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.

The Nation of Brevoy

(from the pathfinder wiki)

Brevoy (pronounced BRE-voy)^[1] is a nation on the verge of tearing itself apart. The political entity known as Brevoy was once two vastly different nations locked in a constant state of war before being conquered by a despot. After centuries under the rule of a line of conquerors that only recently disappeared, Brevoy must now decide its own destiny.

Alignment Chaotic neutral Capital New Stetven Ruler King Noleski Surtova Government hereditary monarchy

History

Brevoy is a relatively young nation, having only existed for the past three hundred years. The history of Brevoy before this time is the history of two often-warring nations, Issia and Rostland. The coming of Choral the Conqueror in 4499 AR changed all this. He arrived on the shores of Needle Lake, the current Lake Reykal, accompanied by a ragged band of soldiers and knights numbering just over three hundred. After his arrival he declared the creation of a new nation called Brevoy that would encompass much of the land that was then Issia and Rostland. This declaration was almost completely ignored by both nations as neither perceived Choral as a threat. Rostland eventually had to deal with Choral when he began sending tax collectors from his settlement of New Stetven to force the citizens to support his usurping government. They sent a small army to deal with the proud warlord.

Rostland's army seriously underestimated Choral's cunning, and their army walked into an ambush. They were lured into a river canyon south of New Stetven where Choral unleashed his secret allies, a pair of enormous red dragons. Their flames devastated the Rostland army as it was trapped in the canyon with no way to escape. There were few survivors. After this the dragons rampaged across much of Rostland proper, forcing its leaders to surrender within days. Seeing the devastation Choral caused in Rostland, the Issian lords surrendered immediately, declaring themselves to be a part of his new aristocracy and eventually creating House Rogarvia.

Choral only ruled his new land for a decade before disappearing, leaving his descendants to rule until 4699 AR using the threat of the conqueror's return and his fearsome dragon allies to maintain their power. The dragons seemingly disappeared after Brevoy's creation, but they returned once to lay siege to Skywatch, an observatory-cum-fortress held by those still loyal to Rostland.

The Rogarvians' rule ended with the mysterious disappearance of every member of House Rogarvia in 4699 AR, leaving Brevoy free, but in a precarious political position.^[2]

Government

The nation of Brevoy is currently ruled by King Noleski Surtova of House Surtova. At his side sits his sister, Natala Surtova, who reigns as an unofficial Queen, ostensibly only until the bachelor-King Noleski marries--something which the populace has been hoping he will do. House Surtova has returned to leadership in the vaccuum created by Rogarvia's disappearance.^[3] Hundreds of years ago, they ruled Issia, one of the former kingdoms that now comprises Brevoy.^[3]

Until 4699 AR the kingdom was ruled over by members of House Rogarvia who were all descendants of Choral the Conquerer. They were brutish rulers and it seemed that the people obeyed them more out of fear of Choral's old red dragon allies than out of real loyalty. Suddenly, in 4699 AR, exactly two hundred years after Choral the Conquerer had created the nation of Brevoy, every member of the house of Rogarvia within Brevoy's border simply disappeared.

Taking advantage of their old enemies' misfortune, the Surtovas, who were renowned as crafty schemers and had already ingratiated themselves with the ruling house of Rogarvia, claimed rulership of Brevoy. They have only maintained this rule by allying with former enemies and using fear of the return of Rogarvia as a tool to unite Brevoy and its seven noble families. Still, some Houses, such as House Orlovsky, only acknowledge Noleski as reigning Lord Regent and diplomatic relations are growing tense.^[3] Increasingly, it appears that Brevoy is on the verge of collapsing back into two separate nations.^[2][4]

Noble Families

House Garess "Strong as the Mountains"

House Lebeda "Success Through Grace"

House Lodovka "The Waters, Our Fields"

House Medvyed "Endurance Overcomes All"

House Orlovsky "High Above"

House Rogarvia "With Sword and Flame"

House Surtova "Ours Is the Right"

Languages Spoken

Common, Taldan, Hallit, Skald, Varisian, Draconic^[5]

Major Religions

Abadar, Erastil (Rare), Gorum, Lamashtu (outlawed), Pharasma^[5]

Abadar is the most unifying religious force in Brevoy as many respect him and all have interactions with his followers each time they travel to the markets. Merchants and tradespeople are Abadar's most diligent worshipers in Brevoy, and his temples are places for judgement and trade. Those who bear Abadar's golden key are often given recognition as neutral arbiters or judges.^[6]

Gorum's household priests often serve Brevoy's nobility and often walk around dressed in gaudy dark red tabards.^[6]

Pharasma is most beloved by Brevoy's common people. Pharasma's clerics are also the most simple, serving as midwives, healers, and mortician-monks. ^[6]

Imports

Cloth, exotic curiosities, spices. ^[5]

Exports

Copper, fur, fish and shellfish, grain, iron, salt, timber. ^[5]

Geography

Brevoy's main geographical features are the Lake of Mists and Veils that forms its northern border and the Icerime Peaks on its eastern border with Old Iobaria.^[7]

Other notable geographic features include the mountains of Eagle's Watch in the country's center and the Golushkin Mountains on Brevoy's western border with Numeria, Acuben Isle that hosts the city of Winterbreak and that borders Winterbreak Bay, the city of Eagle's Watch on the majestic Mount Veshka, the melted Valley of Fire where Aldori rebels had their last stand against Choral the Conqueror, and Brevoy's Lake Reykal, where just over 200 years ago the capital of New Stetven was built on the ruins of the old Taldan settlement of Stetven.^[7]

The farthest point north in Brevoy is the highly inaccessible Claw Point, on the edge of Iobaria. The farthest point south is where the city of Restov meets the Shrike River.^[7]

Major rivers in Brevoy include the Awzera River that flows east into Lake Reykal across the lands of House Garess and House Lebeda, the East Sellen River that flows south out of the Icerime Peaks, through the Gronzi Forest, into Lake Reykal and then down south past New Stetven into the River Kingdoms.^[7]

Brevoy's geography differs markedly between the country's northern and southern reaches. The change in geography marks the old boundary between the kingdoms of old Issia and Rostland. The northern part of Brevoy, the former kingdom of Issia, is mostly rugged hills that are unsuitable for agriculture. South of the massive Gronzi Forest lies what was once Rostland. This area, the Rostland Plains, consists of rolling fertile grassland and is thought of as the breadbasket of the north.^[7]

Settlements

• Brunderton
• Eagle's Watch
• Grayhaven
• Highdelve
• New Stetven
• Port Ice
• Restov
• Silverhall
• Skywatch
• Stoneclimb
• Winterbreak

Greenbelt Exploration Charter

Be it so known that the bearer of this charter has been charged by the Swordlords of Restov, acting upon the greater good and authority vested within them by the office of the Regent of the Dragonscale Throne, has granted the right of the exploration and travel within the wilderness region known as the Greenbelt. Exploration should be limited to an area no further than thirty-six miles east and west and sixty miles south of Oleg's Trading Post. The carrier of this charter should also strive against banditry and other unlawful behavior to be encountered. The punishment for unrepentant banditry remains, as always, execution by sword or rope. So witnessed on this 24th day of Calistril, under watchful eye of the Lordship of Restov and authority granted by Lord Noleski Surtova, current Regent of the Dragonscale Throne.