The Rise and Fall of Glamorfell

Introducing Imro, part 2
Sarenith, 4713 AR

Sarenith, 4713 AR

Imro eased wearily into a sitting position against a suitable rock that supported his aching back, and looked around at his new travelling companions. At least, he surmised they were new; this fact was only partially confirmed. He reached a tentative finger up to probe the fresh, puffy scar that started above his right eye and skipped up to near the top of his bald head, and realized he couldn’t be sure of his own age. Just how much memory had he lost? He mused whether he would be surprised at his own reflection, and resolved to find out as soon as he could find some still water in full daylight. He sighed and set to work undoing the straps that would relieve him of the weight of his pack and scimitar.

He remembered well – at least for now – the last few days since he had woken up in the laboratory where he had been experimented on, mutilated, and tortured. Under the auspices of Sarenrae, with her flame manifested on his curved sword, Imro had executed the man responsible, with the unexpected help of new travelling companions. Some of these he looked upon as liberators. The others had been captives like himself, and a few worse off. With his memory having been squeezed out like a sponge, Imro was intensely curious but had to bite his tongue for days, speaking only in hushed tones as they snuck through the Gallery of Wonders avoiding the derro and other dangers there, or shouting out the abbreviated phrases one uses to coordinate efforts in battle. Among his questions were, “how did I end up in this dank festering hole?” They had been through some nightmarish scrapes. Imro had to admit reluctantly to himself that he seemed made for such underground adventures, no matter how much he disliked them.

Imro had used his talents of healing to patch the bodies and spirits of the battered, injured, and weary group that made their hurried exit from the caves, after a violent confrontation with Lady Morieth and her allies. There had been no time for chitchat. Even now, the more able bodies were making camp. They were an experienced, coordinated group who all seemed to know what to expect of each other. They would keep watch tonight. It seemed that there was no immediate danger.

Kaede and Sayd were engaged in discussion out of Imro’s earshot; they seemed untouchable and apart, as if a cool invisible radiance shone out from under the grime which covered everyone. They said something to the impressively armored human, who nodded assent before walking purposely away from them. He happened to be going in Imro’s general direction, an opportunity Imro seized. “Excuse me – Teret, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir dwarf.” Teret turned his clear eyes toward Imro and swept himself down to one knee to get to eye level; he moved with the ease of a cat and wore his armor well. He had the air of a true warrior: competent, pragmatic, and … humble. Here was a man with daring and skill enough to trot a warhorse through a dark cave and maneuver around stalactites, felling foul beasts with a lance in close quarters. He looked at Imro expectantly, who suddenly felt himself to be at a loss for words; it occurred to him this was probably unusual, but he couldn’t be certain.

Seeing hesitation, Teret reached a compassionate hand out and gripped Imro’s shoulder. “You did well down in the caverns,” he said reassuringly. “Some among us," he gestured toward the rag-tag ex-prisoners, "may not have survived but for your healing aide.”

“Theys was shenanigans gone on for shore,” hooted Wally. He seemed to be chewing on something leathery, and spat; he grinned down at Imro but did not break stride as he passed, jaunting his way into the woods. He would be gathering firewood or perhaps running down game, Imro mused. Wally exuded a limitless energy that reminded Imro of his own weariness.

“I’m grateful,” Imro said doubtfully to Teret. “I don’t know anyone here.”

“They know you, Imro” said Teret. It was not a question. He lowered his voice to say what Imro already knew: “The other dwarves here, you entered into the Gallery with them.” He indicated Torvic, Merisk, Lyrehawk, and the simple one who had no name. Like Imro, they had picked out spots to rest on bare ground a short distance away. They had begun tending to each others’ bandages. Merisk met Imro’s gaze and saluted weakly.

Teret said, “You freed yourself, sir dwarf. It was our honor to come upon you and escort you and your friends out of the caves. “Your memory will return,” Teret rose to his full height. “If not, you will adjust.” He glanced back fleetingly toward where Sayd and Kaede stood. Bemused, Imro felt that some signal was passed between them. “We can bring you all as far as Foundling’s Reach,” Teret said, his gaze returning to Imro. “By then, perhaps your goddess will have given you a sign,” he said as he strode away.

Imro found his journal in his pack and leafed through it. When he looked up, he saw eyes staring at him from the edge of the clearing. It was Yelenya. A moment later, she was simply gone, and Imro wondered if he had imagined her.

He rested his head and aching body for a while, and would have fallen asleep with the rock for a pillow. Instead he roused, stowed his nearly forgotten journal back in his pack, and moved achily toward the other dwarves. He worried about them; he had a duty to heal bodies and souls. More than that he needed companionship, if only to lie next to a friendly stranger while the blackness of slumber overtook him.

Imro felt himself suspended in a sky of black with no stars, at the edge of sleep. He floated for a time. He twisted and turned and peered in every direction. Was he still asleep? He did not know whether his eyes were open or closed. He felt or saw occasionally some malevolent motion, though his eyes would not fasten upon it. He heard susurrating voices. Sensing a presence, Imro closed his eyes.

The voices grew louder, indiscernible, threatening. Imro covered his ears and began to panic. He could not hear his own thoughts, only the confused and terrible voices. Suddenly they stopped.

Imro heard a new voice, in his head._ Look now upon your Queen,_ She said. Imro put his hands to his eyes and squeezed them shut. Imro heard a lilting laugh that rang like bells. Imro knew that he must not look.

The many voices returned, far louder than before, demanding. A single agonized voice rose up, overtaking the rest. It was a piercing scream. Imro felt stinging knife-cuts along his spine. He was being tortured once again by the derro. The blade slipped and pushed beneath his skin. During this violation, Imro felt Her voice, bidding him to look upon her. A fresh knife stabbed deeply into the small of his back. Involuntarily, Imro’s arms and chest convulsed outward. He felt his heart throbbing. He lifted his gaze. Blood, weeping out of the still-fresh wound on his forehead, flowed into his right eye and burned.

She was darkness: radiant darkness with a woman’s form, clothed in veils of further darkness which billowed in an invisible, forceless wind around her. Helpless, Imro looked upon her beautiful, terrible face for the last time.

There was light.

Imro bolted upright and blinked. Lyrehawk, Merisk, and Wally were looking down at where he lay on the soft earth. His wounds were gone. Lyrehawk had a concerned hand on his arm. “You okay there bud?” asked Wally. “We was lettin’ you sleep in a titch but you started roochin around. Lyrehawk here decided to shake you awake finally.”

“You were crying out in your sleep,” said Lyrehawk.

“What did I say,” asked Imro.

“Morieth,” said Lyrehawk.

“Well,” said Imro. He pointed at the sun. “By Sarenrae’s grace,” he said. “It’s going to be a great day today. Let’s get moving!”

Honey, Women and Song
Kaede's conversation with Sasha and Harris

“I appreciate the recognition of my modest efforts, Sasha… but as my master would say, I am just another twig in the nest. As long as fate allows it, I will do whatever is required in order to secure Glamorfell’s continued success.

As for “these people”, well… while it’s true that no kingdom has won a war on the backs of honeymakers and street performers, they are still vital to us. Without arts and entertainment to attract citizens, workers for industry, and farms to feed them all, we are nothing. When you next go through the center of town, take care to note the bones of the mighty fortress under construction, and know that it takes more than just a strong will to bring such a thing to bear.

Irori bids us to strive for perfection of both body and mind. Even if those under our guard never come to understand their true fortune, we have a duty to defend them regardless.

You do your part to keep everyone safe in the city limits, Sasha, and I’ll do mine to keep the Council thinking with their brains instead of their chest hair. Between the two of us, this place might just have a chance."

