Print

Please login or register.
1 Hour 1 Day 1 Week 1 Month Forever
Login with username, password and session length

[Digital Hellhound]

((OOC thread here!))

---

DUALISM
Round I

***

  For the first time in one thousand years, spring comes with the touch of something ageless on the world. The wind seems to carry the smell of blood and ashes as it roars down into the heights of the world, awakening rivers held imprisoned by the long winter. But something seems to darken the waters in turn, a coldness that has nothing to do with the mountain ice.

At the foothills of the World’s Hearth Mountains, the streams find one of  a doomed species, a minotaur at the very edge of civilization. In the north, the mountains give way to lands of ice and snow, where a hunted wildling flees from the tribe that he can no longer call home. To the east, in the shadow of the Mountains of Light, a young goblin finds himself hounded by men who once called his father friend. To these humans, he is little more than an animal.

And in the west, two others, bearing the scars of bloody pasts. Both have lost their family, murdered by small-minded and greedy men. The last scion of the Naimurs finds his home on the great island, fleeing from the port of Tainais inland to safety. On the continent, the other wanders the floodplains of the Kholmain, a man - or possibly a woman- offering no clues to their past save for the locket they carry.

At the dawn of an age, seven awaken. Seven from troubled sleep, seven from visions of ancient places, seven with knowledge of their true purpose. They are mortal no more - some have not been for a long, long time. Touched by powers beyond their understanding, they are elevated far above the small-minded masses, the strands of Fate drawing as they command - or into a noose around their necks.

Those drawn to the dead-cold heart of ORDER dream of an endless, still field, undisturbed by the wind or sounds of life. A black curtain hangs upon them, threatening snow that will never come. They walk undaunted, knowing their feet will take them to the center, and to revelation.

The Chosen of mad, paradoxical CHAOS dream of a remnant of ancient times, a once-mighty city taken over by the jungle. Exotic flora flourish in shattered keeps, thick vines slither through ornate archways. In the ruins of the palace, they find a rift in the earth, and hear something speak through...

As the Adversaries push out into the world once more, they find their sight limited, their strength gone. Only fragments of lost might remain. Their most faithful servants return with them, staggering out into their lands. Far away, five others rise, not yet fully aware of the role they will play...

---

As Time intrudes upon the prison of ORDER once more, the world holds its breath. The vast creature casts its glance over the world, seeing an old champion and many new, a crown of power locked in an ancient vault, opening only to those worthy of Order, seeing the twists and possibilities of Fate, seeing the path to victory and snatches towards it amongst an infinity of defeats.

On the cold plain of Ongram, a lone figure rises from the dust and snow and turns to address his old master...

Elsewhere, Ramus Thirdfallen, Rankar Alseroth and Solbryn, CHOSEN OF ORDER, feel the call of their master.

Far away, in the ruins of a city long ago reclaimed by the jungle, CHAOS stirs. It senses a familiar presence climbing out into the city, drained and weakened. Others it has touched, unwittingly in its awakening, it senses further away, and the remains of its fallen champion, carelessly left to the wild.

In the ruins and out in the world, Anathema, Wendell Madrytt and Grimman Vazrock, CHOSEN OF CHAOS, feel the call of their master.

Spoiler: Influence (click to show/hide)

ORDER: 3 Influence
CHAOS: 3 Influence

[Cheesecake]

Shh. You might awaken Chaos. We are Chaos, fool! We are? Hahaha! Yes, so we are! Beautiful. Our champions are awake too. They are under prepared. They must be protected. Indeed.

Grant Chosen vision of nearby enchanted gear.

[Xantalos]

| At long last, I am awakened | I am returned after a millenium of distrust, disorder | Of chaos | ...I feel the shackles of this prison grating upon me still | I am not yet free | But my Chosen are | Urd'Amboor | Three others | They will lead the way to eternity |

Order turns it's attentions upon he who has served it longest, who has risen at last from the plains of Ongram to serve again.
Urd'Amboor.

| My faithful Urd'Amboor | I see you are awakened as well | But you are free while I am not | The chains of our prison proved to be escapable, I see | This is a great development in our favor | But I sense my twin has awakened as well, and with him the other | The Anathema | It is appropriate, in a way | Dualism in all things | Light for dark, earth for sky, Order for Chaos | But I cannot let it overtake the world again | It will be trying to get free | I must as well | You will aid me in this endeavor | There will be kingdoms and civilizations somewhere in the world still | Our absence has no doubt allowed them to become corrupt | Travel, my Urd'Amboor, to the closest civilization | Seek out those aligned with Order and reveal to them their true purpose | Spread the word of my return | And send the converts here - to Ongram |

The colossal intelligence sweeps the land, searching for those that it deems its heralds in the world. It finds one first:

| Rankar Alseroth | A Kasar | You come from a proud lineage, young one | But you have been marred by the chaos directed toward your kind, and your mind has fallen away from the ideals of Order you used to live up to | You distrust your fellow mortals, believing them fallen to Chaos | You may be right | But you are in a fortuitous time, Rankar | I, Order, have returned to the world after a sleep of a millenium | Soon I will need champions, mortal heralds to spread Order throughout the world to protect from the corrupting influence of my opposite | I have looked into you, and seen that you have the potential to become great | But you fear to be shunned by greater civilization, do you not? | Fear not, Rankar | Before, they may have dismissed you as no one, a person of no consequence that no one would miss or mourn | There is a way to make them listen to you |

Order sends a vision of the keep the Crown of Silence is contained in to Rankar, and the path to it from where he currently is. He is granted a vision of everything falling into its proper place, everything going right for once, with him wearing the Crown among the centerpieces of the grand design.

| Now go, Rankar | With the Crown you may bring Order to the land now called Gaolmarc | iIt was once a bastion of solitude where laws were not broken, citizens lived in harmony with their neighbors, and Order set everything into proper place | With my passing it has faded, however, barely graspiung it's former glory | If you can retrieve the Crown you can revive the kingdom, take control - make sure, for once, that greed and ambition do not compromise the rule of law | The vault in which the Crown is contained will only open to those dedicated to Order - it will open for you | Go now, Rankar of the Kasar | Bring your people to light again, and peace to this land of strife |

Next the being of stillness turns its attentions to a most curious disciple - this one has the mark of those who were once affiliated with Chaos - yet his love for Order burns through such preconceptions.

| Ramus Thirdfallen | I recall your ilk | they waged war against me in the last great conflict between me and my opposite | But you | You are different | You are contrary to that which your family has aligned | Your ancestors may have allied with Chaos | But your heart speaks of Order | I see your predicament | Distrusted by all | Cast out from greater society | You believe they are beyond saving | I can help you | I can lead you to the one who framed you, to do as you will | But afterward, travel to my domain | Ongam | The Silent Plain | Where your family once fought on the side of Chaos, sought to obliterate all civilization | You can fight to save it | I offer great things, Nalmur | A kingdom all your own if you wish | A repaired reputation | A loving family | Only serve me and these shall be yours | Now go and look upon he who would discredit you |

The identity and location of the one who framed his family is revealed to Ramus.

