Archives: Wiki Pages

A single bard played on their mandolin that night at the Busty Bosom Chateau, a sad and reflective tune that could make one stare into themselves. This tune was accompanied by the sound of a heavy downpour, the cracking of thunder, and the percussion of the rain upon the clay tiles of the roof, bringing an even greater sense of misery and foreboding to this usual spot of merriment and sin.
The Lord Commander himself sat alone at the bar, nursing a cold glass of whiskey with as much love and attention as a wet nurse gives to a newborn. His eyes staring deep into the glass and the clay bottle next to it, trying to find something that perhaps no one could explain. No matter what it was that he sought after, no one bothered him, for how could they after what happened not even a month ago. When Clan Stonetooth decided to fight with the Blood Bath Corp in one of the bloodiest battles seen since the war with the Mordok, there weren’t really any words a person could use to describe the events that happened that day.

The rain took him back, back to that muggy and hot June day near the frontlines of Clan Shattered Spear. Blood Bath Corp had just succeeded in driving back a Clan Grimward warpack with ease. A few bruises but nothing that would prevent them from continuing their fight on the front lines. Their march took them near one of the main supply lines for Clan Shattered Spear, a critical area that needed protection if there ever was one. All they had to do was wait for anyone foolish enough to attack this area. They set up on top of a wooded hill near the roadway that lead further north, keeping fires low at night to avoid detection from the road. The first night they entertained themselves with drinks and a few games of throwing daggers into a stump, Sunny won that one. The others were groaning about having to pay more silver to keen eyed archer, but Volrok would too if it wasn’t happening every third to fourth night since the war started.
The second day went by without concern, same that night, in which a game of boasting and storytelling took place. That time Katya was the victor in the game, having told a fantastic tale of how humans came into the possession of horses back on Faedrun. A story that Volrok still remembered since its telling, and one that is now dear to him. The third day was much the same as the last, activity as usual without any issues. During that third night Wren took the glory for the camp game, a brawling match that resulted in a melee between half the unit until Volrok had to tell them to knock it off. She knocked out twelve of the others before the incident ended, and many agreed her fists were ones to avoid. The Fourth day, it downpoured harder than they have seen in years. A rain so powerful that trees bowed to the skies as if worshiping the fury of the goddess of wind and storms herself. The rain continued into the night, leaving not much to do other than be in their tents. Volrok remembers singing quietly into the night around the small fire in the circle of tents, and some of the others joining in on a song about Richtcrag, and the lives of those lost so long ago.

The fifth day was when it all happened. The day started as usual, early wake up, shift reports, breakfast, and patrolling the roadside. On their patrol though, they came across a Clan Shattered Spear warpack in the thick of combat with the very same Clan Grimward forces they made retreat only a few days prior. Seeing a chance to finish the job, the Blood Bath Corp got in position and started its advance to pincer the Grimward forces. That changed quickly, too quickly Volrok considered, as a warpack of Clan Stonetooth Marauders appeared from the otherside thinking to do the same thing to the Clan Shattered Spear forces. They wouldn’t stand a chance, Volrok thought, We need to counter and stop them!  So that’s what they did, he directed the Blood Bath Corp to circle around and none of them protested, for they saw the same thing he did. They jogged around and got in front of the forces and took defensive positions with pikes, hooks, and bills creating a defensive line as archers fired arrows into the charging force. The arrows may have been the rain from the prior night, it seemed to have done little to slow that charge. Finally, they collided in melee combat. Shields splintered to hammer, axe, and great sword, armor being punctured by arrow, sword, and spear. There was no room for defense on either side. Volrok watched as those around him fought with a ferocity he rarely saw, a reckless abandon that could only come from a rage and pain that was deep within. The memory of their friend Vales was still fresh, and was a vigor that may have saved the day.  Each blow they received, they returned with interest, and it was returned in kind. Eventually the sounds of armor being broken, turned to the sounds of screams and pain as the weapons themselves began to find home in the flesh of their respective opponents. The air became hazed in a mist of red as the water in their soaked armor, clothes, and the soil mixed with the heat of the battle. Blood sprayed and covered everything, the soil was then slick with mud and gore of both friend and foe alike.