“You are not over-reacting, Harris, and you were right to bring this to my attention. I think that perhaps Vekkel’s apprenticeship with Tenzy has reached its logical conclusion, and it’s time for him to make a home here in Foundling’s Reach. Some time apart will do their relationship some good, and so will being around a wider variety of people.

Perhaps Vekkel might open a storefront here to sell some of his wares; do you think that’s something he would be interested in doing? I’m happy to help him get things off the ground, if he needs the assistance."

What the Forest Said

Lamashan, 4713 AR

“Red always comes first.”

Motes of dust hung stranded in the breezeless copse, the scent of sap thick around them. Sitting cross-legged on a stump, chewing her piece of bark, Baba Migori explained things deliberately, but without repetition, and said paid careful attention from where he lounged on a tuft of moss. Every third day she visited him here; between times, he walked the woods and listened. It was one of the first things she’d said:

“You are a chief of men, in your city by the lake, and we’ve heard well of your honeyed words. It is wise to know such tricks, but understand, my child, that the forest cannot be deceived, as men can…”

“I’ve no wish to deceive the forest,” he explained, his long tresses shifting from the iridescent black of raven down to the pallid white of snow. “There is something elemental in this place, something that has spoken to me, ever since I ate the Apple. The… the woman, she sees me. I know she does.”

“Do not speak of her,” she rejoined, curtly.

“Yes, I understand…”

“Do not even think of her, for she will know, and her attention will be drawn to you.”

“I’m scared,” he said, suddenly. For the Prince of Glamorfell, this was a shocking admission.

She said nothing, her dark eyes watching him from that weathered, ancient visage. He took up a leaf, considering it in his hand as he continued.

“I have now in my possession a treasure, a boon greater than any seen in this part of the East since the time of Choral and his dragons. I do not often think of what I do, I simply act, on instinct… and it has brought me to this point. I am called chief by well over a thousand common folk. I will forge my line from a human noblewoman. I have overthrown all manner of enemies, and will overthrow many more—and all of that, I take for granted. It is in my nature to take what I want. But this thing, this tree, it’s magick is nearly blinding to look upon. I feel that I have tied my life to it, as surely as I have tied my life to this forest.”

She spit her bark-chew to the side, regarding him placidly. “You are an errant child without parents. The orphan figures in so many yarns and saws and tales for a reason. You do not have a legacy on your shoulders. You do not even have a people. The echo of the abyss sings in your blood: anger, pride, lust, violence. The barbarity and domineering cruelty of mortal-folk gave rise to the demons. You are fair to look upon, child, but the fairest of your ilk to look upon are the most heartless of all. They seduce, as nature seduces… but they are less capricious than they are treacherous. Betrayal is the knife of your race.”

He looked down, studying the scribbled runes he has drawn absently on the earth with his fingertip. “I am not like them…” he said.

She laughed then, a wooden sound, not unpleasant. “Aren’t you?” she asked, but then smiled. “I am not your judge. But you must be wary, child.” Her eyes darkened. “You are pious: to the gods, to the forest. You are humble before great powers and great mysteries. I have seen your deference, your courtliness. Your desire to insinuate yourself… to know the secrets laid here…”

“I can feel the power of this place. I need that power,” he said.

She stared a moment. “Do you…? This place is older than you know, child. I have taught you many of the Old Ways. This forest runs on ritual, on contracts, on the eldest forms of magick, on magick so saturated, so deeply written, that it changes the tone of the world around it. There are other places like the Narlmarch, places of great emotion, of conscience, where the world itself has come alive. This forest is old with caution, from the last time it was betrayed. It has accepted you, in part. You and your companions have made your pact. But for you, there is more to learn, and more to hear. I have taught you how to make the vines and weeds and flowers move to your whim, how to walk through the foliage without it fussing, how to curse them who need it. The Narlmarch will teach you more, if you are patient.”

He walked the woods at night, like a shadow, sleeping high in a bower of branches when slumber finally overtook him, waking to find leaves pinned in his hair by mischievous hands. Sometimes he heard whispers of his own name, calling him further into dark dens of shade. He’d find things at the end of such lures: a nymph once viewed through a screen of foliage; a spider’s web lit from behind like a rainbow; the old bones of a bird; a wolf eating a hart.

One morning, sitting alone by the river, he wrote the following in his journal:

“We must not approach war with the trolls or with any sovereign nation clothed in pride, in chivalry or honor, but with the guile of hunters intent on predation, doing nothing in straightforward terms but rather using stealth, trickery and deception to our advantage.”

Looking it over he realized it sounded like the most obvious advice in the world; but thereafter, the forest showed him other things. He told this to Baba Migori, when next they met.

“It nudges you for a reason, child,” she said. “To be wild at heart and yet fit into hierarchy, hold caprice in one hand and loyalty in the other, be ruthless but carry your tribe on your shoulders, that is what this place wants.”

He raised an eyebrow, surprised. “I am all of those things already,” he said.

She nodded simply, wandering off.

“Am I not…?” he asked, glancing around at the firs. A sprite buzzed over, singing softly at him; he conjured fantastical images for its delight, concentrating on the display, a thousand ribald images bursting with vibrancy. Other little fey had gathered to watch. His own hair and eyes and clothes changed too, the bone white skin a palette for all manner of unearthly colors, to their delight.

“Are you the king, then?” one of the pixies quipped, watching from hovering wings. He nodded. “We’ve heard of you,” she said.

“What have you heard?” he asked, smiling softly as the swirling tendrils of color faded into smoke.

“That you help our kind in the forest,” she said.

He rolled his eyes with faux-incredulousness. “What, not of my beauty?” he asked. They laughed, flitting off, rained down acorns on him.

An excerpt from a letter dated contemporaneously:

“Dear Ma and Pa,

I hope things’re goin’ well on the farm. I’ve had occasion now to see sum of the heroes and council members, the vampire girl and Lady Kaede—she looked mean but she gave me sum copper pieces to spend on candy at the festival.

Oddest of all is the Prince. He comes and goes at all hours, people say, and his hair and eyes and skin and clothes change every minute, like magic. They say he goes off into the woods to cavort with fairies and demons, often taking Wally Silverkin with ‘im. Some folk say he don’t rule at all, that it’s just Lady Kaede and the General and Edgrin and the other councilors who do. The say he’s a powerful witch, more like to deal with the forest than the town, and I for one believe ’em…"

“What do you see?” she asked, leaning over his neck. He sat cross-legged on the stump, his eyes closed.

“I see the tree… it’s come this far, through Earthfall, but still so fragile…” he said. “It’s so beautiful, all that light… I see the light shining there, inside the citadel… it’s almost finished…”

“What else?” she asked.

“The people… men and halflings with a few gnomes and dwarves…” he said. He winced quietly. “Their hearts are filled with such lust and passion, all to different ends.” Images flashed through his mind: Mossy Orlovsky, gluttonously feasting; Akalina looking at her finest dress from Stoneclimb with a melancholy smile; Oleg counting coins; the dwarves hoarding their gems. Woodrow curling a prostitute’s hair around his fingers.

“Some are full of avarice and greed,” he said, breathing out. “They want for coin, money, power, the things it can get you.” He opened his eyes. “I should not be their chief,” he said. “Or they not my subjects.”

“Shhh,” she advised. “Close your eyes.” He did. “What else do you see?”

He saw Yelenya, twirling little Yellie in her arms, dancing with Svetlana; Akalina again, this time gazing mournfully up at the stars; Jubliost, laughing and cartwheeling with his goof troop through the morning mists while a cartographer drew frantically; Akiros, chopping firewood; Elissa singing songs to an orphan boy; Wally and Falchos drinking and carousing late at night; Teret and Lyriina riding after sundown, beneath an oak tree; Imro healing the ill.