Order then turns its attention to the last of it's Chosen. A strange one, no doubt. Gender indistinguishable, motives uncertain. A dandelion seed on the winds of fate.
Order knew that no matter how much it tried to contol things (at least as of now), sometimes Fate decided to take matters into its own hands.
It would let this one go, for now. If it needed to intervene, it still had a modicum of power to utilize.

Expentiures of Power (for GM purposes):
Grant Rankar a vision of the Crown of Silence and where it is located, as well as what it can do (1 IP)
Grant Ramus a vision of where the man who framed him and his family is located (1 IP)
Do nothing to Solbryn beyond the dreams of Ongram that come of being Chosen (0 IP)

[Dwarmin]

Order

Rankar Alseroth wakes up with a steady breath, feeling the snowflakes fall into his open eyes. He rises fully in time, shaking the ice that formed in the night from his coarse black beard with a stroke of his hand.

The dream, so real...he can hear fragments of the voice in his mind still...but only fragments, a whisper, a nod. He feels as if he heard the voice fully he would die. When it rises...when IT RISES, it will be a ponderous image in the clouds. Glorious. Terrible. He fears it and yet wants to see. Is in fact, powerless to look away.

He knows it was not a kind voice-there was no mercy in it, none at all-but there was hope there, maybe. For him...for the world...a perfect world. There is a momentary sense of awe, as he imagines everything that is and could be...as a finely built home. Finely lined thatch in mathematically measured rows overlapped with thick mammoth hides to keep out the cold and rain. Strong supporting beams of young, fresh Iron-oak, cut crosswise with a craftsman's care and precision, overlapping and fitting together for extra strength. A warm and thick Kasar weaved rug double thick, covering the floor, done with love over the generations, every precision cut ideogram and geometric symbol relating to an important historical event. And a family, sheltered within-a wife, a child..or two. A vision of an ordered world, in a way he can understand.

As he ponders this, he can sense something in him, something new...a road made of steel in mind, telling him to go...Southeast.

Rankars well honed sense of direction, always leading him unerringly toward this. Now he can see the path in his mind. Over the Worlds Hearth mountains that loom behind him-there is a whisper, of a high and secret pass covered in thick tangles of thorny vine he might find. Tough going, but not impossible, not for a Kasar. There will be danger there, if goes that way, and a price to be paid. Then...a summit, where he can look down...on the green lands once again. The vision becomes blurry-he is going faster, now. Perhaps by water...perhaps by cloud...he will reach a land called Gaolmarc...the name fills him with a certain dread. He must find a castle that once served goodness and justice, though it is ruined now. And, then there if a flash of gold and a sound like velvet tearing. He does not know what it is he must find...the only thought that comes to him is that this great prize not unlike the great warstaves Kasar chieftains once held to indicate their right to rule. Though it is not that, it means the same thing. He can bring Order to a broken land once more, if he has enough courage to claim it.

This is all he knows.

He will have to face the lands he once fled, if he wishes to follow this path...but, as the feeling begins to fade (the path of steel stays clear in his mind), he feels nothing at all but the chilling bite of the wind. And knows, in the end, he is still alone. And the choice, is up to him...

[7]

The weather is clearing, slowly. Rankar takes another deep breath. Maybe he will see the sun by noon. He is still quite alone, here. The River of Steel and his call to destiny leads South over the mountains-but the city of Pithome is a bit further North. They have work there...which means purpose, and perhaps an alternate path to his goal, if he chooses to pursue it. He knows the city has many Wonders, none the least easy transportation South on their linked carriage-trains, though it will take longer at their speed then he would have on his own two hooves, he thinks. Or maybe that's just the pride talking.

Spoiler: Rankar Alseroth, Chosen of Order (click to show/hide)

Tier I
HP: 30/30
Combat: 1 die
Action: 1 die
Magic: 1 die
Skills and Traits: None
Equipment:
Steady Food Supply
Old Smithing Tools
Notebook and Quill

Northern-make Barbed Iron Spear *equipped*
Loose Iron Ringmail Shirt *equipped*
Iron Utility Knife
Known Spells: None

---

Ramus Thirdfallen wakes up with tears drying on his cheeks. He self consciously wipes them away, hoping no one in the crowded military bunk saw. Though the dreams have never really stopped...this one was certainly more vivid than any other.

He had seen...what was left of his family...after the mob was done. But one was missing. This does not bring him relief. Someone watching, far above the flames and the shouts. The loved, still innocent seeming face of his youngest sister. Elanora Thirdfallen...the guard thought she might be a man, but...she knows how to hide her true form...she stole the Nalmur symbol from your mothers jewelry box in the dead of night. There is a fleeting sense that something horrible happened, that she did not mean for it to happen this way, not entirely. But happen it did.

He watches more...but she darkles, and tincts. Not all there. Hiding in plain sight.  A singular glimpse into this human heart.

The jeers. The mockery. The anger. Like a festering wound, over the years. Elanora was always the calmest of you-always stressing understanding, and meeting fear with courage. Now you know why...for she had become the very thing the people accused her of...sacrificed her family, willingly or no, so that she may escape in the...Chaos. She serves nothing but Chaos, now. Her vision of the world liberated by flames, suffering as she has suffered. It fills you with horror.

...and she waits-unafraid, now, for her appearance is changed once more. Elanora is waiting for a boat to take her far away...waiting in a city to the East, the port city of Longeria...in a simple Inn with crossed swords above the door and the head of a Dire Tiger above the fireplace. The man who owns this place also serves Chaos, and sometimes he poisons mens mead to steal their gold.

You feel to confront her may be your penance. Or your death.

