Verdenhal

Horrace: Caught Off Guard

Horrace was waist deep in swamp muck, and staying low, so as to stay out of sight.

Another night of wandering the wilderness, stealthily investigating any rumors or signs of danger. On this night he had overheard an villager speaking of a family of Tasslewyrms revealing themselves in a southern swampland. Horrace wasn't stupid enough to try to attack a group of Tasslewyrms on his own, but he could confirm their presence, and take appropriate action from there on.

Suddenly, ahead, he heard a rustling.

The corkweed grew tall in this bog, and as it were, Horrace could make out nothing but plants. If he could just get a boost up a few feet he could get out of the cold sludgy muck and make visual contact with whatever was ahead. But there was nothing around for support. He had been on the look-out. Suddenly the noise was behind him.

He spun around, springing his heavy axe from resting place on his back. Silence. Carefully turning back around, he was shocked to see a smooth wooden log protruding from the swamp water. How had he not noticed it before? He inspected it's strength, and confident it would hold his weight, he carefully began climbing up onto the slippery log. It was wet with slime, but he was sure-footed and well balanced, despite his crooked visage.

At last he stood atop the log, holding his axe for balance, peering over the corkweed's fuzzy tops. He set his keen eye to detect any and all movement. And something caught his eye. Something moving towards him from low in the weeds. He thought he caught a flash of color. It was fast. He readied himself for an attack.

Without warning a corkweed stalk, thick and heavy, came springing up from it's depressed state smacking him with a heavy whap square in the nose. The force sent him stumbling backwards, head first into the thick bog, axe flying through the air to land several feet away. The last thing he heard before getting a mouth and eyeful of cold mud was a gleeful tittering and the flutter of invisible wings.

After he spent however many hours it would take to find his axe, he swore he would personally gut Perlavash, and make him into a hat.

Smooth Sailing

The city is doing well so far. Trade and business have flourished handsomely, part in thanks to claiming the nearby mines. The kingdom is still small though, and we have had several hiccups though, but barring any future earthquakes, I do not foresee any major problems as of yet. I have currently taken on the role of our nation's underground information consolidator. I do not feel this role is suited to me though, despite my aptitude for deceit. Thorain and Horrace had decided that Gren would be a better fit as acting baron of this nation which I begrudgingly accepted. The next night, feeling a little bitter, I may have gotten a wee intoxicated and perhaps spread a spiteful rumor or two.
We have shifted our focus once again to the surrounding countryside, as much of it lies unexplored. We came across a troupe of gnomes searching for some dwarven ruins, saved their ponies, and exchanged information with. There were some rather unsuccessful negotiations with a witch, though I don't know if Horrace was trying particularly hard to win over her heart and mind. The latest development had an unnerving feeling about it though. Some livestock seem to have been brutally slaughtered nearby, and we are off to investigate tomorrow. We shall just have to see what the winds push our sails towards.

Thorain Toradur: Roots and Leaves, Kings and Friends

When Thorain first beheld the old Sycamore, he had found it beautiful, the far extending branches reaching out over the hilly grassland like forks of lightning arcing across the sky. The branches were bare and the ancient tree it seemed, was close to death. The mites who had made their home in the nest of the trees great roots no doubt had something to do with the wondrous tree's demise. Now, the den lay empty, it's mischievous inhabitants all perished by his companion's swords or fled.

Being a wood elf, Thorain had a soft spot for trees, and an especially soft spot for ancient trees. Were it up to him, the kingdom which his friends were hard at work creating would be built around this tree, or constructed within the forest, like the great city of Kyonin, but they were not elven and their hearts did not reside within the bark and old wood of forests. So, he had spent much of the past weeks at this tree, meditating upon the events of the recent past.

Not long ago he had been a novice in the great halls of the Kyonin school of magic, his days largely spent transcribing scrolls and ancient tomes for the venerable masters of the college. Life moved so slowly then; it was the elven way, the way he had grown up and lived his entire life. Now, life was spitfire and rapid. No wonder humans accomplished so much in their short lives, they never stopped. Thorain was considered impetuous by elven standards, but seeing life as humans lived it, he felt wise and slow to act or react. Escaping his people who he thought shunned him had reinforced just how elven he truly was. And being in the presence of this beautiful tree had helped put it all into perspective. It was the only living thing in miles that was older and wiser than himself, and a reminder that one day he would be older than the ancient tree, that when this kingdom he helped found finally fell into destruction, with any luck, Thorain would still be alive. That was a sobering thought, but he knew he would have to accept it.

Thorain looked up to the few leaves growing on the tree; they looked greener, and the tree younger. He hoped that by killing the mite infestation and with the proper application of magic, he could bring the old sycamore back to life, that it could live a few more hundred years. He hoped this kingdom could at least last as long as the tree. There was hesitancy within his heart, elves never made friends easily, and being friends with these mortals made him fear for the time which they would die and he would live on to see their children and grand children fall to sickness, sword, and old age. Yet there was no avoiding it, the kingdom must be constructed and he must have his friends, their hopes and dreams lived in the Greenbelt and for the time being so must his.

Thorain's queen, the queen of all elves, Telandia had implored her people to go forth into Golarion and adapt to human culture. If his kind were to survive, having a presence in this budding nation would greatly benefit his queen and his kin. Although he had resented them, he now longed to see other elves, the scar on his face was barely seen by others in this land, perhaps if he wore it with pride, as Queen Telandia wore her own, his people would look at him with respect.

Thorain looked out across the hills toward the scaffolds and cranes rebuilding the staglord's keep. Their keep, won with blood steel and magic. His friends had worked constantly, yet none knew what Thorain was doing, he had disappeared and practically become a tree. Leaving Kyziem to plan a nation alone, Gren to find it's inhabitants and Horrace to keep it safe. What role was there for him? Things of stone mattered little to Thorain, the commerce and politics of humans were foreign and frankly of little interest. However, woven into the fabric of these last months was the essence of magic. Thorain could feel it, a different magic, the magic of people coming together, putting vision against dream and fabricating their hopes into reality. Thorain would be here to help with that. To help his friends achieve their dreams before they passed into history. He owed it to them for the gift of friendship. Perhaps if he was lucky he might find what he was looking for along the way.

A Simple Contribution

The others had been very busy in the last weeks. Danswitch seemed to live off spirits and paperwork, often falling asleep in a chair with books in his lap, soaked in red wine. Thoraine was spending time in meditation, seeming to draw plans in his mind. He visited the old dead tree quite frequently as well. Gren had been back and forth from Restov more than the others. He seemed to be spreading word of some great new paradise to those lost sheep of the flock. He could have a very honeyed tongue when he spoke with conviction it seemed. Horrace spent most of his time watching them, whether or not they knew they were being watched. Busy little bees.

He spat into the water.

He looked out over the treacherous running waters from atop the roof of the ransacked shack that had once been Nettle's Crossing. He had set up a sleeping roll and fire pit, making himself a little home away from home. He felt better out here in the wild during these times. Sometimes the fear of Nettle, fueled by terrible revenge, still echoed in his dreams.

There was plenty to be said for ambition and tenacity in plan making, but this was not what Horrace had signed up for. These lads were living lives of bricks and maps. Numbers and ideology. They sticking flags into their little patch of safety carved out of these dangerous lands. What troubled him was the fact that they didn't seem to be regarding the massive expanse of deadly wilderness that still surrounded them, like wolves moving in on weak prey. There was still much to be done before all this intrepid bricklaying.

Even over the rushing of white water, and the humming ambiance of the forest around, Horrace heard the footsteps. If nothing else, his lifestyle had made him very keen in senses. Instinctively he crouched and flattened himself to the rooftop, becoming nearly invisible. Looking out along the riverbank he made out the human approaching. He seemed lost, and traveled encumbered by the large bundle on his back. Furs, tubes, and sacks. He recognized them. Those were Olag's wares. The glisten of a silver pin made Horrace's one eye twinkle.

The fire that usually kept him going had been nothing but embers these last weeks, but all at once they seemed to be breathed into a roaring pyre.

An arrow took the man through the knee. A good shot for 80 paces, and on his belly.

