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Onsallas Outpost, Longfang Territory: Shortly after discovering Soulvieg’s artifact.

“Brother, I think I am ready to see home again.” Ranmir told Stanrick.

“We will need to find you a place to stay, Selena and I have taken over Mother’s and we need it ready to raise a pup again.” He replied.

“I understand, if we cannot find a place, it isn’t as if I don’t know how to make shelter, maybe we can raise a small shack for me on the outskirts. I don’t know if I’m ready to be in the center of things anyway. I may just stay in the outpost for a while…”

“No! No brother of mine will stay at the outpost! You are coming home. Let’s go.”

Ranmir and Stanrick started to gather their equipment to head to Onsallas Village, but were interrupted by Reyna and Fritha.

“We’ve been discussing the possibility of you returning to the village, cousin” Reyna said to Ranmir, “and we do not think you should enter the village before you are clean.”

“So, I’ll bathe, no problem, I can fetch the water now.”

This time it was Fritha to respond, “Water will not clean off what we are concerned about. We feel that you have spent too much time in the Dirge Swamp to be allowed into the village without taking certain measures for the corruption, and Thrand agrees.”

“Why does EVERYONE keep talking about me behind my back. I heard you the first night I came into the outpost, wondering who I was, if I should be trusted, why I brought the news! You SHOULD have just asked me! WHY didn’t you just ASK me?!”

“Brother,” Stanrick said consolingly, “please calm down. We did not know who you were, you came in with a worrying message about what is coming, and a cryptic one about who you were. This temper is not like what I remember you to be.”

“Yes, cousin, this is what we are talking about,” Reyna said, “the swamp has changed you. We just want to take some precautions to make sure that you are not corrupted.”

Ranmir thought about this for a while as he finished gathering his belongings. Would this hurt? Is there any way to go back to the way he was? Thirteen years alone is a long time, would he be able to rejoin the pack truly? He knew the others hoped it would be possible, as did he. He was feeling a comfort that had not been known since curiosity had gotten the better of him so long ago. He had hoped that he could put an end to the war with the Mordok, much as the war had ended with the Humans and the Syndar. He had failed, but would he be able to succeed at coming home? “What do we need to do, and how long will it take?”

“As of now, cousin, we are not sure.”

In a hut outside Onsallas Village: Three weeks later. Sixth attempt.

Ranmir laid on a pallet in the middle of the room, asleep. Rill stood ready yet again for the signal from Reyna that the draught had sedated him. When Reyna nodded, Rill extended her arms and cast a barrier.

In the same hut outside Onsallas Village: Three days earlier. Fifth attempt.

Ranmir woke with a start. He did not know where he was. He vaguely remembered being brought to this village. The Mordok shaman was once again casting his pain-inducing magic upon him. He tried to grab the Mordok, to fight out of his predicament, but his arms and legs were pinned down. In the background he saw a pointy-eared figure with red eyes extending his arms, preparing for an embrace, with a mocking smile on his lips. He lowered his arms and stepped forward as the Mordok looked to guidance. The red-eyed one spoke.

“Ranmir, calm down please.” It was Rill’s voice, “We are trying to help. If you wish to come back into the village we must make sure that you are safe.”

Sixth attempt.

With a pained look on her face, Reyna double-checked that the restraints were secure. She did not like the idea of tying her cousin down for this, but for their safety, it had to be done.

In the same hut outside Onsallas Village: Two weeks earlier. Second attempt.

Ranmir’s eyes opened. The Mordok shaman was working his staff around his face, attempting Gaia knows what upon him. Ranmir’s hands shot around the throat of the shaman seemingly of their own volition. The red-eyed one took a step forward thrust out his hand and there was a bright flash of light.

Ranmir looked dazedly upon Fritha and Rill. Rill was holding her throat, with Fritha taking a defensive position in front of her.

Sixth attempt.

Reyna called upon Gaia for assistance, to cleanse her cousin of the darkness that the swamp left him with. It would go faster with two, she knew, but they had tried that once…

In the same hut outside Onsallas Village: Two weeks, four days earlier. First attempt.