“Some care about their people, their family, the bonds between them, the subtle acts of community, the revels of excitement. Those are my people…”

She nodded, apparently satisfied. After a while she said: “I see the field mouse and the owl who chases him; the honey bee fat with pollen; the slithering things in the loam by the shore; the bats who cloud out the moon. I am in tune with my home.”

He opened his eyes, frowning.

She closed hers again, continuing: “We all make choices in life. You belong here because you belong here, child.”

Dream a little Dream of Me

Sundraught- Late in the night of Falchos’ reveling.

The moon had risen and set behind the large oak trees of the Sundraught. The revellers now strewn about the floor of the glade, some clumped together in passionate embrace or else rendered cataleptic by the numerous magical and mundane stimulants.

With the moon gone, Wally gazed up at the stars while sprawled out on the grass at the edge of the glade away from the fires, flitting between states of consciousness.

A small fey perched on the tip of his boot draws her cricket-like legs together producing a haunting melody. The song seems to catch in the breeze and drift through the trees, bits and snatches of it pick up and die off throughout the grove like the twinkling of fireflies.

“Tyg, leave us.” Tiressia’s commanding voice rings low but clear. The fiddling pauses long enough for Wally to recognize the approaching whisper of bare feet in the grass. With a dirty look and a noisy pull from her wineskin, Tyg-Tigger-Tut bounds off into the Narlmarch, playing a decidedly jauntier tune in search of high adventure.

Looking up, Wally sees Tiressia and he smiles. Her face is framed by her auburn locks, aglow from the magical luminesence wreathing her. She leans over with an outstretched arm; the sound of the wind rushing through a thousand leaves fills Wally’s head as she presses a wood-like whorled-grained fingertip to his almost-equally calloused brow. Wally’s eyes widen as the stars spin in the heavens and a full year of cosmology plays out in the night sky above him.

“Come. It has been too long since we communed.” Tiressia says as she turns away. Rising to his feet, Wally finds himself in an unfamiliar location. The smell of earth is heavy in the air, and thick mists blocking vision everywhere, the nimbus of light around Tiressia the only illumination.

Noting Wally’s confusion, “You are… how you say… underground; such a strange concept. Not too far from the spot upon which you laid. The Narlmarch has many enemies, even when the forest itself is not causing issues. The roots of the trees find strength and solace here and so do I.”

Walking, they pass through a clump of roots hung like a curtain, and into a small alcove with a natural raised basin being fed from a small spring burbling forth from the far wall. “This is where I come to see your dreams. This time, I will show you my own.” With a soft creaking, not unlike a well-kept bow, Tiressia extends her hand over the pool causing it to become placid.

Looking deep into the pool, Wally sees a gladed wood; he recognizes it as the Sundraught, although the scene must be from many centuries in the past as the imposing trees are far smaller. A bearded man, somewhat resembling Corax and perhaps a distant relative, leads a small group of booted and axe-wielding men who descent upon the trees in the glade. The pool reveals Tiressia, hiding among the boughs of her oak, with tears in her eyes, vowing vengeance, and calling upon her fey kindred for protection.

The booted stomping becomes a montage, then a thunder, repeating seemingly hundreds of times. Each time Tiressia engaging throughout the Narlmarch using pits, aggressive plants, confusion and misdirection, she had (mostly) successfully managed to keep the ravenous human loggers at bay with Falchos by her side.

The now-familiar (comparatively happy) scenes of loggers, limbs shattered, glaring balefully up from the depths of freshly dug pits or clutching the gaping wounds from razor bramble slowly change and seem more ominous, the trees more wild, the forest mysteries ever deeper.

Wally senses he is seeing the weight of millennia, not mere centuries. The boots in the final scenes are treading through disgusting fetid swamps, only to be suddenly juxtaposed with scenes from an epic battle between fey and undead. A giant, ominous, and traitorous tree smashes fluttering nymphs with its branches, then exulting in the resultant, vibrant gore. Falchos and Tiressia and their remaining brethren, wounded and panicked, retreat to the sound of a deep evil laughing and boots marching.
Wally snaps awake in the pre-dawn light and sits bolt-upright with a sharp intake of breath. Around him, once again, the Sundraught. The peace of the early morning broken only by birdcall and the occasional groans of nearby mortal revelers.

Introductions and Apologies
Kaede's letter to Old Beldame

Greetings Wise One,

Allow me to introduce myself. I am called Kaede, and I hail originally from the nation of Jinin, far to the east of here. In my official capacity as member of the Council of Glamorfell, I serve at the pleasure of Prince Sayd, as his Magister and trusted advisor.

I write to you with regret at the circumstances under which we first crossed paths. My companions have fair hearts, but boorish instincts. Rest assured that I will see to it that they make good on their promise to compensate you for the damage done to your home and possessions; please let the return of your amulet serve as a down payment.

As to why I’ve reached out: some years ago, a patron of mine identified you as a woman of a great power in this realm, and I’ve been searching for you ever since. I don’t know if you are really a “witch” as the locals say — to my eyes, that crow looked quite like a familiar — but I am a witch in truth, and keenly interested in the arcane arts.

I think that a meeting between us could be mutually beneficial. However, I respect your desire for privacy, and will leave you be if you so desire. Please send word to me in Glamorfell if you are so inclined.


19th Arodus, 4713 AR
The Diary of Teret Feron

It has been many months since I have set upon my desk, laid eyes upon it even, and put ink to paper. In some ways, this is good. It means our Council moves forward, becomes involved in tasks larger than ourselves. In other ways, it means we are perhaps to invested. That we cannot pull back to take perspective on the matters at hand.

All about us, the Narlmarch Forest, the plains stretching to the Tors to the East, where we believe Varnhold is stationed. To our west lies Fort Drelev, We have older nations to our norht and south, and I believe there isn’t a one of htem that doesn’t mean us some form of harm. I am not sure how much I can do to prevent it. If not for the diplomatic skill of our prince, I fear we would have been a doomed nation from the outset. It still feels like the River Kingdoms sit upon a hill, waiting to loose a boulder upon us, smash us helplessly to bits. I cannot place my finger upon it, but the sense of doom is palpable.

Much has progressed though, since last I wrote. An army has been raised. 50 soldiers. Able bodied, but incapable of holding a sword by my estimation. It will take much to get them into shape, to turn them into a force to be reckoned with. Much of this takes me back to when I was last a proper soldier, serving under the Lebeda banner. A time when I last considered betrothal to another. Young Elanna, naive and haughty, but my wind and stars, held me captive. I believe, in retrospect she was well aware of this fact. The dirt mongering soldier turned captain, held in sway with a flick of thin wrists. It was a dangerous, but formative time. I will need that same passion and ferver as our troops form the backbone of our nations defense. As they begin to defend lands they claim as their own. There is nothing more fearsome than a soldier defending his home, he will place his life on the the line and push long past his breaking point to see it saved. It is this that I must drive into them, it is this that I must forge. It is this I must find in myself.

I find that I am growing attached to this land. In the years since our ragtag band set out from Brevoy, from my homeland to journey on, I have found many things. Danger, ever present, tranquility, peace, forgiveness. Returning to Brevoy as a General filled me with pride again, in a way that a soldier must always hold within his bosom. He must see himself as unbreakable against the tide of the land, lest he succomb to its realities. Seeing Elanna again, as she was due to be wed, nearly provided that tide to me. It was a great swelling of emotion, regret, fear, a deep rooted dread that I had long forgotten by the time we came back in attendance. By Iomodae’s grace, I had found that bastion within myself. In truth, I think I had found another that had captured my heart. Brash, bold, and without a blemish that my heart can discern I believe she is the one that I will begin anew with. I have held none as family save those who make up the Tetriarchy. They are my blood, as has been forged in countless brushes with death and as we tasted upon the very essence of life itself. It is that I wish to share with her. It is that I wish to build anew in this place, in this land which seems devoid of true providence.