And yet this vision comes with a warning. A price to be paid to know this. The enormity is much to contemplate...a great journey, to a place of ice and snow and cold. A path of steel in your mind, that beckons you even as you concentrate on your own matters. There is a hazy vision...a castle in the clouds...IT RISES...

And then all is gone.

And you are also alone, once more. What shall you do? It does seem sort of silly in  the new days light. There's work to be done today, after all...not chasing foolish dreams and hopes...or thoughts of vengeance...right?

[5]

A sharp knock on the side of your bunk. A fellow soldier...Albrecht. Thin, a blonde beard, always a bit of a smile. He is new here, like you, and to your dismay seems to consider you some sort of friend. Which is not good for a man on the run.

"Y'allrights? Heard yoo screamin in night, friend. Nightmare caller, huh?" He asks, in a thick Islander accent. "Lots of...fun today, hyu? Get yer sword, friend. Cleaning out the Icthys today, down by the river. You, me...fourfive otta guys..." He says, patting you on the shoulder and turning back to preparing his gear.

Ah, that was your job today-the local magistrate put a standing bounty on those monsters. The Icthys...fishmen. Quasi-humanoid, low intelligence. A natural pest of the riverfolk. They kill and butcher livestock in the fields usually. Knock holes in boats for the Hell of it. Kidnap children, if they can get them.

Spoiler: Ramus Thirdfallen, Chosen of Order (click to show/hide)

Tier I
HP: 30/30
Combat: 1 die
Action: 1 die
Magic: 1 die
Skills and Traits: None
Equipment:
Steady Food Supply
Family Painting
Street Clothes

Islander Iron Scimitar *equipped*
Leather Armor and Hooded Cloak *equipped*
Iron Bootknife
Known Spells: None

---

Solbryn Tylos wakes up with knife in hand, scanning the darkness-with a slow dawn peeking through the leaves.

Gotta be quick to survive, after all. Near the shore in the Southern Ankatet Jungles, overlooking Kholmain bay. Answers, rumors. Following...or running...The city of Spearmount is close, he knows (hopes). Someone who knows about small, interesting trinkets lives there-someone who knows, for a price.

Leaning against the tree, Bryn rubs one temple, sighing. An odd dream. Bryn rarely dreams, especially not so vivid. Not much of an imagination, they said.

It was something great, and terrible. A place that never changes. A river of steel in Bryns mind, telling-demanding?-North. Go North. Find a prison. Get the Keys...many keys...a door. A flurry of snow, cold and merciless. A flare of light in the darkness. It rises...IT RISES.

...A castle in the clouds rises, and now the people are screaming for justice. Or maybe for mercy.

But it goes now-loses interest in Bryn, maybe. Or is just waiting. Bryn feels a great eye watching. Bryn shrugs. What was that, who could say? Bryn does not wonder. Many more things to worry about, here and now. Artis died so Bryn could live. The guilt hangs heavy. Is this truly living? Bryn sometimes wonders if this is looking for something...or running away...

[1]

A sharp low whistle from above the trees. Too high pitched to be just a small bird. A momentary calm. Even the insects fall silent.

Spoiler: Solbryn Tylons, Chosen of Order (click to show/hide)

Tier I
HP: 30/30
Combat: 1 die
Action: 1 die
Magic: 1 die
Skills and Traits: None
Equipment:
Dwindling Food Supply
Strange Necklace
Worn down Clothes
Explorers Kit and Sundry

Jungleland Cleaver *equipped*
Rhinox Hide Armor *equipped*
Iron knife
Known Spells: None

[Digital Hellhound]

Chaos

Wendell Madryt

 Wendell drifts into awareness softly, opening his eyes to a cool dawn. The trees rise into the heights around him, framing a clouded sky. The forest is quiet, not a single bird singing - too peaceful by far. Wendell shifts his weight, his back sore from sleeping against the great oak, but Father's shack has not been safe for weeks.

Light filters slowly into the great titanswood of Vadenne, the goblin's home for as long as he can remember, raised by a kind, understanding human. But the old hunter is dead, leaving Wendell little else than a crossbow he does not know how to use and a sturdy boning knife he'd made for him, years ago. He had made the mistake of holding onto the shack at first, but the men who had once called his father friend had come and hurt him. They had ransacked the place, all the while proclaiming their grief for Father's passing.

But... such troubles feel very far away now, as Wendell's thoughts return to the dream that was not a dream, the vision of something far too inhuman and ancient for him to comprehend. He knows the being had seen into him, seen very inch of his petty existence.

And with it had come a vision, vivid images of places both far and nearby. They had danced and drifted through his dreams - a fair-haired girl from the village he'd have recognized anywhere, carrying a necklace around her neck, a stone with a spiral on it - in his dream, it had glowed with inner light and she had smiled and beckoned him forth. And after it, a vast mound of earth in the north, where the forest gives way to the foothills of the Mountains of Light, hiding inside something long-forgotten. And the most dreamlike of them all, a staff carried by an eagle-headed man, towering over the Vadenne, seeking him out with his burning gaze. He had been growing larger with every second.

These thoughts are broken by voices - human voices, which Wendell has learned to dread. The hunters are the worst, spitting at him, hurting him, treating him as an animal. The villagers no longer hide their fear and distrust, avoiding him when they can, betraying their hate when they can't. There are kind ones - the girl, Caulanne, and her sisters - and others, but their pity is sometimes worse than any scorn. And if they are passing travellers... there is never any knowing either way. They approach quickly, the stomping of their feet the only thingbreaking the eerie lack of noise.

Spoiler: Wendell Madryt, Chosen of Chaos (click to show/hide)

Tier I
HP: 30/30
Combat: 1 die
Action: 1 die
Magic: 1 die
Skills and Traits: None
Equipment:
   *Old Crossbow (1d6+1 damage)
   *Boning Knife (1d6-1 damage)
   *Pouch of Coin
Known Spells: None

Grimman Vazrock

 Hunger wakes Grimman Vazrock, into the darkness of the old shack that is now his home. Nothing stops the cold from getting in, shaky walls and empty windows seeming to invite in the freezing wind of the north. The fires he sets die quickly, but Grimman has found aid in the thick furs of his prey. Shoving away the bear pelt over his weakened form, he sits upright and casts a wearied look around the inside the cottage. It has been adequate temporary shelter, but he knows he needs to leave, soon. It is still within the hunting grounds of the tribe and only an unwillingness to leave them has kept him here after his wounds had healed.

