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Thrand Stormjarl
Fritha Stormjarl
Throm Nightriver

The allied camp in Clan Squallborn territory was bustling with activity. A combined forces camp of adventurers, mercenaries, volunteers, Clan Stormjarl warriors and New Aldorian soldiers all made up the people coming and going with different tasks in the camp. Wagons moved goods to and from locations in the camp and the nearby location. The combined conquest of the New Aldoria and Clan Stormjarl had been a success. The initial landings on the beach saw very little resistance; a few of the settlements and villages put up a fight but were terribly outnumbered. Stormjarl warriors along with the elite Viknar carved a path through these coastal locations and sent the Squallborn villagers fleeing further north. This momentum continued throughout the entire previous month, as pockets of defenders were battered and defeated or sent reeling further and further north. Unfortunately, without additional military units and more soldiers, the momentum could not be maintained. The Squallborn defenders became more numerous, more organized, more well-armed. Simple skirmishes to defeat some farmers and send them running away eventually evolved into full scale fights between dozens of armed and armored warriors. Attrition had begun to take its toll and without more soldiers to push, the Chieftains of Stormjarl and the Officers of New Aldoria had given the orders to return to the main camp and be reassigned. Recently, ships began to arrive with building and construction materials instead of weapons and supplies to wage war. There was no doubt now to the rest of the world; Clan Stormjarl and New Aldoria intended not only to fight Clan Squallborn but to conquer and take their lands. It is still unknown how the other Clans will react to this but construction had already begun on new settlements. The goal now was to hold key locations and settlements and control what was taken and not to push further. The campaign was a success as a huge swath of land was now controlled by New Aldoria and Clan Stormjarl.

Unfortunately, other concerns had begun to rise or returned now that the push was over.

Thrand Stormjarl walked with a brisk pace back to his tent, his leather armor creaking a bit as he went. He had his helm and arming cap tucked under his left arm and held his long axe with the other. His shoulder hurt and he tested it out, rotating it, and he could feel the sting of the healing wound and he left it alone. A Squallborn arrow had punched through his leather pauldron and stuck deep. He took it out after the recent fight and tended to the wound properly, but it was still raw and sore. He pushed the door of the canvas tent aside and stepped in. An oil lantern was lit and cast light in the tent, detailing out equipment, weapons, and furs used for bedding. Sitting in the tent in her armor, Fritha Stormjarl looked up and greeted him with a smile. He couldn’t help but smile back at his mate. He noticed the letter in her hand; he must have interrupted her reading.

“Another letter from Reyna? It’s nice you still keep in contact, how is she? And the pack?”

“Not good, not good at all.” Fritha looked at him, the concern was written on her face.

“What is happening?” Thrand put his long axe down against the edge of the tent.

“The corruption is still there, Stanrick and Selena left for Serai a little over a month ago to talk to others about the corruption and have not returned. A hunter found a site with a lot of blood and one of the Longfang’s belt flags was there. They fear the worst has happened to them. And now it seems the Mordok are attacking with coordination and longer than they ever have before. This letter does not have any good news for our friends.”

“So the rumors I overheard were true. Some of the warriors of the Phoenix were talking about the mordok corruption. I saw one of them, the man named Aimerick. There was a terrible affliction in him and there was nothing I could do. It is terrifying to think the mordok can corrupt others like that and there seems to be no cure. Although that matters a great deal, the organized way of the mordok now is foreboding. We lived on the edge of the swamp; we’ve fought plenty of mordok…but to hear of them acting this way? I don’t like it.” said Thrand as he took a seat on a stool in the tent. “We are here, pledged to this contract for the Clan and their New Aldorian ally. I wish we could do something to help but I think the Longfangs will have to fight this one on their own for a while.”

“That is the problem, they have been. Supplies are running short, the Mordok are not leaving like the usually do. Everyone who could help are all here. The Mordok picked one hell of a time to attack.” She turned her back to Thrand, exposing the buckles to her pauldrons to him.

“What am I, your thrall?” Thrand smiles and gets up and steps closer to Fritha. He begins to unbuckle her pauldrons and then turns back to the more serious conversation at hand. “If the Longfangs can hold out long enough, perhaps some allies from this fight can go there and help. You heard the commanding officer of our allied camp; we are being reassigned to patrols or defensive duties of the territory we have taken. I think the fighting is going to die down… for now… but I don’t think the Warleader or the Prince intends to let Clan Squallborn take their lands back too easily. We are stuck here for now. If you want to then we can plan to travel to Onsallas to help as soon as we are done here. We may not be of Pack Longfang anymore, but we still have friends there and they need help. Especially now that the Chieftain has gone missing.”

“So what are we to do? Go on patrols and sit around as our friends need help!?” Her voice was rising due to the emotions. “The bulk of the fighting is done; Squallborn has seen the size of the army we have brought. I don’t think they will be running back to us for a fight. We did what the prince had asked of us, we were the front of the line to help him in his conquest and to also help Stormjarl.“ Fritha’s shoulders squared and her voice evened out. “Look, the Longfangs are our allies and they need help. Stormjarl and Longfangs have been allies for generations. Our people helped Onsallas get started; we have sent warriors there to be trained. They have kept the Northern border protected from Mordok. They have sent their best warriors to us in our time of need and they died in the battle of Black Wolf Creek. As friends and allies we have a duty to help protect them.” Her eyes softened as she looked at her mate. “They need help Thrand, I can’t stay here for a conquest of land while friends die.” She slipped out of her pauldrons and turned around to help Thrand from his leather chest piece.

Thrand’s brow creased in confusion and concern, but he turned and lifted his arm to allow her access to the buckles he couldn’t quite reach. “Hold on, I didn’t say we do nothing. I agree with you; what you say is true. Our Clan has a longstanding history with Pack Longfang. You and I both know this. But it doesn’t change the fact that our place is here. Unless…” Thrand’s voice trailed for a moment and paused as he thought about it.

“And?” said Fritha as she worked on the buckles.

“Sorry, I was collecting my thoughts. Unless we proved to either the Prince or the Chieftains, maybe even the Warleader, that something like this is important enough to send warriors to. Perhaps if the interests of the Clan, if the defense of our allies, is important enough to them they would listen. You have a meeting with the Chieftains later, right?” said Thrand.

Frithas eyes lit up. “I do.” She turned her attention to her greaves, her movements picked up pace as she now had a goal in mind. “Do you think they will agree to it?”

Thrand paused to think for a moment. “That depends. From what I have heard about the Prince, he is not one to take lightly to us leaving the contract we signed with him. You read it, I read it… we are bound by paper to the Prince just as much as we could be bound by honor. So if we take leave early, I think it will cause a lot of trouble, and at the very least we would have to forfeit any of our earnings from this campaign. It isn’t fair, but it was what we agreed to. If you can convince the Chieftains to approach the Warleader about this, that is our best shot. Convince him not to let us go on our own way, but instead to see the importance in moving warriors to help this cause. The more leverage you have within the Clan, the better our odds at being able to leave and not have it create a problem. We may only be able to take volunteers or a small warpack and ship.” said Thrand.

“Ok, I will go and talk to any Stormjarl Chieftain I can find to explain the situation. If we can get a couple Chieftains to agree with us then we can go to Bolverk and hopefully he will hear us out with an open ear. He understands honor and a contract, but the situation has changed. If the Mordok are not stopped at Onsallas, then how far will they go until they are? They have to see the logic in that. As far as the Prince goes, he can keep his precious silver. I came here with you to strike back for Stormjarl and to help our Clan secure land if we could. At the very least hit one of Grimward’s allies. That was done, we have lost the push and we have probably secured all the land we can get without losing a lot more warriors. There are a lot of capable people here who can defend what we have taken. I am not downplaying the fact that we are leaving and hopefully with a few fighters. We should talk to Throm about this, I think he might be agreeable to it. He said he would join us in the campaign to repay us for rescuing him from Grimward captors; I think he would be willing to volunteer and go with us as well.” By now Fritha had stripped off her sweat soaked clothing to quickly wipe off and put on more presentable clothing before talking to the chieftains. “This will not be easy to convince them of the importance of this. I know they will not be happy to lose any more warriors than they already have to death and wounds. To lose such a good healer as you are, but I feel it needs to be done. The Mordok have been changing, the tactics they are doing is not normal for them. Something is going on. The corruption sites are growing in number and the corruption itself seems to be getting stronger… you saw Aimerick.” Her eyes cast downward at the memory. “This needs to be stopped, above all else. This is more important than revenge or conquering new land. Our people need help, Selena and Reyna were working hard to fight it. Now with Selena missing or worse… “

Thrand eyed Fritha intently, listening to her words. “I know, my love, and I agree with you. I think this is a sound plan and worth a try. Start with one of the Chieftains and if that doesn’t work, go to one of the Jarls. The subtle difference in their stations could matter quite a bit. I’ll try to assess the plan as well and see what I can do to prepare for it. I think the more we do to make this easy to agree with and show that this is well thought out the better.” Thrand spent a few moments thinking and removing his armor while Fritha was changing. He had the urge to cast his runes to see what they said, but in this instance he decided not to. While Thrand was a believer in the runes, he was also an advocate of free will. Sometimes you had to trust yourself and not an outside influence. “Go for it. Bend some ears. And you’re right; the Prince can keep his silver. Clan Stormjarl did the heavy lifting for his ambitious contract. We’ve done our job, now we have friends in need. I’ll tend to our armor and weapons and meet up with you later. While you are at it, try to convince them that sending us off with a small wagon or travois and some supplies would also be a good way to help.”