Something that our recent adventure in the Accursed Halls, which has a whole life underneath what had explored, gives me great pause. Such magic is great indeed and roams unchecked on our lands. I will have to bring it to bear upon our Prince, ask that the sages delve further into the Histories to find mention of Nhur-Athamon. It is very likely the Prince himself has already ordered thus, he is a keen man. I do worry that should the Troll kingdom find purchase with that fount, we will be undone. It is a great power indeed to view the world, largely without restriction. I also wonder of the fate of Namdrin Quinn. He left in an angry state, and I think his jovial nature belied a truely powerful individual. He could be disastrous to have at someone else’s service. More problems, for another time, tonight, I dine again and forget the cares of this place, of its peoples. For only a few hours, my cares will be my own.

Enter the Princess

Arodus, 4713

The road had been long, long enough for doubts to creep in about her demonic betrothed, long enough for them to give way to careless dreaming; to grow tired of her Uncle’s dour moods so juxtaposed against his manic, honeydust-addled reveries, and long enough for careful practice as to what she would say, how she would act. First, there was the journey down from Eagle’s Watch on Mount Veshka, her home. As the foothills dwindled behind them, she kept casting glances back at the lonely peak. Seeing it on the horizon was always a thrill for her as a girl, coming back from New Stetven. Now she’d be leaving it for perhaps years, for the darkness of the uncharted, white spaces on the map. Then came Silver Hall, the haunt of the Lebedas, where she called on her friend Elanna; the boat ride across the dark sapphire waters of Lake Reykal, to New Stetven, and the long journey on horseback south, over the plains of Rostland. She read his most recent letter over and over again, the one that started simply “Akilina,” and ended simply “S.”

She had met Sayd Krynn, the man she was to marry, and with whom she would preside over a backwoods kingdom of, if the stories were to be believed, fairies, werewolves, kobolds, halflings and trolls, for the rest of her life, only twice before. The first time was at a reception in Restov. Having seized control of a stretch of the Stolen Lands marked as the Narlmarches on her map, mercenary captain Sayd Krynn and his crew, the Black Cats, were poised to found a frontier settlement in the region, declaring the borders of a new country in the process. Unlike the other chartered luminaries tasked with reclaiming this expanse of the River Kingdoms for the Crown, though, Sayd Krynn was unmarried, in need of heirs, capable in the extreme, morally flexible, and impressively dangerous. Lady Vellara, the elven layabout ‘aristocrat’ and sometime counselor to the affluent, had even whispered in her father Poul’s ear that Sayd Krynn might be the most dangerous man in Brevoy—if not in current power, than at least in potential. She suspected it was just a ploy, of course, but the Orlovsky had not been slow to pick up on the opportunity: if they were to stand against the Surtovan claims to the throne, they would need the support of the Swordlords, and the Black Cats were poised to bulwark the southernmost border of Rostland. The chance at alliance was about thinking five steps ahead.

She was told she’d present herself to him, hoping for a match, at the same time as her friend Faelbrin Medyved and several others, at a party, a reception. The prince-to-be seemed apathetically unmoved by her flirtatiousness, but she caught a glimmer in his eye when she spoke of falconry and reading the stars from her high perch on the peak of Veshka. She’d never forget how he looked past her, as if she wasn’t even present, and told her father, Poul, that her would take her for his wife, or the look of subtle disappointment on the face of the Medyved contingent. She didn’t know whether to be excited, or frightened. He was enrapturingly handsome, powerful and stern, and when he turned back and told her how he’d receive her in the Stolen Lands when suitable accommodations were built, she simply nodded, demurely. There were discussions in the aftermath, but none of them questioning the decision. That was something she was left to do alone.

The second time they met was at the wedding of Nadya Surtova, when Sayd passed her at the ceremony, inclining his head with the slightest of nods. She had been told not to broach the subject of their nuptials, there—it was in bad taste to discuss such things at the Surtova ceremony, when so many ears were about. When the sky reddened and the devils of Hell were literally unleashed upon the island, she hid with Faelbrin behind her Uncle Aeden until they were separated in the pavillion. She was positive she would die, then, but there he was, striding through the door of the tent as if nothing in the world were amiss, wreathed in light from the fading sun behind him, his eyes icy with fury and disgust at the situation. From the second he walked in, Akilina could tell he was coming for her, and the relief that washed over her was something she’d never forget. Many girls dream of handsome princes coming to rescue them from the clutches of monsters, but few experience it in waking reality. He touched her, and Faelbrin, with his magick, making them vanish to the eyes of others, and ushered them out to safety. Uncle Aeden led them away, down the winding path, in haste; she did not see Sayd slay the Shadow Demon with his guile, but heard of it after, as everyone did. She didn’t get a chance to speak with him again, on the boat ride back—he was caught up somehow with Hamaria Surtova—but she told her father what he’d done, in Eagle’s Watch, on a sunny day. He was pleased.


In New Stetven, the entourage—herself, Akilina Orlovsky, her no account Uncle Mossy and his bastard sons, the twins Poe and Grey Posey, both thirteen—met with an advance party dispatched by Glamorfell. A surly half-orc, Sasha, seemed in a terrible hurry to get back to Foundling’s Reach; Elissa, wife of the Black Council member Kalkamedes, was excited to meet Akilina, and finally a charming young halfling girl named Persie Agerthorn introduced herself as Akilina’s new handmaiden, while the steely-eyed Ejir Flint would be her bodyguard.

In the weeks of overland travel following, Akilina introduced the Glamorfell natives to her Uncle, Mosbellam ‘Mossy’ Orlovsky, a fatter and more devious merchant than Oleg even, who, having worn out his welcome with his older brother, Poul, and having finally written away his inheritance and succession in exchange for covering his gambling debts, was making a new start of things in Foundling’s Reach at the Prince’s graceful invitation. His bastard sons, Poe and Grey, were both much more promising, the former with a head for figures and perhaps even arcane study, while the latter was a crack shot with a rifle and looking forward to life as a hunter.

Of her new acquaintances, it was like night and day: the stern aggressiveness of Sasha and the remote coldness of Ejir, a woman in her fifties and no stranger to the labors of a farm, counterpointed by the warm humor and liveliness of Elissa and Persie. Persie regaled her, giddily, with the story of how the Prince held a big audition for handmaid’s for his new bride, how he made them talk about court matters, morality, about fashion, about nature, how he made them dance and sing and so many other things besides, while his impassive magister, Lady Kaede, laboriously kept track of it all, and how in the end, SHE, Persie, was the one he picked. Wasn’t it just kismet? She squeezed Akilina’s hand tight, and in that moment, so many of the fears of the long journey blew away.

