Tales from the Spine of the World

Mirabar

The throngs of citizens were gathered shoulder to shoulder, all eyes eagerly waiting the High Cleric’s next act in the name of the church for the benefit of the city. Elastul Raurym, former Marchion, was bound hands and feet; beaten to near death; and deeply colored with the hue of his own blood; he would soon reach the clearing at the end of the path, but not before the cleric made an example of his weakness- his treachery. The bowing and agreeing to the whims of Luskan and the Captains Confederation was about to come to a violent and brutal end. The cleric looked to Kitiara and Halvor his commanders in the Holy Church of Talos; they shared his determination.

The north ran deep in Kitiara for she possessed Uthgardt blood and as such was blessed with the long years of the northern barbarians. The fact that she was unrelenting and yielded no quarter to her enemies earned favoritism in the High Cleric’s eyes.

Halvor was royalty until the Arcane Brotherhood of the Hosttower usurped his domain; killed his line and cast him out. He is just Halvor now. No name, no family except for the church of Talos; because that’s what he was now, an instrument of destruction.

Balazar Agundar

The din of the crowed subsided; the only sound was the eternal winds winding through the vast Spine of the World. Balazar Agundar raised the rod of leadership of Mirbar and sacrificial curved dagger of Talos to the torrent boiling in the sky, hoping that his prayers would be answered this day.

“I claim Mirabar in the name of the church, may it rekindle the glory it once held before the oppression of the treacherous Luskan. May the aspect of Talos be blessed upon me! Storm Lord, guide my blade true!”

Lightining flashed thrice as Balazar cut deep into Raurym’s flesh, opening ugly wounds that spilled warm entrails. The sky opened; a storm began; but did not bestow High Cleric Balazar with his heart’s desire- instead the miracle was imparted to another…

Conversation around a Candle

Briar sat alone at a table in the Inn of the Dancing Maiden, staring into the flickering light of the lone candle on the table. The sounds of revelry filled the inn's common room, but the 30 or so people shied away from the dark corner, leaving her with her thoughts.

"A copper for your thoughts," said the figure as he moved up to the table. Briar blinked, suddenly brought back to the here and now by Bordane's voice.

"Oh, uh, they surely wouldn't cost that much," she mumbled as he put a leather jack of mulled wine in front of her.

"Come now, I can see something's preoccupying your mind. Spill it," the young man smiled.

Briar nervously eyed her fellow noble, noticing his smile didn't touch his eyes. They were cold, grey chips of flint. "It's just, I mean, I was thinking of the last few days... or was it a day?"

Bordane nodded, taken a sip from his own mug, "You're referring to the High Forest."

Briar also nodded, her fingers nervously playing with the rings of condensation the mugs made on the tabletop. "We broke their trust, the fey I mean. We had an alliance and then we set out to kill them," her voice quivered.
Bordane watched her fingers, then looked at her face. His own visage was a stony mask, unfeeling to his companion's distress. When Briar looked up however, his face softened, and there appeared some semblance of empathy in his eyes.

"We went into the forest and were attacked -" he started to say.

"We went to kill them," she interjected. Bordane held up his hand to continue, Briar quieted down.

"We were hired to kill them, but we're not like those skeletons that Eva creates. Who's to say what would've happened once we got to the fey settlement? We could've changed our minds. Instead, they attacked us, never once trying to find out what we were up to," finished Bordane.

Briar slowly nodded, and then stopped, "But our intent-"

"Intent? Intent? They attacked us with murderous intent, I'd say. Just ask Griffith or Eden, they'll tell you. They attacked first, meaning to kill us all," snapped Bordane.

Briar's eyes filled with tears at the naming of her dead companions. Bordane continued, "Mayhap we were wrong to even enter an alliance with such fickle, chaotic creatures. No, Briar, we were not in the wrong, they were. You shouldn't feel any guilt. What if we'd been simple travelers, unable to defend or fight back? It's best we did what we did and I'd do it again. You do see that we were right, yes?"

Briar snuffled and nodded, lowering her face and wiping her eyes. Bordane watched her intently.