The bandit screamed and fell to the river bank, buried under the weight of his stolen goods. He looked around in a panic attempting to identify his pursuer. Nothing.

With all his strength he struggled to pull himself free. A boot landing on his hand, crushing his finger bones brought that to an end. He looked up in horror to see the twisted figure of Horrace glaring down at him. His gaze with thick with judgment and accusation.

"I'm sorry! Oh Gods, I'm so sorry! I..I swear I'll give it back! I renounce the Stag Lord! He has fallen!" He pleaded as tears formed in his eyes. "Please, have mercy! I beg for justice!"

Kysziem had his way with words. His cunning tricks. His logic and planning.

Thorain had his wealths of knowledge. His powers over the Arcane.

Gren held the light of the God Iomide in his hands. He had his bravery, and his passion.

They were just what a thriving kingdom needed. Great leaders all, in their own sense. Heroes to be spoken of for ages. But there was one thing Horrace believed his allies lacked. The one simple contribution he could add, when it was needed most.

His axe fell with all the weight of decisive conviction, and punishment. It landed clean as the bright green landscape, begging to be molded. And the red banner of justice spilled out across the riverbank, speaking worlds of consequence for those who fought against progress.

To build a nation...

Miezsko sat in a dimly lit room, pouring over maps of the greenbelt. He took a sip of wine. To one side lay a pile of papers detailing labor and material costs for several types of structures, covered in ink blotches and inevitably destined for a heap of crumpled papers on the floor. To put it mildly, this would be harder than he thought. Establishing a city from the ground up? The logistics of it were nightmarish. He had never done anything like this before, only having observed the procedures and methods of running an already established system. They would need men to reconstruct the old fort, they would need camps for the men, eventually houses. There would need to be food brought in, goods, supplies. Oleg would probably enjoy this. He had complained enough already about the busy crowded natures of cities for Miezsko to have taken notice, but this sudden influx of business might change his tune.
Miezko's hand stopped scribbling, and he sat up in his chair. Looking around the table at the scattered stacks of parchment, he was struck by the woeful inadequacy of his organizational talents. Why was he doing this alone? He hadn't even considered asking the dwarf. Apart from being an horrifically unstable diplomatic element when negotiating with masons and carpenters, he didn't seem to express an interest in the activities at hand. The holy man had never shown his intellect terribly brightly, however powerful a force he was in battle, and Miezsko hadn't entertained the thought of enlisting his aid. Why the hell was he doing this without Thorain though? Miezsko had always thought himself intelligent, but there was no denying Thorain's mind was a tier or three higher than most, and he would excel here. They were going to be busy when they got back, and he would make sure to grab Thorain right away. He might even be enthusiastic about this, why not?
Miezsko looked at the glass of wine next to him, picked it up, and downed glass's remainder. He poured himself another glass. Staring at the candle flame, he grinned and lifted his glass enthusiastically to it, a toast to the future. Not realizing how drunk he had become, he knocked over the candle, setting the most of the table ablaze.

In her name

The robed figure walked towards the small group.
Please take this.
Huh? What is this?
Why its an invitation.

Do you find yourself being looked down upon? Do find it hard to make a living do to the prejudice of others? Would you like to make a new start in a land opportunity and acceptance?

Then rejoice for Iomedae has answered your prayer's
The Green belt holds the promise of a new start. This can be your chance to live in a land of equality and justice. Where the meek are NOT oppressed by the wealthy. A land where you are not judged by your appearance but by the merit of your heart.

Let this be your chance to live a life worth living.
Sincerely acting Arch Bishop of the Green belt
Gren Lorkev

And so it was from Restov to Port Ice. Town criers sang his word, and his fliers were in every corner of every city.

It has began, my invitation to the downtrodden and neglected of Brevoy has been sent. It cost me no small amount of coin but it will be worth it. I made especially that my half breed brethren were to receive my call for a better life. At first I thought that reaching out to the other Church's of Brevoy for help might not work, but they were quite eager. I fear that it was for the wrong reasons though, at first they were hesitant but when I said that it was the poor and the half-breed that I truly wanted to reach they were quite happy to help. For a price, it seems that every thing has its price. Even helping those less fortunate.

On a happier not I have purchased a statue of Iomedae. It took me some time to find a artisan of such worthy talent and heart. I've also been able to secure food and lodging for the pilgrims of Brevoy. It may be tents and bread but from this shanty town we will create a Nation of hope. Oleg was instrumental in this, he could have a great future ahead of him. In addition to the dozens of smaller tents I've also purchased three grand pavilion tents. One will function as a temporary Church for my new found flock and the other to will be a Mess hall a Hospice for those sick an injured who arrive. It has cost me a small fortune but it is all in place now. Oh this is a truly great time! To be filled with such a purpose is a blessing.

Between the planing, the securing of provisions and the talks with my compatriots I've nary had a moment to sleep. As I thought kysziem is going to make a play for King. For all Kysziems charm and quick wits I sense a vain self serving individual. I will do my best that the people see what's in their best interest. I trust that Iomedae will see the truly worthy to head this fledgling nation.

Thorain Toradur, Precipice of Change

Thorain laid upon the ground of the Staglord's acquisitioned keep, his rich dark blood warming the thick stones beneath him. The Staglord's arrow was burried deep in his chest an d it was clear to Thorain that if not treated soon, he would die. The battle raged on about him, he saw Gren's figure approach, fending off the hulking brute that was about to bash in Thorain's head. Thank goodness, he needed the help. Slowly Thorain drifted away from the material plane...into the realm of visions and dreams, between waking life and death.

He soared high above the Greenbelt, the wind cleaned the feeling of death from his feathers leaving Thorain refreshed. When he had first entered this land he had found it oppressive, barren of goodness and filled with the stink of trolls. Now the Greenbelt changed it's appearance. No longer a frightful wilderness, it opened up and offered new opportunities, chief amongst them, the opportunity of freedom. He was shunned by some elves in his home land for his appearance, and by others for his queer ambitious nature, not natural to most elves. But here in this land, none knew what he was supposed to be, and if they knew, they didn't care.

He looked down across the land and began to see "home" among the clusters of trees. The keep, rebuilt looked majestic, newly woven banners snapping in the crisp wind. The rivers ran clear and wild, nourishing the realm, free of evil, free of the oppressive taint of civilization. But they would come. Humans spread across the realm "taming" it wherever they could. Stupid. The land tamed them. It told them where to live and gave them what they needed to live. But they would slowly ruin it. Thorain knew that he could not stop them, they would colonize the greenbelt soon, so, he would simply have to ensure that it was done properly. Instill the correct beliefs in people and perhaps this land would survive where others would have surely failed.

He soared over the land that he hoped to finally call home. Or at least for a time; a wood elf never stays in one place for too long before the winds call them to a new home.

"Thorain!"

"Thorain get up!"

Gren's voice; the paladin had saved his life. Good, there was still much to fight for.

Cleaning up

Mieszko stepped aside for a moment as the rest assessed and collected valuables from around the fort. His hands were shaking and his legs nearly gave way beneath him as the leftover adrenaline surging through his blood desperately sought escape. It was a gamble, their plan, and in the end it paid off. He wasn't proud of his last ditch threat to gain entrance inside, but somehow it had worked. The battle was something quite new for him. He had never been much of a fighter, but over the course of this last month or so spent travelling and skirmishing side by side with these men, he had begun to found his stride.

While previous engagements had left him awkwardly scrambling for victories, landing lucky blows, and falling in pits, he had felt keenly aware and focused this time around. Moments from the battle flickered in his memory, as he remembered each swing and thrust, every dodge and parry.

"Maybe I could get used to this."

With those words he steadied his hands, and returned to begin tallying up their findings.

Journal Entry : A problem within

We have done it! It took some stern words and the shedding of blood, but the end result is undeniable. We have eliminated the threat of the Stag Lord and taken his keep. Now we must set about taming the rest of the green belt and establish a colony. with the fort as a strong point I believe we should build the colony around it.

