Wiki Pages – Page 33 – Last Hope Larp

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Bero Smith – [Renowned]

Played by Jeremy O’Driscoll

My name is Bero. I was raised by my father, Brom Smith. My mother, Eva Smith, died while having me. Fortunately, my father was a skilled smith and able to afford to raise me by himself. I originally hail from Vandregon. I was born in a time of tumult and unsurety. My father had been lucky enough to learn his craft while the world was mostly at peace, but as he grew into his own, he focused more and more on military matters. Armies were needed to fight off the Undead and later also the Penitent, not to mention, to fuel and put down uprisings. So instead of making things to help improve our village, by the time he had me, he was focusing solely on making war materiel.

My apprenticeship to my father was marked by the constant need for more. More armor. More weapons. More tools. Vandregon was at war and losing at that. Many a time an army would come through and “recruit” a number healthy, able, farmers of military age. I say “recruit”, but that was just a pleasant word to hide the fact that soldiers were necessary. We didn’t have enough of them. They were pressed into service.

Few of my friends “recruited” in this manner would ever return to our village. And how could we expect them to? Take a man with no training and without proper equipment and throw them into the front? Without proper equipment, even training can only do so much.

This put extra fire into my heart for my craft. The constant need for more was an emotional drain, but seeing my friends go into the fight ill equipped solidified in my mind that what I was doing was important. What I was doing could save lives.

I was pressed into service myself a few times, but my skills as an armor and weapon smith were too valuable. I became a camp follower. My primary duty was to help with repairs on armor and weapons as well as aid in the entrenchment of defensive positions. I was lucky though. I was granted leave to return home when it wasn’t the season for war. Unless something happened of course that required my services again, I would be allowed to return home in the colder months and see and help my father.

After I was “recruited”, my father spent less and less money on daily living. Saving as much as he could. I kept telling him he should live a comfortable but modest life as begets his position as a tradesman, but he had a bad feeling.

Two years passed, and eventually this becomes the new normal. The war constantly going on, everyone tightening their belts, and me making repairs and more war materiel. We kept losing ground. Fear and unrest was growing among everyone. Things couldn’t keep going the way they were. Luckily our village was close to the coast, but even that was threatened by the overwhelming hoard.

Out of seemingly nowhere, one day I got a message from our lord. I was to report to a harbor far back from the front as my services are needed there. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but my thoughts on this order have been…long since then.

I made my way to the harbor as fast as my feet and wagon can take me. When I reported in, I am ordered to board a vessel bound for a new land. Apparently, I had been selected to aid in the expansion of the colonies in the New World. I knew I had done well working for the cause, but didn’t expect to be singled out like this.

Unexpectedly, my father was actually there to see me off. He didn’t offer much in way of explanation as to why he was actually there, but we made the most of our time together as it would probably be quite a while before I saw him again.

Our vessel managed to take us to the New World. As my days pass setting up a new shop and working on more war materiel for the new uneasiness and unrest, I came to realize that my father probably bribed his way to get me here. Saving up all that coin for several years to get me appointed to this position. It wasn’t too much longer before our colony heard of the final collapse of Vandregon. I went every day to look for my father on the final boats. Hoping he’d gotten himself out as well. I put out word for him, but never saw or heard from him again.

With the fall of Vandregon, my official service came to an end. I still have my shop though and do mostly the same things. This continent needs the same services. Although so many things have changed, much remains the same.

I began to lose hope.Why would the gods allow this to be the case? We got pushed out of our lands by dark magics? Now fighting continues with less resources and experience? This sucks.

I continue to press on, doing what must be done, but where is a plan that will actually change things? Wars, battles, unrest, all these things keep happening and will continue to happen with how things are currently going. There must be another way.

Maybe more and better equipment will help the world. At the rate things are going though, it doesn’t look like it. It feels like even if I were to try harder: produce more, upgrade, repair, it’s a useless endeavor if we’re forsaken and meant to fail.

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Etherion Kylothis

Etherion Kylothis (The Guardian of all things living, The thunderous bear, Warg cursed)

Race: Feral Syndar

Class: Mage

Age: 140 (born 128)

Eyes:One yellow, one white

Player: Michael Hannes

Skills: Arcane magic, Improved arcane magic,Lore ritual, Trade weaver, dual wield, meditation.

Year 128- 247

Etherion was born to the Lost tribe of ferals but did not have the trait of green skin. He was born with two different colored eyes vastly contrasting each other. One being as yellow as the golden sun and one as white as the new moon. Some saw it as an omen that he was favored by the gods Lunara and Solara. Others saw it as an omen of a cursed fate. Some speculate he was actually not born of the Lost but was instead found as a baby. Others say is an omen of death and he should be banished from the Lost. His only saving grace was the current Shaman of his bloodline calming the minds of his kin saying a child born of pale skin was a rare sight but a blessed one. He would do great things in his lifetime and many would be proven wrong about their skepticism. He was a very curious child as he aged, wondering what created the world and why things are the way they are. The elders taught him of their gods and of Lunara and Solara. He was confused as to why there were so many but that just fed his lust for knowledge even more. He began to learn of Shaman practices and rituals and was taken on his spiritual journey to find his totem. They sat in a meditation circle around a fire pit as the Shaman cast herbs and salts into the fire.

“What do you feel young one?” the Shaman asked.

“I feel the heat of the flames, the strength of our bloodline, and the courage to seek as much knowledge as one is able.” he replied.

“Close your eyes and tell me what you hear.”