Ranmir’s chest felt about to burst, he had not breathed this hard since the sprint from the Pineed forest when his brother vanished in front of his eyes. His lungs felt like they were on fire, his heart about to escape his ribcage. Fritha and Reyna crouched in front of pallet upon which he had been resting.

“What is wrong cousin?” Reyna asked.

“It hurts, whatever you are doing, hurts. I can’t take it, it is going too fast.”

“What do you mean, too fast?” This time it was Fritha inquiring.

“I don’t know…the pain…it feels like…fire inside me.”

Sixth attempt.

Gaia’s gift began to flow through Reyna. She saw Ranmir’s face begin to react to the pain he was feeling, even in his slumber.

In the same hut outside Onsallas Village: Six days earlier. Fourth attempt.

Ranmir felt a burning at his fingertips. He looked down at them and saw they were resting in embers. He tried to pull them out but couldn’t move his arms. He could focus on nothing else but his fingers. As he wriggled, he caught a glimpse of a Mordok, but as he tried to look closer only saw Fritha looking down in concentration.

Sixth attempt.

Reyna felt the warmth of Gaia’s love as it tried to replace the darkness that had coalesced on Ranmir.

In a hut outside Onsallas Village: Ten days earlier. Third attempt.

Ranmir looked up at the Mordok. He knew this Mordok, he had seen him somewhere, long ago, or was it only moments ago, could recent events have been a dream? Time seemed to be a blur.

Sixth attempt.

Ranmir’s mind began to travel, as the darkness gave way to light, the time lost to the swamp began to come back. He remembered having been visited by the red-eyed one, who would talk to him and make him forget. He remembered a village of ramshackle buildings being reclaimed, much too new to be Ulven. He remembered the torture, and the sleepless nights. He remembered things he wished he had never seen, and would never see again.

Ranmir woke slowly, unable to speak, his mouth too dry to form words. The bonds had been lifted. Reyna, Fritha and Rill, stood by.

Fritha handed him a bowl of water. “Please drink this, Selena made this cleansed water. She says it helped when she and Stanrick came home sick from the swamp. She wanted to help.” Reyna, Fritha, and Rill had agreed that in her state, it was safer to keep her away.

After a long drink, Ranmir spoke. “I am tired.”

“Please, cousin, tell us what you have seen,” Reyna requested. This had become the order of things since the attack on Rill.

Ranmir simply replied. “When I am ready.”

Bryech marched alongside the rest of the Longfang warriors bracing himself against the bitter cold. He looked around him as warriors from the Stormjarl war packs marched next to the veteran Longfang warriors and was filled with a strange feeling. He was now one of the greenest members of the Longfangs, the other was Orrin. Orrin was barely an adult and he was marching to battle. The whole thing still didn’t seem real to Bryech he was in a way numb to the whole thing like it was routine even though all of this was new to him. The sense of anger that had always fed his fights against the Mordok was gone for now. Bryech felt different about this battle that he now marched to. The people he would be fighting were people, not beasts with only one purpose in life. These battles would be different, these battles would be remembered in history. However, Bryech did not feel happy that he was going to be a part of it.

“The Mother and Father are shamed.” Bryech says to himself as he once again shrugs against the cold and keeps on marching toward war.

The first few days after Graytir had announced the remaining neutrality of Clan Stormjarl were cold, very cold. The few fights that did break out were small skirmishes that resulted in almost no deaths, like two wolf packs sizing each other up. Bryech had never felt this cold before. he could feel it in his bones the stinging cold made everyone weary to fight. It went on like that for weeks. The longhouse of the village was now serving as a barracks for the Stormjarl and Longfang warriors. The Stormjarl militia were constantly moving in and out as warriors took up defensive positions. The Longfangs were constantly on watch. The real fighting began two weeks after Stormjarl neutrality was claimed, it started with Horns signaling enemy approach. All of the warriors from Pack Longfang and Clan Stormjarl were ready and being deployed as the war leaders saw fit.