"Now, we'll have no more talk of being wrong, yes? The Company is always right." he said softly, but with a menace underneath.

Briar looked at him under her brows "I understand completely." His voice, she thought, was like a steel gauntlet covered in silk...

A Harper's Tale

Dakon Hawkmayne kept a comfortable home on the outskirts of Goldenfields. Stables and dog pens surrounded his house, and his position with the Harpers often led company to his door. Eriadne Thann was his latest guest, having spent the two weeks before Shieldmeet at his small ranch. She had spent these two weeks building familiarity and competence with the trained war hounds she had purchased from him. She had also availed herself to his private library, mainly a collection of lore pertaining to the High Forest. Dakon took a quick liking to the young Harper, and admired her resolve and dedication to unearthing the truth to her family’s disgrace generations ago.

In his library, Eriadne finally found some information about the mysterious and secretive Elkoremarr, an evil summoner hidden in the High Forest, and connected to her family’s ruin. The more she read, the more appalled she had become to think that she was born to the shunned branch of the Thann noble family, cast out for trafficking the slaves and creatures this mad wizard needed for his extra-planar summonings. Though it did not remove the sting of having nobility and its rewards wrest from her, she began to understand why the Thann family took such drastic measures to distance the slavers of their clan. All the tomes and journals indicated a menacing tower in the High Forest, somewhere between the Lost Peaks and the Star Mountains, beyond The Hall of Four Ghosts. All describe horrific lower planar creatures roaming the lands within one days walk of the Tower. Some journals of knights and warriors tell tales of companies of men killed in combat on failed attempts to siege the Tower. In no book was a tale of any one having escaped from the Tower. 

“So do you think he is still in that horrible Tower?” Eriadne asked as she double-checked all of her packs and bags as she loaded the horse and donkeys. It was the morning after Shieldmeet.

“As I have said, time flows very strangely in the High Forest. He lived for many years that we know of, though he has not been heard from in at least twenty years” Dakon handed her last saddle bag over to her.

“Hey, what is this?” she sounded very surprised.

“What?”

“These boots sticking out of that pouch. My magic slippers go in that pouch and they are gone!” 

“ Well I don’t know any thing about that, but these boots bear magic of their own.” Dakon inspected them closely. “ This design is one I’m familiar with. I’d bet a sack of silver that these are a pair of Boots of the North! Many a ranger insists upon these when winter comes to the north. In fact . . .

Rest in peace Griffith. Rest In peace Eden.

Tales of Mislead Orogs

The three large orogs were sure, according to their map, that they were no longer in the endless passages of the Undermountain but had actually arrived to their destination. Excitement agitated them and it was many moments before they refocused their attention on their task.

The map, given to them by most a generous and friendly blue pseudodragon named Cephus, if followed would lead the three directly under the Efreeti Bottle, a tavern stylized after the feast halls and palaces of Calimport. It was a jewel waiting to be taken if the orogs had anything to say on the matter.

Inside the orogs were overcome with the fragrance and posh-ness of the Efreeti Bottle; sheer panels of fine fabrics hung over plush carpets as music wafted unseen and unbidden on the hulking trio. Panic suddenly gripped them and they began to frantically search for gold, for food, for anything of value before whatever it was making them anxious arrived and discovered their unwelcome presence. The music began to get louder.

The first orog found a longsword in his searcing, a sword like no other. Jeweled with four red gemstones, the hilt had a flame design that was worked into the red wrappings. The blade was exquisite; reflected images in the blade appeared to be ablaze.

The second orog uncovered a jeweled scepter. The shaft was heavier than it looked with jewels down its length; it was a mighty rod for a lord. The orog shivered, it had suddenly gotten very cold.

The third orog discovered a cap like Robin of Hood’s hat except that where it lacked a long feather there was instead a large four-leaf green clover. Closer inspection revealed other smaller tokens worked into the hat, but now he just wanted to get hell out of there.