“Tell me about him, about the Prince, if you like…” she pressed on Persie and Elissa. The latter responded first, confiding: “When I first met him, he impressed me with his charm—he’s very charming, he can make you feel like you’re the only person in the whole world—but there was this dark side to him, as well. Callousness. I didn’t think he cared much for other people, people outside his influence—though he would do anything for a friend. He makes questionable decisions sometimes… like he sees the world as this jungle where the strong rule over the weak, and would think nothing of lying and deceiving to secure victory. He’s powerful, but treacherous, too… Since he assumed the mantle of Prince, these last two years, though, he’s been different, distant but also taking greater care in his responsibilities, as if he feels the weight of history on his shoulders… but that’s just my feeling on it. The there’s the forest, and him. He longs to be near it, always…”

Persie listened intently, adding: “I only moved to Foundling’s Reach four months ago. The tales about him in the outlying country had been impressive, like, talk of how he had demon blood, was born without parents in the deserts far to the south… he’s much, much older than he looks, they say. When I arrived in Foundling’s Reach, though, I heard much mellower accounts. They say the Prince is not to be aggrieved, like, I guess he responds to slights with undue reciprocity, like a force of nature, almost, but beyond that, he’s said to be wise, or whatever. He doesn’t sulk behind closed doors, for one, but walks among the people all day, often barefoot, I’ve seen it—and sometimes disguised as other people, or other creatures entirely. He’s a powerful sorcerer, the Prince is…. He… oh! He sings at the tavern sometimes, beautiful and sad songs…”

Elissa rolled her eyes. “He’s a passable singer. What he’s good at is making people like and trust him, want to serve him. His manners, his mystery, his exploits, it’s all part of that. He shrouds himself in myth. He draws to himself people of rare acumen, like Lady Yelenya, or Lady Kaede, General Feron, or Wally. People as strong as he is.”

Akilina blushed a little at that. “He sounds like something from a fairy tail, one with actual fairies… of which, gods, I’ve heard there are many in your land. But who are these others?”

Elissa patted down her prancer’s mane, looking out at the clarity of the sky. “Before Glamorfell and the Black Council came the Black Cats, our company. It was me, the Prince, General Feron, Lord Walorin, Ladies Kaede and Yeleyna and Josef Akulov, of Varnhold. We charted all the lands we’re riding through, all this. You’ll get a chance to meet all of them, in Foundling’s Reach. General Teret Feron is Brevic as well, from Rostland, I think. He commands Glamorfell’s military. Lyrina Varn, you know her, right? I think they’re an item, or soon will be… Wally Silverkin, he’s the Royal Enforcer, our greatest fighter, the deadliest champion of Foundling’s Reach, but he’s a real sweetheart, you’ll love him. Lady Kaede Fatebreaker is an elf from the lands far to the east, across the sea. She’s the smartest person I’ve ever met, the Magister of Glamorfell, she oversees the treasury, public works, civic policy, you name it. She’s the Prince’s chief adviser. Lady Yelenya, she’s been with the Prince far longer than the rest of us, she helped raise him, I guess. She’s part vampire, you know, a dhampir. She’s also the finest archer in the Stolen Lands, maybe in all of the River Kingdoms. She watches everything from the shadows, and, like, she’s really quiet, but if you get to know her, she’s an amazing friend. I really love her.”

Akilina nodded along, enjoying the sun on her face. “Is there a shrine to Abadar?” she asked, but Elissa shook her head. “My husband, Kalkamedes,” the oracle replied, “oversees the congress between various faiths in Glamorfell and helps offer counsel to those in need. Although the Prince is very superstitious, religious edifices haven’t been a high priority for the Magister, Lady Kaede. I can understand why. Foundling’s Reach plays home to many faiths, each with their own adherents. Sayd is a great believer in letting people find their own way, without forcing them, at least where faith is concerned. He holds a great reverence for the gods and is loath to offend them. He himself is a devout follower of Erastil.”

Akilina smiled softly, tossing her hair as she looked over at Elissa and Persie riding beside. “Yes, he’s told me,” she said, “How the Deadeye is the patron of Glamorfell. He counselled me that the petty manipulations of the nobility, the trappings of civilization are a necessary but disordered and exaggerated brokering of power via, oh gods, what did he say, something to do with transactions? It was all a little offensive. In his expositions, the family is the epicenter of mortal life, then the community, which is an extension of family. His own ideal of social transactions, he said, were those performed by the sweat of shared endeavor, the primacy of magick, the binding power of ritual. He seemed skeptical of money, not in the real sense but philosophically, he wrote that it was… a mechanism for abstracting the realities of work to divorce labor from the emotional context in which it occurs… I mean, not to joke between us, but it sounded foolishly naive, or propagandist… except that, underpinning his thoughts was a lack of idealism, as if he understands quite perfectly how the world works, understands the necessity of it all, but still has a vision for how it ought to function, which is romantic, in a way.”

Elissa glanced at Akilina, simply nodding as if she understood, while Persie giggled and tried to change the subject.

“You’re such an intelligent girl,” Elissa offered, smiling warmly. “It will be sure to please the Prince. He isn’t the most intelligent speaker I’ve ever met, nor the wisest, but he knows how to cut to the emotional heart of things. Between us, I think he has a tendency to repeat the teachings of others, maybe as they slowly bleed into his own beliefs. He’s a great believer in the wisdom of others. When I hear him speak of Erastil—mind you I don’t much favor the gods myself—he makes me want to believe, a little. He always tells us that the first gift we ever receive is our family. Maybe because he didn’t have one himself, he values it more, you know? For years he led these insular groups, the Black Cats most recently but there were others before, I hear. Being captain of mercenaries, especially alone in the wilds and for so long, that’s got to be like being a father to a family, and that’s the way he feels about Glamorfell, too, I know. You’re set to be separated from one family—” she glanced back at Mossy and the others, riding behind, “but you’ll be gaining a new one, in a way. It’s going to be a blessing, honey. Sayd’s whole life is draped in portent and prophecy. He’s a person of substance. You’ll be a part of that, now.”

Akilina, smiled and glanced down, petting at her steed, tucking a few stray locks of hair behind her ear. “I’m a little afraid,” she admitted. “Not about the Prince, he sounds wonderful, but about life out here. I’m used to magick sleeping in the land… our own peak, Mount Veshka, sits lonely on the horizon, and we see the skies clearly from Eagle’s Watch. The Orlovsky have a strong tradition of divination and prophecy, of reading the stars. But this land…” she glanced over to the edge of the forest to their west, “…this place is old and tangled in different ways. He told me that the lines of energy, the space between planes are muddied, here… that the forest is alive and can see, that he can see through it… and of course, the monsters, the kobolds, the trolls, the boggards. This is a true frontier…”

Elissa smiled quietly, guiding her horse a bit closer. She leaned in, confiding: “This land is like a well of fey enigma, treacherous power, and the Prince is a part of it. He ate the Apple of Discord. He can see things here the rest of us can’t, things the rest of us aren’t meant to. This land is… it’s part of him, and he of it… they are married, he and it, just as you are to be married. The turning of the seasons, the growth and decay, the predators and the things they feast on, he can feel it all, pulsing in his blood. The Stolen Prince. Or… or so he has said. In this land, you’ll be under his protection. Maybe he can see us even now.”


The words were no doubt meant to be reassuring, but they awakened in Akilina only a greater fascination and anxiety, a desire to peel back the mystery surrounding the man. She was a bit surprised at Elissa’s forth-rightness, having not sensed anything zealous about her until she so spoke. This was not the first time she’d heard rumor of the Prince and his connection to the wilds, it was mentioned in his letters, and spoken of by her father’s own oracles and seers. She understood that it was significant, somehow, but not to what degree. Later on, Persie confided in her some of the less savory rumors about the Prince: that he walked the Narlmarches by night, hunting in the dark; that his own councilors sometimes found him staring into the depths of a mirror, unaware of the passage of time; that he handled the ‘interrogations’ of prisoners personally, and always learned what he wished to know. That night, by the fire, Akilina read over Sayd’s letters again. They were less than a day’s ride to Foundling’s Reach, now. Tomorrow, she would meet him, would speak the lines she’d rehearsed along the road. She’d need time to settle in, of course, before the wedding. She’d—

The loud snap of a branch was the first sign something was amiss, followed by Ejir’s shout. Akilina wheeled back from the fire, looking into the darkness beyond, but the afterimage remained, blinding her. It was only a moment later when three grotesque, monstrous forms emerged into the light: spindly-towering, gangly-limber, scaly, moss-green, all long, hooked noses and shredding claws, slouching nine feet tall. Trolls.