“Longfang warriors, go cover the main road my warriors will assist and handle any flanking units!” one of the Stormjarl Chieftains yelled over the clamor of warriors preparing for battle. The warriors jogged into their positions on the road, Bryech stood somewhere in the middle of the formation waiting. Bryech went to pull the Gaia’s Star out from underneath his armor and cursed himself. He had left it in the barracks at Onsallas village. The horns sounded again this time even though the enemy could be seen. The Grimward forces outnumbered the Stormjarl and Longfang at almost two to one but that was no concern to the Longfangs. The Grimward troops stopped about fifty yards from the Longfang formation. The two forces looked at each other, neither unit saying anything. Bryech followed his instincts and started barking orders; he wasn’t their leader but he was getting sick of waiting.

“Shield wall!” Bryech yelled. His response was the sound of shields locking together and warriors taking their fighting stances. The road formed a natural choke point just in front of the Longfang formation. The Grimward war pack leaders started to bark out orders and on their side a shield-wall formed. Bryech was ready and he roared, the rest of Pack Longfang joined in and their collective battle cry was fearsome. The Grimward responded with their own battle cry. The Grimward war pack leaders sounded for the charge. Seconds passed and the two walls crashed together, the sounds of warriors fighting became deafening. For the first few minutes the two lines fought, warriors on both sides trading blows but so far none had fallen. Bryech watched from the rear line but he wanted in the fight, but he was ordered to stay back until the front needed reinforcements.

“Watch above, they’re trying to jump over to break the line!” Orando hollered over the sounds of combat. Bryech looked up just in time to see a Grimward fighter in the air heading straight towards him. Bryech flipped his javelin in his hand and hurled it. The javelin made solid contact and punched right through the fighters’ ribcage. Bryech wasn’t prepared for the Grimward to keep falling and landing on him, he was knocked over as the corpse had fallen back to the ground. He rolled the body off of himself and stood up. He surveyed the carnage and things were getting bloody with warriors from both sides suffering injuries. The chaos and flurry of combat making the rest of the world blur out into nothing but warriors trading blows. Suddenly, a warrior right in front of Bryech fell back dead an arrow sticking through his eye. Bryech didn’t waste a second he jumped into the open spot in the shield wall. Bryech roared and started hammering against the warrior in front of him while the spearman behind him took the opportunity to stab the Grimward in the thigh. The warrior fell with a scream of pain, Bryech kicked his shield off his chest and stabbed him in the gut after punching through the warriors leather breastplate. Bryech felt something solid hit him in the back of his exposed left shoulder and felt the blade of a sword slide across his hauberk. He turned to his left and stabbed, skewering his attacker through the throat, a spray of blood gushed out and splashed against his arm and cheek. Falling back into line, Bryech sounded for the line to push forward. With a resounding roar the Longfang line crashed into the other line sending the Grimward back. Suddenly to his right, one of the Longfang warriors roared and began smashing through the enemy line. The Grimward warriors cut at the raging Longfang and stabbed him but it seemed like he couldn’t feel it. There were several arrows sprouting from his torso and his armor was rent open from dozens of slashes and weapon strikes. He was well on his way to a warrior’s death, but intended to tear into the enemy before he went down.