This undertaking could prove more problematic than one would expect though. It seems that Thorain and Kyzziem are at odds with each other. It's a wonder that something as small as a name could cause such a division between to people. Were it simply the name of are charter I feel that things could be worked out easily enough but I can see that Thorain finds Kyzziem to be head strong an bold. Something that doesn't flatter his calm wisdom. Horrace also has no love for the Danswitch Expedition but his cold Dwarven pragmatism wont let that interfere with our goals.

Before we go any further we will have to have a sit and discuss our plans and put an end to this dissent once and for all. Together we have accomplished so much, I wont let this all fall apart over something so petty.

Horrace: Actualization

Of all the thoughts that show from the heart, through the eyes, the one Horrace was most familiar with was self hate. And he saw a painful amount behind those two bloodshot eyes gleaming like angry moons from between the slots of the glistening bone helmet.

The impact of the first arrow ripped through his armor, tore its way through his muscle and sinew, and knocked against the bones in his shoulder. The force made Horrace spin away and clench his teeth in agony. That hurt. A lot. But he continued the charge. Staring this madman down in his own keep, full of his own men.

There was shouting from all sides. He heard Gren barking some orders. He felt a tingle down his spine each time Thorain sang out another arcane verse. Off to his side he saw Kyzium moving quickly, looking around for an opening. Their eyes met briefly and it was clear they had the same goal. A silent plan formed between them. Horrace would hold the Stag Lords attention while his partners would take out the men behind them, and Danswitch would sneak up behind to overpower the bandit king. Hundreds of thoughts and battle plans were racing through his mind. Horrace began to doubt himself.

Just then a cloud of humming energy washed over him. He glanced back in shock to see Thorain pointing a pair of fingers towards him. A hint of a smile in the corners of his mouth. Horrace returned the smirk and turned back to his foe as the magic washed over him. His gait increased and soon the sound of his footsteps became a booming that shook the stone. He now towered over the humans around him, wide and heavy as a boulder. His regularly large and heavy axe now looked like a tree trunk with a broad metal blade as big as a tavern door. Horrace roared. Then the second arrow buried itself into his guts.

Nothing could stop these four it seemed. No job was impossible with teamwork and bravery, like that found in these few. They seized the Greenbelt and pulled the world's britches down to its ankles.

Thorain Toradur: Musings, Muses

A potion of Shield: A hard scale, a drop of quick silver and a piece of a broken arrow shaft. Grind together the ingredients using a mortar and pestel, and cook in pot until mixture begins to smoke. Add water and essence of abjuration. Cook until fumes begin to turn azure, at which time the words of shielding must be spoken, then stoke the fire and burn, boil until mixture resembles the color of the maiden star, blue and bright.

It feels as though an age has passed since I have engaged in revelry, where are the fey, dancing in the dark forests of the Narlwood? I miss their music and merriment, I miss the mirthful revelry of my kindred and the smiling twirls of elvish girls while I longed for a kiss.

Beneath the Alder trees

There begins a soft procession

Elf feet, a gentile breeze

Their caper leaves no impression.

On through the woodland path

They dance toward the fairy dell,

Beautiful voices hath

The power to make a heart swell

From joy to great sorrow

And sorrow to crimsoned love.

None think of the morrow

Nor await the white morning dove

For when the dawn arrives

All shall be gone save trees

And a lilting heart which still thrives,

Dancing among the leaves.

Magic. What a curious force. Although I use it, manipulate it to my will, so much of magic remains a mystery. The high mages of Kyonin knew so many obscure secrets that they witheld from me, but things are becoming immanently clearer. I begin to see how it can be bound to objects, and decanted in liquid form. So much of this world exists separately from magic, but now I realize, magic exists in every space of the universe if you can simply coax it to come forth and reveal it's self. I cannot put to words what I see before my eyes but it is as if I realized for the first time that the air which I breathe has substance, that the world is composed of a myriad of elements, magic being the finishing touch that brings us to life, and sadly, is capable of taking that life away. I will explain further when I have the words...

On the Future of the Sootscale Kobolds...

We have provided a great service to the Sootscale Kobolds, as well as accidentally pity killed their Gnome puppeteer. Though I see possible problems with them in the future. While they have agreed to live in peace with us, permitting any future attempts to establish a productive mine near their domain, they are still evil creatures by nature, and this will have to be considered.

The presence of a mystic and the threat of a curse kept them controlled before, perhaps some sort of similar method of control will suffice. The cunning of this gnome rather impressed me, and while he was in possession of an actual kobold body, this is nothing another skillful illusionist couldn't handle. Maybe there is another group of hideous tiny vermin nearby that we could occupy the kobolds with. Perhaps even one among the kobolds is power hungry and selfish enough to be up for the task, though the idea of using another kobold itself brings a cornucopia of fresh problems...

I guess I must reflect on whether this is all really worth it or not. After all, they are kobolds. Even if they did decide they were unhappy with our arrangement, the damage they could cause before being put to the sword would be minimal at best. It only took the four of us to wipe out an entire colony of mites, and these were the very things the kobolds seemed to be a sort of stalemate with. Hm.

No matter, these concerns are in a farther off future, and we have more pressing matters to attend to now. I believe we are soon coming to a confrontation with this 'Stag Lord', and I look forward to these negotiations. Perhaps he can be reasoned with, and if not he, perhaps his men.

Horrace: A Leap Forward

There is much to be said on the field of battle, for calculation and reasoning. Strategy can be the sharpest sword, or the strongest shield when wielded in the right hands. But there is also much to be said, in the proper situation, for reckless abandon.

Horrace took one look at the thrashing giant centipede, and bound over the ledge without a second though, bringing the heavy blade of his axe overhead so as to bring it down with as much force as possible. With sight that penetrated darkness, he saw the ground below. It looked far away. Perhaps a bit too far...

The chasm in the base of the copper mine was called “bottomless.” No one had ever proven this theory, but there were few brave enough to put fact against rumor. What they did know is that even the heaviest stone, when dropped, returned no sound of landfall, despite the massive potential for echoes.

Borrdax stood staring into the depth that seemed to never end. In one hand, his hook hammer. In the other, a squalling babe wrapped in dirty linens. In the front of his mind, the task at hand. In the back of his mind, a heavy chain of doubt and guilt seemed to stay his arm.

“Ye can'n't be down here.” He spoke softly. His voice carried like a bell to the stout dwarven woman approaching. “No wom'n are 'lowed this far down t' mine. Ye stupid slag.” There was no anger in his voice.

“Borrdax! How could'ja be thinkin' of doin' such a dark and ter'ble thing?” She spoke as a woman staring death in the face. Borrdax was, until 2 weeks ago, her husband. The love of her life. When the babe was born, things changed.

“We're dwarves woman. Dark and ter'ble is in our blood. This wee beastie is'a'no dwarf. He is but a wretch'd little curse. A curse on the likes'a wee fer havin' quicken'd him to this world. It is a punishment.” His thick arm held the bundle outward, with a lose grip. The shrieking wails of the twisted child seemed to leave cracks in the emptiness around them. He hung by thin strands over the dark endless chasm.

“He'is our son! Yer son!”

There was a long silence. Even the babe made not a peep, as if aware of his fate.

He turned on her. He stormed up to her until they were face to face. The heat and rage from his sleepless eyes seemed to dry up the tears in hers. He stood there glaring at her. Daring her to speak again. Veins in his neck and on his brow pulsing.

“If ye want to be the matron o' dis abomination, ye can have yer mindless wish.”

He dropped the babe to the ground with a thud.

Horrace landed on both feet with a loud thud.

Twenty feet is a good fall for any man, but for a 4ft dwarf, it is quite a distance indeed. The impact shook his bones, and made him bite off a tiny piece of his tongue. His crooked spine and hips ached at the jostling. But not stopping for a moment, he used the momentum of the fall to push forward, and channeled the force through his weapon. He spat out a bloody hunk of tongue and brought the axe down on the thick chitin of the beast.

Wood splintered as the statue broke in half.

Horrace stood over the carving of the god Irori, now sundered before him. In his young hands he held a wood chopping axe. Gathered around him were four other young students at the temple. It was a place for children without homes. A place for children to learn what is right, and how to be pure in the eyes of Irori. Horrace hated it.

“You broke it! The gods will curse you now, foolish freak!” The eldest child cried at his back.