The three orogs sprinted back down the passage and halted when a foppishly dressed… man (or was it a woman?), stood blocking their escape. The individual was examining some black gemstones, likewise pilfered as was the orogs findings. The ‘jeweler’ as surprised as the orogs at the encounter; turned on his/her intruders called to the goddess of the Night and suddenly three ghostly orogs stood between it and the brutes; the orogs terrified beyond measure after seeing their own ghosts that the third orog hid his face with the hat he was still held in his hands. The next moment the hulks felt themselves fall to the ground- hard.

Gathering themselves the orogs took stock and discovered they are no longer in the Efreeti Bottle; instead they are outside on a hill, it was night. Buildings straggle up the slopes of the hill from fortified walls at the base, all leading up to the steps where they now sat- in front of a wooden castle called the Bargewright Inn.

Talk around the Fire

Chadwick stood watch, eyes roving over the dark moors. The night air was humid, both with moisture from the moors and the recent rains, and alive with the sounds of night creatures. The chirping of the crickets, burping of frogs and cries of birds weren't enough to drown out the approaching footsteps, though. Chadwick turned and regarded the approacher.
"Hail, Chadwick, it's just me, Bordane," said the figure, stepping closer to show his face.
Chadwick grimaced, the young Agundar was not a favorite of his. Well trained with a sword, he would admit, and Bordane would never let anyone forget it. However, he'd changed since their escape from the Cult...
"No relief from the heat, it seems," said Bordane, his voice low so as not to carry.
"Get on with it, why aren't you asleep with the others?" Chadwick asked, eyeing the young man out of the corner of his eye.
Smiling a slight smile, Bordane nodded to himself and said "I feel your hate."
"What? What're you talking about now?" Chadwick asked, confused by the cryptic utterance.

"Your hate, for the wyrms, I can feel it. Like a campfire on the plains, it lights up the darkness. It's nothing to be ashamed of. Name me one emotion that's as constant. Love? That can be broken with but a daliance. Joy? (snort) That can easily turn to tears. Courage? How many tales have we heard about battle-hardened veterans fleeing the battlefield, trying to save their lives. Courage is fickle. But hate... hate, my friend, is something everyone can feel. It can put steel in your spine when other men's bowels have turned to water. It can keep you going when others have dropped from exhaustion. It's something that needs to be fed and nutured and will repay you ten, nay, a thousand-fold, " Bordane looked intently at Chadwick, watching his eyes as they became distant with thought. "You hate dragons, and why not? Their age is done, no matter what these Cultists say. They would be nothing more than cruel overseers and anyone who is not a dragon would be nothing but slaves or worse. I've forgotten most of my history lessons, but I'm sure that's how it was, ages ago. Humas sought their slaughter, and so should we."
Chadwick closed his eyes, and asked, "Is there a point to all this, Bordane?"
The young man made a noise he hadn't made in months, a wry chuckle. "Just wanted you to know I understand, and approve. Feed the fire, my brother in arms."
With that, Bordane turned and walked back to the camp and Chadwick was left with new, troubling thoughts.

Journal entry Eva (On the road to Secomber)

Eva awoke early on the 6th day; she had hardly slept that night. Going about her morning chores she continued to recite her words in her mind. She knew there would only be one chance to address the group on the subject that had seemed to tear them apart.

Wayne’s condition hadn’t changed. The dead stares & random mumblings had become her trademark over the years. Seeing Wayne in this condition she could see why people reacted to her as they did. “Tempest, guide him back to us if that is his destiny” she prayed.

Turning to face the company she meets the gaze of every member in turn. Her once radiant eyes now cold and dark showed no signs of life. Her eyes locked with Chadwick’s as she spoke “fear not our litter bearers” she said. They have no quarrel with us, their ambitions for wealth and power departed this world with their souls. Their souls have proudly taken their place in the Wall of Faithlessness. The City of Judgment is Myrkul’s realm. His hospitality is well renowned, they shall not return to us in this lifetime.