“The line is broken, push through!” Orrin said. Bryech looked to his right to see his friend hook an enemy’s shield with his axe while Azra stabbed him through the chest with a javelin. Suddenly, Harlok appeared to his right and grunted at him to push through. With a nod Bryech looked forward and kicked the shield of the warrior who had replaced his recently fallen opponent, sending him back a few feet. Together, Bryech and Harlok tackled the warrior so he couldn’t get up. Bryech’s sword had fallen out of his hand when he tackled his opponent, Bryech pulled his dagger while Harlok punched the warrior in the face while deflecting a few attacks with his shield. Bryech slammed his dagger into his opponent’s neck, warm blood gushing out onto his hands, killing the warrior almost instantly. Harlok jumped forward and charged into the fray, the two lines had broken and the battlefield was a mass of warriors clashing against each other. Bryech rushed in after Harlok. He looked to his left to see a Grimward warrior was charging towards him. Bryech took a low stance and flipped the warrior over him with his shield. Turning around, Bryech saw that the Grimward was already on his feet and, having dropped his shield, he swung his axe two-handed. The axe buried itself into Bryech’s shield with a loud crunch. The warrior pulled and knocked Bryech off balance, throwing Bryech’s shield with his back swing. He gave Bryech the chance to regain his balance. Bryech and the Grimward warrior began circling each other. Bryech with his dagger was at a disadvantage to the Grimward warrior’s axe but he knew what to do. With a battle-cry he rushed the warrior who in turn swung his axe just as Bryech had hoped he would have. Bryech reached his left arm out and grabbed the axe by its wooden haft stooping his opponents swing. The blade of the axe slammed into his upper-arm causing Bryech to cringe in pain. Bryech then plunged his dagger into his opponent’s torso breaking straight through his chainmail hauberk. Bryech let go of his dagger and the warrior sank to his knees. Bryech crouched in front of him. The fighting had moved away from the two of them as the Longfang line reformed.

“What’s your name?” Bryech asked, still holding the Grimward’s axe.

“Sven Shield-Splitter.” the warrior replied, blood pouring out of his mouth.

“I can tell how you got the name.” Bryech replied gruffly. Sven looked Bryech in the eyes and nodded. Bryech replies to his nod in kind.

“You fought well today, Sven Shield-Splitter, and The Great Wolf’s ears ring with your name as we speak.” Bryech tells Sven putting out his arm. Sven returns the greeting.

“I am Bryech Savagefang, first and only son of Davrik Savagefang. That is the name you will tell The Great Wolf when he asks who sent you to him on this day.” Bryech tells Sven. Sven nods barely conscious. Bryech pulls his dagger from Sven’s torso and drops his axe as Sven falls to the ground dead.

“Bryech, get up here now! We need to reform the line!” Orrin yelled. Bryech looked up and nodded while grabbing his shield, which had luckily landed next to his sword that he had dropped. After grabbing his gear Bryech rejoined the shield-wall.

“What in the name of Gaia were you doing?” Azra asked him angrily.

“One must always take the chance to honor his opponent.” Bryech replied.

“Raaaaaggggghh!” Harlok growled.

Smiling Bryech says. “See, he agrees with me.”…..

The first battle of the northernmost Stormjarl settlement was a victory for the Stormjarl and their Longfang allies, but eventually after numerous attacks by Grimward and Whiteoak forces the Stormjarl line crumbled even with the help of the Longfang warriors. From there the warriors of Pack Longfang and Stormjarl militia retreated to a secondary defensive line, all warriors suffering from grievous wounds and infection. Their elite training and discipline maintained an organized retreat and kept the Grimward warriors from overtaking them as the wounded and villagers were evacuated deeper into Stormjarl territory.

Bryech soon came to realize why the humans speak so badly of war, for it is the worst thing imaginable. People forced to kill people that they once called brother, watching their friends die beside them. War may make friendships stronger than the ties of family, but it costs so much more.

Brynja sighed heavily as she leaned against the door, forcing it shut. Her eyes stayed closed as she pictured the room before her in her mind. It had been months since she had been home, since she set off with the human expedition into the Dirge Swamp. Slowly she forced her eyes open, taking in the small building that was so familiar, yet long-forgotten. Everything was as it had been before she left, save for the layer of dust that had accumulated. Stepping in silence through the building, she traced her fingertips along her table, her walls, anything that she could reach. Words would never be enough to describe the relief she felt at finally coming home, nor the shame she felt for taking each of these items for granted; as such, they remained unsaid.