“Roaring, heavy breathing, heavy footsteps, and snapping of branches.”

“Look into the flames and tell me what you see!”

“A bear. Strong and fearless. Thunderously charging to ward off a cougar that was stalking its cubs. A scar over its right eye shows this isn’t the first time it has been a guardian to its young.”

“You have your totem young one. The bear is a guardian spirit who chooses those that wish to keep others safe and out of harm’s way. Fitting for one so curious.”

The Shaman laughed and threw salts into the fire that made the flames shoot up as the other Lost began to beat drums and dance in celebration and chant.

As he aged into his mid 30’s he began to understand more of magic and how to harness it into protective auras. He was noticed by the elders and tested on his knowledge of the arcane arts and rituals. He exceeded expectations being able to cast spells powerful enough to negate even the darkest of magics. With the totem of the bear as his spirit animal it was no surprise that Etherion could cast such spells with ease. The current shaman was old and beginning his journey to return the mana stream. With his passing, the elders named Etherion shaman of his bloodline in the year 226. The Guardian of life, and The Thunderous Bear were names bestowed upon him as well. He was given a ceremonial dagger made from a bucks antler for certain rituals. Though one of the elders saw darkness in Etherions future, the others did not see any reason to mistrust the young Shaman. As he grew so did his lust for even more knowledge. For decades he pestered the elders about sharing as many stories as possible. Until they got to the story of the Great Wolves, known as The Wargs.

“WHY!??” Etherion exclaimed. “They were animals of nature. Loyal to each other as we are. Why would we make an entire species extinct?”

The elders gave their reasons, but each excuse fell on deaf ears. He had heard enough….for once. Etherion made a promise to himself that he would never take the life of a living creature unless there was no choice. But he would help others stay safe if he was able.

The year is 254.

Etherion continued his practices as a shaman weaving mana into protective spells and strengthening the ones he knew. Time passed and he began to feel like he was losing connection to his bloodline. Though he was the shaman others began to look at him in disgust. The elders called for a council.

“Etherion, there are many here that believe you unfit to be named our Shaman. Your ignorance and outburst toward the elders about the fate of the Warg after you persistently asked that they tell you will not be taken lightly. We hereby banish you from this tribe. You will also be branded with the symbol of the wolf, a sign of bad luck for our people. And I give you the name of Warg Cursed so that all may know of what you truly believe!”

Etherion chuckled, “You call it a curse, I call it love of nature and the preservation of life. I’ll gladly accept your mark if it means that I can show that I am a lover of all things that call this world home!”

He was laid on the ground and given a tattoo of a Warg on his chest. He then packed his materials and belongings used for spellcasting and left. Making his way south hoping another family group would take him in. One by one he went from camp to camp being shunned away as the sight of the tattoo given to him. He was alone now or so it seemed. He prayed to the gods but they wouldn’t answer him. He set up a small camp and stared into the flames.

“Why have you abandoned me? Why when I need you the most, you forsake and curse me? I prayed to you for my spells and rituals and now that all means nothing. To hell with you then. I shall await to return to the mana stream whenever that may be.”

A rustling was heard from the bushes. A massive bear lumbers from behind the bush and meets its gaze with Etherions. A scar over the bears right eye is quickly noticed. He thinks it’s only fitting to for him to be returned to the mana stream by his own totem spirit. He bows his head to the beast and awaits its attack.

“Raise your head Etherion.” A low but calming voice lets out.

Etherion looks at the bear, “ This is a dream. It must be.”

“This is no dream shaman. I am here. I am real. As are my companions.”

Just then a wolf comes from behind the brush and a raven lands on the bears shoulder. Confused Etherion just sits and studies before asking why they are here and how he can understand them.

The wolf speaks, “You are a preserver of life. We are the three guardian spirits of nature. I am Bryn. Guardian of loyalty, family and the defender of the body.”

The Raven caws, “ I am Jafnvaegi, Guardian of life, death, and the balance of nature.”

“And I am Skjoldur, Guardian of strength, courage, and protection. You still have much to do Etherion. Your journey is still beginning and there is much to be done. Lives are being lost in a war that cannot be won and soon this war will consume you as well. The balance of nature has been lost, the dead live again and are murdering countless innocent people. You must help those that you can. That is your purpose as a guardian of life. To save others!”

“Where must I go? How can I save them?”

“Head south, there are evacuations being made towards ships to the East. A new land has been discovered and it is believed you may find life there. Go Etherion, and remember. The Guardians guide you.”

Etherion races south not knowing where exactly to go but trusting in his new found gods he does not fear what lies ahead. For days he continues south until he comes upon a town wrought with flame, screams echoing out and piercing his eardrums. He sprints to the town and is met with an axe at his throat.

“I am here to help! I saw the flames and heard the screams!”

A man in chainmail with a red and gray tabard looks Etherion up and down. The axe he wields is engraved with a wolf carving on the blade and a wolf head for the pommel. “And how exactly is a feral supposed to help in this situation?”

“I am a shaman, I can help get people to safety.”

“HAHA yeah right, all your wuju magic won’t do any good.” Just then an undead slumps behind the man and raises a sword ready to strike.

Etherion moves the man out of his way, and channels his mana, “PUSH!!!!” Etherion sends the creature hurtling backwards.

The man looks at Etherion with shock in his eyes. “Thanks for that. It would have killed me for sure. Alright you can help, there are some civilians being evacuated not far from here. We need to buy them time to get on the ships at the Eastern docks. My name is Galvan by the way.”