“Supplies are greatly needed, I will see if I can acquire some. The worth of the Longfangs are not lost on any of the Stormjarl.” Fritha walked over to her mate and leaned her forehead onto his. “The last few years have been more chaotic than I have ever imagined. But they have been bearable because I have had my best friend and mate with me through it all.” She kissed his forehead and stood back.

“OK, let’s go see about saving our friends.” she said as she made her way to the tent’s door.

– THE END

The Clan Stormjarl and New Aldorian Campaign
In April of 265 (2016), players were given the chance to pledge their PCs or faction units/resources to a 2-3 month contract that would see them sailing into Clan Squallborn territory. They would either be helping to invade and conquer lands alongside Clan Stormjarl warriors and New Aldorian soldiers or helping with the administration and logistics of organizing the campaign and the needed supplies.

PCs featured in the Story:
Volrok Hinrich, Clypeum Legis, Anne Cash, Thrand Stormjarl, Fritha Stormjarl, Aimerick Bordeaux, Marcus Clearbrook, Brodin Fizzlewick, Sakai Sakura, Throm Nightriver, Alexander Vallen, Caster Rex, Laertes, O’Frik, and Santiago Ruiz.

Player Factions featured in the Story:
The Phoenix and the Crimson Shades

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Spring had come in full force now that the bite of winter, which seemed to cling on much longer this season, was finally gone. Plants everywhere bloomed, animals and insects scurried about, and life was visible everywhere. Spring crops were already beginning, the buds sprouting and plants coming in, showcasing the potential harvests that could give yield throughout the year. This was pleasing to the Chieftains of Clan Stormjarl and the Nobles of New Aldoria as these signs of a good fall harvest further reinforced the successes of the campaign.

Since the beginning of April, boats loaded with warriors and supplies landed on Clan Squallborn shores and conducted a blitzkrieg campaign to take as much land and as many villages and settlements as possible. Without warning, Clan Squallborn’s lands have been seized quickly and the defenders driven north. Over a third of Clan Squallborn lands have been taken and are under the control of Clan Stormjarl, New Aldoria, their allies, and those who took up the contract in return for promise of coin. However, as the campaign’s initial successes raised the spirits of those involved and saw large sums of loot and reward, the defenses of the Clan have become more organized, more well trained, and more desperate in the defense of their homeland. The blitzkrieg has begun to stall on all fronts, meaning that the campaign must shift its focus or recalculate its plans.

The sprawling camp that had been hastily created on the coast of Clan Squallborn was a constant bustle of activity. Boats arrived with supplies, warriors of Stormjarl and soldiers of New Aldoria moved to and from different deployments, wagons were loaded and unloaded, and representatives for several groups shuffled about and tended to multiple duties.

“You shouldn’t put that there.” said Santiago in a monotone voice as he bit off a hunk of a huge block of cheese, casually watching a nearby caravan leader struggling with a way to load supplies onto his wagon.

The man’s head shot up with an indignant look on his face and strained with the effort of the heavy load.

“Bugger off. I been drivin’ carts me ‘ole life. I ain’t listenin’ to no barefoot grub the likes of you.”

The man grunted with the effort of shifting the load, a huge sack of oats and grain, onto the front end of the cart, content on stubbornly showing the cheese-eating man he knew what he was talking about. With a quick clapping of his hands to dust off the dirt, he examined his work and seemed pleased. His workers tugged on the cart and began to pull it down the well-worn road.

This is when the cart wheels hit the ruts, shifted the heavy load violently forward onto the base of the handles where the weight is not meant to rest. An audible snap and crunch was heard when at one wheel broke and the brace holder the other wheel in place snapped off the body of the cart. Absent a wheel, the entire cart toppled to the side and the huge sacks of oats spilled forward onto the dirt along with the other crates and wares the cart was carrying.

“Told you so.” replied Santiago as he took a bite off of a two foot long sausage which he somehow procured from his burlap sack. He watched the caravan leader have a fit in front of him, rattling off curses and obscenities and kicking the cart.

Nearby, a set of wagons adorned in gold and red decorations moved down the street. The Phoenix wagons, loaded full with supplies offloaded from the recent ships that arrived, had been busy since the day they landed. Two men heard the commotion of the caravan leader and his cart and broke off from the wagons and walked closer. Their tipped ears and colorful attire were instantly recognizable as members of the Phoenix.

“Siala Kay-Nu, and good day, sir. I see you have run into some trouble with your cart. Would you like some assistance in moving your wares? Free of charge, off course… this time at least.” chuckled O’Frik in jest as he nodded his head in the traditional Syndar greeting. The caravan leader had calmed down a touch but had a sour look on his face. He looked passed the Syndar talking to him at the size and quality of the wagons, knowing his cart would be hard pressed to move the kind of goods that they could. Instead of further causing a stink or sassing off about how the Phoenix might be trying to dip into his profits, he agreed and quit fussing.

“Good, no sense in leaving your cart here in such bad shape. We’ll move your wares and the caravan guards can at least help you drag the cart out of the way.” replied O’Frik with a genuine smile.

“O’Frik, I’m trying to sort through these manifests. We’ve been able to divide the supplies as needed for the two main parts of the camp. However, all the recent supplies have been building materials or supplies for construction. Weren’t we suppose to move weapons, food, and supplies to the soldiers in the field?” said Laertes, the other Syndar, who was attempting to balance a number of scrolls and read them with a puzzled look on his face.

“We did, but the Prince and the Clanleader retasked us this morning. We are not taking supplies to the warriors anymore; we are moving supplies from the ship and from the conquered villages. I think our wine-loving friend intends to stay a while in this land. I’ve heard rumor of the plans for some new settlements.” replied O’Frik as he turned and smiled at an approaching woman. To some, this smile would have seemed genuine but Laertes could see the visage masked something else.

“Hello! My name is Ashar, I am a representative of the Crimson Shades. Are we still on schedule with unloading the recent ships? I need to submit a report on progress of construction, so any delays are going to mean even more meetings and paperwork for my group.” said the human woman with a likewise guise of a smile covering a hint of frustration. Her stance had an authoritative look about it and judging by her quill and scroll, she was expecting a productive reply in return.

“You shouldn’t expect delays, the loads are being unloaded on schedule. But the wagons could use a few more pullers, should your group wish to see progress come about a bit faster and stretch your legs.” replied O’Frik with a hint of sarcasm.

As the finer details of the tasks around the camp were being tended to by the Crimson Shades, the wagons continued to move supplies and materials.

On the far side of the camp, New Aldorian guards were welcoming a fairly large group of returning fighters. The unmistakable colors, feathers, and banners of the Broken Blade Company and the Gallant Feathers of the Phoenix were flying high as the soldiers marched back to camp. With them were a handful of Stormjarl warriors and New Aldorian Marines as well. Although they didn’t look downtrodden, they definitely were not jovial or apparently returning with stories of victory. Some of the small supply carts used for moving their food had been repurposed to hauling corpses as a handful of bodies were piled onto the cart.

At the head of the group was Clypeum of the Rangers, Marcus and Brodin of the Phoenix, and a mysterious Naran woman named Sakura. Almost the entire time she spoke in a Naran tongue that almost no one could understand, but she was very animated with her gestures and one of her retainer’s was busy trying to translate for her.

“I did what I could but he was so afflicted from the corruption that there wasn’t much left to do. The infections took too deep. I am sorry.” said Clypeum as he looked down at the corpses on the cart.

Among the handful of dead lay Aimerick of the Phoenix’s Gallant Feathers. His face gray and dead, drawn and sunken. He was dead, even though he had already looked it over the last few weeks. Corrupted with the new mordok magic earlier in the year, Aimerick slowly succumbed to the festering magic. His wounds from the encounter at Hazemane village two months prior never fully healed, his skin covered in pus and rot. It was a miracle he lasted as long as he did. Now he lay on a cart, splattered with some blood and covered in green tinted bandages with an arrow sticking through his arm. The rot and the blood seemed a crude mockery of the bright colors and feathers of his Gallant Feather uniform. The other corpses were a mix of Gallant Feathers, Broken Blade, Marines, and Stormjarl warriors, totaling just over fifteen.

“You have nothing to be sorry for, friend. Aimerick knew what the risks were. To be honest, I think he was happy to know he died for a cause. He was becoming so weak and ill from the corruption, he had a chance to die with honor on the battlefield instead of in bed to illness.” said Marcus somberly. Marcus was also a member of the Gallant Feathers. Brodin walked up to him, his nice leathers and attire stained with mud, dust, and a little bit of blood and put a hand of Marcus’s shoulder.

“I told him to stay back with the supply carts and he rightly refused. He did his duty well and will be remembered. All of the Gallant Feathers did. In fact, the rest of you did as well.” said Brodin as he noticed Volrok of the Broken Blade Company step forward towards the carts. Volrok was a paid warrior, an Íoclaochra, so seeing comrades die in battle was not new to him. He said little as this time, but he would honor the fallen in his own way.

Stepping up to the group from the back were a few ulven; Thrand and Fritha Stormjarl and also the large frame of Throm Nightriver who wielded a mean looking axe. Thrand had just finished taking inventory of supplies of some of the Stormjarl warriors and was making sure the wounded had fresh bandages and Fritha was helping to assess the current situation.

“You and your warriors have fought bravely through this campaign. We all have banded together and been able to fight back against one of Grimward’s allies. That is no small task.” said Fritha to the group as a whole as she set her shield down and took a long drink of water from her leather water skin.