Volrok cannot remember much, he remembered a spear to the leg, a blow to the right arm, an arrow to his left leg, but looking back, he could remember a few of the unit fighting as if the gods themselves were there. He watched Wren with her warhammer and shield shatter and break bones of Clan Stonetooth as if they were twigs, moving as if Bjar himself moved their ferocity. At the same time, the amount of arrows in her legs, arms, and chest looked as if it may be her final moments. 
Katya could be seen further back, their glaive spinning like a whirlwind around them. Fending off three Stonetooth as a few others retreated to get some first aid nearby. They parried and attacked to the best of their effort, which did allow those behind them to escape. Sadly one cannot parry a deathbolt, and one reached their leg and left a crater the size of a fist.
As for Sunny, she fired her arrows until her fingers bled. Each arrow finding home in a Stonetooth warrior’s body. When arrows became unavailable, she moved between combatants like a leaf on the wind, collecting arrows as she went along. However, luck and skill lasted so long before a hand axe found itself embedded in her chest, she collapsed shortly after.
The battle turned for the worst at this point, both sides had their armor destroyed and slashed and thrusted spears with a fevor Volrok hadn’t seen in years. Something stirred in him, as a mace clocked him in the back and forced him to the ground, a feeling he had almost forgotten, fear.

As he laid on the ground, his eyes stared into the Stonetooth that took up a smile of victory, of one who would gloat of Volrok’s death.
Have you forgotten the lessons I’ve taught you? A voice like steel stated in his mind.
‘Ulfkell?…’ He thought weakly as the voice rang in the mind.
Have you forsaken who you are? Have you truly done all you can? The voice stated once again.
‘How can I fight anymore? How can I watch my friends die again? How can I endure? I have fought with all I have, is this not an honorable death?’ Volrok thought, as time seemed to have slowed as the dagger raised to thrust itself into his chest.

So what of those who still live, do they deserve death? What of Aurelia, does she deserve heartbreak and sorrow? Why do you falter Battle-born? Give in to who you are, be the warrior you are meant to be. The voice echoed in his mind, this time with images of his friends in the Broken Blade, his loved one, his home, their future, those that lived. With it, an urge that was long suppressed began to surface, the urge for bloodshed, the urge to fight and fight till he couldn’t fight no more.

They took from you twice and they will take no more. Now take everything from them! Now get up Battle-born! I said GET THE FUCK UP! The voice bellowed in Volrok’s mind while a flash of eyes as red as fresh forged metal appeared. Then he could hear it, the sound of battle again, and with it, the sound of hammer and anvil. Time went back to normal, and his hand thrusted upward with the very dagger that his ancestors handed down, the broken blade itself that was now lodged in the Stonetooth’s neck. With a jerk he removed the blade and was bathed in the blood that flowed from the would be killer. 
He hurt, everything hurt, he was battered, beaten, and bruised, but he stood up. He looked at the foe’s around him, and his blood boiled. They were few, but they could still win the day. He dug deep into his lungs, an inhale that seemed to suck the energy of the battle into himself, and roared a question into the battle to all those that still stood.
“TELL ME BLOOD BATH CORP, WHAT MAKES THE GRASS GROW?!” He roared. No response came, and Volrok stood there alone and in silence among the field of corpses. The battle seemed to have stopped as the remaining Stonetooth gathered for another run at them.

“BLOOD! BLOOD! BLOOD MAKES THE GRASS GROW!!!” came a chorus behind him, as Wren, Sunny, and Katya rushed with about ten other members to form up. Blood oozed, wounds barely patched, and bones that were clearly broken didn’t dampen their resolve. They were as one, and they would not allow Stonetooth to claim victory there that day.