WIthout hesitation Etherion and Galvan make haste towards the civilians. As they arrive Etherion notices how many people there are and how many are still coming. How will they save all these people? How many will die? How many will suffer? How many will be lost? Etherion looks at Galvan with determination. “What causes the dead to rise? Who is behind the spells that prevents them from rest?” Etherion asks.

“It started as peasants believing the world is being judged by divine power and that the undead are here to purge the land of the living. To save themselves they joined the undead and made themselves known as the Penitent. As more and more people fell to this plague the ranks of the undead grew at an alarming rate. Beginning with humans some Syndar joined the Penitent as well. Hope seems lost which is why we must help as many people get to the ships as we can.”

The two arrive at the village to see a line of Vandregonian soldiers moving towards the southern gate with haste. Civilians are being escorted to the docks in a panic. Chaos, death, fear, all are observed in the streets of the village. Children crying for they do not understand what is happening. Mothers cry for their children’s safety, and for the men that are fighting to protect them. Etherion loses himself for a moment. He thinks to himself, “So much death. So much pain and suffering. Have the Gods truly forsaken this land?” He collects himself and looks to Galvan.

“Alright first things first, there is dark magic here so let me protect you. I need you to kneel for but a moment.”

Etherion rolls out his weaver mat for Galvan to kneel. Etherion begins to chant and weave mana around the two of them. The chanting ceases and Etherion pulls his ceremonial dagger to cut his hand. He takes two fingers and draws a symbol on Galvans forehead and a black aura appears around him. “That will protect you from dark magic but not forever. Galvan thanks him and rises for battle. They turn and escort people behind the ranks of the vandregonian soldiers defending the frontlines from undead and penitent forces. Etherion continues to cast spells and send undead backwards. The Vandregonian line begins to fall and the ranks break. Running short on mana Etherion needs to find a weapon to defend himself with. He picks up a blood stained kukri and tries his best to defend. Galvan is at his side hacking down undead and penitent. Etherion notices a mage on the penitent side channeling dark magic and targeting him. He can’t stop it.he is going to die here. The mage casts a ball of dark energy at Etherion but Galvan jumps in the way absorbing it with the aura Etherion put on him. Galvan looks at Etherion, “I would say we are even now.” Galvan laughs and turns back to see a hulking undead in front of him. The undead drives its sword through Galvan lifting him off his feet. Using his last bit of mana Etherion blasts the undead with magic sending it flying backwards. He drags Galvan off the field to the medics tent to be patched up. Nothing can be done. The wound is too grievous and deep. “I am sorry Galvan.” Etherion begins to tear up as he holds Galvans hand. Galvan holds his axe and places it to Etherions chest. “Take this with you on the ship. I have done my duty as a soldier but I know you aren’t finished yet” Etherion begins to cry as he feels the life slip from Galvan. “May the Guardians guide you in the afterlife.” Etherion sat to meditate on the events that have transpired.

So many have died. So many have been lost. How can things like this exist? How can evil such as this manifest itself into the hearts of others to bring the dead back to life. How? Why? Just……why? He thought of what Glavan told him about the Penitent. How it began with Humans joining the ranks of the Penitent by choice, and Syndar joining later.

He rises from his meditation with one thing clear in his mind.

Humans, it all started with humans…….

He escorts as many people as he can to the ships but knows it will never be enough to count for the lives lost to this evil. The sad truth that nothing can save those who have fallen from joining the ranks of the undead overwhelms Etherion. As the last ship begins to set sail towards the new land Etherion can’t help but cry. He feels as though he has failed as a guardian. He feels he could have done more. But how? Perhaps this new world will give him a chance for redemption.

Year 261-268

The voyage is long and arduous but the ship finally reaches land. Those that came on the ship are lead to the fortress of Starkhaven. Etherion helps those find shelter, and aids those that are sick or hurt any way he can. After a few years Etherion sees the colony begin to almost thrive. He feels a calling north. To lands unknown to him, but known to others that have shared stories of the Ulven. A proud and barbaric race that had strict codes of honor and a strong connection with nature. Perhaps among them he could find his new calling and explore this new world. But a few things are certain. The Guardians guide him, and the horrors of Faedrun still haunt his nightmares.

Retirement Story:

As the suns and moons passed over the land Etherion found himself thinking about his purpose in life. Whether he made the right choice to follow the bear, wolf, and raven that came to him in his dreams, or if he had made a grave mistake. Abandoning his tribe as their shaman was not an easy thing to do in the first place, but now thinking back with regret he begins to realize that he wants to go home. To assume his place as shaman to his tribe once more. But would they welcome his return? Or would he be banished for pursuing these “false gods”? Only time shall tell, until then he looks to return home with hope in his heart.

As Etherion begins home he starts to wonder and worry how he will be received. “Will they welcome me with open arms?” “Will I be able to assume my role as shaman?” “Will the even allow me to live among them after renouncing our Gods in pursuit of the false once that invaded my dreams?” These thoughts and more raced through his mind and weighed heavy on his heart.

The journey home was long and arduous not because of the path itself, but because of the fear of the unknown upon his return. Etherion was determined to stand before the council none the less and explain his faults and mistakes. On his journey he kept thinking about the animals that presented themselves as his “True Gods”. What did they want? Do they even exist? Was it all just fever dreams? Or were they some sort of message that he was unable to understand? As Etherion arrived at his former village he immediately noticed one of the council Elders approaching him. As the Elder drew near Etherion put his hand put, “Before you speak Lonarri’un, I would say my piece first. I understand and acknowledge the mistakes I made in leaving. I understand the sacrilege I committed in pursuit of false Gods, and I am prepared to face determined judgement. All I ask is that I be able to atone for these sins and once again resume my mantle as shaman. Even if I must spend another 100 years as an underling.” Lonarri’un paused and turned to the rest of the village. “At last the Gods have answered our prayers, and our beloved shaman has returned home! Welcome home, shaman.”