“So where are we going next? We didn’t get past the defenses of the last village to the north, but after we get some supplies and regroup I think we can come back and hit it again.” said Throm as he leaned on his axe, pitted and chipped from use. You could tell the warrior was perfectly fine marching right back out and getting back into the fight, but he was not blind to the larger plan nor was he suicidal.

“I don’t know, I am assuming we are reorganizing and changing our plans. The Squallborn defenders have gotten more organized and have begun to push back too hard for us to keep driving north. Now that their defensive line seems drawn, I think we are going to reorganize before attacking again. I will talk to the Chieftains as soon as we report in to know where to go next.” Fritha replied, turning to look at Ann of the Marines.

Captain Anne Cash nodded and walked out from the group and into the perimeter of the camp to report in with the commanding officer. A man named Caster Rex was following her, talking about digging tunnels and sapping more Squallborn defenses but she didn’t seem to pay much attention to him. He was in his element and kept going on about the best way to use pork fat underneath a reinforced wall.

“Thank you, I’ll make sure to bring that up to the commander officer should we need it.” Anne said as her mind wandered elsewhere. She wasn’t entirely sure of why they were being called back or where they would be reassigned. There was even a chance that they would load a strike force onto the Demon’s Run and hit further north. Her walk was cut short as the New Aldorian officer she was looking for was stepping out of his tent and walking to meet her.

“Well met, Captain, I am glad you and our allies are back from the mission to the north. I’ll cut to the chase; we are pulling you all back and establishing a line of defense. We can’t go any further north, we just don’t have the military strength to keep pushing. At this rate, we are going to start losing too many people to wounds and attrition and string out our supply lines. Get some rest and some food, your Marines are sailing back to New Aldoria for more supplies. You’ll join the rest of the ships and provide defense on the water and make sure the loads of lumber make it to the coast. The rest of you, check in with the quartermaster for your new patrol assignments and guard rotations.” the officer said and then he was gone, simple as that.

Anne stood there taken aback. She was expecting a reassignment but not being pulled entirely back from the fighting. Sure, the Squallborn defenses had eventually become a real challenge and threat, but to be pulled back so quickly before they had a chance to really try driving farther north? It seemed a bit hasty of a decision. She realized that the combined reach of Stormjarl and New Aldoria must have finally been stretched too far out. Both the allies dared not lose too many men or consume too many supplies or else controlling the territory would not be possible. Still, she was hoping for a few more missions before returning, but orders are orders.

The group continued to talk a bit longer but eventually everyone parted ways. The bodies of the fallen fighters were taken to the pyres to be sent off into the afterlife. Volrok took a moment to give orders to his mercenaries when he took a moment to look out across the camp and the new lands.

As the day stretched into evening, the future plans of Clan Stormjarl and New Aldoria seemed to fully become evident. Those involved probably new it already, but with stopping the forward momentum of the invasion really forced everyone to look at the bigger picture. The fertile land and farms that were conquered, the reassignments to patrols and defensive duties, and the arrival and movement of construction supplies arriving daily on the coast heavily reinforced the ulterior motive of the campaign and the call to arms against Clan Squallborn.

“Well played.” Volrok said to no one in particular as he walked back to the mess tent in order to get a solid meal, his coin purse heavy and jiggling with the sounds of silver.

– THE END

The smell of fire wafted through the village. To many, it would be indistinguishable from a normal camp or hearth fire, but to Atep Oatcaller, Chieftain of Pack Stonesong, it smelled different. It was different because he knew how to burn wood to make charcoal. Some consider it a superstition or an old mate’s tale, but those who manned the furnaces to make the coal needed for the Clan’s metalworking network knew.

Hazemane village, located on the northern/northwestern border of Ironmound territory, was back to producing charcoal and he knew that his Clanleader would be pleased and that his Pack had gained much honor and renown for their efforts. Production had only just begun, but it will continue in earnest once the rest of the Pack arrives.

Atep was reviewing some of the production logs and scribbled some notes, his belly reminding him that he was late for his usual dinner time. He had two tasks to do before he settled in for the evening. He reached for a new piece of parchment and took his pen, preparing to write a letter. He hesitated for a moment and thought back on the night that he arrived in the village, trying to collect his thoughts.

He remembered the men and women sent to help them, driven by promise of payment or in helping out his Pack for a good cause, they were there and they were instrumental in protecting his Pack. In the beginning it seemed calm and easy… negotiate a fair deal for use of the Phoenix wagons, coordinate with members of the Rangers or the Crimson shades or other adventuring groups, organize the work that needed to be done… and quickly turned into a life and death situation. None of them knew of the danger the mordok would present that night, of the fear of being hunted and captured one at a time and dragged off screaming into the night. Despite the fear, the group worked together and fought for his village. He remembered the human smith who stood in the middle of the fight and kept his hammer striking metal despite the danger close by, the many times someone had an arrow pulled out or a gaping wound closed by the strange syndar healer in the warehouse, and the Pack Stonesong warriors who used their training to defend the village after being taught by the mercenary human and fierce ulven veterans. They stayed and helped even if some of them did it only because of the promise of silver. None of them got any sleep that night but in the morning, the mordok were gone. It cost him his entire coffer of silver metal, but in the end the village was intact and his Pack now safe and back into full charcoal production. The adventurers moved on shortly after that, some of them afflicted by corruption.

Snapping out of his thoughts, Atep put his pen to parchment and wrote the following letter.

—–

Gustave Ironmound, Clanleader of Clan Ironmound

It is with great haste that this message is sent. On the trip to Hazemane Village the caravan was slowed by the large force of villagers and children. I therefore took a smaller force with the Daughters of Gaia and support to go ahead of the main group to set up and get started. This is when the group of adventurers who accepted the contract had met us and helped us take supplies to the village.

We arrived at the village and set up charcoal production, tradesmen began blacksmithing new tools and repairs, and we searched though out the village for tasks we needed to complete. We found no bodies of the fallen warriors or any that our Daughters needed to tend to, but shortly after arriving we were attacked by Mordok. They have established a corruption site that is extremely powerful and they were more organized than I have ever seen before. They attacked repeatedly, but not to die in battle as they always have done before. It looks as if they didn’t want to kill and eat but to capture our warriors for their foul magics and corruption. They captured 7 of our defenders, including one of my own, a brave hunter by the name of Oto Twotalon. They were taken to the corruption site, corrupted and tortured, and then returned to the village. At this time we cannot cure this corruption.

We were attacked all night and some of my Pack members were injured. Several outsiders were dragged off into the night by the mordok. When morning arrived, all was quiet and the mordok had vanished. We will secure our village of Hazemane and force out the Mordok in the area once the rest of my Pack arrives. I believe they are be gone, but the corruption site will be there and it has great power. We will try to cleanse it, but my concern is that it is too powerful for our Daughters. The strategies of the Mordok are also a concern; corrupting but not killing our warrior and using skill and cunning never before seen.

I, Atep Oatcaller, will rebuild my village of Hazemane, and charcoal production will increase immediately. My pack is shaken, but resolved to make Hazemane home. I commend the actions of the Rangers scouting and loyalty to our mission. The Phoenix were brave and helped greatly in transport of our supplies and arranging the defense of the village. The healers and Daughters of Gaia were indispensable as many warriors were injured. I will send more information as soon as I can and the first loads of charcoal should be ready by the end of the following month.

Atep Oatcaller, Chieftain of Pack Stonesong

—

Satisfied with the message, Atep folded and sealed it with pineed wax and tucked it into a pouch. He would deliver it tomorrow to the courier who would run the letter to the nearest settlement and see it delivered. Again, his belly reminded him of an overdue dinner.

“Not yet, old friend.” Atep said to himself absently as he walked out into the main yard of the village. On the way out the door, he grabbed a torch hanging on a metal holder by the door to his house.

Gathered in the main yard were the other Pack members of Pack Stonesong, the ones who came with their Chieftain ahead of the rest of the Pack. They were assembled this night around a pyre and resting on top of it was Oto Twotalon. The young hunter had been captured, mutilated, and afflicted with corruption by the mordok. Despite the Daughter’s best efforts, the corruption had sapped his life force and killed him.

Atep walked forward with the torch, taking his honored place at the head of the pyre, preparing to speak out the deeds of the fallen ulven.

– END

[[To read the first part of this story, follow this link to “The Night was Falling Fast“]]

Vazra returned with a makeshift travois from the woods. It barely looked sturdy enough to hold a log, let alone a body. It was being held together with large branches, scraps of soft bark, and long prairie grasses. The middle was made from white birch pieces and grasses. Vazra looked slummed, perturbed, and preoccupied, but his return was as timely as possible. I greeted him at the entrance to the outpost.

The Archmage, although preoccupied, helped transfer Faolan to the travois. We tried to situate him as balanced as possible for the ride through the mountains, for I was very unsure of the travois holding his weight. We started out our travels at daybreak of three, following Vazra’s trek in search of making a travois. We gathered enough mangled food scraps foraged from the remaining supplies of war, and began our journey toward the Spire.

The overcast skies of winter made for our journey to be relatively cool. Other than the exertion of carrying Faolan, and our remaining supplies, we didn’t overheat. But the nights became cold faster than we had time for. We had to make camp early. I was relieved though. I wanted to hold Faolan. I wanted to make sure he was still breathing. I didn’t want the vibration of the travois passing over the ground to rattle his soul from his body or render the travois useless.