Horrace turned to face him, axe still in hand. “Yev not ghat the slightesht idea hwhat it meansh to be curshed by the godsh.” He sneered and spat at the boy. “Thish is no true god. A god who prashesh perfection and beauteh. I shpit on yer holier th'n thow bullssshit.”

Another boy moved up to Horrace, with anger in his eyes. “You take that back. Irori is the one true light, and will save those who have no home. Perfection of mind and body are his gifts. You've simply been denied these truths because you have a dark soul. It twists you and corrupts you into the little monster you are.” The boy stood a good two heads taller than Horrace. There was a swift and loud kthack. The boy then stood only one head taller than Horrace, as his body fell to the ground.

Just then the temple doors burst open.

The thick hide burst open under the force of his blow. Tiny legs and bits of bright insect juices splattered against his face. The beast shrieked and thrashed, and brought down it's two massive whip-like appendages across his body in retaliation.

The force of the blow knocked him aside. He landed on what felt like a broken rib. Gashes had torn his skin open. Horrace could hear the others behind him moving up to help. Taking the edge with more caution. Perhaps a good plan considering the strength of this creature. But to Horrace it was just another challenge. Another force that seems impossible to overcome, that others would avoid or even flee from. Just another wall to break down the only way he knew how.

With a whisper of thanks to Pharasma for this glorious battle, Horrace got to his feet, smiling, and brought his terrible axe overhead once again.   

The Danswitch Expedition

Danswitch Expedition, feh.

A preposterous title, but it'll get the job done. This outpost we liberated is starting to attract more travelers, and each one is another opportunity to spread word of our prowess and generosity. As it turns out, with these companions I've come here with, I won't even have to weave these into truths.

Horrace is repulsive, but only physically, nothing some excessive bathing can't solve. I quite enjoy his company actually, though it is quite difficult maintaining a straight face around him. His conviction and determination are a thing to be treasured, and he will be quite valuable in the shaping of this land, I am certain. His martial abilities seem nothing to trifle with either.

Thorain. I foresee difficulties with him, he is extremely intelligent, and I feel he doesn't quite trust me for some reason. He could prove an invaluable partner should he come to see things my way, and his skills at penmanship will prove to be invaluable. Oh yes, and he appears to be somewhat learned in the arcane. I will watch his growth with great interest.

A Paladin. Gren Lorkev. I had hoped upon first meeting him that he was merely a mercenary of some sorts, but word and action have revealed him. The Paladins back in Eagle's Watch were the most morally rigid people he had ever witnessed, and if this pattern proved true, he would have to step warily around this one.

Anyways, it seems we have some tasks ahead of us, some petty, but all important.

Horrace: Out with the Old

With a slow and heavy sigh he pulled off the last tattered article of clothing from his twisted body. His skin was pale like bad cream, in total contrast to the common rich tawny dwarven skin. Also, unlike other dwarves he was thin. Almost frail. One shoulder was swollen, one of his legs stunted, and his hips and spine were crooked and stuck out in places. Despite the poor construction of his build, he moved with an eerie smoothness. A calm. Bruises and deep unwashed scars decorated his body. The sign turned into a pained growl as he slowly lowered himself into the scolding hot water basin.

Horrace was grateful Olag had given him a private place to do his cleaning. It was a rare event in his life, but not because he hated to wash, but because it hurt. It hurt to twist and pull all the many ripped and dirt caked rags off his body. It hurt to feel the hot water seep into his open sores. But most of all, it hurt to see himself as he was. He was grateful to be fully submerged in the copper tub. Out of his own site. The size of the tub was made for a human, so sitting the water came up to just under his nose. He closed his eyes and lost himself in the steaming hot liquid, and in thought, as he exhaled bubbles.

In just a matter of days he had become someone else. Someone he didn't know. He was talking to people. And spending the majority of his time with them. Him. A human, an elf, and a half-orc. What the hell was he doing? His entire life he had been alone. Working on his own to carry out the judgments of Pharasma. The ones her timid servants were too scared to act upon. He hadn't thought about the fact that there would be a team of people working together to purge the Green Belt of it's hostile inhabitants. He was foolish to think otherwise though. This was all too much. He was surprised at how well he kept his wits about him, kept his misanthropic discomfort to himself, and even managed to not fully alienate himself. This was just not how he worked.

That human Danswitch seemed to be all teeth. Nodding and smiling and saying sweet words, but looking down his creamy nose at everyone. It was as if he felt he was the conductor of life's orchestra, and all others simply humble players. People born with looks and grace never seem to think how it is for others. It made Horrace feel that pit of sadness and resentment in his stomach. Though the man was quick on his feet. Fast with a blade. To be honest, rather dangerous. All he could do was keep his eye on him.

Darkwood was another interesting character. He was always raised to speak poorly of elves. They were thin and weak. Fragile, and tricky. But Horrace wasn't like most dwarves. In fact, those aspects of elven nature he felt he could relate to, even more-so than the dwarven cliches of muscle and fortitude. The fellow was nice enough. Strong spoken, book smart, and no stranger to the road. All things Horrace could respect. But something seemed strange about him. It sometimes seemed as though he was hearing things no one else could. Or perhaps speaking words, while dissecting each one. He didn't simply do or say anything. He simply built aspects of himself through action. The kind of mind that worked like that was a mystery to Horrace, as was Arcane magic.

And a Half-orc? A big brawny wall of skin born of a bastard union. Horrace hated orcs. Hated them. If he had a big enough axe, he would kill them all in a single stroke. But for some reason this young bastard pup didn't get under Horrace's skin. He carried himself well enough. He fought well enough. He was clean, and even spoke praises to his god. Most of all, he seemed to resent his heritage of rape. By the Gods, this was all too much for him to deal with. After all these years of solitude, and hatred for those around him, why had he suddenly found himself able to accept these strangers?

He had lost track of time. He wasn't sure how long he had been in the tub, but the water was cold now. It resembled a broth at this point. He felt his wounds had grown soft and pussy in the water. He would have to remove them and clean them properly, now that he had gone through the work of disrobing. He used the wedge of cake soap to do it's terrible duty, and began to dry himself with one of Svetlana's wool towels. It came back a shade darker, with a notable amount of blood on it. Perhaps he would find some new clothes for the time being. His felt like bread crust, and seemed to crack just as easily. He simply plopped himself down on the cold floor lost in thought, scratching at bug bites with his long yellow nails. It was there that he came to the understanding.

These boys are fine. Fine and well. Pharasma wishes I walk in their shadow, and carry out my great duty through axe and arm. By rope and sword. And if so she commands me to pass judgment on them, I will kill any one of them without remorse or a second thought. Swift and terrible is my axeblade.

He started to feel better. 

Gren : Journal Entry

There's no way I could ever repay the Kindness Joseph has shone me. He gave me faith and a purpose. Armed with the word of Iomeade I will bring law to the green belt. I will create a land where justice and compassion will rule, a land where discrimination will not exist!

An my New friends will be with my all the way. Exspecially Horus, behind his disfigured appearance is a just heart and a kind soul. He saw threw my slap dash disguise and cared not. He even gave my words of compassion. I will no longer hide my heritage, for it is not what defines me. But of course there will be Thorain with his magic wisdom and Kysziem with his quick tong and beguiling charm. Together I believe we will create a Utopia for all.

I am getting ahead of myself we still have so much of this land to explore. An there's the pressing business of the the Bandit King this Stag Lord. An there's the people themselves with their wants and needs. It's glorious, so many people to help, so many lives to improve!

I am Gren Lorkev Bearer of Iomeade's Justice!

Thorain Toradur

The accounts within are of this strange band of lone wolves and children of the sun: the band with which I, Thorain Toradur have both the pleasure and distinct burden by contract of accompanying.

The nights thus far have been much warmer with the company of my new found companions. I cannot tell yet whether we are friends or rivals, or whether we shall last a week in these wild lands which we explore, but I count myself lucky to have them by my side. One could say that we are the most unlikely of bands, but then, they would be discrediting the uniqueness of each individual. Instead, I shall say that each of my companion's distinctions has given way to inevitable eccentricity, or quite distinguished individualism.