As tears filled his eyes Etherion, fighting the urge to drop to his knees and sob out of sheer happiness, bowed to the Lonarri’un and the village with respect. It was good to finally be home.

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Gully Snowsparrow

PLAYED BY: Zackery Hawkins

CONTACT INFO: zackeryhawkins@gmail.com // zackery hawkins on facebook

CHARACTER NAME: Gully Snowsparrow

GENDER: male

CLASS: Warrior

AGE: born in the year 235. he is aged 33

RACE: Feral Syndar

HAIR: dark brown

EYES: blue/green

OCCUPATION: An honorable sellsword.

KNOWN SKILLS: A sturdy warrior who doesnt shy from the call to battle.
Knows how to live off the land and is particularly skilled in winter
survival.

BIRTHPLACE: the Celestial mountains of Faedrun

APPEARANCE: A large statured Syndar, he wears the furs and hides of
his feral upbringing mixed with red dyed linens and red painted armor.
His skin is fair except for the tips of his ears, which are green.
It’s the only feature indicating his greenskin lineage. His armor is
often mismatched as he has found various pieces along the way. He
carries a huge sword with another warrior’s name etched in it. Lately,
he is seen more often carrying a bottle than the sword.

NOTABLE TRAITS: Honor is not what you say, it is what you DO. He has
little patience for oath breakers and considers his own word his bond.

RELATIONSHIPS: Gully has gained a heavy respect for the Ulven during
his time on Mardrun. They remind him of home.

RUMORS: “A good blade at your side.. if you can find him in a sober
enough state.”

BIO / BACKGROUND HISTORY:

Gully was born in the early snows of the year 235. His mother, Bryn,
pushed him into this realm while tucked away inside a hollowed tree
she sometimes used for storing gathered herbs. She had kept this
pregnancy a secret from her tribe, and intended to birth her child far
away from the prying eyes of her kith. She was a shaman of the
Ramskull line and, while Lost tribe members were allowed to mate with
whoever they like, their womb was a sacred vessel to which only
approved Lost seed was allowed to be planted. Her elders would say
this “mutt” could not live among them, but she had something else to
say about the matter.

Her pale green skin was covered in sweat despite the frigid wind as
she cradled her son tenderly and examined him closely. His skin was
fair all over. She had not known what to expect, for children born to
the Lost had always been as green as the prairie grass clipped by
solara when she first shaped them, but this child’s father was as pale
as moonlight. She smiled warmly as she noticed his ears, the tips of
which mirrored the green of her fingers. She softly touched them and
murmured, “It appears you have not fully escaped your lineage after
all my little leaf-eared babe.”

She raised Gully in secret at first. It was not out of character for
her to disappear from the tribe for months at a time pursuing her
shamanistic craft, but the celestial mountains are not a big enough
place for secrets to remain so for long. The tribe cast her out when
they first discovered Gully, but as the years stretched, their disdain
waned and she was allowed to interact with them again. For Gully, this
was an amazing time. The Lost are an honorable people and they look
after their own regardless of scandal. He spent his early childhood
learning the ways of the land and all the different names of the ice.
He was taught his lineage and made to recite it nightly.

“I am Gully Snowsparrow, the pale first-born of my mother, Bryn
Snowsparrow of the Ramskull line. Grandson of Volsung Bear-rider of
the Crystal Valley, north of the dragon’s spine and south of the
fallen city, where the winged horror flies, who was the strongest son
of Cephee the quiet and Chita the witch, the shapechanger and breaker
of Hanos, which once stood by the water”

He grew up hearing the triumphs and tragedies of his tribe. The
courage of Koragnak Bear-Breath. The gambles of Wargheart. The wisdoms
of Mo’ber the warrior. His heart gushed with the pride of his people
and he was taught to honor not only the heroes, but every Lost,
however strong or meek of heart.

His mother attempted at first to shape his future as her mother did
her’s. Showing him the names of all the plants in the valley, how to
read the ashbones and see future in the night sky. But she quickly saw
the folly in this. Gully had the heart of a warrior, not the mystic
paragon of a shaman. And so she gave him to the Nagoge to be trained,
where he saw very little of her for the rest of his childhood. The
students would range far and wide across the ice wastes with hunting
parties as they explored north of the celestial mountains.

He was 14 when he was forced into manhood.

Returning home from a long expedition to the valley beyond their own,
they spotted a smoke plume over their village. Breaking into a frantic
run, they charged down the mountain-side, wild eyed with fear for
their kith. The village was in shambles, their huts ablaze, and bodies
everywhere. Screams and war cries pierced the air as they bore witness
to a bloody battle ongoing. There were only two Lost still standing,
surrounded by dozens of humans with black streaks of paint trailing
down their cheeks like demonic tear stains. “REPENT” they yelled, as
they bore down on them, “REPENT OR DIE!”

Gully’s hunting party crashed into the flanks of the fanatic raiders,
taking them by surprise and dropping many in the first few moments.
The chaos was supreme and as the last human finally crumpled to the
ground, Gully looked around to find himself to be the only one
standing. The Lost that still lived would die shortly from their
wounds and, stricken with grief, he whispered to each the names of the
ice, made sure a weapon was still in their hands, then finished their
suffering.