“FOR HONOR, FOR GLORY, FOR THE BATTLE FATHER!!!” They all roared as one, charging into the Stonetooth warriors, who now looked a bit more shaken that the resolve of these human ĺoclaochra charged into their lines with almost a religious fervor. For when they reached their foes, not even the gods could have held back their fury and rage. Roars of defiance came from the opposing force, even if it was short lived, for the melee had commenced once again. This time though, the Blood Bath Corp took the upper hand. Axe halfs shattered, spears splintered, swords shattered, maces crumbled, for neither side wanted to give up in this lake of mud, blood, viscera, and gore that both have created, but the victor was soon decided. Katya, Wren, Sunny, and Volrok stood with two others as the last of the severely wounded Stonetooth fled the battlefield. Their slashed sleeves heavy with blood and gore, their bodies beyond weary. As they fell to their knees roaring a cry of victory, sorrow, and rage, it was only then that the Clan Shattered Spear unit was able to approach and save the few of them left from dying outright.

He swirled his glass, staring into the drink that has helped dull the pain of his broken ribs, hip, and multiple arrow wounds. He couldn’t taste the alcohol like he used to, all it did was slightly burn going down, but there was no joy, no solace found. He stood up slowly and paid the bartender.
“Hey Lord Commander, why are you smiling?” said the barkeep as they took the coin for the evening.
“Oh… Just found something silly was all…” Volrok replied
“Oh? Like what?”
“Isn’t it funny… How blood makes the grass grow?” he said as he turned to the rest of those at a booth; Katya, Sunny, Wren, and the two others that survived the battle of Richtcrag’s Bloody Cry.

August/September 273

As Fall approaches and the decay of winter lurks around the corner, Aina recalls some of the frightful tales from various colonists about the destruction of their “Old World.” She finds herself revisiting a ballad she wrote about some of those events.

In a similar colonist-inspired realm, she had once written a tragic song from the perspective of a Syndar who’d been Hollowed. This theme has, unfortunately, become more relevant with recent rumors about a hollowed Daughter of Gaia.

Here are both songs.

Vandregonian Lament1

Gather round to hear the sound

Of older time and place

A time of valiant warriors

Lost to treach’rous disgrace

When men in hues of desert blues

Begat eternal ire

We’d never known such chillèd bones

As when lighting desert pyres

The tale began on May’kar sands

Under a bishop-king

His arms open to any man

With dreams to believe in

In this place, just having faith

Is all that they required

We’d never known such chillèd bones

As when lighting desert pyres

They ruled in peace for centuries

In difficult terrain

Engaging kingdoms civilly

With leaders’ cautious reigns

Trav’llers refreshed around Saresh

With arts to be admired

We’d never known such chillèd bones

As when lighting desert pyres

There broke free a foul army

Of rotting flesh and bone

These un-men skulked with enmity

Ravaging countless homes

The May’kar did their best to hold

As conditions turned dire

We’d never known such chillèd bones

As when lighting desert pyres

Then Vandregon, we came along,

And helped to quell the fears

Armies combined and we held strong

For 35 long years

Faltering when the May’kar King

He tragically expired

We’d never known such chillèd bones

As when lighting desert pyres

Without a King, their suffering

Took a turn for the worst

The two armies buffering

Against the undead curse.

