Print

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

[Unraveller]

Pretty much everything that QD said, you can also get people in positions to yield their status to you through dialog, even monarchs, though it's a little more convoluted, and possibly a bit exploity. But then again, this is DF, so seems mostly fair game.

Funny story about the claim on Waxfight, after traveling around for a day or so and returning to the mead hall, we found that there had immediately been an insurrection by a religious group that supplanted Jas soon after. I assume due to our absence. It doesn't come up in the story as we never return and the Band of Wax was more just meant to commemorate the formation of their Blight Cleansing party.

Appreciate the support everyone!

[AvolitionBrit]

Really looking forward to seeing how your story develops.

[Unraveller]

Stagnation. . . This Realm of Silver is no different than it was nearly eighty-years ago when last I crawled from the expansive abyss below. It is the same Realm of Silver that put children in caves to prospect, the same Realm of Silver whose leaders have naught a thought in their heads for that which plagues the land. How pained I am by this realization, though didst I curtail the Blight to the best of my then-mortal abilities, it was far from enough. This curse, for whom now I know its origin, the only salve is to scorch the earth 'neath our feet. This Band of Wax. . . Perhaps the Age of Heroes is not yet at an end.

Morning came, as ever it does, Jas, Eman, and Jol spoke their final farewells to their comrades midst the biting chill, "Cado. . . Mori. . . Bethri. . . Zuso. . . Someg. . . Therset. . . Perad." Though they were taken by the Obin Blight, and thereafter extinguished by those three men, still their flames are added and will live on within the newly formed Band of Wax, the flickering candle that dares to shed itself brightly upon Omon Obin.

"Shouldst thee wish to truly take upon this trial and. . . _{Retain thy humanity,} this Band will need more than a crippled fellow and three guardsmen." Galka rasps, sitting in the grass poking through the night's frost.

Eman dons his bronzed armor and rearranges his affects, he can't help but reply, "What? Ya saying we're too weak huh? That it?"

Refraining from saying the obvious, Galka takes a more measured approach. "Boy, I have been from Anvilsleeve to Ordermorals, dost thou believe that the worst of it is already behind thee? Omon Obin has naught but greater tragedies in store for thee. Let not this dream of tranquil days rest on the shoulders of just three men." The strange traveler turns then to the golden-haired Jas, having just emerged from the main hall with a bundled map in hand, "Thou won't save everyone." Those words dig deep for the Band's defacto leader. His brows furrow as Galka continues, "Yet if thee wish to affect real change in the Realm, then surely a trio of brothers perishing midst a plagued city would sully the hopes and dreams of those beyond thy grasp, no?" He does not relent, "Being so, our first destination shall be Partnerdaub, two days to the east, when last I passed through the city on my path here, 'twas a sanctuary from the Blight, perhaps Baron Cemir will afford thee men to command. . . Regardless it shall give thee time to rest thine weary bones and hearts for what lay ahead."

Eman and Jol look to Jas Anthrad as he grips his chin, standing over the cold ashes of the prior day's bonfire. When at last those ochre eyes of his opened to share a gaze with the enigmatic orbs of Galka Linarad, they were newly determined. "Your advices are warranted, wanderer, but we are hale and whole, we've no time to waste." The map unfurls in his outstretched hand, their path realized, Brunchworkers, Caverntunnel, Shovedsquare, Trailbrain, Gearseiged, Sizzleoils, and finally Partnerdaub. "We'll rest as needed, but we cannot let a single hamlet escape our eyes, no matter how small."

"Aye." Eman nods with affirmation, thumbing his nose at their crippled 'patron'.

Jol lets out a goodly laugh from his belly, cutting some of the drama, "Ohohoo, you certainly have our work cut out for us Jas."

'Will their resolve perservere. . ?' Galka merely nods, "Very well, lead on, I name thee Jas Gloryage the Worshipful, lord of the Band of Wax."


The people of Brunchworkers live in squalor. . . Mere hours after they'd set off for the last time from their home of Waxfight, the Band of Wax arrived in the neighboring Hamlet, few were about the place. What sheds there were from the elements looked to be in great disrepair, sickly animals begged for feed on the streets. A sense of neglect was midst the chilling air, Eman bellowed as they moved, "How can the Lord here let their people live like this?!"

"S-Soldiers!" A nourished figure, aged beyond their years, scrambled to the four men in bronze mail. Without hesitation, the peasant fell to their knees, gripping tightly upon Jas' leg. "Please, something must be done, something must be done, somethi-"

With both mittened hands, Jas brought the figure to his feet, "We hail from Waxfight, we've no provisions to share, where lurks the Blight?" Both Eman and Jol brandish their arms, thier trained eyes scanning the little hamlet for some indication of the accursed ones.

"'Tis the mead hall, o' warriors. The Entrancing Coalition is naught but starving beasts. . ." He manages to cry, "For so long we Brunchworkers've been without brunch ourselves. . ."

The Band of Wax takes leave of the peasant, finding themselves before The Flier of Horses, the main hall. A congelead sludge of crimson and rot ooze from the bottoms of its barricaded entryway.