He spent the rest of the day picking up each fallen kith from the
ground and carefully placing them on a funeral pyre he had constructed
from pieces of their huts, in accordance of tradition for fallen
warriors. He laid his mother down last, and as he had seen her do many
times in the past, placed the ceremonial herbs on their chests and
then lit the pyres muttering the rites of passage, “from ice to flame,
and blood from bone.”

Some time after, as in a daze, he walked to the edge of the evermelt
pool their village was built around and stared down into its steaming
surface. He saw a red reflection. Looking down, he realized his
normally white and tan clothing was stained solid red from the blood
of his kith as he carried them to their resting place. His hands,
arms, hair and face…every inch covered in blood.

He wore his ancestors that day. And he vowed, then and there, to
always remember. He would wear red for the rest of his days as a daily
reminder of the evil that stole his innocence.

Gully left the celestial mountains some time after that and spent his
time traveling the lands beyond. It didn’t take long to find a name
for the people who destroyed his village. The Penitent. Willing
fanatic slaves to the undead scourge sweeping Faedrun. A yearning for
vengeance was ever present yet dulled by the similar stories he
encountered in town after town. This land was ravaged by war, and his
tragedy was just another drop in an ocean sized bucket.

Seasons passed. He took work where he found it and kept moving to
avoid the war fronts which continually shifted as the great nations of
Faedrun resisted the undead and penitent war machine. It was a losing
battle. He eventually found love in another warrior and kindred
spirit. He was an Aldorian soldier named Hrothgar who talked Gully
into helping defend the Aldorian border against the undead. Hrothgar
was a good man who wasn’t meant for war, a farm boy that was more
suited behind a plow than with a blade in his hand. But peace was a
luxury, not a choice, and when Hrothgar fell in battle, Gully truly
knew his time on Faedrun was at an end. He was only 17 but felt old
and worn. Gully buried Hrothgar with his heirloom axe in his love’s
hands, and strapped Hrothgar’s greatsword to his own back, so they
would always carry a piece of the other with them. They had known one
eachother just a year.

A boat was leaving for the new colony on Mardrun that night, and Gully
was going to make sure that himself and an ample supply of whiskey
would be on it.

SECRET INFO: gully drinks to forget

RETIREMENT STORY:

Pain, unlike any he had ever felt.

Every nerve in his body wracked with agony.

The last thing he saw before it all went black was the twisted visage of a creature torn from nightmare. He remembered the contrast of white pustulated skin against the dark night. The smell of noxious salt attacking his senses. The creature charging him but his spent body too weak to dodge or retreat fast enough followed by the void swallowing him.

Blurred vision as his eyes open in flits. A healer leaning over him yelling for supplies. Why is he even here? What is he trying to prove?

Nothing.

He doesn’t even know any of the people on this expedition. He signed up with reckless abandon – a trend in his life, he now realizes. Since coming to Mardrun, his choices have been a series of increasingly risky gambles that have netted him decent coin but little to nothing in the way of making peace with his lot in life.

And now he is here on the cot of an unknown healer, in an unknown land, helping unknown peoples. And this is it. The invariable end. The predictable losing roll of dice he knowingly weighted from the beginning.

The clarity of his life actions are so clear to him as he lay there covered in sweat, grime, blood and tears. He chose the way of the warrior not out of virtue or honor, but of spite towards the world. His path has been a long slow burn of self defeating suicidal tendencies. Drunk each night blowing the coin he almost died to earn.

“This isn’t living”, he mutters. “It’s dying”.

If the healer heard him, she doesn’t deem it worth responding to. She continues her grim task of attempting to stifle what the death bolt has done while gully slips from consciousness.

-A week later –

Gully sips from a bottle to steel his nerves before walking into the tavern he has been procrastinating in front of for an hour. There is a help wanted poster hung beside the entryway. He chose a town as far away from where he had been spending his time as possible. He doesn’t want the same faces and names around – a fresh start is what he craves. After spending the morning hunting down a buyer for his armor, weapons and travel gear, he isn’t in the best mood.

They made out like bandits.

“Hell.. they probably were bandits”, he thinks grimly.

But his pockets bulge with coin, and that’s enough comfort to salve his conscience for now. It’s not a big safety net, but it will last him a stretch; he knows he will need stable employ for the long term, and he figures it may as well be coupled up with his primary hobby of drinking too much.

He lets out a sigh before pushing in through the doors to submit his application, muttering to himself,

“Life sucks. But this is better than dying in a swamp. Fresh start Gully. Fresh start.”

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March 269

Spring has finally arrived and the land begins to show signs of life returning to the once frozen wastelands.

The grizzly murders that have been plaguing the colonies of Newhope continue on, with the guards continually baffled by how these atrocities happen beneath their noses. The citizens continue to worry, barricade, and arm themselves to what seems to be no avail as the number of victims continue to grow.

In the streets of Newhope rumors tell of Lictor Mary cul Tricuspis becoming increasingly frustrated. The common folk whisper of her working on some secret project with her secret police and spies, trying to find information on some important matter or another. However, it can be seen upon her face that her progress in those matters are providing no fruit and getting her nowhere.