Until whispers slid on the winds

Of a Rising that transpired

We’d never known such chillèd bones

As when lighting desert pyres

Suddenly Mahsai armies

They turned on Vandregon

And no one could have foreseen

Events going so wrong

Reports came in of a cursèd King

Around whom they’d conspired

We’d never known such chillèd bones

As when lighting desert pyres

Countless-men were slayed in bloodied frays

And shocking betrayal

Nations were completely razed

Battle after battle

The only save was to escape

In ships we could acquire

We’d never known such chillèd bones

As when lighting desert pyres

Now the lands of bloodied sands

Remain all overrun

Shame eats the hearts of living men

With flags of the White Sun

There are a few who swear they’re true

With innocent desires

We’d never known such chillèd bones

As when lighting desert pyres

O Vandregonians’ huge loss

Could never be undone

Our bodies piled in shapeless mass

And burned under the sun

Our countless brave into a grave

We piled and set afire

We’d never known such chillèd bones

As when lighting desert pyres

The Hollowed2

The murky glow of the new moon,

In the sky comes fading in,

Under her gauzy veil I lay out honey and incense

Choking on the memories

of once doing this with kin,

Ere my weaving grew sullied,

And my warp and weft were rent.

Blood of my blood, I call to thee,

Flesh of my flesh, I wait for thee.

They ripped all trace of mana

from my struggling bodymind,

Severed from the stream that courses within all our kind.

I was shorn of my branches,

Shorn of my dignity,

The Reclament unearthed my roots

To toss among the weeds.

Blood of my blood, I call to thee,

Flesh of my flesh, I wait for thee.

My body is a ghostly house, standing hollow and alone

Flesh and sinew hanging on its frame of brittle bone

This house it is the shameful site of my hammer-bludgeoned shrine

I sit and count up all the years since my hearth last held a fire

Blood of my blood, I call to thee,

Flesh of my flesh, I will wait for thee,

Blood of my blood, I call to thee,

Flesh of my flesh, I will wait for thee.

Out of Game Notes

1: Melody is “Jim Jones at Botany Bay,” a folk song. Lyrics original.

2: Melody original; lyrics have snippets & imagery taken from several songs: Ghost House by Beverly Glenn-Copeland; Fallow State, The Hammer, and Come Home You are Missed by Thou.

I think I do not care for war.

Fighting, I understand. We must fight for our lives. When Grimward and Stonetooth raise sword and claw to strike us down, there is no choice but to meet them in kind. We must spill their blood, so that they do not spill ours. We must fight to protect our people and our lands. We must stand together, or we will die, and our names will be forgotten.

At first, I thought that war was just this fighting, but greater, and that the only difference was in the number of soldiers. But today, I have seen that this is not the case.

We had a duty to deliver goods to Grimsendir. An important task, to keep safe the lives of those within its walls, and the people living in the lands beyond the line it guards. Several times, this day, I left our camp, to guard supplies and my fellow soldiers. Each time, I did not know if I would return. If I would return to Saga. By Gaia’s will, I did. Others were not so blessed.

But while I was on the paths, I saw war, and saw how my allies and enemies saw it. War is not fighting. War is sport. War is a time for boasting, a time for foolish bravery. It is a time to create and grow the legend of a warrior.

It disgusts me.

On my third delivery of supplies, there was one Grimward soldier preventing us from returning to camp. We outnumbered him, many times over. It would have been a simple matter to surround him and cut him down. But one of our soldiers called for an ‘honor duel’.

‘No interference’, I heard, echoed around me. The battle blocked our cart from returning. More Grimward could have arrived at any moment. What could have been a safe and sure victory was risked for glory. For this ‘honor’.

No interference. I am reminded of my father. His demand that an Ulven must stand alone. That it is a weakness to count on others.

What a waste.

The other Einherjar are good people, but they share these thoughts as well, at times, as does my mate. I have a great respect for our Toralf, though. Though his body was bloodied and bruised by Grimward hands, he spoke to us not as a warrior, but as a fighter. He told us to survive, to protect each other, and we did. No Einherjar fell this day. We would not allow it. I am grateful to have him back. I think I do not care for war.

The trip to Shattered Spear territory was becoming quite familiar these days. Ever since the declaration of war, Alister has been doing all he can to help the refugees have a safe place to live while their other loved ones fight for their homeland. Nobody wants to leave their loved ones behind with the thought of losing them. Never seeing them again. Thousands of possible outcomes fill the mind and generally most of them bad.