Inhaling deeply, taking in the familiar aroma, the dust tickled in Brynja’s nose, but she didn’t care. She quickly made her way over to the fireplace, and soon had a small blaze started. Pots of water were placed above the heat, combined with others in a tub to create a hot bath. It must have been months since she got to bathe like this, to finally feel clean. As she began to disrobe, Brynja noticed the aching stiffness in her joints, despite her young age. Must be the weather, she mused, knowing well that the cold air was not the cause of her pain. Her body had been subjected to trial after trial, more than she had thought she could endure, in just the last few months.

A sharp pain in her ribs stopped her suddenly as she pulled her tunic off. Her chest had been uncomfortable ever since the horrible day in Hazemane village. She was one of many corrupted who was corralled by an Axehound warpack and left to die by a cleansing fire. Her heart ached and her eyes began to sting as she remembered the man for whom she had nearly given her life, the cleric who panicked and fled only to be cut down. Why did the Great Wolf not call her name instead? He was not ready to die as she had been. This was the man who had sacrificed so much to give hope to so many. In the hopes of easing her suffering, he had taken a wound from Brynja unknowingly submitting himself to the corruption as well. It was for this reason that Brynja could not shake the feeling of guilt welling up in her stomach, and it nearly made her sick.

Her tongue was drawn to her fangs, newly budding for the first time in nearly a year. That had not been the first time her teeth had been removed, and would likely not be the last. It was cruel, however, as she was infected with the corruption shortly after being mutilated as she was. The foul magic kept her from healing properly, and as such, her fangs refused to grow back. She would never be whole again after that hellish night, nor the nine months of nightmares that followed. Now, for the first time since, she finally began to feel as though her world might not collapse at a moment’s notice. She finally began to feel once more like an Ulven, not a shell of her former self.

As she stood bare before the bath, she could not will herself into the water quite yet. Glancing down, her fingers traced a path across her chest and arms, winding their way to every scar, some more recent than others. A bruise just below her tattoo forced a grimace onto her face. A rough, scaly patch of skin on her shoulder reminded her of the fire in Hazemane village. A mostly healed puncture in her left arm called to mind the Battle of Pyre Hills: the honorable Whiteoak warrior that nearly ended her life before succumbing to his wounds from their duel. Eventually her fingers made their way to her left hand, caressing the recently stitched wound in her palm. Manetho had done excellent work in repairing the wound, but the damage had been severe: it had to be to finally force the corruption from her body. She slowly squeezed her hand into a fist, exerting far more effort to do so than she liked to admit. At the time, she had feared that she had lost the use of her shield hand, though determination (Manetho called it bull-headedness) allowed her to begin to build the muscles again. It would be months before she was once again in fighting shape, but she was beginning to see progress, and that’s all that truly mattered.

Finally Brynja stepped into the steaming water, embracing the heat as it relaxed her weary muscles. As she lowered herself into the bath her left arm nearly gave out, demanding attention and pushing the memory of the ill-fated swamp expedition back into her mind. She had forgotten so much of that journey, save the image of her comrades fleeing the Mordok as she fell to the mud, the wretched beasts swarming all around her. Her head sank below the surface of the water, hoping that the sensation would wash away the memory. As she did, she felt her hair pull against her, trying to float back to the surface, and she recalled the moment she had cut it off. Near the edge of the swamp, with the Mordok tormenting her, when a group of Shattered Spear hunters descended upon the creatures. Seeing her chance for freedom, Brynja had grabbed the knife in her belt and sliced off the lock of hair being held by one of the Mordok and crawled to the hunters. It was in Newhope that one of Marquess Madeline’s aides trimmed what was left of her hair into a somewhat presentable style. Shorter than she was used to, to be sure, though it stayed out of the way far better than it had before. Might as well keep it, she chuckled to no one. As she surfaced, she breathed heavily and allowed herself to drift away in the first true bit of rest in months…

A knock on the door jolted her awake. She had no idea how long she had been asleep, though her skin was pink and wrinkled, and the water had started to cool. The knock came again as Brynja scanned the room for her cloak. She left the tub and wrapped herself just as the visitor cracked the door. It was a young warrior, one whom she had trained many years before. “Nefstein? What is it?” Brynja prodded, trying not to show the sleep lingering in her eyes.