The wind howls outside, like the whispers of an ancient god. The comparison does not spring from nowhere, Grimman realizes with a start - the dream, of the strange land, full of exotic trees and life, and the ruins of civilization - comes back to him in a rush, and he remembers what he felt and heard at the rift.

It seems like a vision of the gods, but it was no petty god of men that he sensed there. The experience had shaken him to the core, but he knew that had been merely a glimpse into a thing of pure... chaos.

There had been something else, too, afterwards - a lighter touch. It had filled Grimman's head with images and places - a cave of shimmering ice on the coast, in the north, and a frozen warrior clad in silver armor within. Weapons, hidden under the ice and snow all around him, the remains of a once-mighty army gathered in these fields, annihilated in the blink of an eye by.... something, something that dwelled in the great Plain of Ongram in the east - and the ruins of their great fortress, on the edge of the mountains, their tools still scattered amongst its vaults.

Grimman stands up as the hunger grows. He needs to hunt, though game is scarce here - but the men of his tribe scour these areas too, and an encounter with them could be his death. Home was east, with the tribe - now he has no such thing. The World's Hearth Mountains rise far in the south and west, while the Aximere lies a few days' travel to the north.

Spoiler: Grimman Vazrock, Chosen of Chaos (click to show/hide)

Tier I
HP: 30/30
Combat: 1 die
Action: 1 die
Magic: 1 die
Skills and Traits: None
Equipment:
   *Iron Hunting Spear (1d6+0 damage)
   *Bundles of Furs (2)
Known Spells: None

Anathema

 Anathema is running, far into the ruined city before he understands. He is alive. He has returned. It has returned.

He collapses, panting from exertion. The jungle bustles with life, green covering the dusty white of the city that once stood here. Memories flash through the champion's mind - a ghost city, where the streets were still pristine white, the jungle a carefully-maintained park. It was perhaps appropriate it was now wild, the order of man nowhere to be seen. They had brought him here when they sealed Chaos itself into a prison outside time. Anathema knows he was closed in with his master, but not why, not what crimes he had committed against the people of the city. He knows he has lost something he will never be able to regain, and finds tears streaming down his face. Anguish, erupting from nowhere, grips his heart and soul and he buries his face in the wet grass.

Eventually, he rises, studying his reflection from a pool on the path. He remembers a handsome, long-haired youth - but what stares back at him resembles a skeleton more. His skin is pale, his face sunken. Red hair falls in ragged, uneven clumps. But his eyes are as clear as ever, so fierce he nearly takes an involuntary step back. His thoughts swirl, confused images of mirrors and a stern-faced man too familiar to bear assaulting his mind.

Beneath it all, he feels the sickly-sweet call of magic. He was once a master of the Art, but now only fragments come to him. Old spells seem to beckon to him, feeling as if he could craft them by instinct alone. It would aid his memory, he is sure, but he knows nothing of them.

Closing his eyes, he remembers a vision from Chaos, composed in its own mad way. The contents are clear, artifacts of the past age lost beneath the rubble and jungle. They are all around him, burning with old magic. The gates of the city lay at the end of the overgrown street, the jungle covering the horizon as far as the eye can see.

Spoiler: Anathema, Chosen of Chaos (click to show/hide)

Tier III
HP: 50/50
Combat: 3 dice
Action: 3 dice
Magic: 3 dice
Skills and Traits: None
Equipment:
   *None
Known Spells:
   *Unknown [Difficulty: 5]
   *Unknown [Difficulty: 6]
   *Unknown [Difficulty: 6]
   *Unknown [Difficulty: 7]
   *Unknown [Difficulty: 10]

[Shootandrun]

He dreamed. He dreamed of a tumult, of chaos, and of sudden stillness. He dreamt of a voice that came from the stillness - or perhaps the stillness was the voice. It spoke of many things - order and chaos, greatness, a crown... But it was so clouded. When he woke up, he did not remember much. He did, however, know where he had to go. He mused on the strangeness of it all, and got up.

He was alone. His camp consisted of a tent, a fire protected by a circle of stones, and a few bags containing supplies. Leaving the tent, he walked to the fire, put a new log in it, and used the old embers to start it anew. Afterwards, he went to his bags. In the manner of one doing an old habit, he took his notebook, a quill, and some ink, and sat in front of the fire. The notebook was large enough that he could not hold it open with one hand - he had to be sitting to write in it. It would have looked oversized next to a human, but for him, it was just perfect. Slowly, he started to write.

I dreamed last night. A voice promised me things, and ordered me to find a... Crown. I remember little of it all, but I know that when I awoke this morning, the south was calling me. For years, I have travelled ever further north, seeking purpose yet now that I have passed the World's Hearth at long last, my purpose lies south in the warmer lands.

There is a city, a little further north. I could find transport there. I imagine I could keep on travelling north for a few days, but I will not. The little time I may gain taking a carriage train, assuming I cannot go faster on my own, I would lose by having to travel there in the first place. Besides, I have little coin, and I doubt they would accept a Kasar's goods as payment.

So I walk south. I sought purpose for a long time, and now purpose calls me. We will see what awaits beyond the mountains.

Finishing the last word with care, he closed the book and put it back in his largest bag. It was heavy, and hard to maintain, but it was worth the effort. Of that, he had no doubt. Looking over his supplies, he nodded satisfyingly. He had enough food that he should be able to go over the mountains without having to waste time foraging, and the south was so plentiful in resources that any true nomad could often find enough to eat without even wasting more than half an hour every day.

He had everything he needed. All that remained was the path to take. There was one in his mind - though he was doubtful. Yesterday, he had known of no direct path across the mountains anywhere nearby. Now, he was absolutely convinced there was one, though he did not know exactly how to find it. His gut was telling him that the path would find him, not the other way around. His mind was telling him that if he got lost in the mountains, he may very well end up wasting much more time than he would have had he taken the longer, safer route around the high peaks.

Sighing, he started walking towards the mountains. He did not precisely know which way he was going, but he knew that the one he was using was the one that would lead him to the pass.

Go into the World's Hearth Mountains, and try to take the pass that will lead across them.