Jas was the first to advance, a mighty swing from his halberd hacks away the boards, turning them to splinters as the doors creak open.



The bleakness within hides naught the starkly blood-red blisters covering the bodies of the nobles and their guardsmen alike, leaving nothing to differentiate their status any longer. There is no moment of hesitation within the Blighted Thralls, without delay they pour from the confines of their den, striking out at the Band of Wax with tooth and nail, having lost no sense of their former skill before the curse. For Jas, Eman, and Jol, raising their blades and spears here was a task far less burdensome than within Waxfight. An onslaught, a wave outnumbering them two to one, the three oath-brothers hack into flesh, pierce the rusted armor, and separate heads from their necks for each movement of Thralls, had become more and more predictable, as peasantry spoke, they were as starved beasts desperate for a meal. Yet still without a shred of nourishment for decades within those walls, they did not decay, nor perish.

Another wave of exhaustion came over the battered trio, each of them still in full control of their minds. Galka made his presence known once more from abaft, "Splendid." He mused aloud, "Indeed thee fight well. From hence I shall join thee in battle, skilled as thou art -- twould be doubly dire shouldst any of you succomb."

Eman huffed, catching his breath from the battle, "Heh. . . You're gonna fight, ya cripple?" Though Galka elected not to feed the gruff swordsman's jeers. Each and all of them began to gather the corpses of their fallen kinsmen, and just as well bundles of firewood. Yet, the golden-haired leader of the Band is distracted, kneeling before one of the thralls, he finds his eyes trailing up the body.



He doffs one of his mittens, idly he inspects the odd bits of jewelry. "'Tis no animal bone. . ." He mutters in quiet as Jol and Eman ready the flame.

"Thine eye is a discerning one." Speaks Galka, having dragged himself up beside, sending a shock through Jas' spine, he continues, "It is as thee say, the Obin Blight does not merely push the soul from the body, they art no shambling corpses without thought.  Rather the curse consumes the soul, enwraps it with aggression, a need to replicate, and a detest for those whom live in the light. Perhaps it is not so surprising that somethings make their way through the suppression. . . "

Jas takes a few moments to internalize what his strange companion had said, tossing the macabre crafts into the growing fire. "I shudder to imagine a force that could turn this Blight into a weapon for their machinations, something darker than goblins." Blistered flesh and boils burst and crackle within the inferno before them, acrid blood sizzles, and hair takes the flame well, deepening its color.

Galka holds his tongue in slight, The Tower of Silence had provided him with nearly a century of all the lore that the Walled Dye could muster. . . Some things need be left unsaid, "Prophetic words, Jas Anthrad. I didst naught take thee for a flame seer. . ." He quickly reorients his words, "Thy lifetime alone wilt naught be enough to stare down all the dark forces of Orid Xem, let us focus upon the monolithic task at hand."

A quizzical expression overtakes the Band-Leader's face, before morphing into a wry grin, "Tell me." He begins with a resolute timbre, "Wherefore have you come upon such wisdom that we may share in it? You are no older than any of us and yet I find when I listen to your silver speech, I am drawn in like a child before the village elder passing down all that becomes him."

"I am merely well-traveled, 'tis all."


Signs of the blight receded as the Band traveled east, here and there through the hamlets they'd be met with slammed doors and closed shutters in their duties. Yet still they pressed on, doing what they must. "Damn bastards. . ." Wheezes the swordsman Eman, he scratches away at his balding head, following shortly behind the rotund spearman, having just left the village of Shovedsquare.  "How in the blue hell're they gonna run us outta town after clearin' out their infestation huh?" He grimaces and grumbles as the beleaguered Band continues eastward, the rising town of Partnerdaub on the horizon.

Jol is the one to reply, gentle voiced as ever, "Eman, dear fellow, you know well, we are the headsman come to take their kin, cursed or not. Emotions are far more powerful a driving force than rationality, wouldn't you say?"

"Ehh. . . They coulda at least offered us some rations, I'm starved." The swordsman groans, "If I don't eat, I'm gonna be the next Blighted Thrall, and I'm coming fer yer mighty ass Jol."

"Look lively. We're nearing Partnerdaub." Calls Jas from the head of the pack as the city comes into focus.



"A stark contrast to Strifularmor, isn't it comrades?" Jol chuckles, and Eman breaks out in front of the others with a great wide smile across his face, "Heheh, hell yeah! Let's find a tavern huh?!" His voice cascades out into the streets of Partnerdaub, and it is lost amidst the bustle. Markets are open, merchants are plying their wares, cats and guineafowl roam free, and the scent of fresh-baked goods lingers in the air. For the trio of Waxfight, in truth, they'd not have witnessed a sight like this in their recent years, perhaps in their lifetime, for so strong the grip of the Obin Blight is upon the commoners.

"Fine then. Secure us lodging and provisions Eman, we'll have a talk with the Baron so don't skimp out on us either. We may have a proper army to treat." Jas' words are more than enough to send the gruff swordsman off into the city. "Disarming as it is, our caution is yet warranted, it all begins with a single bite. Jol, won't you keep an eye on him?" With a nod and a jolly, 'but of course!', the heavy-set spearman heads off as well, leaving Galka and Jas to make their way towards the keep.