Sighing as he comes up a hill overlooking Shieldhaven, a sound of merriment floats up the hill towards him.

“The hells is going on down there?” Alister asks himself, “What month is it? What day? Gods is it Market Fair time already?! And the daft fools are having it on the front doorstep to the war?! What are they even thinking?!”

As he hurried down to the town to yell at whomever was in charge, a group of guards passed him bidding good day. Muttering a response in passing, he paid them little mind, barely acknowledging their presence.

Near the gate to the small settlement, he could see banners fluttering in the breeze. Blue and silver streamers decorated the walls. Traders peddling their wears had set up shop. And some boisterous fellow was rushing about announcing feats of skill and strength for people to test themselves at.

Brushing off the man’s attempts to recruit him for a ‘Drunken Mage’ contest… (Alister had spent more than his fair share of nights recently being drunk, trying his best to forget the disaster at the Ulven moot)…

He meandered about the stalls and thought to himself, “Perhaps this is something the people need. A bit of rest and respite from the war. A way to relax…” Quickly shaking his head from the foolish notion, another part of him thought, “How dare these people have this foolish celebrating while their allies are out there fighting desperately to save their homeland. How dare they take advantage of this situation, luring people here to sell goods that would be far more valuable on the front lines. How dare they have these feats of skill wasted here, when there’s far more Grimward and Stonetooth targets that will happily fight back opposed to shooting at some damned tree.”

It was then Alister saw Volrok of the Broken Blade Company leading a small procession out beyond the walls to a secluded grotto in the woods nearby. Alister had heard rumors that Vaels had fallen at the Moot during the retreat, but he had hoped they were just that… Finding out the truth of the matter, of losing a good friend and ally, close to tears. The funeral procession for Vaels was beautiful, the first of such that Alister had ever seen for the Syndar. At the end of the ceremony, many others had left while nearly all Broken Blade members present, stayed behind. Alister walked back with the rest, occasionally looking back at Vaels’ final resting place with a heavy heart.

It wasn’t until he returned to the settlement when he felt something was wrong. His purpose for going back to Shattered Spear to assist refugees was wrong. He shouldn’t be helping people run… He should be fighting along side them on the front lines like Vaels did… Protecting his friends to the very end.

He hadn’t been sleeping much lately. Things had been quiet and peaceful in his neck of the woods for quite some time. Not since the business at Arragones’ estate had there been even a whisper of a worry of a need for the Ravens banners to join the armies of Newhope. Things were different now. Stonetooth made things different and though Key’s Crossing was far from any frontlines, you’d have to be a fool to not see how this war laid its fingers across the whole of Mardrun.

Each day construction continued on the new walls that surrounded the city, brick by brick they cast a longer shadow over the low lying homes at their foundations. From his second story apartment on a hill, Cordyn would still be able to see over the wall and out to the ocean. The same could not be said for those who now lived in the ever-growing embrace of its defensive shade. Sure, in this moment of worry and warfare they were happy to trade their ocean views for the protection granted by cool, thick stone, but would that always be the case? Would a day come that peace once again came to Mardrun? If a time came that the people no longer felt the need for the wall’s protection, would they then start to see it instead as the warden of their new prison?

Cordyn had spent years with his nose buried in ledgers and city plans. Sleepless nights were spent alongside trade and labor unions and professors and barkeeps trying to find how to best serve the people of Key’s Crossing. He’d worked hard to try to build the city into a special place where all were given the opportunity to make themselves how they wished and live the lives they were meant to. A city where things were not divided by class structures, incomes, and inheritance. As he watched the wall he commissioned grow day-by-day and its shadow swallow more and more homes, he knew he’d failed. There would now be two immutable classes within the city: those who could see over the wall, and those who lived beneath it.