In Daven’s Hold, Governess Cathrine is proud to announce the opening of one of her more ambitious construction projects with the coming of the spring thaw. With the roads opening back up, the brand new and well built market district. This new district comes with the new roads and holds throughout the territory that create a hub of trade activity from all over Mardrun. Some say this district was to slight those that may have betrayed her trust, but others state it is a power move to claim more economic prowess for the people of Daven’s Hold, and for the Council of Three.

Outside the city of Newhope, Duke Martingale of Westhaven has finished his fighting pits in time for the coming of warmer weather. Surrounding them, market stalls, taverns, inns, gambling dens, bordellos, blacksmiths, and many more tradesfolk and businesses have sprouted up. Creating an area where those who wish to feel relaxed and enjoy what life has to offer can go and spend some time, and money, to do so. That being said, Duke Martingale stated that illegal activities will be not allowed in the area and will have the guard in the area heavily increased to enforce these laws. That being said, with the first sound of the robins one can also hear the first sounds of battle from these grand fighting arenas.

In Clan Ironmound the recovery effort continues steadily. However, runeseers are shocked as their runes keep pointing them towards the center of the calamity that occurred last month. The runeseers gather together and continue to cast their runes and divination rituals, however they keep pointing towards the center of the odd calamity that happened in the Great Wolf Hackles, and the runes keep hinting about knowledge and memory. Leading those who have seen the runes, and the runeseers themselves, to believe another Lorespeaker cache has been unearthed.

With the expedition into the heart of the swamp about to head north, hawks fly from the Shield of Mardrun written by the Northern Shield Protectorate. The Mordok are back, and are attacking the shield in massive numbers due to the early spring thaw. They highly advise against any attempts to venture into the Dirge Swamp and are pleading for aid as the forces of the Mordok are unrelenting and putting the forces of the Shield into a war of attrition as warriors are tiring and becoming too weary and wounded to continue.

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February 269

The lands of Mardrun shiver as the blustery cold wind blows through the homes and cities that dot it, however the world still seems to stir within the frozen wasteland.

To the north along the Shield of Mardrun, the Dirge stirs and releases a hoard of Mordok upon the Ulven along the shield. Many Ulven feel the force of these Mordok as the sheer number of the abyss seems to charge forth and strike. Clan Shattered Spear, Clan Whiteoak, and Clan Axehound warriors, along with those manning the outposts fight the seemingly endless forces. However, as soon as it started, it ended with the forces of the Shield tired and weary. However, war drums can be heard off in the distance; the threat looming over the heads of the who man the shield.

In the colonies of Newhope, a mystery is afoot. For a string of murders are occurring throughout their lands. The bodys are often heavily disfigured and left out in the freezing cold. With this mad individual on the loose, the guards are doing their best to prevent further deaths by increasing patrols and recommending citizens board their windows and not let those they do not know into the buildings. The latest killing was a guard that started this practice and was left a note: Wiser folk than you have stood; Even wiser folk have turned their hood. Hide, run, matters not to me; You can search, fight or even flee. But be warned those who seek; Death awaits all who I deem weak.

In Clan Steinjottun, some hunters discovered a series of caves along the northern coast during a low tide while tracking their quarry. They went inside the caves and noticed a massive network of tunnels. After searching down one they came across pockets carved into the side of the cave walls. The hunters searched these pockets and found what they believed to be a Lorespeaker cache. As they neared the exit, the cache began to burn their hands and steam. As they wrapped their clothes around the handles the fabric caught fire. They decided to bring it back and were able to do so with moderate burns up on their hands. They left and came back the next day with a Daughter of Gaia, but when they came to where the cave opened into the inner network they found that a rockslide had caused the opening to become buried in a seemingly impenetrable wall of stone.

Fisherfolk from Clan Stormjarl off the coast of Fire Isle celebrate as the fishing season for Red Snapper is beginning. Many fishing boats are hauling in the large red fish by the barrel load, but others are setting their sights on larger fish, such as Marlin and Swordfish. With the winter fishing season underway, a small competition, as usual, breaks out between boats to see who can reel or spear the largest fish.

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January 269

The residents of the land know nothing but ice and snow, all things else that seemed to have been living have either frozen in freezing winds and rain, or fled to find shelter from the dreadfully cold winter.

In Aylin’s Reach, a group of cartographers, sea captains, and logistics personnel gathered around a table to discuss what to do with the islands to the north of Whiteoak and what they could gain. The ships sent out previously discovered rich reefs filled with fish, islands covered in towering pines and hardwoods, and shores perfect for docks and ports. They argued, bickered, and talked long into the night as the candles went from new to small nubs on the table. Eventually an agreement was made, they would attempt to build in the spring.

In the west in Clan Ironmound, the land suddenly shook as if the land itself was angry. Multiple mines collapsed and avalanches came down from the Great Wolf Hackles. After the terror and shaking was done, workers labored tirelessly to try and free those that were stuck inside these mines. Which many wondered if this had happened in the past, to which a few greybeards said it happened back in their grandfather’s time, when the mountains shook with a fury that flattened houses and opened cracks within Gaia herself. With that knowledge, many in Clan Ironmound wonder what caused such calamity and if the Goddess Gaia was angry for some unknown reason.

In settlements throughout the Colonies of Newhope and Aylin’s Reach, individuals are appearing at libraries and leaving books at their doorsteps. Librarians are baffled as these books contain small bits of wisdom, knowledge of the local lands, healing remedies, how to craft certain objects out of wood, and so on. It was when a librarian was able to grab onto the hand of an older individual and asked what was happening with these seemingly random donations.
It was then that the individual said that these people are those that worship the Elder Deities of Richtcrag and are following an ancient tradition and rite of the Elder God Tyrl, The Elder Deity of Wisdom and Winter. When the librarian relayed this information to his colleges, many remembered on the Winter Solstice that there were an unusual amount of scrolls, maps, and books also donated. With the source behind these gifts unveiled, they began to decipher and categorize the books gifted to them.