[filiusenox]

        Solbryn pressed herself against the tree, keeping her grip on the bone handle of her notched iron knife. The dream, the one she was still mulling over in the back of her mind, would have to wait.
   She followed suit with the beasts of the woods, staying silent and still, like a deer just before the arrow strikes it, or the mouse before it flees from the swooping owl. Pushing to her feet, staying cautious, she grabs up her satchel from beside her and slings it over shoulder. Inches by inches, she moves under a thick, more safer-seeming branch, waiting. She slips a bit of jerky from it, gnawing it down half-way hungrily before shoving it back away.
   That nagging thought to go north made her unfocused as she listened, and, for a moment, she was just tempted to turn north, to turn away from this nearly pointless quest, and instead find this place, this…floating castle? These strange keys to open a jail? A jail for what? Or who?
   She had too many nagging questions that needed answering before she’d wander off to follow her dreams, hah. And she was so close, too close to finding out about this….damned…locket, this necklace that nestled so gently, so…calmly, so softly, around her neck, but felt more and more like a lead weight the longer she wore it. Her free hand idly came up to stroke the bauble of copper, the other still holding tight on the knife.
   She was hungry, tired, sore, and in dire need of a bath, but stayed still and silent, just like she did oh so long ago.

Wait and listen, keeping under the thick branches of the tree. Wield Knife.

((Ugh so sucky. I'm sorry about the quality! The next one will be better! I promise!))

[monk12]

Anathema peers uncertainly around the overgrown city, moving as fast as he can manage. Much of it is strange and foreign, purposeless ruins covered with crazed vines, shrouded by broad ferns, with thick trees growing through toppled walls and overturned paving stones. And yet... to his eyes, a gutted tower with hollow windows briefly returns to its former splendor, white stone shining in the sun, vibrant flags snapping in a fierce wind. The fountain below it holds a statue half again as tall as a man, pouring water from an amphora into the surrounding basin, but now the statue is gone, and so is much of the basin, the sides crumbled by creeping vines. Nine buildings in a row appear hostile and foreign despite being relatively whole, but the tenth he can see as though it were new, a prosperous whitewashed inn with cheerful patrons going in and out, the sound of music wafting through the door. They would not be so cheerful if they knew he was watching. Just for an instant.

He skids to a halt on a tilted, mossy paving stone. He does not know this place, but once it must have been a broad plaza. Though the paving stones here are broken and overgrown, few trees have pushed to the sun. Anathema sees the sun; in some ways it has only been days since he felt that warmth on his face, but in other ways it has been far, far longer. He breathes the free air, inhaling the pungent odor of plants he does not recognize. Melody loved flowers. He listens as the cacophony of the jungle begins once again, chittering monkeys and chirping birds competing with the drone of countless insects and the snarl of some distant predator.

Anathema is free.

He laughs giddily. He is free, and he is alive, and surely that is more than any of the city's former inhabitants can claim! They died to stop me, but I survived. Everyone died, but I survived. He does not realize when a snarl contorts his face, does not recognize the black mood that consumes him. Anguished tears roll unheeded down his face. The war never ends.

"This was mine! Mine by right! You stole it from me!" He bellows at the ancient, empty structures surrounding him. The noise of the jungle ceases for a moment, startled, before slowly returning. Lost, everything lost. Everything he had, everything he knew, everyone he... The war never ends.

He shudders, remembering. A command like that, no man could forget. Anathema was free, and so was Chaos. And if they were free, then so must be Order, and Urd'Amboor. He knew this must be true, Master Jondyn's teachings had been quite clear that Chaos must balance Order, that the struggle must be eternal, but if he needed any confirmation, the last command of Chaos made it clear. There could be no need to make ready for battle with such haste, if the old enemies were not ready.

Blood and strife, forever. Absently plucking at the fine red cloth of his shirt, Anathema moved deeper into the city, searching for the artifacts Chaos had revealed. They were buried, yes, but not too deep. The past could not be buried too deeply, no matter how much time had passed, and Anathema was willing to dig.

[Knave]

The dream was overpowering. So clear, yet startling. The holy men of his tribe often spoke of going on vision quests, spiritual journeys to awaken their true calling. They would travel out into the woods to starve themselves and seek spiritual guidance. Sometimes they would not return. Sometimes they would come back claiming their spirits guided them to clarity. Perhaps that was what was happening to Grimman now?

Strange lands filled his mind. A forest who's trees were so numerous and thick that you could not see the sun through the canopy. Exotic creatures. He had heard tales of such exotic lands as a child, of places where the snow never touched or fell, but it was hard for a child to believe in a place that sounded so fantastical, so outer-worldly. And another place, closer. A cave, full of scared artifacts.

Perhaps the spirits were guiding him to his true calling. The dreams had only gotten stronger in days past. Punching through the painful companion in his belly known as hunger. He knew he could no longer stay in the shack that he called his home. He must go to the cave. He must search out this place and find it's bounty within. But he must be careful. No doubt his former tribe mates might still be ranging in the area. The winter had taken it's toll on young Grimman and though he was young and resilient, he doubted he could survive another ambush.

Kneeling down by the remains of his fire, he began packing what he could, his furs perhaps the only thing between life and a cold, forgotten death in the snow and ice. He would set out in search of the cave and hopefully come along some game on the way. The dull ache in his stomach subsided as he picked up his hunting spear and gripped it tightly as he rose. He did not know his purpose, but he knew his goal. Chaos had chosen him, and he would not fail his guiding spirit.

Begin heading towards the shimmering cave of Ice. Hunt along the way

[IamanElfCollaborator]

Wendell tired of his life in the woods. For years, he had been taunted by the villagers. Caulanne was nice to him, as was her family, but they pitied him, and to Wendell, it felt sometimes worse than the bullying he had received.

He hated this village. He wanted out.

He hatched a plan. He would take what was left in the cabin, and venture into the world. Of course, the looters and hooligans who had taken everything from his father's house had ruined that plan.

So he ran.

He ran into the woods. The woods he had grown up in, the woods he knew more than anyone else, except maybe his own father- Abram, not the goblin warrior who had left him in the woods- and from there, constantly kept himself on the move.

He was hungry. So so hungry.

He saw a deer nearby, unaware of his presence. He also heard the footsteps getting closer.

Knowing that it was a choice of dying quickly for food or going hungry for now when he could find food later, Wendell ran.
Run away from my pursuers.