After long days in planning meetings Cordyn would come home and lie on his bed, wrapped in thoughts of what’s to come. One day, when people inevitably grew tired of living in a shadow, would he stand firm by his values and offer to trade his home and move to the depths? Or would hypocrisy sink its barbed talons into his heart? It’s easy to say that you’ll do the right thing before the question becomes real and much much harder to actually do it when the time comes. Cordyn knew this much and as such was usually unable to quiet his worrying mind. On nights like this there was only one thing that could ease him.

***

Cordyn reached over and tapped an iron bar set into the wall near his bed and an arcane lamp hanging from the ceiling eased to life. He shot to his feet and crossed his room to shutter his windows. His neighbors had been clear with him and their words echoed in his head, “We don’t care what you get up to at night, but if you let that light shine in our windows again then we’re going to drag you out of that apartment and tar you in the streets.”

Cordyn took a seat at his work desk and pulled open a drawer full of thin metal bars and wooden splinters. To the average eye they looked nothing more than castoff and refuse, but to the trained senses of an arcanist they hummed with potential. Most enchanters that Cordyn spoke with focused on the large, charismatic endeavors that could be achieved by working with full ingots and planks of infused materials, but Cordyn’s love centered not on enchanting weapons and armors, but in pulling the fantastical from the smallest of scraps and the crafting and inventing of the small things that could better your everyday: the things that brought magic to the average person. When he closed his eyes he could still see the smiles and awe on the faces of families the first night they illuminated the arcane lamps in the night market district and when he really tried, he could imagine some of those smiling faces belonged to his parents too. They’d be proud of who he’d become. Wouldn’t they? The shadow of the wall loomed, casting darkness over his parents’ faces.

He pushed the thoughts away and let his focus shift to the open drawer. He absently let his hand glide over the assortment of scraps; his eyes wouldn’t help here. Eventually his hand settled over a thin barb of infused iron, he could feel it gently pulsing sympathetically with the mana in his own body. When working with such delicate pieces of material you’d often have to find the ones that were suited to the task as opposed to how you are able to force and mold the larger pieces to your will. Cordyn took the piece from the tray and laid it on his notebook.

The book was laden with scrawlings that would look half mad to a scholar and incomprehensible to a layman. The writing was a nigh unintelligible blend of schools of thought. Deep arcane mathematics prodded at the very mechanisms of magic and weaving, but their phrases were written almost poetically in the vocabulary of a trained alchemist and blowhard who loves to hear himself speak. Musings copied themselves forwards and backwards, weaving across the page in a circuitous dance as if they themselves were threads of mana to be played with. Sigils and symbols and diagrams of whirling arcane weavery packed into the margins. All under the heading “What does it mean to push?”

Cordyn read over his notes again before turning to a small object on his desk. It was a curious thing. A passing glance would tell you that it was an alembic, a piece of an alchemist’s distillation apparatus, but to lay your hand on it would disabuse you of that notion. It was thick and cold and iron. Cordyn took the object in his hand and turned it over a few times. He was sure that tonight would be the night he would crack it. He spent the next few hours delicately etching the surface of the iron thing.

When he finished the object was awash with intricate weaving patterns and set into its hull was a slot shaped to snugly accept the infused iron barb sitting on his notebook. Cordyn took a deep breath as he gently laid the barb into its new home and delicately tapped it into its setting and then he sat with this new object in a deep weaver’s meditation. His mind danced through arcane currents and overtime he conquered them and forced them into shape all the while he tamed the magical structure of the item in his hands. After some time reality and intention came into harmony. Cordyn opened his eyes and rolled the object around in his hands, checking it for any stress marks or fractures. When he was properly satisfied he ran his thumb over the infused barb.

With a gentle whine the iron thing came to life. A force began to press itself out from the open end of the thing, strong enough to catch one off guard, but not so strong as to shove them from their feet. Cordyn smiled and ran his finger over the infused barb once again; the small object settled back into an inert state. Without hesitation Cordyn rushed to his closet and pulled out a long coat. He dressed into a semi-presentable state, shoved his new object into his satchel and left his apartment.