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December 268

Winter has come to the continent of Mardrun, blanketing the lands in snow and ice as gods and spirits of winter grasp control. The world slows, but not quite yet still for life must continue on.

In the south in the Colonies of Newhope slow as the lands become hidden by snow, however trade continues throughout the land as salted fish, alcohol, and lumber is brought to settlements before the full force of winter lays roads impassable. Inn’s slow and share of rumors and tales are shared around hearth with soups and warm bread. Tales of individuals doing extraordinary tasks and deeds, tales of love, stories of thrilling adventure and danger, and stories of woe and sorrow.

To the north the Clans Shattered Spear, Whiteoak, and Axehound have united and created the alliance named The Northern Shield Protectorate. Through their unity, they vow to not allow another Mordok attack to happen again, without their effort to halt it at the Shield of Mardrun. The clans have already started to work to improve roads and trails between outposts to allow easier patrols, transport of supplies, and further sight into the undergrowth of the abyss that is the Dirge Swamp. During this time they fought hard and pushed back against multiple attempts to get through, but the Mordok were denied each and every time.

Some rumors have cropped up along the mountain passes of individuals carrying chests along backroads. As for what these chests may contain, many have guessed treasures and fortunes of untold wealth. However, the stories also speak of the individuals who carry these chests as vagrants, ruffians, rogues, and bandits. Some adventurous fools at one point did decide to try and follow them into the mountains on these back roads. A knock came to an inn door one eve and what was found was a chest with not a note upon it. The innkeep eagerly brought it into the building and opened it for all to see. But to the horror of everyone within, laid the heads of the party that tried to follow. And a note was nailed to one head, “Follow us again and we will make your town disappear…”

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Grollen – The Child Lord of Peace

Grollen, The Child Lord of Peace, Former Elder God of Health, Summer, Forests, and Youth. (Deceased)

There are no longer any worshipers of Grollen. However, when there were worshipers, they came from all over Richtcrag. While he existed, he was widely revered and viewed as an extremely benevolent and caring deity, which was an odd shift from the wild and brutal ways of his siblings in the pantheon. However, the Child Lord was the best-loved in the pantheon by all except Vardel, who was extremely jealous of him.

Grollen was the last to rise into power, receiving prayers from the forests where many medicinal herbs and plants grew in the heat of summer. Through those prayers, he slowly began to take up the mantle of a deity of healing and summer.

Grollen was an extremely active deity when he was alive, usually granting prayers of healing and protection, most often to help save children and young adults from illness and wounds. He would often reward his followers for good deeds done for the children of the land.

The Child Lord often appeared as a lean adolescent boy with short, curly light brown hair. His face was always depicted with a kind and innocent smile, showing the naiveté and hopefulness of youth. His eyes were always the color of white opals, as if the taint and darkness of the world was yet to touch them. In murals he is often wearing a brass circlet with three feathers of white, red, and blue, with a scarlet tanager on his shoulder.

His image was often found in places of healing throughout Richtcrag before his death. Even now, it is said, a few forgotten shrines lie in hidden forest glades where the fine medicinal herbs still grow.

The Tale of Grollen: The Death of Peace, the Birth of the Warring Nations

Long ago, before Richtcrag was ravaged by warring lairds and clans, there was peace in the land. For while Grollen lived, he alone could cool the fiery temper of Ulfkell, his eldest sibling.

For many years the people of the land lived with this life, as did the deities in their daily routines. However, Vardel grew jealous of the love and calm that Grollen spread throughout the lands. So the Skybound Trickster devised a scheme to gain power.

One day, Yasin allowed their younger brother, Grollen, to join in on a hunt for a powerful white stag in a nearby woodland. The two loved these hunts, enjoying the journey, the explorations, and the company of one another. Neither of them realized that this day would turn out differently from every other.

They traced the stag to a nearby glade and spotted it. While Yasin strung their bow, Vardel, lurking in the shadows, created an illusion that made the stag flee from the glade. Grollen ran into the glade and looked about for the stag, only to see it appear behind him, emerging from a bush.

When Yasin witnessed their quarry return, they let loose their barbed arrow and let it fly true towards the stag. However, Vardel had played a trick on them both, for the stag was but an illusion. The arrow went through the phantom and straight into the body of the Child Lord. Yasin cried out and wept as they watched their brother and most beloved fall to the ground with an arrow shaft sticking from his heart.

Vardel couldn’t help but rejoice at the misfortune and cackled in glee. It was then that Yasin’s rage erupted, and the calm that covered the lands died. Every being in Richtcrag felt it and felt the death of something so innocent and pure.

The rest of the Pantheon appeared then, The Battle-Father, the Lord of Wilds, the Lord of Mountains, and the Lady of the Fields. They joined Yasin in their mourning of their beloved sibling and son.

It was then that the rest of them took up a piece of Grollen, as memory of their beloved brother and son. Yasin took a ring and placed it around their neck as a remembrance of the deception of Vardel, now his sworn enemy. Sylv took some strands of the Child Lord’s hair and planted them in secret groves, so that the medicinal herbs may always grow. Tyrl took from his youngest son his memories and placed them within the opal gem upon his crown. Bjar burned the body and took the bones, making them into totems to place in the wildlands where the beasts may know peace and calm. Tyrl took the ashes and used them to forge a mighty blade which now rests at his side as a reminder of what peace can be, forever to be a rein upon his rage.