Faolan was doing as best as he could be doing for having almost died. We laid the travois next to where our fire was to be. I stayed with Faolan and Vazra left to get some burning materials. I sat and talked with Faolan about how the Archmage was rambling about fish and doom. I spoke about how I felt Vazra seemed a bit preoccupied and perturbed, and how I enjoyed the nature traveling back to the Spire.

Night after night I talked to him, talking him asleep, listening to his shallow breathing.

Our fires made the cold nights bearable, and the mornings as eventful as they could get. The whole land seemed to be unbearably quiet. Except for our traveling noises, the sounds of nature was all I could hear. Vazra remained in his quiet, meditative thoughts. I tried to maintain positivity, but laying next to Faolan each night wasn’t helping. My worry was more apparent.

After a week, we finally traveled through the entrance to the Spire. We were greeted by the other Archons and the Guards. The Guards took the travois and supplies from us, offering their aide in bringing Faolan to the infirmary. When they transferred him to a bunk, the guards rattled something too much, probably re-iteration of the journey, and Faolan began to seize, his eyes rolled into the back of his head. His thrashing arms caught some of the daggers and one flew toward him, almost penetrating his chest. He stopped seizing, but stopped breathing as well. The Archmage quickly moved everyone out of the way and completed a spell that punched a restart to his heart. Faolan’s chest rose into the air, his head fell backwards as he let out a gasp of air. I was screaming the whole time, a guard holding me back, trying to keep me from escalating Faolon’s situation. I was relieved to hear his gasp for air. The guard noticed that Faolan had a broken rib that was sticking out of his abdomen. Blood was oozing out of the wound. Faolan had lost a large amount of blood. The Guard put a rag between Faolan’s teeth, poured some wine over the wound, and without hesitation or permission, he pushed the broken rib back into Faolan’s chest with his finger and set it into place. He wrapped Faolan’s torso with sticks and tourniquets to keep the rib from coming back out or falling out of place. Faolan screamed through the rag in agonizing pain, then passed out. Vazra excused everyone from the infirmary except for him and myself. “Sapphira, you can stay here. Let me know if he gets any worse. I need to go figure these fish out.” Vazra disappeared from the infirmary with no other explanation.

I stayed and laid my head lightly on Faolan’s chest so I could hear his heart beating.

It took weeks for Faolan to recover from his wounds. To pass the time, I began researching ingredients for different potions in hopes to speed up his healing time. I visited him everyday, and told him about my discoveries. I let Wylder lay beside Faolan to keep his spirits up. I walked the Spire day in and day out, but could not acquire new insight or ingredients for something stronger than the health potion, at least not yet. I feel I am close.

When Faolan did recover, the entire Spire had a celebration. Everyone brought food to share, Archon Cider, and some mead. There was dancing and music everywhere you turned. Everyone was joyous! Faolan sat next to me at a table near the fire. The fire was large and in the center of town next to the hot springs pool. We watched the townspeople celebrate the health of Faolan, wondering where Vazra had gone after leaving the infirmary so many weeks ago. As the night drew closer, the amount of townspeople started to diminish. After Faolan had something to eat, we brought him into the hot springs, signaling the night coming to an end and further healing of Faolan to begin. We took off our garb. I unclothed Faolan slowly, so as not to hurt him. We carefully entered the springs and I sat him down carefully on the stone seating. We sat in silence, captivated by the healing waters. The townspeople realized the celebration had drawn to a close and started to wander back to their tents. Some of them wandered over to the hot springs, taking their clothes off piece by piece on their way. “They are really drunk”, I whisper to Faolan. He smiles a little and grabs my thigh.

In the distance, we can hear a boisterous voice coming from the side of the mountain, but none of the guards are moving. “Who is that and why are the guards not moving?”, I say to Faolan. He turns his head to see. Turns back to me and says, “Vazra.”

Vazra sees us in the hot springs and walks over to join us. There is a woman trailing not too far behind him. A little Syndar woman. As Vazra draws closer, he greets us with pleasantries. “Vice Mage Faolan, Vice Mage Faolan, How are you feeling this fine evening? Sapphira”, as he nods his head in my direction. “I am doing alright”, Faolan replies. Vazra and the Syndar woman take off their clothes, “Sapphira, Faolan, This is the Beautiful Moivira”, Vazra speaks eloquently. They sit in the hot springs across from us, Moivira sits in Vazra’s lap. Vazra settles his hands on Moivira’s body, “Faolan, I’ve had a vision of awesome importance.”

“You see, in the aftermath of the battle, I soiled the outpost with my vomit, but from that vomit rose arcane messengers with a dire warning: the undead are upon us, we are all in grave danger.” Moivira seemed quite enamored, despite the topic, whatever her and the Archmage were doing over there was best kept beneath the steamy waters. Vazra continued, “From the contents of my stomach I saw fish whispering of danger, and then… they formed together into my old adversary, the death knight. Only now, it was like undead but also fishy barf so like… triple gross. It was also smelly.” Moivira was leaning back now, clearly preoccupied “the archmage is so wise…” she exclaimed while Vazra went on with his story.

“Is it possible there is some unforeseen threat of the undead in this land stemming from your arrival?” Faolan asked in a concerned tone.

“Well, we can’t say with certainty, I don’t actually know what became of my foe when I tried to drag it into the mana stream. Ideally it was simply ripped to pieces and consumed, but these sorts of visions must be considered carefully, their meanings tend to hold true in unexpected ways.”

The conversation was interrupted by Moivira’s vocalizations.

Faolan raised an eyebrow “What exactly are you doing over there?”

Without hesitiation the Archmage explained in graphic detail.

The night was falling fast. The Fight seemed close to being over, I was wrong. The Grimward allies were encroaching into the Forward command post with force only a few of our soldiers could keep at bay. But, that force was not holding. One of us was finally was able to knock a hole into the back of the post and some of us escaped the treachery, or at least we thought.

I was one of those who had escaped through the hole. I left everything behind, much like I did when coming to this land. I was afraid for my life. We drudged through the woods. Farther, deeper we went into the forest behind the outpost. We were trying to gain as much distance between us and the enemy as possible, but they did not follow. Our new enemy was the forest: branches, moss, wet ground, swamp, thorns, and no knowledge or direction to where we were headed.

We started to veer back to the direction of the command post. We were now walking through the swamped lands. My ability to trust the people I was lagging behind was dwindling quickly (not that it was that strong to begin with). Faolan was not following. Vazra was beside me, but I needed Faolan to feel completely safe. I was beginning to worry. The swamp was getting deeper. Its grasp so tight I could barely put one foot in front of the other. Its water filled my boots and I could feel the gush of the muck between my toes.
I kept looking back towards the command post as we are now hiding in the prairie grass to the side of it. I was waiting for Faolan to see us, wave to us, Let us know he was okay. He never showed.

We are about to embark across a small moat between swamp levels. I can’t take it anymore. I don’t want to be here with these people. I don’t want to be in this swamp. This isn’t worth my life knowing that Faolan could be dead. I needed to be free of this swamp and my worry. I began heading back towards the command post. Putting my fate in their hands just to be able to hold Faolan again was worth more than what I am going through now. I scream to the others, “They can do whatever they want, they can kill me if they want! Life’s not worth living without Faolan!” Vazra agreed slightly and veered off as well. Mainly to keep me protected, but he could not keep up with my rage.

I raged, I raged for hours. Night continued to fall quickly. I was close enough to the trails that I could see people. They were not my allies. I ran into the woods. I had no source of light and my rage was consuming my emotions. I became lost. I waited in the woods, calming myself against the trees. Breathing into them so no one would hear me. I kept the Command post in sights, It’s black silhouette
against the dark night sky. It became quiet. The noises are all of a nature continuing on as if nothing had happened at all. The quiet continued. I was still worried about Faolan. With the Quiet remaining, I headed back towards to forward command post. At this point, I just wanted to find him. I walked closer to it, and closer, I could see a glint of light coming from inside. Then I heard voices trailing through the night. The voices were familiar. Familiar indeed. I started walking faster, breaking into a run. I settled my feet as I got to the opening, not to startle my comrades. As I got to the opening, Vazra, rambling about fish and imminent doom, greeted me at the door, bringing me to Faolan’s body. It was lying in the infirmary. He was found at the brink of death. He was breathing, but movement was absent. I wrapped my arms around him and wailed, begging him to come back to me. I begged to Gaia for his health to return. My wail turned to weeping as his fingers slowly came up and wrapped around mine. We laid like that until Daybreak. The healer tended to his ailments. We rested. Vazra disappeared into the woods to find materials to assemble a trevoy. We plan to bring Faolan back to the spire to heal in the hot springs. I am thrilled to be alive, but I am more thrilled to have Faolan alive.

[[For the conclusion to this story, follow this link to “Saving Faolan“]]

I knew I should have stayed at the Spire. That was Faolan’s first thought as he came to. As his breathing starts to quicken and his heart races, I need to stay calm and stay in control of myself. He purposely focuses on his breathing in an effort to bring his heart rate back down. When he opens his eyes, the darkness that surrounds him makes it impossible for him to tell if his eyes are actually open. As the rest of his senses start to return, he can feel some sort of hood over his head. Well, the good news is, I’m probably not blinded. Then he realizes that his hands and feet are bound, with his hands behind his back. He tries to get enough movement in his wrists to channel a bit of mana, but the ropes are too well tied. Damn it! There goes the easy way. He uses his shoulder to push himself up off the cold ground and finds what feels like a wooden wall to rest his back against. The air filtering through the hood smells musty, like the wall he is leaning against is suffering from some kind of rot.