[adwarf]

Sliding his scimitar into the sheath on his back, and making sure his boot knife was safely tucked away as his mind was running rampant over the 'dream', it seemed more of a vision to him but could he trust it wasn't simply his mind playing tricks or some outside force influencing him. Then there was that path, and the castle in the clouds such a wondrous sight that even now called for him to come to it, to meet the one who sought him. As those came to mind he began to think,

'Could it really have been Elanora? She did always seem different, but why would she frame us, all of her remaining family, to kill that Captain? I have to many questions and to few answers, but that 'vision' seemed to accurate, to real, to have been a lie. My heart screams at me to follow it, to hunt her down and kill her for what she has done, but my instincts tell me that would be like walking into a lion's den empty handed ...

Even if it kills me I'll get vengeance for our family, whatever she has become she is no longer any sister of mine.'

With that Ramus' mind was set, pulling the hood of his cloak onto his head he turned to Albrecht and spoke up,

"I think its time we get a move on."

With that he turned and walked out the door, pulling the hood farther down over his face, and started to make the trip to his destination. After a little bit of walking he turned a bit towards Albrecht again and began to talk,

"Albrecht, I haven't told you much about my past, but I feel like telling you something of it. A few years ago a person killed my entire family, they murdered a man and framed it on the rest of my family, and I some how managed to survive that incident, yet I never found the person who did it. That's why I took up this line of work, in the hopes of finding something out about who killed them so long ago, and after so much time has passed I finally think I found who did it.

So I think after this job is done with, I'm gonna leave and go after the culprit. I'm not entirely sure why I'm telling you this but I figured you might want to know why I'm leaving. I haven't had that many friends in my life but you've been a pretty good one, thanks for that."

With that Ramus fell silent waiting to see how his friend would reply to the news.

[Dwarmin]

Ramus Thirdfallens friend seems to take a slight step away. The adjustment one makes when judging how strong a friendship really is.

"...explains why you always so silent, hyu? Explains alot. Revenge is tough, but I unnerstand you need to take it. And why you didn't tell me..."

He seems to reflect for a moment.

"I dunno if I might tag ya. You're a good friend, Ramus...but I hate to say...I wanta help, but...I need the money. Got a family, needs the gold. My kids, they gotta eat-Mickel needs that special medicine for his breathing, too-or he gets sick. Buy  something nice for my ever loving wife now and again, Gods know Tiruia deserves it. Think I could help ya if you want...but it's an awful risk. You think there's any gold to be made in this ah, revenge business? I wanta help, but...I've got responsibility...

The Godspeak say never to abandon a friends or family that needs helping, but they never said I'd be one to choose which."

It's obvious Albrechts morals are at war with his desire to provide for his family, and he falls silent, waiting for your ideas.

[adwarf]

"Family is important, its the reason for my desire to kill that person, but if you do come along I'll do my best to get make sure your family is taken care of. The person I seek to kill has a very old symbol, if they have that they are more then likely to have something more valuable as well, but they are also strong. We'll probably need more men to kill them, but that shouldn't be to hard since I feel things will soon start to change soon, and hopefully my goal will be a part of that change ..."

Ramus replied to his friend, but began to trail off at the end, unsure of what he felt and how his friend would react to Ramus' full goal. He shook his head, and pushed the idea to the back of his mind, laughing slightly he grins and starts up again,

"But that will be decided for later, now lets go to this job of ours and see what we're fully up against, maybe we'll score a little something extra this time around. Extra pay is always good."

Head to my next job with Albrecht.

[Digital Hellhound]

Chaos

Wendell Madryt

 Now sure of the humans' murderous intent, the young goblin scrambles to his feet. He catches fragments of conversation, loud, confident voices. He doesn't stay to listen. Grabbing only Father's crossbow and simple leather belt with his knife and coin, Wendell runs.

The forest flashes past, Wendell's seasoned feet making their way through twisted branches and rock slippery still from yesterday's rains. The sound of his feet on the soft soil and his ragged breathing join the voices and their stomping steps, which soon fade away completely. Wendell doesn't stop there, knowing they could still follow. He runs up-hill, continuing as the titanswood begins to clear, not stopping until his lungs are burning, his body aching with exhaustion. Wendell falls, breathing heavily.

He opens his eyes a while later, groaning softly. He thinks he can actually hear birdsong, breaking the silence, as he pushes himself to a sitting position, looking around.

The goblin has ended at the bottom of large, soft cliffs, the forest a bit sparser here. He notices a few birds on the branches and squirrels moving on the ground and feels glad for some return to the emptiness earlier. A moment later an eagle flies across the sky, the sun illuminating it in red and gold.

He takes a moment to gather his wits. He doesn't usually come this far north, preferring to stay close to Father's shack nearer to the village - not that sticking around there is so wise any longer. If he's correct, there should be a stream nearby, part of an offshoot of the Oxmain river feeding the Vadenne. Beyond that, a path through the woods to the village of Carver's Fall in the north. Father took Wendell there once, though the elder of the village made him wear a hood and a cloak to mask his species. He - a man named Saman, if he recalled correctly - had been kind, though, and Father had trusted him. On the other hand, Father had most likely trusted the hunters as well. Further north are the mounds from his dreams, and whatever lies inside.

Wendell can't help but to feel he overreacted somewhat earlier, though. He doubts the hunters are actually looking for him, and hiding from them has not been an issue in the past. If he's gonna leave for good... maybe he should say his goodbyes. Or maybe it's better to leave, spare them the pain - hell, they'll probably be glad.

Spoiler: Wendell Madryt, Chosen of Chaos (click to show/hide)

Tier I
HP: 30/30
Combat: 1 die
Action: 1 die
Magic: 1 die
Skills and Traits: None
Equipment:
   *Old Crossbow (1d6+1 damage)
   *Boning Knife (1d6-1 damage)
   *Pouch of Coin
Known Spells: None

Grimman Vazrock

 With newfound confident borne by the visions, Grimman staggers up from his bed, holding the furs close. He splashes water melted by the fire on his face to properly wake himself up and peers outside. The wind seems to have died down a bit, still driving snow over the wastes before it. Grimman knows it's not likely to get better soon - no point wasting time. He gathers his meager possessions and says goodbye to the shack that has been his home for the past season.