The streets of Keys Crossing had become a marvel to see at night. Gentle, lowly powered arcane lamps lined the streets and bathed them in a pale blue glow, enough to help people walking in the night without a lantern, but not so much as to offend anyone sleeping. Then there was the Night Market District. Here the lamps were not so easy. This whole district was bathed in enough light that one could sit in the central park and play cards well past midnight and not once have to strain their eyes. It was also home to The Tin Whistle Tavern.

Cordyn threw open the doors to The Tin Whistle and without so much as a good evening, made his way toward the staff dumbwaiter that was used to send meals upstairs to the guest rooms. He set to work tinkering with the lower pulley, delicately fitting his new device to the hub with a specially made bracket. The bartender looked over his shoulder.

“Evening, Magistrate.”

“Good Evening, Margaret.” He did not look away from his work

“That the thing you’ve been talking about?” She did her best to see what he was doing.

“I sure hope so.”

“Don’t put any holes in my walls.” She turned away and went back to the bar counter before he could respond.

Cordyn continued to work for a few more minutes and when he felt the device was properly fitted he turned to Margaret.

“Margaret, my dear, witness the future!”

With that Cordyn ran his finger over the small infused barb on the device. It whined to life and began to exert force from its open end and slowly, painfully slowly, it began to push against its bracket and drive the wheel of the pulley. The dumbwaiter began to lift under the device’s power at a rate of nearly one story per half hour. Cordyn beamed with joy and turned to see Margaret’s expression and found her nonplussed. She could tell that Cordyn found this all very exciting, but to her eyes this new device was far more useless than just hoisting the dumbwaiter by hand.

“So? What do you think!?”

“Well, it’s a bit slow isn’t it?” She tried her very best to look supportive.

“Well yes, but that’s just the steps toward progress! Clearly there are some inefficiencies in my design, but look at this proof of concept!” Cordyn could not hide the childlike glee in his voice, “Why in fact, give it six or maybe seven more developmental generations and by then maybe it will move even faster than you!”

“Well then,” Margaret ran her finger over the infused barb, the device eased back to inertness. “You can bring it back when you’re on generation eight.” She slid the device out of its bracket and dropped it into Cordyn’s hands. “But for now, get out from behind my bar.”

Cordyn smiled and slid the device into his satchel and as he walked out from behind the bar he grabbed a tall bottle of dark ale. He held it above his head as he opened the front door and stepped out into the street. “Just throw it on my tab, Margaret!” Once outside Cordyn sat for a moment, bathed in the light of arcane lamps and for the first time in a while, content in feeling that with enough work and enough progress, maybe one day no one will have to live in the shadow of a wall.

Snippets from the Bard Book of Aina Riverhead – Pt. II

July 273

As war rages on, Aina continues to do her best to support nearby people in the ways she knows how. Folks imagine that boosting morale requires jovial tunes and war music, but Aina retains her penchant for the soft and gloomy. Sad music in sad times is a balm for the soul, can make people feel seen. This was true for her, at least.

—

Below are some relevant snippets from her Bard book: the first is a dark but silly song lampooning Khulgar Graytide, to be sung as a taunt; the second is a lighter song about a laborer’s unsuccessful attempts at gainful employment with various groups in Mardrun, until he eventually finds the Golden Hand for a happy ending (no, not that kind of happy ending); the third is Aina’s transcription of a traditional Ulven funeral pyre song.

KhUlGaR_1_

When I came back from the warring clans,

I didn’t have a thing where my balls used to hang,

But I had rock chompers and a fine harangue,

Now I’m a fucking hero.

[Chorus:]

Warsworn give me the salute!

Useless curs of ill repute.

Slay your kin, start calamity;

If you wanna be a hero follow me!

and now the boys all envy me,

I fought for Stonetooth supremacy,

With nothing but air where my balls used to be,

Now I’m a fucking hero.