First, I shall shed light upon the man who sheds most upon himself, he goes by the name Kysziem Danswitch. A tall and good looking fellow to be sure, he is as true as a doppleganger and quicker of tongue than any charlatan I have ever met. The lies which he has taken the care to weave about himself are so myriad and confounding that it is difficult to discern truth from fiction wether his intent is to deceive or not. About the only thing that I am certain of is that Kysziem Danswithch is not his real name, which makes me wonder at his severe and agitating desire to have our party known as the "Danswitch Expedition." His propensity toward fiction makes me wonder at his intent if any in this preposterous title (especially considering his ineptitude in the out of doors). Luckily the young human has a natural charisma about him which has no doubt kept his head upon his shoulders, and will likely do the same for us in desperate times.

For all of Kyziem's lies, the giant Gren counters him with simple truth. Simple should be the man's moniker, his thoughts appear upon his face before they are spoken, and his actions are always foreshadowed by those preceding. Such simplicity is refreshing though, in the company of my other allies, and is luckily accompanied by a fervent desire to do Iomedae's will; a woman who should never steer him toward evil. If anything, I would say that the man desires to lead others toward good and fortunately has such an honest face that others would follow him. I sense another tendency in the man, that of a malleable mind; his human (although the repugnant dwarf has voiced thoughts to the contrary) mind is already susceptible to persuasion, and he seems quite receptive to the words and emotions of others. I can only hope that Iomedae protects him from evil intentions and that we may be able to guide the hand of a noble heart, for the world is far more complex than the perception of a shallow river of thought.

Some rivers are shallow and others deep. Yet others run deep and clear and some run with the murk of a thousand mires. Horrace is a river so murky that it is impossible to tell it's depth. I have never liked dwarves. Although they claim to see everything as it is and tend away from the foolish fancies of elves or men, Dwarves have become so stagnant in their vision of the world that if all the surface were to be obliterated in the fires of a thousand dragons, they would barely change their ways. Unfortunately, Horrace has been no doubt victim of his people's narrow view of the world and sees at much more obtuse angles than his cousins. For this I have grown to like the diminutive son of Torag although I do not know if he would recognize the god. Instead, the Dwarf claims to follow the will of Phirasma, a fact which confuses me. Although I am little acquainted with the goddess, his tenants seem contradictory to those of his goddess. While the goddess seems little concerned with justice, Horrace seems quite fervent in his judgement of all those whom he kills. I wonder whether the goddess cares little for his motives in dealing out death and healing or if he is blessed by another than who he follows, but the Dwarf surely possesses the powers of the gods, and is formidable because of it.

I suppose time will reveal the truth of my companions. I can see that we have all dealt with the challenges of adversity and still survived. I hope that the coming days or weeks shall show us kindness or if cruel, that we persevere and grow through our pains. In any case, my continued writings shall reveal all.

----Thorain Toradur

ps

We came across a strange omen. A Tatzlwyrm; hiding within the hollow of a tree, barely enough room to slither, I spotted it within sanctuary. I do not know whether it meant me harm, or if it acted in self defense but it sprayed Gren with some debilitating poison, at which point my companions descended upon the beast with weapons drawn. All I could do is watch as the beast was torn limb from limb, vivisected before me. I told my companions that I wanted to inspect the strange creature's anatomy. So I did, as it's innards spilled forth, I burnt my hands in the monster's bile. I dared not tell the others but, from the bile i withdrew the small body of a Kingfisher gripping the wooden shaft of a tree, as such it resembled the scepter of office. This land I know shall make great men, but could consume us. I sense within the lines of magic and fate that we are in the realms of kings, but even kings must be wary for they are only fodder to those above them. In the end, we all are mere mortals.

Chapter 1: The Stolen Lands

The bow's tension released with a low *thwump* and a croaking lump of black feathers fell from the tree. Happs Bydon gave a dirty grin in the thrashing black ball's direction and turned to his companion.

"Tha's three copper, Kork. That'll learn you to bet against me." he sneered boastfully.

His gruff dirt covered companion muttered grumpily and reached in a small pouch at his belt and produced the coins. With a bemused grin, Happs added "Don't forget about the seven from that brush wolf pup I got last week."

Kork handed over the three copper and whined pitifully "Happsh! pleashe, you know I don' have that kind of money."

"Well maybe if you were a better bandit and would go out and crack some merchant's skulls you could have more than a few pieces of copper to rub together for once in your life, Kork."

Kork gave a grotesquely bashful grin. "Hehehe yeeh, and den I could buy meshelf a pretty lassh to roll around with all night!" he gleefully snickered.

"You dense log, thats how you lose your coin. If you want a girl, then you just go out and take one. Non of this 'buy' noncery. Follow my advice, thats how I got Kressle to purr and tumble. I just took her."

Happs leered nervously. The truth was Kressle had jumped Happs one night outside camp after he was emptying his bladder of some stolen wine and had held one of her wicked axes to his throat and forced her pleasure out of him. After all was done, she had told him that he was her possession now and that if he ever denied her she would take his plums and carrot. To prove her point she ripped open his jerkin and took his left nipple. Traumatized and bleeding profusely, Happs whimpered acquiescence and had joined Kressle's bed roll every night she ordered him too. But he hoped none of the other bandits in the camp had found this out. It might hurt his leadership abilities. He was number two now in the camp and didn't want to lose the position any time soon. This camp was the only thing keeping him alive between the forest creatures of the Narlmarches and the rope waiting for him back in Restov.

"Hhehe shure Happsh. That'sh how you got her." Kork chuckled.

Happs narrowed his dark eyes and clenched his stubbled jaw. "Make that seven copper plus three more in interest. Pay up tomorrow or I take what's mine forcefully. Remember, coins aint the only currency out here." Happs eyes drifted to Kork's left ear and made sure he noticed. Kork gulped nervously and walked away into the brush, leaving Happs standing in the clearing.

Happs clench his hands angrily, bruised ego fuming madly. He walked up the still thrashing crow and looked down. "Bloody crow broke me arrow." he muttered. Happs brought his leather boot up and stomped it down up the black eyed head, grinding it in the forest floor. The bird stopped spasming and the death cries quieted, leaving Happs with only his angry thoughts. He would have to do some work to regain his manhood among the other bandits. Tomorrow's collection would work just fine. Maybe he'd take that old trader's finger. Better yet, he'd take his wife, in front of the men. That'd show the scummy lot. Happs grinned wickedly.

Mieszko Orlovsky

Mieszko Orlovsky witnessed his father cut down at the tender age of 7. This was the day he learned that the tongue could be far sharper than the sword. He watched his father's opponent skillfully weave outlandish accusations from thin air, lashing out with overwhelming confidence and conviction. In the end, the importance of the truth was nil. Casimir Orlovsky was cut from the Orlovsky name, along with his wife and children.

Mieszko was fascinated with this man. This man who had handily dismantled his father without even touching him. Mieszko spent the next several years of his life around these kinds of people whenever he could, usually working in some servile manner under them. He saw it all: the underhanded treachery, the superficial alliances, the outlandish bravado., all of their games.

Despite his talent and intelligence, his family's shameful status left Mieszko ultimately on the street. His father hung himself in disgrace on his 15th birthday. His mother cared for the next 2 years until suddenly vanishing one day, leaving him 20 gold coins and a note that read 'good luck'.

Mieszko got by easily if not a bit unscrupulously, though his life was rather hollow. Without noble status, Mieszko would never be able to step into their arena, and he would amount to little more than a quick witted brigand that had a way with words. He eventually left Eagle's Watch behind and decided to make his way in Restov for a time.

Mieszko sat on a rooftop, hat over his eyes, eavesdropping on the locals. He had gone by the moniker of Krennel Banwick as of late, having long abandoned his Orlovsky identity. He sat cooking under the sun for an hour or so, until a conversation of interest finally reared its head.

"Oi, oi, Dogin! y'ear 'bout ol' Sellemius?"

"I don't wanna hear a single crow's fart about that old piss!"

"This'z bit interestin' tho, word about town's he sendin' blokes down to the green belt, gonner make a try at settlin' that wretched wolde"

"Eh? What's his game? Who does he think he is, the Lord Regent?"