The wind outside is cold as expected, biting into his flesh despite the furs. The northerner grimaces and presses on, doing his best to ignore the ice and snow. Someone weaker - a southerner, or one of the sea raiders - would probably panic and die an inglorious death. Grimman knows to keep moving and warm himself however he can whenever he can. The snow is still tightly-packed and solid and Grimman is soon fast on his way across the plains, away from the sunken ravine of the shack. The hours pass quickly, the landscape utterly devoid of other life.

[6] Late in the day, as the sun is approaching the horizon - though this north, the nights are short anyway - Grimman's hunter's eyes spot the tracks of a large animal - something faintly resembling an elk or the more dangerous farum - and begins following. The wind is quick to hide irregularities in the snow, but Grimman's expert skills allow him to see where faint remnants remain. The tracks lead him north-west, towards the mighty Caudon river. Soon they are joined by another set, only increasing Grimman's pace.

He finally reaches the animals at the top of a broken cliffside. Two farum - great, tremendously fast beasts with thick, horn-like antlers. He maneuvers so the wind is blowing against him, gripping his spear tightly. The iron spearhead, 'acquired' from a pair of rude southerner traders, has served him well in the past. Two of these things might be too risky to take on in normal circumstances, but hunger overrides anything else right now.

Creeping ever-so-closer, Grimman waits until the chance is perfect - and strikes.

[1+15=16]vs[4+4=8]: Grimman wins for 8 hits.

The farum turn too slowly, fast reflexes having never been part of their repertoire. Grimman comes in low, with a quick stab towards the first animal's throat. [4+4+1+3] The spear finds its mark and sinks in deep, the farum's spine giving away with an audible crack. Bland incomprehension fill its eyes as it falls, gushing blood. But Grimman is already on the move, swinging the spear in a wide arc towards the other. [4+5+1+1] The strike catches it across the eyes and the beast lets out a pitiful howl. Grimman finishes it off with another stab into the side and after it collapses, into the skull.

The creature's final, pitiful shriek echoes through the waste for a long time, and Grimman sits by its side, breathing heavily. He looks around - the bottom of the cliffside could provide some shelter from the wind, perhaps allow him to make a fire - though there's no guarantee of that. From the distance, the waste looks perfectly even and white, betraying no shelter. Perhaps at the coast, in the caves - but he doesn't look forward to carrying either one of the carcasses that far.
 

Spoiler: Grimman Vazrock, Chosen of Chaos (click to show/hide)

Tier I
HP: 30/30
Combat: 1 die
Action: 1 die
Magic: 1 die
Skills and Traits: None
Equipment:
   *Iron Hunting Spear (1d6+0 damage)
   *Bundles of Furs (2)
Known Spells: None

Anathema

With a spreading grin, Anathema spins around on the street, following the visions etched into his mind. He stops, sensing the presence of one of the artifacts ahead of him. Following the directions in his mind, Anathema walks confidently into the overgrowth.

[2] Climbing over a pile of rubble, Anathema comes to what obviously used to be a large plaza. The barely-recognizable remains of a fountain are now home to a twisting black-barked tree, carrying fruit that set off grumbles in his stomach. Anathema moves into the open space, stepping over the vines that now cover most of the stone tiles. He closes his eyes, matching the earlier image with the one before him. After a few moments, he sees it - a dull, battered amulet hidden in the undergrowth where most wouldn't see it. He moves over to grab it.

The amulet seems to be intact, more or less. The inside of the amulet seems to be a dull black - though he gets the feeling it looks deeper than it should be - the edges bronze once painted gold. It obviously has a magical purpose - some experimenting with his forgotten abilities might be in order.

Not satisfied yet, Anathema sets out in a random direction, [1] making his way a vaguely familiar bit of street. He can sense another artifact waiting in a grandiose-looking hall - though it appears only the edifice is still standing. Moving cautiously in, he passes several ruined side rooms and begins to wonder if this place was some sort of collection in the past. To his disappointment, the main hall has long since collapsed in - only a few plinths remain, and Anathema can only feel magic emanating from one of them.

He walks over and studies it closer. The artifact appears to be a mechanical half-glove, a fingerless gauntlet with way too many sharp edges for comfort. Two blade-things stick out from the base of the glove, continuing over the fingers - all too easy to cut yourself with. He wonders if that's the point.

Anathema can make out some sort of bird, perhaps a falcon, engraved into the top of the thing. It's survived surprisingly well given the passage of time, suggesting magical protection.

There are still things the vision showed around the city, though finding them might be tricky.

Spoiler: Anathema, Chosen of Chaos (click to show/hide)

Tier III
HP: 50/50
Combat: 3 dice
Action: 3 dice
Magic: 3 dice
Skills and Traits: None
Equipment:
   *Unidentified Amulet
Known Spells:
   *Unknown [Difficulty: 5]
   *Unknown [Difficulty: 6]
   *Unknown [Difficulty: 6]
   *Unknown [Difficulty: 7]
   *Unknown [Difficulty: 10]

[Dwarmin]

Order

Rankar Alseroth steadily makes his way North, his thoughts heavy with new purpose. He notices with some irony, he is almost retracing the steps he took the previous day...the Worlds Hearth Mountains loom steadily forward. For as long as he has wondered, they have often been in view. The ancient tales his people tell said...

When the Gods chose the place to be created in their own image, they desired somewhere to watch and perfect their craft. The first stones they threw into the lifeless earth become the Worlds Hearth-their sanctuary, where the old ones could watch and tinker and ponder great mysteries. They stretched the Worlds Hearth long and wide, and from it's labyrinthine innards they produced wonders...and life itself. All the mortal races had, at one point, shared the mountains caves and valleys under the watching eyes of their creators, living in peace and prosperity...it was truly a paradise on earth. Yet, in time, a strife in Heaven and Earth began, as the mortals numbers grew unwieldy and their attitudes haughty. The Kasar demanded more room to roam upon the open grass. The men demanded large cities and palaces. The Elves, more forests and trees-and so on, and so forth. They made war upon each other for this, each attempting to change the Worlds Hearth to their own vision-and fouled the gardens and pools of the Great Ones with blood and tears.

In the end, the Gods had a simple decision for it all. They destroyed the gates of sanctuary, casting their unruly children to the wide world. Paradise was forever lost.

The Kasar view this as another layer of the great puzzle. So cast out, that reason that they-and they alone-may one day earn the right to safeguard the Mountains once more...when the great powers that be come to take up their long neglected thrones...