I have faced the prejudice of the dead my whole life. Those that fear the dead are blinded by the thought of what they may become. So they strike out, because they have been taught to fear death. As if ridding the world of the walking dead would save their souls. They only think of the dead as abominations against nature. But I say the walking dead are just another tool in the cycle of life.

We have been taught to be resourceful. When Tauron hunts a dear and makes the kill he isn’t limited to use certain parts of his quarry and discard the rest. He takes the meat for our dinner, the organs & entrails are fed to his dogs. He can take the hide for clothing or tack; the bones can be made into tools or weapons none of this is seen as unnatural. The walking dead are an extension of this, just another resource to be used.

Life is like a potion. Strong and potent each one created for a purpose. Once that purpose is fulfilled the potion is expended, the vial discarded without a second thought. But there are a precious few of us that have been blessed with a gift. Those of us resourceful enough to use those discarded vials. We can benefit from the walking dead, as one benefits from the hunt. Wayne being here is proof of that.
Horrific, what is Horrific? One would say cutting the heart from your enemy and consuming it raw on the field of battle is horrific. How would that ritual be looked upon in “civilized society”? No my brothers and sisters that practice, along with our new found followers should not be made known in Secomber. Tomarrow when we reach the city we will proudly carry Wayne into town ourselves.

I have sworn an oath! And it is as true today as the day I swore it. That oath extends to any and all followers that answer my call. You may not always agree with my methods but our cause is one. As long as I am in my right mind, I shall not betray this company or the legacy of our heritage.

From the Journal of… (Return to Secomber)

(Briar) the first day on our way back to Secomber was ruled with the stench of years of feted water and moss beds being washed away to reveal even greater atrocities underneath. Sounds of the high Moor’s great beasts could be herd constantly over the broken limestone terrain.

Although it disturbs me greatly, I cannot deny using skeletons to transport the fallen Wayne is a good idea. I watch Chadwick and hope he does not act out against the undead, such an act would cause me to question loyalties. I don’t want to choose sides.

Tonight brings no rest for me as I am still troubled at the magical change many of my items have experienced. Indeed I must focus on my new weapon. As I write this I can hear Wayne’s random blathering but I can also detect Eva quietly singing lullabys in her sleep. There is something unnatural at work with her.

The next day offers nothing but rain and growing tention amongst the Nine; I for one cannot wait to return to the city. The messenger-drake has returned with replies to Tauron and some of the others but mysteriously none to anyone else. I wait for a sign from Mielikki to no avail, I pray and fear the distance may be too great.

(Eden) Day three. The days are hellish and the terrain is hostile, it is the words of Tauron that encourage me and give me the strength to continue. Each day he proclaims we are closer. To what I would ask, all he would say was we are returning to more comfortable means. But I sense it is something more; his faith is as strong as ever. I was fearful at first about returning to people and all the stares and foul glances; each step north strengthens my resolve.

The bitter night invites more nightmares about the last two months and something I can never remember when I wake except I seem to hear the maniacal laughs of fey.

(Griffith) Bordane has insinuated himself as party leader in my book. It was the fourth day on our return to Secomber; it was Bordane who got Chadwick to back down when arguments flared about our undead entourage. Chadwick had been silent until the subject of waltzing back into Secomber with our undead concierge came about.

“In our condition mayhap they think us all undead and come down upon us!” Chadwick asserted. It was clear to me he was increasingly prejudice regarding the undead.

The cooler night brings cooler heads as the whole point was argued down because Chadwick had never said anything until now. Bordane as well was silent until Chadwick lit his temper. I believe Bordane has changed in the months since we left Waterdeep; He has personified his fighting style; he is often underestimated, you just never suspect it is him.

Day five. I have discarded chances on retrieving the mace and talisman and have instead embraced the new powers of my items. A mace was too simple of a weapon. A blessing from Mask I warrant; it seems that many of my items have taken on the properties lost on other items. A theft has occurred, gratitude to Mask. Furthermore there is a sword back in the city that will elevate me and with the chance that Mask has indeed manifested, mayhap Mask would venture to a city. I feel Waterdeep should be our ultimate destination.