Elissa pulled her back sharply, sharp enough to take her breath away, the oracle’s hand like iron on her arm as she stepped in front of Akilina and spoke some words in a language she didn’t understand, the tongue of giants, maybe. The lead troll smiled wickedly with its dagger-teeth, responding in common.

“The girll princesss, we’s wants herr…” it said, pointing at Akilina. Her pulse quickened. There was no way these guards could stop three trolls—and how did they know who she was? That she’d be here…? Magic…? She recalled Elissa telling her of the troll kingdom, how they were aligned with the hags, it all had to do with that Whispering Queen she spoke of. Was it hag magic that led them here?

Elissa tilted her head to the side, considering the trolls. Sasha, the half-orc and Ejir looked to the oracle tentatively, holding their weapons at the ready. Mossy was well behind, stumbling into his tent with Poe quick behind, though she spotted Grey readying his rifle, packing it down with powder.

Elissa sniffed. Finally, she said, in a level and icy voice: “This camp is under the protection of the Prince of Glamorfell. These lands belong to the Prince of Glamorfell. Be on your way, if you wish, or be destroyed. It matters not to me.” Akilina’s heart stopped at the words. What had come over Elissa, to sound so emotionless—and what was she thinking? They’d all be killed…!

Improbably, one of the trolls balked. He glanced at the others, licking his disgusting lips tentatively, and started to stammer. The leader would have none of it. “Yesss, tha’s nut gwingg to happennn, womann—” he hissed. “If you’s is luckyyy—”

But Elissa would hear no more. Holding one fist in front of her, the other hand gripping her wrist, she chanted, a magic seal written in pale blue light encircling her forearm. Then Ejir was grabbing her from behind, dragging her off into the darkness. She cast a look back, long enough to see Elissa draw her fist back through the seal, shattering it, and for living flames to appear around her, harrying the trolls. The half orc slid in, slashing at them with her sword, but the trolls were too huge, too fast. Then she had turned and they were just running. She heard the telltale bang of gunfire.

Later, Grey would tell her what he saw, how Elissa never stopped chanting, her chestnut locks floating around her head, pulling her fist through seal after seal as she summoned more and more elemental fire between her and the trolls; how Sasha stood in the breach, her sword flashing and taking a hand here or an eye there as she improbably kept the creatures back; how, having surrounded them with walking flame, Elissa began arcing wreaths of green balefire between them, burning them alive. How in the aftermath, they heard her screams from across the field.


“Gwinggg somewhyrr?” the monstrosity breathed as it raked a savage claw across Ejir’s face. She screamed in terror and pain but managed to retreat a step, holding her blade before her. They had come to the edge of a stream, the starry midsummer night and the fulsome moon reflected in its idyllic babble.

It’s claws rained down, one after another. Her sword flashed this way and that, cutting into it—this must have been a fourth interloper, one who hung back from the rest—but it was only a matter of time. With one last savage swipe it smashed her to the side, where she crashed against a rocky edifice and sank into a mortal recumbence, holding her stomach as her breathing quickened.

“Forgive me, my Prince…” she whimpered, her whole body trembling as the ten foot tall figure of raw muscle and hunger advanced on Akilina. That’s when they heard his voice.

“There is nothing to forgive,” he said, and as the claw swiped down through the night to snare Akilina, somehow, he was there, just as he had been that day on the island. She couldn’t see him, no, but the grasping hand stopped, the troll’s eyes went wide in surprise. And then, like a candle is lit one moment and then is out the next, he was standing in front of her, holding back the claw, and the green fire that flowed from his hands into the troll lit up the lazy brook like something from a nightmare.

When the creature was dead, sunk to its knees and blister-cracked, ashen, he planted a foot on its chest and pushed it down in an irrelevant heap. He turned not to her, not yet, but to Ejir, striding across the space between them like a panther, his hair long and unbound, his shape indistinct under a moss and leaf-covered cloak. He glanced to her quickly, his eyes lit by pale green fire, and she saw the bow-and-arrow broach clasping it shut, the symbol of Erastil. Then he was kneeling by Ejir’s side.

“My Prince, please, my sons… tell them th—” she coughed, wave of dark blood rushing from her mouth in a fit. Tears streamed down Akilina’s face, but Sayd looked unconcerned, moving slowly, even as he drew a long horn from his belt, hushing her even as he un-stopped it and poured it down her throat.

“Shhh, shhhh” he soothed, gently, brushing back the gray-haired matron’s hair as she struggled in pain. “You will not die this day, little one.” She squeezed her eyes shut; Akalina did the same.


Back at the camp, Poe and Gray were burning the troll bodies under Sasah’s direction, while Mossy looked on anxiously. Sayd carried Ejir in his arms all the way back from the stream while Akilina followed beside, numbly. He passed through the night with the dignity and malice of a vampire from legend, paying her no more mind than he would a servant. He laid her in a tent, and Akilina followed, sitting by the woman’s side, taking her hand. Sayd went out, maybe to find Elissa, and did not return for an hour. When he did, Sasha came in, frazzled, herself bloodied from the fight, and looked over Ejir. Sayd looked at Akilina with his back-lit eyes and said simply, “Come.”

She followed him back to the fire. It felt terrifying to stand out in the night, again; the fire was low, the bodies gone, the warmth welcome in the mild air, but anything could be out there in the dark. She swallowed. “How did you know to find us…? Th-thank you. For saving me,” she said.

He nodded slowly, eyes sitting like pale green disks in an otherwise shadowed face. “I was here, when they attacked,” he said plainly. “I’ve been with you since New Stetven.”

She stared. Mossy emerged from his tent, bumbling over with his characteristic lisp, saying “My Printhh! Allow me to introduth mythelf—” but he held his noble hand up without even looking in the Uncle’s direction. “Not now. Back to your tent,” the Prince intoned. Something in his voice, whatever power he held in it, shut the otherwise boisterous and corpulent Orlovsky up, and he retreated to his place with an offended look cast back over one meaty shoulder.

Sayd held up one hand, his distal phalanges hyper-extending slightly, and his form changed, his clothes, his hair, his face. It was Elissa standing before her, offering a perhaps apologetic look, and then she was Sayd again, the blonde of his long cascading hair glinting in the firelight. Akilina’s face paled. “You—you were Elissa?” Her voice was incredulous, angry a little, trembling now. “I thought you were my friend—!”

“I am your friend, lady,” he answered softly, interrupting her. “I know you have been through a lot tonight, but remember to whom you are speaking. I am your Lord and the Lord of these lands.”

She looked down, then, frightened, embarrassed, before gathering herself and meeting his gaze. “Yes, my Prince. Forgive my surprise.”

“It is nothing,” he said. “You are young, you are frightened, and I deceived you.”

“But why…?” she asked.

“I deceive everyone. You will come to understand in time,” he said flatly. She shook her head, smiling a little at last. Despite his words, something in his tone was comforting. “Those trolls, I thought we were done for… we have no such creatures in Orlovsky lands. I knew you to be fierce, but…”

“They are garbage. Trash,” he said, sliding his eyes up and down her body. “They should have stayed off my land. These hills belong to me. This forest”—he gestured—“belongs to me. None my pass without my leave.”

She blushed, smiling a bit wider, weary, her teeth snow white and perfect. Raked a hand through her hair. “This feels like a dream, it’s so strange. You’re not like anyone I’ve ever met. You’re like a character from a tale I read as a child…” she said, studying him hopefully, as if looking for recognition—but she found only brutal dispassion, the faint ghost of a smirk, perhaps.

“I’m quite real, I assure you,” he said.

