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.