almost daily now, since this new war started, since Steinjotunn declared neutrality. Reminders turned to arguments almost every time. Byrkit was getting tired of all this, all the words and no action. His hawks had not flown under contract in months and they were getting ornery in their idleness. Byrkit felt as caged as his hawks.

Byrkit paused as he approached yet another round of admonishment, his brothers Muki and Chiko beside him noticing his tense hesitation. “Brother, it is now or never,” Muki whispered. “Best not to get riled too soon, eh.” Slowly breathing out his frustrations, he nodded to his brothers and pushed through doors to Pack Bloodhawk’s Falconer Hall. After years of training with his brothers and raising dozens of hawks, Byrkit knew the ways of Pack Bloodhawk falconry as well as any other. He realized he had spent most of his life in this hall. Raising and training both messenger hawks and the hunting bloodhawks, hawks that could chase down and retrieve messenger hawks, Byrkit had surpassed so many others in his way with the birds. Walking through the entryway as he had since his youth, he wondered when exactly the joy of being here amongst the hawks had changed to this frustration, this feeling of being trapped.

His younger brothers followed Byrkit’s lead as they had since they had all been pups learning the secrets of Pack Bloodhawk’s prized falconry. “What fate you follow, we follow, brother,” they said in unison.

Surprisingly, the three elder hersirs were not at the hall table sternly awaiting Byrkit’s attendance with the other falconers of his Pack as Byrkit had come to expect. Instead he and his brothers found them alone around a small brazier

passing around a drinking horn laughing and joking. For a moment, with the emptiness the hall seemed so large, like it was when he was a child learning how to guide and handle his first hawk. He brushed the feeling away,

“Well this is a change of pace. Have I dropped so low in your esteem I am now but an afterthought to your entertainment?”

Byrkit’s brothers failed to stifle their groans. Turning back, he retorted, “They know I jest. Do better at hiding your disappointment in my lack of decorum brothers.”

“Spoken like those colonists you cavort with. Don’t think we do not see who you spend your time with, Byrkit,” Hersir Ibonek snorted as he passed the horn over.

Byrkit took the drink and sipped before he responded.

“They took their time to come to our lands and speak to our leaders. I would fail our pack if I did not at least try to find out what goes on beyond our borders.” Byrkit tried to come off as unconcerned but failed.

“Oh, so your curiosity is for Steinjotunn? Nothing else? No trying to find others to boost your magic knowledge? Or for possible clients for your hawks in this time of neutrality for the Clan?” Hersir Ecam’s words caused him to choke on his mouthful of ale.”Come now, Byrkit, no need to act like a whelp. In truth we do not judge you. Not too harshly anyways!”

The burst of laughter made Byrkit hesitate. “Fair enough.”

“But…?” Hersir Ecam impatiently waited for Byrkit’s often repeated protest to begin.

“But we sit here, wasting our hawks, our skills, our TRADE! We spend years, YEARS, training our hawks to be the best messengers on all of Mardrun and

more than that! Our hunting bloodhawks take down messenger birds as other hawks would a slow hare! We can keep to our honor, keep to the rigid negotiations we have trained for. It is our trade, is it not?!? Despite the clan’s declaration of neutrality, are we not open for trade? Pack Bloodhawk is not esteemed for archery or as great as Fleetfoot at scouting. The aid we could bring as falconers, our hawks are second to none and should be put to good use. Our names would be heard and spoken wide, may the Great Wolf hear them, our Pack’s honor and prestige would grow greater, and yet we do NOTHING.The Great Wolf tests us and we do NOTHING.”

Byrkit, falling into the same argument as he had for weeks if not months, was more than surprised when instead of being put into his place the Hersirs laughed all the louder.

Ecam, as usual, responded to Byrkit’s outburst. “And by that you mean your name and prestige. Do not keep taking us for naive, sheltered fools pup. And do not think you know what is better for Pack and Clan than our Clanleader. We stay neutral in this war, despite whatever idiotic notions of personal glory you hold.”

Before another round of arguments could begin, Ibonek interrupted. “Calm yourself, Byrkit. A wise hawk may see far on an open field, and a brazen pup may not see past his nose-”

“-But the Great Wolf sees all.” Byrkit passed the drinking horn to Hersir Yoad. He had heard the saying so, so many times through his training and well into adulthood, every time his vigor surpassed what Ulven honor would tolerate. The words, often attributed to Hillevi Steinjotunn, were a common reminder of the expectations put upon him. The expectations of Pack and Clan that weighed him down like chains.