But what to make of old tales, in the new dawns light? Rankar knows their are many old towers and mines in the Worlds Hearth-deep, deep delvings. Odd things. Who can say who really built them...or what still protects them?

The Worlds Hearth draw ever closer.

[6]

Rankar sniffs the wind as it kicks up-detecting the faint scent of a horse on the wind. He looks into the distance, but sees no obvious marks-no lines of men, no dust clouds. It makes him uncomfortable all the same. In these parts, only men ride horses. And few of them are friendly.

He picks up the pace, feeling the first stones of the mountain under his hooves...

...

Following the trail in his mind, Rankar makes his way up-surprisingly nimble and surefooted for such a creature of his size. Kasar learn from an early age they can ill afford tumbles-what would be a mere bruise to a lighter being would be a grievous injury to Kasar given their mass. He spots what he is looking for right away-a narrow cleft in the rock, covered with grey, stonelike vines that grasp the stone like clutching fingers. He should be able to fit-but who knows whats beyond? His sight dims now, only telling him his path leads forward.

He notices each one of the vines is tipped with long, sharp thorns that have bright red tips. His hide will protect him somewhat, he hopes...but this is probably going to hurt. As he watches, scratching his beard, the vines suddenly shift and shudder as if the wind suddenly picked up, or a small animal scurried through them.

Yet, there is no wind here. And no small animals he can see.

Spoiler: Rankar Alseroth, Chosen of Order (click to show/hide)

Tier I
HP: 30/30
Combat: 1 die
Action: 1 die
Magic: 1 die
Skills and Traits: None
Equipment:
Steady Food Supply
Old Smithing Tools
Notebook and Quill

Northern-make Barbed Iron Spear *equipped*
Loose Iron Ringmail Shirt *equipped*
Iron Utility Knife
Known Spells: None

---

Ramus Thirdfallen

Albrecht nods, looking unsure.

"Hya, gotta survive today before worrying about tomorrow anyways." He says.

...

[6][4]

As it turns out, only one other man shows up for the job-an older man named Curnrow, who Ramus knows was once a pirate of some sort. Or at least, whatever he did when he was young wasn't entirely honest. It's not too surprising. Most Mercenaries consider jobs like this beneath them-Icthys don't bring much bounty, as the riverfolk they harm never have much to pay.

Curnrow raises his notched axe as you all meet on the dock. He smiles grimly and sips a small can of coffee, apparently having news to share.

"...Ramus, Albrecht. Heya. Come to kill some fishfolk, huh? Might be more than you bargained for. Somethings got em riled up, lately...they're going crazy. Actually attacked the Pentworth Garrison last night, can ya believe that? Hundreds of em! Just ran through the moats and started climbing up the walls, my brother says. They damn near killed everyone of the monsters, lost about a dozen guys. Not bad-maybe good, saves us the trouble of hunting them-but odd goings on certainly. Just thought you should know fellows." He says, going back to his coffee.

That is odd news. Icthys are usually not organized, or even brave enough to attempt large scale attacks on small villages. Mass suicide into well defended keeps is certainly not usual behavior.

Before you can mull this over, the oarsmen is seen approaching the dock.

...

[2]

And, about an hour later-floating on the stream at an idle pace. In good time, you would likely have arrived at Palanq-the small village that contracted you to kill the Icthys.

It would normally be a peaceful ride, but a mercenary are usually quite aware of the dangers that lurk. Icthys are the smallest and least dangerous-Giant Crocodiles occasionally swim in from the outer islands to hunt the mainland, and it is not uncommon for the imperious Mermen Legions to raid the shore settlements, dragging slaves and loot back to their undersea fortresses. Ramus has even heard River Dragons are occasionally spotted, carefully hiding their bulk among the reeds and mud...waiting to snap unwary prey into their mouths with long, adhesive tongues.

But these thoughts do not distract him. So, while Albrecht are deep in thought, and Curnrow is asleep...only Ramus Thirdfallen sees several shadowy figures under the turbid river waters, silently paddling toward the underside of the canoe.

Spoiler: Ramus Thirdfallen, Chosen of Order (click to show/hide)

Tier I
HP: 30/30
Combat: 1 die
Action: 1 die
Magic: 1 die
Skills and Traits: None
Equipment:
Steady Food Supply
Family Painting
Street Clothes

Islander Iron Scimitar *equipped*
Leather Armor and Hooded Cloak *equipped*
Iron Bootknife
Known Spells: None

---

Solbryn Tylos freezes in place, listening carefully.

[4] vs [1]

She spots the source of the noise, before it does her-it looks like a pretty young woman at absolute first glance...but with long, eagle like wings and sharp talons, along with a harsh seeming, avian face. A Harpy! Solbryn knows they are an intelligent race of demihumans that are most often more opportunistic and curious, than truly malicious. Not unlike Vultures, they usually wait till the excitement is done to take what they want-in addition to being mostly carnivorous (Human is certainly on their diet if they are hungry enough) they are also avaricious and vain, seeking small trinkets that grab their attention to line their nests and decorate themselves. Still, they will not attack a large group of well armed people...

Unfortunately, you personally are neither well armed, nor in a large group. And where there is one Harpy, there is bound to be a whole flock of them.

The Harpy is seemingly unaware of you for now. She sits perched on the branch of the large tree above your head, idly preening the bright red feathers on her arms-which match the sheath of long apple-red hair on from her head. She's wearing at least a dozen various rings on her well trimmed claws-you catch the glint of gold and onyx and sapphire-and numerous copper and gem studded bangles on her wrists and ankles. You raise an eyebrow, as the bird-woman reaches into a small black cloth satchel tied to her left leg and pulls out a small shard of mirror, admiring her reflection in it's polished surface.

Solbryn feels a slight pain in her forehead at the moment, for no reason she can fathom.

((Thanks for clarifying your char is a girl, btw. Writing gender neutral was annoying ))

Spoiler: Solbryn Tylons, Chosen of Order (click to show/hide)

Tier I
HP: 30/30
Combat: 1 die
Action: 1 die
Magic: 1 die
Skills and Traits: None
Equipment:
Dwindling Food Supply
Strange Necklace
Worn down Clothes
Explorers Kit and Sundry

Jungleland Cleaver*
Rhinox Hide Armor *equipped*
Iron knife *equipped*
Known Spells: None