“But um, as Elissa, didn’t you say Prince Sayd cloaked himself in mystery, in myth…?” she asked.

“Come, it is late,” he said. He led her to her tent—Persie retreated from the flap where she’d been eavesdropping—and laid Akilina down, planting a kiss gently upon her forehead.

“What if more trolls come…?” she asked. Persie looked up at Sayd too, her eyes wide at the possibility. “Then there will be fewer to kill later,” he said seriously. He slipped out of the tent, his hand sliding down the flap as he closed it. She thought she wouldn’t fall asleep right away, but she did.


Several of the horses had been casualties of the melee, she discovered in the morning, and had to be put down. She rode into Foundling’s Reach side-saddle in his lap, leaning into his chest, huddling in his cloak. He was an able horseman. He was an able everything.

The town was much bigger than she’d thought, and all the farms and mines they’d passed, besides. These weren’t insubstantial holdings, she’d seen the maps. Maybe half the size of Orlovsky lands, and it was amazing what they’d built in just a few years. There on the tall hill, the castle was half complete. Her new home.

He left here there, in her own place with Persie, to get acclimated, in the capable hands of Lyriina Varn, to meet the council, meet the important people in town; introduced Mossy to Edgrin and Oleg and Woodrow, and then he was gone.

“It will be this way, before we’re wed and after,” he explained. “I must know every inch of this land, I demand it, I require it. There are enemies all around us, Akilina. To the west, Drelev’s own ambitions are only held at bay by the literal and figurative quagmire in which he finds himself. To the south, the trolls and the Mivonese both threaten, although in unequal measure. On our doorstep, the kobolds are allies of coincidence. Go and speak with Vellara. Speak with Woodrow. I cannot always be here, in the Reach, I’m needed out there in the wilds, to press our interests and make war on our foes. The people still need a leader they can rely on, a leader with continuity, and even more, I need my voice represented to the council, I need my eyes watching them, and you will be that voice. You will be those eyes. Do you understand?”

She nodded softly. “I do,” she said.

“I have asked Jhod to come meet you, as well. He and Woodrow are planning the wedding. Let them know your wishes and they will see it done. Between Lyriina and Persie, I’m sure you’ll be at home here soon.” He lifted her chin with a light touch. “I know it has been a long journey—with a traumatic denouement—but you’re safe now. You’re safe here with me, now. I am not blind to the ambitions of your father, and all others who refuse to bend their knee to the Surtova clan. In this forest, I am drawing to myself a power of which lesser men can’t conceive, and with it, I will bend the world to my desires.”

He looked dead serious, so serious she feared to giggle at the audacity of his ego. “Yes, my Lord,” she said, instead, lowering her gaze. That seemed to go a long way with the Prince.

“We’re ready,” Yelenya said from the door. How long had she been there…? He nodded at her, then looked back at Akilina with a smile-less wink before turning and walking out.

She stepped over to the casement and looked down at the town below. The sun was warm but the breeze was cool. Lyriina would be there soon, not a proper noble, really, but a daughter of the Aldori Swordlords. She’d have to do. After she bathed, Akilina brushed her hair, studied herself in the mirror, pictured a crown on her head. It suddenly seemed more than possible. The Prince and his Black Council, in just three years, had carved out a thriving settlement from a lawless land. What else could they do?

Wally's House

The road approaching Wally’s house is newly worn and wagon-rutted dirt. The wild grass still overgrown and hedging in on the sides, including between the furrows which wind the light valleys of the gently sloping topography through open, largely unkempt fields.

A large assortment of wildflowers and other plants poke through the tall grasses, rare and underrepresented flora dot the horizon as you pass; some are strung up to get more sun, and some are covered to increase shade.

Around one particularly wide turn lies the house. A simple affair one-level with a large porch and thatched roof. Outside sits a wagon, decorated modestly in the tradition of harrow readers. It is here on warm summer nights where Ralla reads the harrow for townmembers. From the front yard, you can just make out the occasional horse whinnie, punctuated with strange snorts and grunts. You also take note of a particularly high concentration of honeybees in the area, thanks to a hive gifted from Tenzy.

The inside of the house is open-concept with low or few walls dividing the living areas. While the bedrooms and other areas are sequestered discretely behind closed doors The hearth itself is dominated by a large cauldron, while the surrounding kitchen seems to dominate most of the open-living area, it is difficult to distinguish any real functional separation due to the chaotic abundance of trophies and martial weapons hung proudly on all the exterior walls. Bundles of drying herbs, flowers, and other alchemical and/or medical ingredients hanging by string from the ceiling beams dominate the rest of the room. There is a profusion of chairs and tables, to the point where it almost resembles a tavern. The largest table, near a large is festooned with jars and bottles filled with various liquids, extracts and unguents. A large open book dominates one end of the table.

Through one of the side doors, a few steps down, leads to a well-swept work-room, with a wide wooden work bench. In the corner lies a small still, besides which is a rack full of earthenware jugs. The smell of barley, hops, and alcohol is strong in this room.

In a darkened rear corner by the pokers for the hearth, the dirt around the ill-fitting slate floor panel is slightly disturbed. This is the only evidence of the entrance to Durmo’s underground hidey hole. None know what secrets fill that dark abode, protected from intrusion with layers of traps.

Welcome Home, Imro

Edgrin turned his head and shouted over the noise of the squeaking, clanking, mule-drawn cart and the cobbled, bustling market street. “Imro sir, I, I can’t tell you how sorry I am about this,” he said. He had repeated the apology a half dozen times this long, hectic afternoon. Imro hunkered down on the thin blanket in the open, hard wood bed of the cart. This ride through town on cart was even tougher going than some of the rough unfinished trails he had been on in recent weeks. He reminded himself that despite the day’s trials, at least he was out of his armor, and away from the dangers of adventuring, and would soon be at a comfortable residence he could call his own. There was a sudden lurch, and Imro’s arm shot out to steady an unsecured cask of fine ale. Imro cursed in the dwarven language of his forebears. The cask was the most prized of the last-minute furnishings in the makeshift pile with which he shared the cart. Imro looked toward the darkening sky and realized that it wasn’t as late as he supposed; instead, storm clouds foretold imminent rain.

“Don’t worry, we’re almost there.” Edgrin was an energetic and affable halfling – even as halflings go – yet the smile he flashed in Imro’s direction didn’t contain the same boisterousness and enthusiasm that it had that morning. Despite his annoyance, Imro was bemused to discover that he felt true affection and a little pity for his new halfling friend.

It was understandable, the zeal with which Edgrin tended to Imro’s needs. What else could Edgrin do for Sayd, the untouchable Prince of the Reach, other than shower his love and gratitude on the Prince’s companions? And by doing any other work that he was asked to do, to the best of his ability. Edgrin was so eager to please, and was bursting with such loyalty to Sayd, Teret, Kaede, Wally, Yelenya – everyone Imro had been traveling with these recent months – that he had over-reached.

Edgrin had been tasked – weeks earlier – with finding Imro “suitable living quarters,” by Sayd himself, during a brief stop at Foundling’s reach to resupply. And as Edgrin learned the heroic story of how the Prince of the Reach had liberated Imro and a few other dwarves (Torvic, Lyrehawk, Merisk, and Daybreak) from the Accursed Halls, his moon-faced eyes widened with awe. All the dwarves had suffered in that place; Imro had been grievously tortured, and suffered memory loss as a result. But Imro wished to continue with the adventuring group, who were not staying long. So Edgrin conducted a single, hurried interview with Imro to find out what sort of house, specifically, he would like. Imro had explained that, unlike most dwarves, he sought out open skies and sunshine.