“So seriously you take things young falconer, such fervor! Patience and respect, these you lack.” Hersir Yoad took a sip from the horn. “Still, much to learn. But not here.”

At Yoad’s words all went quiet, the hersirs’ mirth dying. Byrkit stared, confusion creeping across his face. Hersir Ecam was the first to break the silence.

“We have watched you all these years, and you have lived up to much of your potential. But you chafe at any authority, any decision you do not agree with since your parents died to the Mordok. This must change. You must change. But, as Hersir Yoad has said, this will not happen here.

We three Hersirs, hawk masters of Pack Bloodhawk, of Clan Steinjotunn, accept you into our circle as a journeyman yet to earn your title . You will-”

“Wait. So I am on this council, but you do not grant me the rank of Hawk Master?” Byrkit balked.

“This is outrageous, it is unfair.” Ibonek exageratedly rolled his eyes and laughed once more disarmingly, the laughter spreading to Byrkit’s brothers.

Ecam stared daggers at his fellow hersir until silence fell once more.

“We are giving you an opportunity, Byrkit. Do not let your pride get in the way of it.” Ecam continued. “You will go out of our lands to seek this change. You are allowed to accept work for your messenger hawks but no hawk hunting. You know our craft like few others, so strike a hard contract but STAY OUT OF THE WAR. Keep to our advice and to the honor of Pack and Clan. And before you start again, let me be clear. If you cannot keep to this, your hawks will be taken and you will be Severed from Pack and Clan.”

Both Muki and Chiko started at this, for once stepping in to argue themselves, but Byrkit silenced them with a hand. The words of the hersir left him without words, his mind racing to understand what he was hearing.

“Great risk perhaps,” Yoad croaked. “Great reward as well. Act with honor, you must.”

“We trust, Falconer Byrkit, such ‘freedom’ is acceptable to you? After all, as you say, we are open for trade. Excluding anything tied to the war. In this you must be clear to those who hire your hawks. Do not overstep. Come back to us wiser and tell us how far the hawk can see. Then, maybe, just maybe, you will have earned the title of Hawk Master,” Hersir Ibonek stated deadpan, the barest hint of his

amusement and approval showing through his beard.

After a long pause, longer than his brothers would like, Byrkit nodded in agreement. “Some work is better than none. I can agree to this. May His ears ring with your names, hersirs.”

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Saldis Stormjarl

Name: Saldis Stormjarl

Played By: Cerise Pipson

Age: 28 (as of 273)

Race: Ulven

Class: Warrior

Bio:

Saldis Stormjarl was born and raised in the capital settlement of Jotunvik. The daughter of two established merchants, she lived a traditional if well funded life as a Stormjarl youth. As a girl she learned the skills of a merchant and trader. Traveling with her parents to many different packs and clans, and occasionally to the human settlements for trade. She enjoyed her life in Jotunvik. The economic prosperity, and the more accepting view within the clan on trade with the Humans and Syndar granted her a life of variety and progressive ideas. She wanted for little and her most daring adventures were in books from colonist lands that told stories of far off quests. During the Ulven Civil war her parents shared the clans want to remain neutral. And she, not one who longed for glory, was unbothered at her parents’ efforts to keep her far from the fighting. The war always remained several steps removed from her life, though it seemed to be the only thing on the minds of her people. They continued to make trade and would donate money and goods to the clan for the war effort. The closest she ever was to the fighting was when it all but reached Jotunvik. She remembers when word broke through that Grimward had been held at bay, but at the cost of many lives. The years of peace after the war were appreciated by her family. Their business prospered and much was as it had always been. All things must end though, and as tensions between the clans rose again with the rumors of Grimward raiders and speculation that Stormjarl was the true culprit trying to blame their rivals, her family began to question if they were true. Saldis was certain her clan was not responsible and wanted to set out to prove it to her family. Through a series of old friends and associates from her years of work as a merchant, a bit of luck, and no small amount of social courage. Saldis secured a place within the retinue of the Stormjarl delegation at the Ironmound Moot. Serving as an apprentice representative of the Einherjar of the Stormborn Coast, she attended the moot and learned much of the rumors surrounding the raiders and the larger workings of Ulven politics. It was here she truly learned what she had been spared from in the Ulven Civil war. As Grimward revealed their hidden plan to renew their war against Mardrun she witnessed the brutality of it all. The severed head of Haygreth Grimward carried through the assembled representatives, and the brutal murder of Branthur Nightriver. These events burned themselves into her memory and made her feel fear she had never felt before. In spite of the daunting circumstances of the betrayal, she saw courage in the various groups that had gathered to make peace. She saw colonists stand with Ulven and she saw the determined hope of her own clan as the Einherjar rallied those willing to fight to the bitter end in the face of certain death. She will always remember how it felt to face her fear and ready herself to die. They were spared that fate as Nightriver warpacks charged in to avenge their fallen kin. In the chaos that followed she made her escape with the Einherjar. The relief that she was spared such an unwelcome death was weighed down with the guilt that she herself was not able to help defend them. Being told to run as her people pushed forward and risked their lives did not sit well with her. Seeing new acquaintances cut down as they ran and as they fought their way to safety made it all come into sharp relief. Saldis promised herself and her people that day that she would not be unprepared again. Since that day she has stood with the Einherjar. Moving her life to Ulvesal and training hard to fight for her people. She will stand with her kin, she will save them or die trying.