“There was a letter for the Pack. Everyone is talking about it,” he began. “It just showed up today from Onsallas…but there’s something else.”

“Well, spit it out. What’s wrong?” Brynja had never been the patient kind.

“This letter…it’s…for you.”

Reyna sat in the dim light of the Hall of Gaia. It was quiet tonight in Onsallas, with just a handful of the Daughters nearby. They were practicing meditation with some of the Daughters in Training who had drawn tonight to be on duty in case fighting broke out. It was a good way to spend time when one must be alert for the worst.

Reyna herself was not on duty. She simply couldn’t sleep and found it better to sit here in the firelight, her needle drawing thread through the fabric of the hangerok she was preparing for the upcoming dinner that was be the held in New Hope. Perhaps she could convince them of what projects would bring them true greatness instead of the follies her cousin was making them think possible.

But, thinking too far into the future was something she considered dangerous. Here, on the edge of the Dirge it was dangerous to think too far ahead. Every day was change, and even the seasons could be unpredictable if the earth itself took it into her mind to be difficult. The only thing Reyna had ever found consistent was magic.

Mana formed the warp and the weft of the world in an immaculate, divine version of the muslin that was pooled on her lap. The pieces of the dress had been formed into shape as Gaia had brought the world into existence from the void that must have been before she made the world. And much like her needle trailed thread behind it in patterns that were intended, Daughters of Gaia (and the other casters), pulled magic together into spells that let the will of the caster be made true on the world.

Needlework held the answers to many things, including having a calm center. Meditation was much like the spinning: The spinner drew fiber from the prepared roving as the Daughter drew mana from the roving Gaia had prepared for them.

The most complicated lessons came in the form of the most useful of seemingly mundane tasks. To make clothing was to create, to find a connection to Gaia that a Daughter should value; for through her creation of beauty through needle and thread a Daughter could bring herself closer to Gaia.

Experiment Log—Al Mafajjar
Experiment Series: 1,372
Experiment No.: 001
Target: Subject 1-S, known as Manetho
Race: Syndar, Feral

Initial Observations:

Subject 1-S has a troubled past and fear of magic. Has severe mental blocks inhibiting access to mana, and mind may be disconnected from the mana stream due to said blocks. Slow introduction to be followed by slow reintroduction to mana should work. Meditation will be required to reconnect. Arcane energy also required to bridge gap. Subject will be resistant to procedure. Caution necessary.

Dangers of Procedure:

97% Success

1.5% Mental shutdown from stresses

1.5% Violent cerebral deconstruction

Subject’s strong mind should guard against most dangers, but failure still possible.

Should failure occur, must deal with 1-S’s human companion, Erasmus. Lethal force may be necessary but should be considered a last resort.

Lingering corruption possible, but unlikely. Mental tampering should not trigger corruption symptoms.

Update: Time is running short. Will have to resort to forceful tactics. Mana flood and mana wash to eliminate block. No buildup in the body until it can take it.

Post-Experiment: Success! History is made today by the successful completion of this procedure. Subject 1-S has connected to the Mana Stream and now possesses magical energy within her body as all Syndar should. Reaction from subject as expected: mental trauma but no danger to her life. Subject 1-S is recommended for further observation in my facility to ensure there are no side effects; likely to be no substantial observation given the revelations to the world of the existence of the Transcended.

A great pity that minimal further work with 1-S is possible–the descent into magic of the subject would have been interesting to observe. Hawk contact must be maintained at any cost so that the experiment is not permanently terminated.

This may be a stage to reversing the Syndar hollowing process, whatever it may be. Much more work is necessary along with Hollowed subjects, willing or otherwise. May also be a method of easing the transition to magic of Ulven males. Subjects will still be necessary for the continuation of the work regardless of direction. Al Haddad must be notified of the need at a later time to begin preparing to accommodate said need.

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

————————————————————————————

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“]]