"Well uhhh, word also is that he is actin' on direct proclamatin' by Sortover 'imself, seems to be this is impor'ant business of sorts."

"You're foolin'! Well where do I sign up? I've been waiting for a chance to get out of this filthy slum! Why I'd like-

"Ah no no, sorry, ha! they's hand selectin' their men, y'need an invite from th'man Sellemius himself, they's not gonna be takin' worthless pricks like you or me! ha!

Mieszko had all that he had needed to. His mind was racing. An expedition into the green belt? Starting a settlement from scratch? The opportunities would be endless, why he could even...

He focused his thoughts. First things first. He would need a name, one that people had heard of, one that will catch the attention of the Lord Mayor. Mieszko looked down and muttered to himself:

"Kysziem Danswitch can't wear rags like these."

He had always been fond of his original name, and thought this personal homage would be safe enough where he was going.

He stood outside one of the finer tailors in the city, looking in.

A single merchant behind a desk, rows of fine clothing along the walls, fine jewelry on display in front of him. How would he go about this...

"OutRRRRAGEOUS!"

The Tailor jerked with surprise, having been calmly reviewing his ledgers moments ago.

"I SAY THERE, GOOD SIR! BUT I REQUIRE YOUR IMMEDIATE ATTENTION."

The tailor was bewildered at the half naked man standing before him, wearing nothing but his breeches and a neatly trimmed mustache.

"H-how can I help you?" he stammered out.

"HELL BLASTED SCOUNDRELS, I'LL HAVE THEIR NECKS!"

The man shouted to no one in particular.

"I AM ON MY WAY TO AN EXTREMELY IMPORTANT DINNER ENGAGEMENT, AND I WAS ROBBED! ROBBED! EVEN THE CLOTHES OFF MY BACK!"

The loudness and arrogance of the man seemed to alert the tailor to the man's status.

"My lord, please calm yourself, if you need fine clothing there is no better establishment in all Restov!"

"HMPH, I Highly doubt that. But I find myself with little choice!"

The man quickly scanned over the room.

"That! Yes that there, and this cloak, and I see you have some fine onyx rings. Fit me for these! And Quickly Dammit! I am running late as it is!"

"Right away my lord!"

The tailor worked quickly, measuring and cutting, as the enraged nobleman stood, arms crossed, face beet red, a single vein bulging on the side.

As he finished the nobleman looked himself up and down.

"I suppose this will have to do, very well!"

An unfortunate reality began to dawn upon the tailor.

"Um, p-pardon me my lord, but how do you plan to pay for these?"

The man shot him a harsh wide eyed look, as if he had been asked the most ignorant question.

"DID I NOT ENTER YOUR STORE FRESHLY ROBBED? FOOL! I WILL SEND MY SERVANTS LATER WITH YOUR PAYMENT!"

Intimidated, but realizing he still had a business to run, the tailor pressed further.

"I humbly apologize my lord, but I'm afraid you will need to come back for-"

"outRRRAGEOUS! HERE THEN!"

The man grabbed a piece of parchment and quill from the tailor's desk and began scribbling furiously as the tailor watched.

I, Lord Deybold Augustus Orlovsky, have agreed to pay the bearer of this parchment thrice the given price of his wares, equaling -"

"Well?! Equaling?"

"s-s-six hundred gold pieces m'lord"

"equaling Six Hundred Gold Pieces.

Signed,

Lord Deybold Augustus Orlovsky

The man finished the parchment with an extremely extravagant, well practiced signature. The Tailor recognized the name of course. As a purveyor of fine clothing, he kept tabs on any visiting noblemen to Restov.

"Here, present this to an aide from my estate, and he shall see to it that you are duly compensated! WILL THIS SUFFICE?"

"Y-yes my lord! I appreciate your generosity!"

"Very well! The hour is late and I must be off! GOOD DAY!"

With that he turned and left the store, walked down the street, glanced around, ducked into an alleyway, and ripped his mustache off.

Mieszko smiled.

"Now for a reputation."

Gren Lorkev : A light in the Dark

When Skywatche closed its gates mysteriously in 4699 AR, the Fortress of Stoneclimb had to rely on the smaller villages surrounding it for supplies an trade. The port town of Oaks Nest is the setting for the beginning our tale.

Being the Bastard son of the town Whore Gren has never had it easy, but he managed to stay clear of the law and even get a job working the port. It was on his way to work that he would meet someone that would change his life forever.

"Give us yur money old man!" Gibin yelled. One of the street tuff's friend's kicked the man again.
"If your cold I have a fire, if your hungry I can feed you." The old man groaned.
"That's not how this go's ya fool."Gibin mocked

Gren had his hood pulled tight an was toying with his new beard he hoped it would make him look more acceptable. Movement caught his eye up ahead. a gang of youth's were gathered around something.
"Are they beating something, wait that's a man!"Gren Finally made out the submissive figure under the boot's of the street rabble. At that Moment a righteous wrath took hold of gren an he lost himself.

"Well old man, gunna give us what we want?" Just then Gibin became aware of a shadow looming over him.
"Unforgivable!" As Gibin turned to address the speaker a mighty right hook sent him spiraling into unconsciousness. Seeing this Gibin's Gang swarm the interloper. Taking more punches than he dodges Gren sends each to the ground with one powerful blow. Suddenly There's an explosion of pain in Gren's lower back. He turns to see the last of Gibin's gang trembling behind him.

"how are you still standing?" the boy stammers. An uppercut answer's his question an shatters his jaw. Gren walks over to the beatin figure and slumps down finally feeling the pain from the knife in his back.

The old man rolls onto his back an looks up an for the first time in many years sees a light.
"Oh bless these blind eye's of mine." The old man sheds a tear.
" Are you okay sir?" Gren moans.
"Thanks to you a think I will be." The old man gives a quiet prayer an Gren feels a warm glow caress his body.
"Ah that's better isn't it"
"much" Gren casually pulls the dagger out of his back.
"What was that warmth?"
"Iomedae's love, child."
"Iomedae? Never heard of her."
"Yes well Torag is more common." The man chuckles.
"Come now there's something I must show you."
"But I have to get to my Job."
"Now, now I wont take no for an answer. Oh where are my manner's my name is Joseph McConnolly."
"Um...Gren."
"Pleasure to meet you, now come along."

Gren hesitantly followed Joseph through the streets till they reached their destination. It was a small house on the edge of town. Next to the door emblazoned on the wall was a emblem of a woman clad in robes with sword an shield held to her bosom flank by the sun.

"come in lad." Joseph gestured inside as he opened the door. There was a shrine of the same woman in the middle of the room with several pillows around it.
"You live in a chapel?"
"Well I actually live in the back, but I suppose it's true."
"Please sit. I have something for you." Joseph walked with his hand gliding along the wall, till he reached a shelf with several books on it. He slid his fingers down the spines of each book til he found what he was looking for.
"What are you doing?"
"Ah you mean the finger's, well you see I'm quiet blind. When I'm outside it's just a matter of counting my steps, but once I get indoors things get a Little more tricky." Joseph turned around and smiled, hear I want you to have this. He walked over and plopped it onto Gren's lap.
"What is it?"
"A book filled with the holy word of Iomedae."
"Look I think you have the wrong idea." Gren made to get up an leave.
"No, sit an read and I'll make us something to eat."
Gren sat down, not quite sure why.
"Uh okay fine."
As Gren read a found a whole world spread before him. One of Honor, justice, valor and peace. This world was one that could be carved from the one around him. But it needed guardians, he could be this guardian. Before he knew it it was night fall and there was a bowl of cold stew next to him.
"Thank you this book has done more for me than you could know."
"Oh I thought you might like it. I have a couple other thing Id like you to have, and there's someplace Id like you to visit for me."Joseph smiled kindly.

Chartered beginnings...