So, I probably wasn’t attacked my Mordok. I think I’d be dead or worse by now. Who the hell then? Ok, let’s retrace our actions up to this point and try to figure this out:

I started out from the Spire with the Magi Tyrannus on a mission to recruit more citizens for the settlement. I wasn’t keeping track of the days, but judging by the last phase of Luna I remember seeing, it must be close to a month that we’ve been on the road. We had just stayed the night before (I hope I haven’t been out for more than a day) in a village, and the rest of the expedition had headed out early in the morning with some new recruits while I stayed behind to talk with a few more prospects. The villagers seemed quite intrigued by the ideals of the Archons and I was privileged to guide of few of them through their first meditation, yet they were still hesitant when it came to learning how to manipulate mana. I did my best to explain that they didn’t need to become mages or any sort of mana users to be welcome at the Spire. We welcome any and all to wish to improve their expertise in any skill.
Damn it! Which clan’s territory was that village in? I need to get better at picking out the finer details that show which clan an Ulven belongs to. Well, we obviously didn’t head towards Grimward, but I don’t think we were still in Nightriver. Were we in Watchwolves or Goldenfield? Why is Squallborn sticking out? There was a posting in that village from the prince of New Aldoria about joining Stormjarl in what sounded like was going to be an attack on Squallborn. Sound military tactics that is, announcing your plans to all the world, giving plenty of time for your enemy to prepare. He is going to restart the damn war! I believe I can understand Stormjarl’s frustration with outcome of the truce, but there has to be some way to improve their lot without spilling more blood and risking more war. Back to figuring out my current predicament. I had left the village just before Sol reached his highest point in the sky, my efforts with the prospects seeming to bear only buds and no fruit, and made my way down the road to rendezvous with the Magi Tyrannus when I felt a sharp pain in the back of my head and Gaia seemed to rush forward to meet my face. Who was it that knocked me out (and kidnapped me?)? How many of them are there? What do they want with me?

Faolan’s thoughts are interrupted by the creak of a rusty and primitive door hinge followed by the sound of steps shuffling through the dirt and a number of logs falling to the ground.
“Ah, you’re awake finally”. The voice of whoever was there was gruff like someone who has spent too much time out in cold during the winter.
“Who are you? What do you want?”, Faolan asked of the voice.
“Who I am doesn’t matter. What I want doesn’t really matter either since you seem to not carry any.”
“I don’t carry any what? Were you trying to rob me? Well, what the hell is your plan now?! Where have you taken me?”
“Some place where they will never find you, or your body if it comes to that.”, explains the voice while it sounds like logs are being stacked and arranged on the ground some feet away. As the ominousness of those words sink into Faolan, his anxiety begins to creep back into his mind.
“They? You mean the Magi Tyrannus? They are more capable than they might appear. If I were you, I would pray to whatever gods you believe in that Vazra and the Archons don’t find you‘if it comes to that’.”, with Faolan laying as much emphasis on the “you” as possible in an attempt to sow some uncertainty in his captor.
“Is that your name for the group you were traveling with? Strange, but I’m not too worried about them. I was able to slip into their camp and deliver my message to their leader without being noticed. I doubt this Varza or these Archons would have much luck finding me.” The voice carried confidence almost to the point of hubris, but also a slight hint of desperation? Then the sound of a knife being struck against stone punctuated the voice’s assertion. That was followed by a few quick huffs of breath and weak wave of warmth, though Faolan could see no light through the hood covering his face.
So this person has been following us or stalking me for at least day before he attacked me. If this is a bandit, where are the rest of them? He seems to be working on his own?

Faolan’s thought was interrupted again, but this time the sound came from the other side of the wall he was leaning against. It sounded like someone had tripped in the dirt and fallen to the ground.
Oh, there’s the rest of them, just outside, Faolan thought, but then he noticed that there was no sound coming from where the voice had been, not even the the sound of breathing. Does he not know who’s out there? What the hell is going on? Then Faolan heard the rusty hinges creak again followed by a shout from the voice, “Who the hell is out here?”. From the other side of the wall, Faolan heard whoever had fallen get up and break into a sprint. Then the voice seemed to break into a sprint after them.
So, another bandit looking to score off this one’s work? It couldn’t be the Magi Tyrannus, they wouldn’t send a scout out alone that would run from a fight so easily. No honor among thieves, typical. Off in the distance on the other side of the wall, Faolan could hear the voice again, “What are you doing out here?!”
That didn’t take long take long, and they seem to know each other?
“I was scared, and you’ve been gone for so long”, this other voice responded. This second voice was a bit higher pitched and sounded younger than the first voice that had been talking with Faolan.
“I told you to stay in the village, and I’ve not been gone for a day yet.”
“I know, but I don’t want you to be gone like mom.”
Mom? That’s a child out there. That’s his child out there? So, he’s not a bandit? What is he doing with me then?
“Look, I’m almost done out here, then I’ll be back to the village and we’ll be moving on.”
“Ok. What are you going to do with him?”, the second voice was almost inaudible when asking this question.
“You don’t need to worry, just get back to the village.” With that, Faolan could hear light steps jogging away. Shortly then, the rusty hinges sounded again.
“What happened to your wife?”, Faolan decided to make the assumption based on what he had overheard.
“Mordok.”, the answer was short but filled with all the anger and despair that exists in the world.
“I’m sorry. Was she out gathering?” Faolan heard the voice shuffle back towards the crackling fire.
“No. I was out hunting. The Mordok organized and attacked our village like I’ve never seen before. She died getting our son safely hidden.”
“You didn’t stay to rebuild your village?”
“There weren’t enough of us left to rebuild. There weren’t enough of us left to defend against another attack like that.” The voice sounded defeated and broken. It then sounded like he slumped back against the wall opposite Faolan.
“I see. Where are you moving on too?”
“Yes, so that you and yours can come find me and mine after all this.”
“No. If you’re looking for a safe home, I can offer you and your son a place where you won’t need to kidnap and ransom for coin.”
“You’re talking about your Spire? I don’t think my son and I would necessarily be welcomed. Gaia only shares the gift of mana with her daughters.”
“You don’t need to be a mage or even gifted with mana to be welcome at the Spire.”, Faolan insists, “You just need to want to improve yourself and better those around you. It seems that the former is already true, and I believe that the latter will prove true as well.”
“You think you know me? That I want to owe my allegiance to anyone?”, the voice sounds with disgust that Faolan can make any assumptions about his intentions.
“No, I don’t know you, but I’ve know people like you that have come to the Spire. I know their motivations included providing a better situation for their children, and maintaining the honor of their name.”
“You think honor is important to me?”, the voice responds with a nervous laugh.
“Maybe. I’m pretty sure having a son proud of the actions his father has taken is at least
important to most parents, whether or not honor is a concern for their own sake.” Faolan feels that he might actually be getting through to this person. He just needs to continue convincing him that is better way to provide for his son. “If you remove this hood, unbind me, and release me, I give you my word that you will be welcomed at the Spire.”
“Why should I trust that you won’t just turn me in, bringing me to your Magi Tyrannus and have your revenge on me?”
“You’ll have to trust that my desire to see the life of another living being improved is stronger than my desire to seek revenge on those that have slighted me.” Following that, there is a long silence.
Faolan just sits there, waiting, for any response or noise of movement from the other side of the shack. After what seemed like an eternity of moments, Faolan hears the person against to opposite wall slide back up to their feet and step towards him. Faolan then feels a blade move between his ankles, cutting the bindings around his legs followed by rough hands reach behind him, lifting him up, “Alright, come on. Let’s get you up and back out to the road. Then we can pick up my son in the village and go find your Magi Tyrannus. I’m trusting that you care more about your honor right now than I do mine.”

Bryech Savagefang

The moon shone brightly over the Ironmound countryside. The warm early summer breeze carried with it the howls of wolves. Their calls were deeper than the normal, casting a melancholy feel to any creature that could hear it. Bryech sat against a tree a few yards from a small house, situated on the top of a hill. He watched the moon, listening to the sounds of the night. Bryech hummed to himself a tune as he examined his amulet of Gaia, the intricate weave of metal rings always felt pleasantly warm when he held it. He never understood it, but it was comforting.

“I’ve never heard that tune before, what’s it from?” Asked a gray Ulven. He had a long scar that ran through a milky eye on the left side of his face. Bryech looked up from where he sat and chuckled at the old man.

“It’s an old song my mother used to sing to me, about the Great Wolf.” Bryech replied.

The old Ulven exhaled exasperatedly as he sat next to Bryech and sat with him in silence for a while. The warm summer night was full of the sounds of cicadas and creatures of the night. A warm breeze greeted the pair now and then as they sat and watched the moon.

“I should thank you for your hospitality these last months Bjarke.” Bryech said breaking the calm quiet of the night.

“It is I who should be thanking you,” Bjarke replied turning to look at Bryech with a warm smile. “You saved Calder during the battle and have been a true friend to my family and our people ever since you arrived in our territory.”

Bryech grunted, still not much for conversation.

“Come inside, although we sup late you know it is always worth it.” Bjarke commented as he stood with slow deliberate action, giving light to his age. Bryech stood and assisted him, both of them chuckling as they walked back towards the house.