During their time away, the story of the Accursed Halls, and Imro’s part in it, had circulated among the townsfolk and the nearby countryside (and no doubt been highly embellished.)

The cart made a turn onto a narrow side street. Ahead, the cobbles gave way to rutted dirt that led up to a cleft in the mildly rolling, wildflower-speckled hills. The cart rocked more and jolted slightly less as the uneven wheels turned in the softer earth. A few raindrops began to patter gently down.

Imro was road-weary. During that first brief visit to Foundling’s Reach, he had felt empowered by the awesome, life-giving power of the Dawnflower, Sarenrae. He knew that she had lifted him up for a purpose, transformed him from the dwarf he had been before his ordeal in the Accursed Halls. Since then, he had lent his talents to the adventuring group, and it was hard work. They had fought life-threatening dangers, explored, and debated kobolds. Edgrind had been especially interested in the kobolds.

Convinced that he had fallen in with this group for some as-yet unrevealed divine purpose, Imro had not yet found what he sought, and he needed time to think. Then, once again within sight of the walls of Foundling’s Reach and promised rest, there had been yet another challenge, in the form of Marcellus and his fifty men stationed outside the city. This time, Imro had offered his thoughts and wisdom; there was (blessedly!) no need for his interference.

Imro desired time for reflection, prayer, and meditation. The rain was now pouring down in earnest. Imro squinted up at the sky, placed the thin blanket on his naked head, and kept his eyes and his hands on the cargo as the cart wobbled up and down hills.

After the matter of Marcellus and Akiros, it was discovered that they had arrived on a special feast day, that of the Midnight Dash. While he enjoyed observing the raucous and busy halflings as they celebrated, Imro was forgotten; and though he ate and drank merrily, he got little sleep. When Edgrin came round to collect him in the morning, Imro was discovered snoring in a tavern chair, still fully dressed, with his boots on the table. Imro did not mind being awoken early, once he saw that it was Edgrin, because he knew Edgrin was to show him to better lodging.

Imro soon observed that while the halfling population were both playful and industrious, they were not great communicators. Because of some misunderstanding between Edgrin and his coordinators-about-town, they had prepared, of all things, for Imro – a dwarf! – a houseboat. Now, Imro had preferences uncommon to a dwarf, as he himself would readily admit. Nevertheless, a houseboat was manifestly unacceptable even for him, and he told them so, in no uncertain terms!

When the mistake was discovered, it caused Edgrin’s well-meaning but bleary-eyed cohort of halflings to go into quite a flurry of last-minute activity. Imro would have stayed at an inn until the whole thing was straightened out, but Edgrin wouldn’t hear of it; he arranged that Imro stay with relatives of Edgrin’s, and this only for one night. He reassured Imro, rather sweatily, that they would get everything right by the next morning. Edgrin had a house in mind, he explained, and it was a good house. His friends had merely provisioned the wrong one. So Imro spent his second night in Edgrin’s second-cousin’s daughters bed, on Edgrin’s second-cousin’s farm. The bed was too soft by far; on the other hand, he did get bacon and coffee when the rooster crowed.

Edgrin insisted on getting everything done post-haste, today. All of Edgrin’s spare workhands were employed in moving the furnishings from the boat house to Imro’s actual house. Edgrin’s sense of etiquette required the two of them to be joined at the hip for the time being, so Edgrin had swept Imro along from shop to shop buying all sorts of housewarming wares, an activity he seemed to think would be enjoyable. Imro was too tired to argue. And now, finally, here they were.

The cart was stuck in the mud.

Edgrin dismounted and Imro stepped down and stretched his sore legs and back. It had been slow going through the mud and the rain, but they couldn’t have traveled more than a mile from the town center. Imro assessed the hopelessly mud-caked cart and the soft ground. There – Edgrin pointed up the hill – there could be seen a garden with trimmed hedges, and a structure with improbable angles, silhouetted by the setting sun. Sweet-smelling smoke from a cozy wood fire drifted up from a chimney, and here was Lyrehawk jogging down the path toward them with a great big smile on her face. It was, perhaps, the most beautiful thing Imro had ever seen.

Adventures in Babysitting
Wally and Kimmi

[Exterior; Narlmarch Forest, Night]

Wally and Kimmi are hiking through the woods with a destination of the newly(ish) recovered Shrine of Erastil. The full moon shining overhead flits through the pines casting myriad shadows.

“By Desna’s wings,” Kimmi whispers hoarsely, stopping and doubled over obviously out of breath, “Do you have elk legs? I have a stitch in my side.”

Wally slows his horse-like pace for a brief moment “These woods is dangerous, it be best if we git’er done fast; in an out. I reckon we can make camp jest up ahead, I think theres a clearin’. We can do some o’yourn educatin, and rest for the night.”

Kimmi rolls her eyes in the dark, “This sucks.”

Wally, already striding ahead in the gloom, “Then maybe you have the temperment for a herbalist…”

Kimmi snarls to herself, grits her teeth, and trots into the trees to catch up.

[Sometime later]

In a small moonlit clearing, the two have made camp. Around a modest campfire, Wally and Kimmi finish sparring with light arms.

“Good! An I see yer jest about growed inty that armor I give to you. Go fetch us some dinner, I got somethin needs attend to.” With that, Wally sits down and begins scribbing on a piece of parchment.

Kimmi sheaths her short sword, grabs her bow and arrow and ventures off.

Once in the woods, Kimmi’s vision slowly clears from the bright light of the campside to the dim light of the wood. The air is damp and cool, and the trees feel almost oppressively close; for they are deep in the forboding Narlmarches. As she walks, Kimmi squeezes hard at the token around her neck, a tiny effigy of her prodigal father, hoping for luck in her hunt.

“Tracking at night, what the shit. Redneck idiot, what is he even thinking? We’re both going to starve.”

Suddenly Kimmi’s blood runs cold as she hears a low growl turn into a menacing chuckle, too close for comfort.
“…And here I thought I was the only one who was hungry, little Kimmi…”

Kimmi turns and runs toward the camp at full speed, the ache in her legs suddenly forgotten in her panic.

The sounds of rustling and cackling erupt behind her, “Yes Run!”, followed by a terrifying howl.

Kimmi passes into the clearing, “Wally! Help!”, but stops short blinking in shock and disbelief – the barbarian is nowhere to be seen.

In that instant, something bursts out of the dense treeline behind her, slamming her forward and knocking her off her feet towards the fire. She turns to face her attacker while scrabbling backwards with her hands in a panic, unable to draw her sword.

“Oh Wally Help!”, Jeva mocks in gravelly falsetto, rising to her full height and bearing down on the prone Eaveswalker. The firelight reflecting in the werewolf’s eyes and fangs giving her an even more wicked and demented appearance.

“Don’t mind if I do!”, the sound of the Wolfkiller axe whistling through the air above Kimmi’s head cuts Jeva’s cackle short, followed by a solid thunk as it embeds itself in Jeva’s shoulder before disappering in a cloud of motes.

Jeva snarls as Wally (with a howl of his own) takes a running leap over both the fire and his prone apprentice, landing between Kimmi and Jeva. His whirling silvered scythe blazing with reflected firelight and rage. Jeva steps back in surprise, just as Wally spins the scythe, sticking the pole between Jeva’s legs and twisting, causing her to trip backwards.

“Leave her alone, you bitch!” Wally swings at Jeva as she springs to her feet. Ducking and weaving, Jeva snarls one last time before withdrawing to the treeline. “One day, inbred! Would-be-King of Wolves! I will feast!”

“It’s Ragebred King of Wolves to you!” Wally shouted after her into the darkness, the only response a retreating howl.


I'm sorry, but we no longer support this web browser. Please upgrade your browser or install Chrome or Firefox to enjoy the full functionality of this site.