It is a bitterly cold late Calistril day in the city of Restov when you find yourself approached on a muddy narrow street by man robed in fine furs. He looks to be near his fortieth winter and his soft features show a life of privilege. Flanked by two dour faced city guardsman, you notice he wears upon his chest a silver pin symbol of the Lord Mayor of Restov. Surprising you with knowledge of your name, he invites you to a nearby pub for a talk. His invitation is warm but with a hint of stern authority behind his voice. Within the pub he introduces himself as Morlen Trenn, an administrator to the Lord Mayor. Buying you a warm spiced drink, he produces a parchment scroll bearing the mayoral seal. Breaking the seal he reads the charter aloud to you. Explaining that he has had some word of your prowess and skill, you are perfectly suited for membership in one of four chartered expeditions currently underway to re-open the southern stolen lands to civilization. You are told that you've been specifically selected to receive this charter and that this is a fortuitous opportunity for you. If you accept the charter (there is ominously no mention of what happens if you don't), you are to meet with the other chartered members within the inn of the Old Knight at the end of the month of Gozran. From there you will head south to Oleg's Trading Post at the northern border of the Greenbelt. There begins your expedition and your adventurous future...

The City of Restov

(from the pathfinder wiki)

Restov, population 18,670, is one of the two largest cities in the fertile region of Rostland in southern Brevoy. It is known as the Free City of Restov, but it is allied with Brevoy.

Lord Mayor Ioseph Sellemius leads the city, which is a trade center that borders the River Kingdoms, the Shrike River, and the Stolen Lands. ^[1]

The city boasts several Aldori and Taldan dueling schools, which has led to the city being a favored place for young nobles to practice dueling championships.^[1] A large amount of Aldori duelists came to the city from Rostland after Choral the Conqueror united Brevoy.^[2]

Many firebrands who oppose King Noleski Surtova also hide amongst the taphouses of Restov, raising dissent.

Horrace Abbatoir: The Face of Justice

 The terrible sound of the shrieking echoed throughout the subterranean home. Was it the squalling of a mortal whelp? Or the keening of some terrible wild animal?

The stout and kind-faced wet nurse, adorned with tattoos of Pharasma held forth the babe. Her best efforts at neutrality couldn't hide the concern and disgust seeping out from behind her eyes.

Borrdax had rushed home from the copper mine as soon as he had learned of his wife's labor. He wiped the soot and ash from his face, hoping somehow it would make what he was seeing change. It did not.

“No two ways about it.” He said in a defeated tone. “That is one ugly baby.”

“You did this to me! All of you. You beggars and cravens. Sniveling and scraping at the orders of your mindless king. I stood up for myself! I took action! Damn you all!”

The crowd that had gathered around the gallows in the towns square exchanged a few looks, but otherwise the words seemed to hit deaf ears. Criminals were criminals, and execution by sword or rope was the price. The people of Stoneclimb were simple miners and laborers. Mostly human men, with a handful of dwarves (experts at digging and smelting precious metals). They had little concept of justice.

When his last words were spoken, the sword fell. In a heavy ark it swung and landed with a thick and moist chop. It wasn't a clean cut. Blood shot outward, peppering the faces of the townspeople closest to the scaffold. With a tug the blade was freed, and the second swing saw the job done.

The crowd was dead silent, in shock and in mourning, save for a timid laughter. A troubling hissing laughter, almost animanlistic in nature. One young dwarf pup, clinging to his Mothers sleeve, baptized in the criminals blood, staring with his one wide eye, smiling through crooked teeth, and laughing his grotesque little head off.

Captain Surtova fumbled in the dark to open his office door. Through a fog of drunkenness he managed to turn the key and shoulder the door open. It had been a good nights work, and he had celebrated well. He hadn't even noticed that the door wasn't locked.

He was about to fire up the oil lantern hanging from the ceiling, but decided the amount of effort in seeing through his own liquored stupor wouldn't be worth it. He simply lit a candle on the desk and sat back in his chair with a moan of ease. His paperwork sat before him. Ledgers and hand drawn maps of the houses in and around Stoneclimb. His current job had been collecting the increased taxes from the common folk. In honesty, he was nothing more than a minor law officer, in charge or no more than a dozen men at arms, but his noble blood had given him the title of “Captain.”

His noble blood has also given him a goldlust, which is exactly why his face lit up when he poured the contents of his belt purse over the desk. Almost 100 gold coins in all. The new taxes had only demanded what would be a total of 70 coins, but the common folk didn't need to know that. It was his own personal fee for keeping them so safe, and not taking advantage of his position. He felt justified, as most evil men do.

It was then that the smell hit him. He wrinkled his nose and looked around to find it source. It was overwhelming. How had he not noticed it before? Had one of the boys dumped out a chamber pot in his office as a joke? Had an animal wandered in here to fester and die? It stung his eyes and made his stomach churn. With that he leaned forward and emptied the contents of his belly onto his desk, flooding his coin and paperwork in bile. Then the chair was pulled out from under him.

He hit the floor in a drunken heap as the chair clattered away. Looking up in confusion, trying to penetrate the darkness with his eyes, he saw a shape standing over him. It was too short to “tower” over him, but the smell seemed to add a lot to his presence. A broad silhouette wrapped in a cloak, holding his desk candle. A greasy hand with sausage fingers and long fingernails placed the candle near the Captains face.

“I hwant ye tah see t' face of justice.” Burped and hissed the figure.

The Captain looked on in drunken terror as the creature pulled back his hood, revealing that he was not a creature at all, but what was most likely a dwarf. Skin like boiled leather, adorned with dark tattoos. Hair like dirty straw, hanging in dreaded clumps. He smiled a smile of crooked black and yellow teeth, full of gaps. A hooked nose like the beak of some hellspawn eagle, covered in pocks and warts. One eye hid behind a leather patch, the skin around it seeming to rot. His other eye gleamed with life. It was almost a pretty eye, in contrast to the canvas of terror on which it rested. His cloak was nothing but black rags sewn together, stained and soaked in all manner of rotting natural fluids. The flies around him seemed to dance to some unheard song.

He wanted to ask who he was. He wanted to ask what he was. But all he could do is gawk. It was then that the axe appeared. With great poise and pride the small horror lifted the two handed axe above his head in a ready-to-strike position, a look of great joy on his face. That was that. The Captain was a trained solder, after all. Hefting himself to his feet, and tearing his sword from his belt, Surtova chose to fight. The dwarf took a step back, seeming to be caught off guard.

He swung his sword low, which the dwarf jumped back from, then he swung high, and with a great clack knocked the axe out of his grubby hands, sending it skidding across the floor. Even drunk and by candle light, this grotesque was no match for him. He brought his sword down with both hands as hard as he could, and to his surprise the dwarf blocked it. With his forearm. Blade met bone, and blood spurted. Gods, even his blood seemed to stink.

The Dwarf fell to a crouching position, seeming to wrap his cloak around himself, only to swiftly draw forth two gleaming hooked blades. He charged forward twirling his strange weapons with surprising dexterity. One locked around the Captian's blade, and the other his ankle. With a jerk the blade pulled his foot out from under him, and sliced his leg tendon. A juicy pop preceded his screams of agony. Rolling and roaring on the ground, he snuffed the flame of the candle. Only darkness. It was in this darkness that the dwarf retrieved his axe.

“Yeev taken advantages of tah people in dis town fer far too lang. I find hyee guilty av greed, dishonesty, and inhumanity.” He spoke in a stern, yet gurgled voice. He held the axe above his head with both hands, and brought it down. It was a clean cut. Head left body, and silence filled the room.

The dwarf tossed the axe aside and clutched his bleeding forearm. The wound was a bad one. With that he picked up Surtova's head, and stared into his eyes. He watched the last of the life leaving his face. He muttered a strange prayer to himself, and to his god. Then he kissed the blood off his lips.
A strange energy filled the room, and the wound on the dwarfs arm closed. The bleeding stopped, and the dwarf seemed a little less twisted, if only for a moment.

Moving now to the desk he scooped the gold coins into his backpack. He picked one up and kissed it for good luck. They were still covered in vomit, but they would be returned to the people. No children would go hungry THIS night.

Horrace read over the charter, smiling to himself.

“Dragonscale thrawn. Tah Greenbelt. Banditry. Ex'hecution by Sward or Hrope.” He read aloud while shouldering his backpack, full of every possession he had. “I hope dey donna mind if I huse me Axe.” He chuckled to himself. And with that he set out.