Midnight brings the feast of Saints Justus and Pastor, two street urchins killed by a priest of Waukeen over a basket of fruit. The nights are getting longer now, gratitude to Mask.

(Chadwick) Day six. Until the cult intervened in my course, I held on to the image of my older brother Panricon, the shining image of the family, and coveted that image; I have since reevaluated my course. What does he know of trials or of quests? Wardens Walk indeed; what has he taught me through instruction or deed? While I did mourn his death, I feel no need to peruse further in his honor or footsteps. Eden and Griffith have shown me a new course to tread upon one that more complements the nature of our ka-tet.

It has stopped raining tonight; the Peddler’s moon regards us all with distrust. Tomorrow we shall see Secomber before the rise of the Peddler. I will watch Damian closely as he rejoins society with his deadly progress; he is a lightning storm looming over the horizon. Damian is his father’s son, mayhap I will follow in his wake and reap the rewards.

(Wayne) Carried aloft upon a litter of useful items by a pair of skeletons, Wayne often has his eyes wide open: one all white and colorless, one a black dead thing; he speaks in random… “History is written by the victor. Never forget the Face of your Father. A soldier will fight long and hard for a bit of colored ribbon. The White Stallion heralds victory. In war, there are no unwounded soldiers. Only the dead have seen the end of war. Time is the thief of memory. When the rich wage war, it's the poor who die. Older men declare war, but it is the youth that must fight and die. History is written by the victor. A Black Stallion portends death.”

Pater Smerve

Pater Smerve stood up in his stirrups to see over the heads of the front lines. Being a druid, he looked upon the small community, and they were small in more than just numbers, as his flock. He was a brownie, and sat astride a giant frog, two feet long. His flock were a mix of fey creatures; brownies, pixies, faeries, all living in the High Forest. They had suffered for years with the constant threats and violence from the evil alchemist Garegamel. Finally having enough, the fey community joined with the other small villages in the forest to put an end to the mage once and for all.

Jaime Farstrider, backwoodsman, fur trapper and "all around best satyr o' the woods" to hear him admit, had came forward to help the other villages band together with the feys for the overthrow. These villages were tiny, did not appear on almost any map and for the most part, did not even have names. Garegamel had imposed taxes, to provide for his protection, and had demanded a yearly "donation" of a young maiden. It wasn't known what happened to the girls but all agreed that it was nothing good, as they were never seen again.

Pater knew his people's part. They were to provide distraction as the main force of leprechauns and elves hammered at the mage's defences. He knew that many, if not most, of his people would die, but with the blessing of Sylvanus, there'd still be enough flock to persevere and thrive. Pater looked deeply into the eyes of his people and they looked back at them. He saw a myriad of emotions; fear, hate, resolve. He understood and felt all of that himself. He allowed himself a little smile as many of the fey followed in his footsteps and had painted their skin a deep blue, from a paste made from common berries they'd found. Eyes brimming with tears, he could hear the sounds of battle just starting. Fiery explosions, screams of pain and ringing of metal filled the warm air.

Raising the sickle made from a sharped jawbone, Pater turned his mount towards the wizard's tower and led his people to freedom...

Pages from the Necronomicon

In the magic-dead ruins of Myth Dorado; in the bowl of Turqual’s lair, the twelve new undead spirits raised their feral faces to the night sky and released baleful shrieks, haunting growls and woeful howls; creating heart stopping fear in any creature unlucky enough to hear them. With awareness came the deep self loathing and utter pity at their new existence as an undead. In haste they tear apart their lifeless corporeal bodies in rage; undead are hated in the natural order of beasts and creatures.

The spirits of the twelve did not join Malar in the beastlands when killed; they stood a mockery. Fueled now by hatred for their murderers; to be denied entrance into the blessed beastlands; and to become that witch they despise focuses their consuming purpose and shapes them into a naturally created form of undead.

Finding focus for vengeance, the twelve revenant lycanthropes rise from their graves to hunt down and kill their murderers. Devoid of any compassion, emotion, or logic, they have but one purpose, and will not rest until they have found vengeance.