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October 2024 – The Fall of Shattered Spear

= EVENT STORY =

As the war continues to progress against their favor, the defiance of Clan Shattered Spear’s warriors has become undeniable as they remain standing longer than anyone expected against Clan Grimward and Clan Stonetooth’s invasion. The support of their allies has equally effected the clan’s ability to stand, proving time and time again that Clan Shattered Spear never stood alone. Clan Shattered Spear has always been a strong clan for its size, but a year of war against the mordok weaked the clan, which Clan Grimward’s larger army took advantage of with their surprise attack marking the start of this war. Clan Shattered Spear no longer stands strong, the time for defiance has come to a choking end.

On the western coast of Clan Shattered Spear’s lands, close to the dirge, Clan Grimward’s raider fleet rapidly deployed warpacks which captured ships and coastal villages. As the colder season begins to arrive, these warpacks continue their advance deeper into Clan Shattered Spear territory, creating the danger of encircling the remaining Clan Shattered Spear warpacks and leadership. Whether captured, killed, or just unable to send communication, the command line has crumbled and individual warpacks are left isolated to attempt holding their portions of the line as long as possible before attempting to retreat, if the route east to Clan Whiteoak can remain open.

In addition, the Shield outposts of Clan Shattered Spear and the far western coastal Newhope outpost fall silent, presumed dead or captured. Reports come with wounded refugees as they tell stories of mordok roaming through the Shield’s gaps, not in numbers large enough to threaten warpacks but enough to attack isolated groups like small warrior patrols and refugees.

No request for aid arrives from Clan Shattered Spear in their final days, leaving outsiders with no guidance while they decide whether they can arrive to help what little remains of the fallen clan as their people fall and retreat east.

= Event Summary =

Plumes of smoke soar to the sky behind the remnants of Clan Shattered Spear and their allies as they are the last to retreat east. The northern front falls quiet with the cut off Shattered Spear warpacks fighting to the last or being captured as flames rage across their farmlands, leaving nothing for their conquerors. Clan Shattered Spear would not have stood for as long as they did without the unwavering aid of their allies, but in the end the clan’s fate was only delayed. Fighting until nothing was left, stood tall by their allies, and going out with a ferocious roar. Thus ends the saga of Clan Shattered Spear’s defiance.

Reports travel with news that Clan Shattered Spear’s High Priestess, Gyda Shattered Spear, was captured after her escort was cut down before they could reach friendly lines. Warleader Ulf Mossguard was slain in battle, his personal warpack fighting to the last warrior. No news is heard of Clanleader Laifnar Icefury, his fate unknown to his people. Much of the clan’s people now reside in the hands of their conquerors, their future uncertain.

Yet, many of their people survived and escaped east thanks to the clan’s defiance and their allies. Despite the clan and outside help being largely unable to hold the main crossroads, they managed to entirely deter initial invader advances and destroy a forward outpost being established. The fields were burned to black cinder to stop Grimward and Stonetooth from using the harvest to fuel their war. Roaming mordok whelps were slain, until a larger mordok unexpectedly traveled through and violently forced them to return north. This part of the war may have been lost, but the blade of Clan Grimward has been slowed and other clans and kingdoms have been given time to prepare and make provision.

One final flame flickers in the darkness of Clan Shattered Spear’s lands as Outpost Grimsendir still stands with Shattered Spear’s banners, its warriors not knowing that they are the last warpack standing. Only time will tell if Clan Shattered Spear dies with its land or stands with its surviving people.