[Chorus]

Clash of iron, voices thunder,

I love our Ulven torn asunder,

I’m a two-timing ball-less wonder,

Now I’m a fucking hero.

[Chorus]

By the Hackles there’s a spot,

Where the corpses of my brothers rot,

So proud of my spineless lot,

How can I be a hero?

[Chorus]

Troubles in Mardrun_2_

I went to the Great Phoenix,

Thinking that they’re rich.

They said, ‘son, what can you do?’

I’m a bit unaware,

But could try to sell your wares…?

Or I can pick and shovel too…?

I can pick and shovel too…

I went to the Broken Blade,

Looking for a wage.

They said, ‘son, what can you do?’

I cannot fight nor drink,

But I know how to sing

I can pick and shovel too…?

I can pick and shovel too!

[Chorus:]

O mercy me, O mercy my,

I’m selling what no one will buy,

When your troubles are so deep, you cannot eat or sleep

See when your troubles are like mine!

See when your troubles are like mine.

I went to the Ravens next,

Dressed in my blackest best.

They said, ‘son, what can you do?’

Well I can barely read or write,

But I can cook alright

I can pick and shovel too!

Pick and shovel too…

I went to the Einherjar,

Hoping to be their star.

They said, ‘son, what can you do?’

While I cannot hunt nor fish,

I could stand on the ship?

I can pick and shovel too…

I can pick and shovel too.

[Chorus]

I went to the Order fifth,

Still trying to find my fit.

They said, ‘son, what can you do?’

Well I’m open to a romp,

Far away from that curséd swamp,

I can pick and shovel too,

I can pick and shovel too

I went to the Blades of Sol,

Begging for a role

They said, ‘son, what can you do?’

Well I usually don’t pray,

But I do work for pay.

I can pick and shovel too!

I can pick and shovel too!

[Chorus]

Then I asked about the Fate,

With their mission so great,

Folks said, ‘son, it’s no can do’

They’ve been hidden since the raid,

Off in some magic Glade.

I can pick and shovel too…

I can pick and shovel too…

I went to the Golden Hand,

And saw them work the land.

They said, ‘son, what can you do?’

I can harvest and bail,

I can lay down some trail,

I can pick and shovel too!!

I can pick and shovel too!!

O mercy me, O mercy my,

Poor me, they finally have hired!!

O my troubles ran so deep,

I couldn’t eat or sleep.

I hope my troubles will decline!

Now will my troubles decline.

Traditional Ulven

Funeral Pyre Song_3_

(not titled)

Raised to love the daybreak of the living,

You must seek to be one with the night,

Your embodiment of lupine fury,

Bathing in Gaia’s flaming light.

We strive and we strive for our names

to be carried on forward.

And again and again do we send

our own to see the Wolf.

Between our bindings of honor,

There are paths to make us whole once more.

You are walking among the tree shadows,

To embrace that which lies in store.

We strive and we strive for our names

to be carried on forward.

And again and again do we send

our own to see the Wolf.

Blind, we’re acting out structures,

Older than we’ll ever know.

Journey, O Journey!

Keep rising out of the pyres!

We strive and we strive for our names

to be carried on forward.

With honor, go onward we send

You to see the Great Wolf.

[Chant 2x:]

Ai! Fara fram, Fara fram, Fara fram.

Out-of-game Footnotes

1: This song is a heavy modification of “Luang Prabang” by Dave Van Ronk. That song is in turn based on the much older “Byker Hill,” an English folk mining tune.

2: Verse lyrics fully original. Melody and modified chorus lyrics are from “Troubles” as covered by the act Anna & Elisabeth in 2015; however, this is an older folk song, attributed to Kilby Snow, approx. 1930s.

3: Lyrics heavily altered, melody largely preserved from the song “The Roses” by Jonathan Hultén.