The small house was far more comfortable than its outside appearance would suggest, with a warm hearth and many rooms. Bryech sat at a large rectangular table with Bjarke and his family. Calder his son; a brave Ulven at a year younger than Bryech. He shared in similar stature to him, if only slightly less mass. Gunhild, Bjarke’s mate and a fierce woman, old and gray like her husband with a kind motherly demeanor. And Ingrid, their daughter was the oldest of the younglings having been born months before Bryech was bright and kind like her mother but a force to be reckoned with like her father and brother. The group laughed as they ate a hearty supper of cooked venison that Bryech and Calder killed two days before. The house was comfortably warm and the mood was light and happy between the inhabitants. After dinner they all did their part in clearing the table and storing away the leftover food, sharing a few more laughs before they all made their way to their furs for the night. As the hours crept on Bryech lay in the small curtained off area he had called his own for the past seven months and stared at the ceiling. After he was certain the rest of the people in the house were running with their dreams Bryech quietly slipped out into the night. He made his way back to the tree, this time examining it before sitting down. The tree was old, standing taller than any other tree in sight and seemed to radiate its own life to the area surrounding it. Bryech placed his hand on the tree and was overtaken by a sense of strength but deep inside he could feel his own rage and angst.

“They say this tree grew on the first carcass that the Great Wolf’s killed, one of the first that Gaia found any way.” came Ingrid’s voice from behind him. Bryech turned and smiled.

“They also said that it was Gaia who tamed him.” Bryech replied. His words carried with them a sadness that he felt was his own yet at the same time not. It was confusing and he couldn’t wrap his head around it.

“You think too much.” Ingrid giggled her response and sat looking at the moon. Bryech chuckled and sat next to her.

“Maybe I do, but it does make sense.” Bryech stated as a matter of fact.

“What does that mean?” Ingrid asked.

“Two halves make one whole, each piece fitting exactly with the other,” Bryech began explaining.

“That doesn’t-” Ingrid started

“Hush woman, let me finish!” Bryech blurted out. The two laughed heartily at that and had trouble regaining their composure. When they did though, Bryech continued his explanation.

“If each piece is to fit exactly with the other, each one will have to allow the other to keep itself from growing too careless,” Bryech looked out over the fields and went on.

“Gaia created the earth and made it her body; she creates life and beauty and maintains it of her own accord. This isn’t always the case though, sometimes The Great Wolf had to stop her from creating too much life, less the world choke on its own abundance. So, The Great Wolf made his children.”

“The Ulven. But before the Ulven there were the wolves, and before them Skol and Hati their first children.” Ingrid finished. Bryech turned to her and smiled, they had grown close in his time with her family and he certainly felt something for her but he left his feelings for her hidden away with most everything else he felt.

“The Great Wolf tasked his children with being the heralds of their mother’s creations, wardens if you will.” Bryech finished before asking with a chuckle after a slight pause.

“Does that make any sense?”

“A little.” Ingrid replied with a laugh of her own. The two talked for a while longer about anything that crossed their minds. Bryech was happier in this moment than most in his last few years. After all the death and destruction of the war it was nice to feel something else besides the anger, but Bryech knew that he couldn’t avoid fate and changed the tone to match his true thoughts.

“I’m leaving Ingrid.” Bryech said looking at her. Her smile faded and she avoided his gaze and just looked up at the moon. The moonlight shone bright on her face giving her dark brown hair an almost midnight black appearance and Bryech smiled again. How foolish the whole scene must have looked. Ingrid broke the small silence.

“Just promise me you’ll be careful” Her voice was sad and Bryech felt it pull on his heart but he knew he had to go.

“I promise.” Bryech replied calmly and almost inaudibly. Ingrid leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. Bryech smiled, his fangs gleaming in the moonlight. They both went inside and slept through the rest of the night. Bryech dreamt of wolves and their howls echoing through a great darkness.

The next morning Bryech had his things packed and ready, he wore all his armor for it was easier than carrying it with his other things. As he went to leave, he said his goodbyes to each of the people to whom he’d grown so close. Bjarke stopped him longer than any of the others as he had to grab something from his and Gunhild’s room. Bjarke returned with a finely crafted sword.

“My old sword, it would serve you better than that secondhand short sword they gave you to fight the invaders.”

Bryech smiled and bowed his head to his friend. It was a fine Ulven longsword crafted from the finest Ironmound steel, the handle inlaid with etched bronze on the guard and pommel. The handle was stamped and wrapped with strong black leather.

“A gift fit for one’s own blood given to a squatter.” Bryech stated and glanced to Calder who replied with his own brand of sarcasm.

“I prefer to bludgeon those with my mace than finesse with a sword and you are no squatter you are a true friend as good as blood.”

Bryech nodded and took the sword and exchanged it with his old short sword.

“A fine blade which will see many dead foes in its time” Bryech boasted with his wolfish smile. He hugged his friends all one last time and left with a heavy heart and yet a freedom that he had almost forgotten.

“And so the wolf returns to his duty, herald of the light, warden of the dark.” Bryech said as he prayed to is necklace and felt its protection envelope him. Bryech walked for a few hours before he was close the edge of the valley. The lush forests seemingly strangely quiet for this time of year. As he left the valley Bryech turned back and saw a black wolf watching from the edge of the tree line. They watched each other for a while before the wolf howled a deep piercing call and faded into the woods, peculiar for them to be active during the day but Bryech took it as a sign. Bryech went forth with a renewed vigor back towards his old friends, back to the fight.

Read more: http://lasthopelarp.proboards.com/thread/1353/story-cole#ixzz4DJkgrwxr

Scratch, scratch, scratch. How many days had it been? A woman carved a tally mark into a board for every sunrise she saw without sleeping. The sun on the water hurt her eyes, and her vision blurred. She couldn’t count the marks anymore. But she could see her reflection and her face was dark like a bruise, as if it were rotting. Ragna Axehound wondered idly if that was what her brain looked like, too. That was how she felt. Rotting.

Long ago, Ragna had felt the heat of the Wolf’s breath on the back of her neck. She was a warrior who stared gloriously down the Mordok hordes as her comrades died around her. Few would sing songs of that bravery, though – though she had survived numerous battles, her deeds of valor were not so many.

Space spoke to Ragna as she sat by the water in contemplation. “It’s time to go,” said the air behind her, in her sister’s voice. “Ragna, you know what will happen if you disobey them – these are the war-chief’s orders. It’s the only way.”

Ragna grimaced. A week ago she had defied the Mordok, and they dragged her into a pool of ink and fed black mice into her throat. She could still feel them squirming in there, in her belly. Now, because of her failure, the Axehound would punish her by means of exile. Quarantine, they called it, because the corruption was becoming an epidemic. Ragna knew what would happen either way: when her cousin was struck with plague seven years ago, the Axehound warriors were ordered to put him down. Her sister was too young to remember the tragedy. Ragna would remember forever.

Her sister’s hand finally materialized on her shoulder. It felt like space and time were distorted and the hand had just reached through a hole in the atmosphere – like Ragna only dreamed that her sister was there.

It took no more than a few hours to reach the other side of the lake, where the rest of the Corrupted were already interred. She had friends here, but after a week without sleeping, she could barely recognize their faces. She didn’t notice her sister saying goodbye, and she couldn’t make out the sadness and fear twisted on her face.

Ragna stared at the water for days. Her board was gone, so she couldn’t count the days anymore, so instead she thought about her Mother. Her hateful Mother who still whispered to her in the back of her head and promised her lies about freedom. She felt the cold crawling of her Mother’s tendrils on her back, and saw her reflected in her eyes, surrounded by rotting flesh.

She couldn’t remember Gaia’s arms anymore. She couldn’t taste any sweetness when she ate the fruit of Gaia’s beard. She couldn’t even feel softness when she pet Gaia’s hounds. The corruption was her only Mother now. Perhaps, she thought, it had always been this way, and this darkness was Gaia’s true face.

Ragna tried to push those thoughts from her mind. She was a devout Ulven and in a brief moment of clarity, the idea revolted her. But the creature in her blood reminded her, “Yes,” in a cold whisper, “I am your Mother. I love you and I will feed you.” Ragna puked into the lake and refused the call. She couldn’t get the mice out of her belly and she couldn’t get the voice out of her blood. It felt like her emotions were being ripped into pieces. She was sick and lost and all she wanted was to feel normal again.

Warriors were at the gates. Axehounds, her kin. When she was young, the sight of their blades and bright eyes made her feel so safe. And not so long ago, she was one of them, and drank and laughed with them and hunted beasts and fought Mordok beside them. That was her life, once, until now. Their eyes were filled with sadness and it frightened her. They didn’t have the corruption in their bodies, but she could feel a heavy darkness in their hearts, as easily as she could now sense the Mordok lurking in the water, whom no one else believed were there.

“I am your Mother,” the corruption comforted her. “I will protect you and my milk will make you whole.” Ragna tried to cough out her rotting blood.

Days passed again and Ragna was starved and soaked in urine, barely able to move. In her sleeplessness, Ragna saw and felt things that no earthly language could describe. She knew she was delirious, but she embraced it now, because there was nothing else to pass the time. She repeated the corruption’s words in her mind, to her former friends: she was a cocoon and her Mother was almost ready to hatch, and bloom like wildflowers. She was ready for Ragna to die, so her blood could be smeared on everybody, so the corruption could spread, so everyone could rot and burst like fruit left in the sun.

And then, they arrived. The corruption seemed to retreat, inside her body, from these holy people – a young priestess of Gaia, who’s warmth made Ragna cry, and a human holy-man in red, who made Ragna feel like she was burning. That was what she wanted, she thought, to be burned alive.