Vardel fled the into the wilds, and with Grollen now gone, he began to slowly rise in power. However, he is always reminded of his deeds, for he must forever be on the move lest Yasin catch him and slay him in cold and righteous fury.

But through this selfish act for power and gain, the once-peaceful lands of Richtcrag became the land of conflict and chaos that we now know today.

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Bjar – The Lord of the Wilds

Bjar, The Lord of the Wilds, Elder God of Beasts, Survival, the Steppes, and Fertility

Worshipers of Bjar are usually found on the steppes of Olon Zyjl, a land of almost pure wilderness. When Bjar was created, he took up the prayers of those around him: a proud, strong, wild people.

He is often viewed as a chaotic deity due to his wild nature and his control over the beasts of the land of Richtcrag, often caring for them more than those who follow him. However, none can deny his power over them, for those who pray properly will find themselves able to survive a difficult ordeal in the wilderness due to an easier kill or finding more food than usual. Due to his wild nature and animalistic tendencies, he is often prayed to for fertility by both men and women looking for a strong child.

Bjar is a passive deity when it comes to his followers, usually turning his attention to the creatures of the land rather than worshipers. However, he will reward his followers with favor if they do the same and help tend to the animals. He will also help those who are just trying to survive the harshness of the wilderness, or those trying to conceive a child.

The Wild God is often depicted as an extremely muscular man wearing furs covering his feet, torso, and waist. His body covered in scars and tattoos of the many animals of the land. His face is always covered by a highly decorated animal mask, usually depicting a boar or a hawk. However, his eyes are always jet-black. He has three feathers attached the mask: yellow, red, and black.

His image is often found on the nomadic people’s saddles, tents, or in scrimshaw necklaces, due to their mobile nature. There are the rare occasions of a shrine being found on a high point of a rocky outcropping. There is rumor that there is a larger one atop a massive granite outcropping somewhere on the steppes.

Worship of Bjar

Bjar’s worshipers traditionally pray at night, praying for help to survive, help keeping predators away in the darkness, or the ability to produce strong seed or receive it to conceive. An offering of blood is often required to make sure the prayers are heard.

For meditation, a worshiper must slice their palm and let it soak into scrimshaw or another carved holy symbol from animal remains.

Rituals of Bjar

•Strength of Beast: When a warrior is about to head into an important battle, a cleric may perform a ritual where they sacrifice an animal to Bjar in return for imparting the essence of the beast to the warrior. They may seek great agility from a large cat, amazing strength from a bear, superb endurance from a boar, and so on. While these may not actually have magical effects, the spiritual implications often influence the warrior’s resolve.

• Strength of Seed: If one was wanting to conceive a child and has had ill luck, this ritual requires the two participating to prepare a meal. This meal usually consists of rabbit, horse, root tubers, and medicinal herbs. During the consumption, the two are to let an herbal mixture smoke and smolder in a brazier. These often have a psychedelic effect.

After the meal, the two are shall attempt to conceive. The mixture of herbs, food, and incense often create a heightened state of mind, sensitivity, and endurance.

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Sylv – The Lady of Fields

Sylv, The Lady of Fields, The Elder Goddess of Plains, Spring, Life, Hearth, and Farmers.

Sylv’s worshipers tend to be found mostly in the region of Richtcrag known as Cul’Claimete, an area with rolling hills and grasslands. Due to the type of land surrounding where she woke, it wasn’t too surprising that she picked up certain traits. With the rich soil and fair weather, she easily became a goddess of the common folk, and slowly turned into a goddess of the hearth and life. Because she provides her worshipers with good soil and weather for the crops, healthy livestock, and safety of the home, she is often prayed to by the common folk and farmers. She is viewed as a motherly and embracing deity who teaches patience and to wait to see the fruition of one’s hard work.

Sylv is an active deity when it comes to her followers, helping moderate the weather and the condition of the soil, and ensuring that her worshipers’ livestock is strong and fertile. Many pray to her for strength during childbirth, and during planting season for a good year for the crops to come.

The Lady of Fields is usually depicted as a young woman with long red hair with green eyes as bright as a clear sky. She is often wearing a bright green dress and a simple corset. Upon her head is a circlet of polished copper with three feathers: yellow, green, and blue. Usually fluttering around her in the depictions are cardinals, ovenbirds, and golden finches.

Sylv is often worshiped in small village temples or at small family shrines near the house or farm.

Worship of Sylv

Sylv’s worshipers traditionally pray at noon, praying for the strength of their crops and livestock and protection of their family and home. The prayers often have small and meager offerings, usually of flowers and other small gifts.

For meditation, there are generally no rules regarding asking for mana from Sylv to perform spells for her.

Rituals of Sylv

•Blessing of Hearth: This ritual is often done when a new home is built or being moved into. A cleric will go through the house and place protective wards, cleansing the area with sage and often consecrating a shrine within the household to Sylv. This often takes around thirty minutes but allows the family some modicum of protection from negative influences and often helps with safe childbirth.

• Blessing of Fields: Before the planting of the fields in the spring, a cleric of Sylv is often called to bless the fields with a long chant, prayer, and an offering of holy water from a freshwater spring. These prayers often bring the blessing and careful eye and touch of the goddess to the field in question, and usually show great results during harvest.