Thorain Toradur: Turning of Fate

Thorain made his way through the long grass as swiftly as he could, keeping as close to the road as possible. It was night time but luckily the moon flew overhead at a sliver, terrible light for the bandits he knew patrolled these parts, but perfect for his elven eyes. Thorain couldn't really say that he'd explored, or even seen the stolen lands as he'd set out to do; to unearth the ancient elven ruins rumored to be hidden within their expanse. After a single day, he'd seen more danger than he knew he could handle, and so he made the decision to travel only by night, using his magic to protect him. He'd nearly been eaten by lizard folk, and slaughtered by bandits, but it was the troll that had been on his trail for a week that kept him moving, forcing him to travel as his predators, at night. Because of this, Thorain's grand adventure, his escape from the slave-like apprenticeship of the tower mages had turned into a terrible gamut of horror, every moment of every day in the stolen lands Thorain had feared for his life.

"What a great bunch of fun this turned out to be" he muttered to him self as he struggled through the thick grass. His side burned and his old wound, the giant spider bite on his side, was beginning to act up. All the magic in the elven kingdom's couldn't fix his body now, but the fear of death made him fight through the pain.

Before he could stop himself, a particularly knotted bunch of grass wrapped around his ankle and all at once, Thorain found himself face down on the ground. He hit his chin on a rock protruding through the thick grass, and felt the warmth of blood welling to the surface. "Better than where I was though." He conceded, spitting out the thick bladed grass that had somehow found it's way into his open mouth, the taste was earthy and fresh; the taste of hard earned freedom. Back in the city of Idara, Thorain had little to no freedom at all. Although elves were known for valuing the concept of freedom above nearly anything, especially their beloved queen Edasseril, it seemed that elven mages did not share in such qualities.

From the moment he had arrived at the academy, Thorain knew nothing but hardship. In order to learn the art of magic, and in his eyes it was most definitely an art, Thorain was made to scribe scrolls for mages, endlessly, copying entire volumes by hand for over ten years, and in that time, Thorain had barely been taught what he had come there to learn. He had seen other older and less talented mages ascend beyond him in that time and yet, he was stuck constantly perfecting his writing in over half a dozen tongues. He had taken the task to an art and had built quite a name for himself as the most talented calligrapher of his age in over a thousand years, and yet this did nothing to help his cause, for, Thorain was possessed of three faults which his people were keen to take note of.

First was youth: Thorain was the youngest apprentice of the tower in the history of it's existence, and unfortunately, in the eyes of the elves, youth and magic rarely go well together. When Thorain had stumbled exhausted to their door ten years ago, he had barely seen his hundredth winter. They had been forced to accept him because he had already taught himself magic, from the tome of a long dead wizard. That in it's self was unheard of.

Second, was ambition. Elven wizards took years to learn a single spell, not because they were incapable of learning at a faster rate, but because when one lives as long as an elf, one seeks perfection in everything they do, and from this perfection comes a betterment of self, and of society. Thorain received information veraciously. He learned at an alarming rate, and was able to achieve the same level of perfection in a tenth of the time it would take his peers, because of this he was looked at with trepidation, for ambition and magic can be a very dangerous combination.

The third fault was not his own, but rather a fault of his people. Thorain was possessed of a purple disfiguring scar from the level of his heart to the bottom of his left eye. From the right side, he was a beautiful elven youth, but when viewed on the left, his face was discolored with purple splotches and a drooping drooping eye and mouth resulting from a lack of muscular control. This was the remains of a spider bite he had received as a child. Thorain had been found in a spider's cocoon in a thicket of darkwood when he was only five years old. His adopted parents had though him an eagle, for the spiders of The Shudder Wood often eat eagles caught in their webs. Thus he had been named Thorain, “eagle” in elven. For this disfigurement some elves greatly disliked him. Perhaps because of their long years, elvish bodies are known to recover from the most grievous wounds and heal all scars barring the loss of a limb, elves look at disfigurement as shameful, for they must bare it for all eternity. Thorain felt little shame for his scarring wound. He remembered nothing before the day his parents found him, and knew no life before then. His scar had shaped him, while he wasn't able to run with the other elven children, he was forced to better himself in other ways, and so he honed his mind, or perhaps it honed it's self, but by the time he discovered written magic, he was ready to learn.

Because of these faults, Thorain found no true friends in the academy. He was forced to perform menial tasks until deemed ready by the council to advance in his studies and it was clear that advancement was years away. So, Thorain took his education into his own hands and fled.

Not only did he flee the city, he fled all of Kyonin. He left in search of ancient ruins in the river kingdoms of the stolen lands, but instead found only horrors and now he found himself face down in the grass in the middle of the night with a troll probably stalking him in the dark ready to eat him whole.

"What have I done?"

He lay his head down in defeat. There in the silence of the night, when he though he was at his wit's end fate dealt him a peculiar blow.

"Alright! Hands where I can see them!"

Bandits. He was caught face down in the dark by bandits. His life was forfeit.

"You! Git out of that wagon!"

What?

"Git down I say, an' no funny business."

Slowly, Thorain turned his head. In his misery, he hadn't noticed the wagon and it's company, or the bandits who had apparently been stalking them. There were five ruffians, armed with crossbows and poorly crafted swords holding crude torches to see in the light, save one man. All he had was a large axe, wicked and kept immaculately in spite of it's crude design. He stood there passively watching, Thorain knew he was their leader, and the cold look in his eyes told Thorain that these people had not long to live.

The poor waylaid travelers had no choice to comply and all Thorain could do was watch. The travelers were all older folk, save one young woman. He could feel the fear pulsating through her veins, and had no need to wonder why.

"Say that's a pretty lass you've got there, you, come here!" The woman turned white as a sheet. The bandit speaking had a crossbow leveled at her and beckoned with it for her to come nearer. "It's alright I aint gonna shoot you, just come here."

The woman stood her ground, defiantly. There was a proud look in her eye, steadfast, she would rather die. Seeing this the bandit barked "Fine then, have it your way!" and prepared to loose his crossbow's quarrel.

"Velithala Kivanuh Meh!" Rising to his feet, the words escaped Thorain's thin lipped mouth before he could censor them.

In an explosion, the bandit's crossbow warped and cracked, the quarrel was sent flying wildly to the side, shooting another bandit in the leg.

Suddenly all eyes were on him, the bandit closest to Thorain jumped back in supprise.

“Don't just stand there, git him!” The bandit with the broken crossbow drew his sword and pointed at Thorain gesticulating wildly.

The surprised bandit then charged up the slight incline toward Thorain. “Kaure” the word for fear flew from Thorain's lips in desperation. The man running toward him let loose a terrified scream and stumbled back down the hill, fleeing the diminutive elf.

Feeling the magic flow through his words and gestures, Thorain felt suddenly empowered. He had only one spell left before the lines of magic would be lost to him in a delirium of power. So, he made a gamble. The man with the axe stepped forward. Raising the weapon aloft, he cried out, “Bloodclaws! Fear not a single elf! I, Hrangor will show you the meaning of blood, and we shall all drink tonight!”

“Belor!” the magic word for friend, with a gesture, he sent his magic, probing into the mind of the bandit leader. Weak, all bandits seemed to have weak minds, good for him. “Hrangor, how dare you attack me! It is I, Shroudfang, I saved your life you insolent bastard!” Thorain had never been a good liar, he just hoped that this worked.

“You did?” the bandit stopped dead in his tracks. “So, you must have, Shroudfang!” The burly bandit continued up the hill and enveloped Thorain in a troll like hug. He smelt about as good as one too. “How are you friend?”

“I am well Hrangor, but worried, there is a troll on my tail, a brute of a beast can you help me? These wagoneers are supposed to be under my protection.” Thorain had always been a terrible liar, he supposed this marked the end of his short, ill-conducted life.

“For you my friend, anything.” the man then lifted his axe aloft, “Hrangor Trollslayer and the Bloodclaws shall find glory tonight!” The rest of the band was as confused as Thorain, but, they did as he said and in moments were gone, leaving Thorain and the small group of wagoners alone in the night with the city of Restov close at hand.

This was only the beginning of Thorain's search for freedom, but he felt it had just taken a very different turn.