A token figurine, a deer’s head, hung on a nail on the wall of the shack. By the time Ragna noticed it that day, it had come loose, so it hung upside-down, its antlers pointing downward. The creature in her body quivered fearfully, sucking its tentacles back into her brain like a snail to its shell, and Ragna laughed and sobbed and dragged her dirty nails through the wood, knowing that this was an omen: today, burning in the sun, Ragna and her cruel Mother would be separated.

The tale of the Axehound Massacre would go down as one of the grimmest stories in Ulven history, not a battle to be celebrated. There are no victories to be sung when Ulven turn their swords on one-another. But on that day there was also Ragna, who even in her delirium, held her honor and loyalty to her clan and to the people of Mardrun, by bravely giving her life so that others might find a way to fight the Mordok’s corruption. Her flesh would serve as the final piece, in the puzzle of creating a new ritual that would burn the creeping corruption from a person’s body for good.

Her final memories would be of her clansmen holding her and whispering, “Your name will ring in the ears of the Great Wolf.”

By Cole Potter

As the sun rose, Brother Ventaris strode through the halls of the inner keep passing room after room of the Lions quarters, some were open with Lions preparing for the day, others filled with loud and boisterous snores of sleeping men and women. Those who were awake greeted him as he passed and he greeted them in kind. His demeanor was one that appeared stern but held a serenity and sense of control brought on by a cool temper. Ventaris reached the end of the hall and made his way down the stairs to the lower level of the hall. There were less rooms here as it was difficult and costly to dig out the space needed for underground rooms. Ventaris turned left at the bottom of the stairs and walked parallel to the stairs as he approached his destination. The door to the room sat slightly ajar. Ventaris calmly pushed open the door and took in the small room before him. Sleeping in the bed was a young man sprawled out and snoring lightly, the room was half cleaned with clothes and equipment piled hastily against the far wall. Brother Ventaris sighed and shook his head at the idea of having to take this boy on as an apprentice, regardless of how agreeable the young man was. Ventaris looked towards the small wash basin that sat in the corner full of water and smirked.

Harkov walked through a maze of stone pillars, each one varying in size. Harkov remembered this place. It was a monument in New Hope, one dedicated to the lives lost on Faedrun. Harkov wandered for a time and found that no matter how far he walked in any direction, he never found his way out of the maze. His vision was hazy and he seemed to have tunnel vision. He stumbled through the maze when a laugh caught his attention. He looked to his right and saw a blur move past the path to his right. He knew the laugh and chased after the blur, then he’d hear the laugh in another direction and change directions accordingly. Harkov grew ever closer to the blur until finally it wasn’t a blur. Harkov saw her outline and just admired her. She turned and smiled. He went to say something but he was wrenched from his dream by a stinging cold that caused him to suck in a sharp breath and fall out of his bed gasping and stuttering. Harkov landed on the floor with an audible crash and stumbled quickly to his feet to survey his disturbance. At the foot of his bed stood Brother Ventaris chuckling and holding Harkov’s now empty wash basin.

“What in the hell?” Harkov asked his mind still not quite centered after his rude awakening. Ventaris walked past him and returned the wash basin to its holder before turning and walking towards the door.

“If you’re to be my apprentice, you will be training as a Lion. Get changed and meet me outside.” Ventaris ordered calmly without so much as a look before departing. Harkov sighed and made his way over to his bed before sitting on the edge and running his fingers through his still dripping hair.

“ I’ve had worse awakenings” Harkov said to himself as he threw on some dry clothes.

Harkov made his way hurriedly outside as he ducked past Initiates and Lions. His rush caused some shouting behind him, but Harkov didn’t bother to stop, he was on a mission. Harkov exited his barracks and quickly spotted Brother Ventaris standing beside a group of Lay militiamen with a large sack at his feet. Harkov eagerly greeted his teacher and stood waiting for his instruction with an almost overzealous military resting stance. Ventaris picked up the sack and tossed it at Harkov’s feet. The sack landed with a loud thud and the sound of metal gently sliding against metal. Harkov knelt down and opened the sack and found a set of freshly oiled chainmail, a gambeson as well as leather bracers and greaves. Upon further inspection though, the mail was rusting in some parts and the leathers were worn. The gambeson was well worn in and had many spots beginning to tear. Harkov didn’t dare complain, fearing reprimand and physical training as punishment.

“ It is to my understanding that until this point you’ve only been borrowing armor for training since you had little money when you arrived and that went towards your mace so I pulled some strings and managed to get you this,” Ventaris explained as Harkov began to don the armor.

“It is yours to keep and maintain, you will earn your plate as all Lions do when you have proven yourself ready. Understood?” Ventaris continued. Harkov nodded with a grunt as he slid the bracers over his forearm.

“So, what training will we be doing today?” Harkov asked as two Lay squires jogged forward and handed Harkov and Ventaris each a worn training shield and their mace and hammer. Ventaris rolled his shoulders, his own chain chattering as he readjusted.

“Obstacle Course.” Ventaris stated. Almost immediately after a sharp whistle blew and the militiamen started running, Brother Ventaris jogged behind them and Harkov fell in line beside him. The first obstacle was mud pits, Harkov slogged through the water filled pits whilst the mud pulled at his boots and greaves with a deep slurping sound and cleared the mounds of dirt piled between each pit, assisting anybody he could on the way up. Harkov loved the challenge and made no attempt to hide it as he plodded beside Brother Ventaris. None of the other men and women wore armor or held weapons so their pace was much faster than Harkov and Ventaris. The obstacles were each challenging in their own right, an eight foot high wall that required a degree of teamwork, even for those without armor, weighted sacks that you had to carry for a distance were cumbersome, let alone having to bear shield and mace. A rope wall, walls one needed to mantle and roll under, an underwater passage and another pool of knee deep mud and water tested even the strongest men and women. After all of that, the group was split into teams of three for a test of strength and will, a tug of war was held. Ventaris and Harkov paired with a Militia women and battled their way into the championship bout. Harkov took the front of the rope as he always had and was breathing heavily as sweat and water dripped down his entire body. Ventaris anchored the rope and the militia women took the middle. Their opponents were three large and strong men with the one in front being of exceptional form and their anchor a massive man with a combination of muscle and sheer mass. The two teams battled for what seemed like an eternity each round until it was sudden death. The order was given and the two teams struggled. Harkov gave a shout and pulled with all his might as Ventaris and the militia women both pulled with their all as well. Their opponents were strong though and began to pull them towards the mud pit. Slowly, inch by inch, Harkov was pulled to the edge of the pit when suddenly they stopped and Harkov and Ventaris bellowed as they began to pull and gained a modicum of ground back. Their attempts were in vain though as their opponents gave one final heave and Harkov heard a ripping as his hauberk sleeve caught in the thick corded rope and he flew into the mud pit. Sputtering and wiping mud from his face, Harkov looked up to see the outstretched hands of his comrades who pulled him from the pit. The entire group rejoiced at the end of the exercise and all scattered to the wind. As Harkov ventured over to a water barrel to begin washing himself, Ventaris clasped his shoulder and haggardly said.

“Nice job out there, you did good.”. Harkov felt pride well in his chest and began to peel his soaking armor off of himself. His leathers were saturated and saggy, flattening out with little resistance. His gambeson and tunic heavy with water and the mud made a sucking noise as he peeled them off himself. As Harkov stood over the water barrel, he heard a strange scratching noise above him and looked up just in time to take a copious amount of ice cold water to the face. Staggering a step and quickly shaking out his hair, Harkov looked back up to see a pretty red haired woman who appeared to be around Harkov’s age looking over the edge of a balcony with an empty bucket in her hands. Harkov could hear Brother Ventaris laughing as he washed himself at an adjacent barrel.

“You looked like you could use a bath.” The woman said giggling.

“That I did.” Harkov nodded with his own chuckle. Harkov shot Ventaris a look and when he looked back the girl was gone. One of the militiamen caught Harkov’s attention and made a crude gesture insinuating some less than gentlemanly things with a ridiculous face which put Harkov in stitches and the small group that had gathered at the barrels also shared a hearty laugh as muddy water flowed off of them in sheets and heavy droplets. Harkov admired the moment, it was one of the first in a long time where he had been so carefree.

Later in the mess hall, Harkov sat alone and picked at his food. His mind wandering far from reality. Harkov was so deep in thought he didn’t even notice Brother Oliver and Brother Ventaris sit down across from him till Oliver cleared his throat. Harkov pulled himself from his own little world and shook his head.

“Forgive me, I was lost in thought.” Harkov apologized.

“No need to apologize. I just wanted to check in with you quick.” Brother Oliver replied kindly.

“Brother Ventaris tells me you show great potential, I implore you to keep up the good work.” Oliver said in his calm yet cheerful tone before excusing himself to attend to his other duties. Harkov started eating his meal in earnest with his newly found company. Ventaris and Harkov ate in relative silence giving in to the din of conversation. Harkov eventually could not bare to be silent any longer and spoke.

“Can I ask you something Brother Ventaris?” Harkov asked.

“That depends on your question.” Ventaris replied before taking a heavy drink from his tankard.

“Why did you run the course with me?” Harkov leaned forward, placing both elbows on the table, he continued with a slight stutter. “I-It just doesn’t make sense to me. Almost every military trainee, like myself, are instructed by trainers but the trainers rarely participate in the actual training. So why did you?” Harkov leaned back in his seat with his brow furrowed in confusion awaiting for Ventaris to respond. Ventaris made to respond but held up a finger when he realized he was chewing on too much food to speak through. When he finished Ventaris gave the young man his explanation.

“Lions are warriors yes, and we are the iron fist of our order so we style ourselves like a military. But we are far different from the armies of nobles or kingdoms.” Ventaris took another drink from his tankard before continuing. The clamor of the hall was begging to tone down as the night continued to grow closer and closer.

“The title Brother means something far more to us than it does to those in a military. We are all agents of Arnath and we serve faithfully on his path. The path we tread is a long, and at times, a lonely one. Darkness can consume someone if they walk alone for too long.” Harkov nodded his understanding, at least what he thought he understood.

“I ran the course with you because you have taken the first steps to becoming one of us. It is my duty as a Lion and as one of your future brothers to make sure you know what that title means. You want an instructor, talk to Basil” Harkov nodded. It all made sense to him but he also still didn’t fathom why the Order would spend this much time and energy for him. They trained him, fed him, clothed him. All because he might become a Lion. No single person put that much stock in him before. Let alone an entire order. It wasn’t like he was special but they treated him like he truly had the potential of those who came before us. Brother Ventaris interrupted Harkov’s thoughts abruptly.

“Stop thinking so much and eat your food. You want to stop looking like a scrawny little runt, so you need to eat.” The two laughed and Ventaris excused himself. Harkov set to his food, still not quite focused on eating.

Later that evening, Harkov lay on his bed and gazed out of the small window in the opposite corner of his room. The full moon cast a strong light out into the settlement and gave Harkov a good view of the night sky. Harkov had tried for hours to fall asleep but he couldn’t. His mind scattered around, jumping from thought to thought. Most of them he had hoped to forget. Harkov sighed and sat up looking around his room. His insomnia causing a new found frustration and at that moment Harkov was glad he was the only inhabitant on this level as he roared his frustrations into the night. Laying back on his bed, Harkov closed his eyes and did something he hadn’t done in a long time. He prayed.

“Arnath, I know I have never been a man to pray often, but I need guidance.” Harkov took a deep breath before continuing.

“Show me a sign, show me something so that I know that I’m not just wasting their time.” Harkov waited awhile before opening his eyes. Nothing had changed, no ethereal presence had come with wisdom, no visions of Arnath entered his mind. Harkov felt dread strike ice through his heart and felt his throat well with fear. As he sat in the dark, a feeling of hopelessness crept over him. Harkov stared at the ceiling and began to weep. Something else he hadn’t done in a long time. He sobbed until the light in his room grew stronger. Harkov sat up once more to investigate, rubbing his eyes and feeling a pleasant warmth spread across his cheeks. Looking at his hands Harkov gasped as he saw silver light glinting and flowing like water around his hands, gleaming like a tiny river of stars swirling back and forth. Harkov sat amazed and felt his ice cold dread be replaced with burning excitement. Harkov began to speak one of the battle prayers he had learned to see what would happen.

“It is for us to stand when others can’t,” the light grew stronger and flowed toward his forearm.

“It is for us to hold when others run,” the light moved further, encompassing both Harkov’s hands and almost half of his forearm.

“It is for us to fight when all hope is lost. Such forges our faith, such forges the future.” The silver glow now encompassed both his arms to the elbow and shined brightly in the din of Harkov’s room. Almost as quickly as it had come, the light disappeared. Harkov looked at his hands as the glow faded. Harkov’s head now swam with dazzling lights filling his vision. He was tired now, so very tired and then everything went black.

Harkov awoke the next morning to the sound of birds chirping and people moving about outside. Harkov felt groggy, his tongue was dry and his teeth felt as if they had hair. He had slept the kind of sleep where one was too far gone to care for comfort or dreams. He had been wiped out after the night before having drained him so heavily. Harkov was excited but his joy was tainted by how awful he felt.

The days and weeks blurred together, Harkov and Ventaris trained day in and day out doing labor during the periods of time they weren’t training. The settlement was still growing and required many strong hands to build it. The heat of summer after one final stubborn stand gave way to the cool mornings of early autumn. Even with all of the distraction from his old life, Harkov still couldn’t escape all of his demons. They found him most when he was doing something that requires little thought, like chopping wood or clearing brush.

The new farms that were being built required large amounts of work from all members of the Order who were fit and able to wield tools. Harkov liked how hardy the people of Starkhaven were. None were exempt from the labors of progress. It maintained the stereotype of hardy and strong humans from the north. A respectable image at the least. There was much to be done be it clearing brush or moving dirt to fill ruts in the road or shore up foundations. The trees of Mardrun had roots that ran deep and each tree that needed to be cleared was a daunting task that usually required shifts. One such shift is where Harkov met with his demons once more. The crews were dealing with a stubborn stump that even trying to cut it down enough so that it could be buried was difficult. Harkov had been switching off with Ventaris every so often whilst they chipped away at the root.

After hours of chopping they still weren’t done and the end didn’t seem near. Harkov worked at the stump with weary arms and a mind that was unfocused to the task. His thoughts went to his past and he saw memories and thoughts he wished he hadn’t. His anger and frustration filled him and suddenly his arms weren’t so heavy and the world around him faded to somewhere far away as he hacked viciously at the stump causing wood chips to fly everywhere, showering himself and the earth around him. His ears picked up noise, but it sounded far away and as if someone was talking through water. Slowly it became clearer, and clearer. The voice was Ventaris. He was yelling now. Harkov didn’t stop. He was too focused on the images in his head. Until finally it came through clearly.

“Harkov!”

Harkov bellowed and gave one last vicious strike and with a resounding crack cut through the stump.

Harkov leaned back and looked around. Ventaris had a look of surprise in his face but it held something else. Exactly what, Harkov couldn’t tell. Harkov looked down at his hands. They were starting to get raw and red. Harkov knelt like that till he felt a hand on his shoulder. Looking up, Harkov saw Captain Orn Ree. Who with a degree of pride said.

“This young man now knows the strength of fury it seems.” A few of the other men gave a cheer both in celebration of a griffon acknowledging the young initiate and that the stump was finally low enough to just dig over and be done with. Harkov smiled reflexively, but played back what Ventaris had told him.

“The path we tread is a long and at times a lonely one, darkness can consume someone if they walk alone for too long.” Harkov knew he wasn’t truly alone, but then again, he also knew things were never so simple with him.

Bergsveinn was ecstatic.
His mentor was finally taking him with her on a mission. Alvör was gruff, thorny, fought like a angry cat and sang like a boar.
He’d mate her if he could manage it.
It was an important mission too. He could tell. Alvör brushed it off, saying it was just a diplomatic mission. But the Stormjarl and the Longfang had long been allies. It probably had something to do with the war. Alvör was no diplomat. Neither were any of the guards coming with.

They were going to the Longfang’s far flung outpost. It was about as far from home as he could manage without landing in a mordok nest, and that suited him just fine. His young blood boiled at home, his mother deftly keeping him out of harm’s way and therefore out of fun’s way. But she couldn’t thwart Alvör’s will(no one could! he thought gleefully), and Alvör needed a partner on the long trek.

They were even going to get ponies! Alvör had decided that with the war and all, they would need extra supplies. She didn’t want to hunt much in what could be unfriendly territory, so she requisitioned two ponies. Bergsveinn hadn’t been around the stocky furry creatures much, but he had always admired them from afar. He’d heard that the outsiders had bigger ones, ones big enough to ride! He hoped one day to see it, but he couldn’t imagine ever actually keeping one, let alone riding it.

One of the ponies was named Crackers. She was a young mare, beige colored and sweet. The other was named Scramp, an old man in pony years, dark brown and grumpy.
Bergsveinn loved their little ears, their wispy manes, their scraggy fur, their feathers on their hooves, and their soft noses.
This was going to be amazing.

---

By the time they had left Grimward territory and were almost to the Longfang outpost, Bergsveinn did not love ponies. They were smelly, they ate too much, they were bad tempered and would step on your foot if they thought you weren’t looking. They wouldn’t listen to him, and would sometimes just decide they’d have enough of this walking nonsense and refuse to move. At least, that’s what Scramp did. Crackers was pliable enough, but Scramp refused to do anything that Bergsveinn wanted. The stupid pony made him look foolish in front of Alvör, and would never be forgiven for it. She had actually laughed at him. Laughed!

He tugged on the lead, pleaded and yelled, but Scramp refused to move. In a fit of rage, Bergsveinn snapped up a stick and whipped the pony’s flank. The animal squealed in outrage, lashing out with it’s hooves and bolting. Bergsveinn sat on the ground, struggling to breath and watched the animal flee into the woods, accompanied by the derisive howls of his companions.
Good riddance. He thought victoriously.
Alvör stared at him in horror.
“Find that animal.” She snarled.
“But….!” He whined.
“Find it. NOW!”

They followed the trail of destruction that Scramp’s passage had made, finding bits and pieces from the pony’s pack strewn across the ground.
“You had better hope that the package is in one piece or so help me, I will cut you and feed you alive to the Mordok.” Alvör promised, and he was not so sure she was joking.
They found Scramp, chewing on grass and looking mighty smug. Bergsveinn wanted to hit the infuriating beast. Alvör sprang at Scramp, and before he could escape, she had his lead in hand. She desperately dug through the torn packs on his back. “NononononoNO! Shit shit shit!” She wailed.
“What? What is it, what’s wrong?” He asked, bewildered.
“We are dead. We are so dead! She will kill us and skin us and feed us to crows!” Alvör cried in despair.
“It’s gone. The claimant bar is gone!”