The sight is an absolute wreck. . . A few guardsman are picking through the remains and cleaning the grounds of the main hall, for which is choked by the viscera and blood of a prior struggle, an older foppish sort overlooking the matter. Jas falls to a knee, bowing his head at the entry-way, "Lord Baron Cemir." He proclaims resoundingly, "I am Jas Anthrad, come from the western hamlet of Waxfight."

A bit surprised by the sudden intrusion, Baron Cemir turns to face to the pair and gathers himself despite the grisly scene before them. "You may rise, I expect you come on orders from the triumvirate of Strifefularmor?" Before the bandsman can respond Cemir is frank, "Once more I'll make it clear, we can afford no aid to your people, it does not surprise me that with three religious leaders and no rigid structure that you cannot take the protection of your own people seriously. Still, despite that sad fact, we have our hands full just keeping our region safe, as you can see. . ."

"Lord Baron." Jas begins, standing firm now, his bronze helm held at one side. "I come neither for Order of Butterflies, nor Strifefularmor, nor even Waxfight." He takes in a deep breath, the trepidation leaving his body, "I come as the lord of the Band of Wax. Our creed is to see peaceful days return once again to all of Omon Obin, to rid our once great nation of its Blight. Have you need of us, sir?"

The Baron's expression doesn't change all that much, perhaps a tinge of irritation, he watches two of his men carry yet another corpse out from the bowels of the keep. "Can't say I've heard of you." He coos. "But we have our thrall issue quite well and dealt with, our militia has become versed in cleansing this disease. Well. . . I suppose we've had some help from a few strange travelers that passed through within recent years. I must decline your offer, Jas Anthrad."

"Very well Lord Baron, then I must ask of you now -- You say your men are capable, perhaps you would be willing to lend a few spears to our cause?" He responds in kind.

"Hmm, so you have come to drink of our resources, as I suspected. You will find the same answer for as if you belonged to Strifefularmor." Cemir does not afford much emotion to cloud his words, he's concise about the matter. The response deflates Jas, to a degree, though the Baron continues, "However, there are many able bodied warriors who call Partnerdaub their home thanks to its renowned safety, perhaps you garner their support?"

Jas gives his superior a good nod, "Aye, we'll make certain to." He and Galka turn to leave Cemir and his soldiers to their work, cleaning up after the bloodshed having come and gone -- Jas and Galka not realizing just how close they'd come to two of the most influential enigmas in the last century. Before they make their final steps beyond the threshold, Jas adds, "Ah, Baron, we took the liberty of freeing all your holdings of the Blight before we arrived, you ought to try keeping a closer eye on the commoners who feed your realm. Good day."


A week comes and goes in a flash, Galka's words rang true, it wasn't until at last that the trio of oath-brothers relieved themselves of their affects and sat in a few good sturdy seats with a mug of mulled raspberry wine that they realized just how tired they were. Roast pork is served before them in an inn just beyond the city walls. With a mouth half-full of food Eman airs out his grievances, "Not one, not one damn sword-arm, not one spear-tip, no arrows, no bolts, no guy with a bashin' stick, not even a cranky old lady with a broom. We SUCK at recruitin'."

Jol chimes in as well, "I've no luck of any sort either it seems. One candlemaker offered his services until I explained away the confusion. . ."

"The people here are indolent, they don't see beyond their walls." Jas bemoans, gripping his squared chin as he warms his feet by the hearth.

"People just don't have any idea who the Band of Wax is, they ain't heard of us yet." Eman adds.

Finally Galka pitches his wisdom, "I am afraid 'tis worse yet, we art viewed as rote mercenaries at best, killers at worst. Though we do a service for the people of Omon Obin, they art blinded by their aloofity -- 'tis the downfall of our nation and the so-called nobles whom sit at its head. Perhaps a few heroic feats wouldst do well to cement us in the eyes of our people."

"Like we ain't been doin' heoric feats since day one?" Eman cries, slamming down his mug upon their table as he begins to stand, "I'm goin' out to take a piss." He adds so eloquently. The gruff swordsman cracks open the inn's front door, allowing the night chill to dart within, he breathes deeply in the sharp tang of winter, whilst the full moon shines brightly down upon them. Almost as if on queue, a curdling cry pierces the frigid night air, followed by a wild braying not far behind. "You all heard that. . ?" Eman mutters. In moments, the Band of Wax hefts their arms to, and charge toward the source of the cry.





As they scour the streets, alert and on edge, a strange sight belays them -- a green skinned little man bursts from their house, hobbling down the road, a trail of blood abaft from their gouting wound. Jas, Eman, and Galka rush into the domicile while Jol tends to the goblin, had greater darkness not blinded their memories in the coming months, then the sight before them would have forever stricken itself in their minds.





A truly horrendous monster there stood, the goblin's lifeblood oozing from the beast's maw. The twisted cervid lets out an unholy wail before battering Eman back, leaving a mighty dent in his breastplate, and doing worse for his guts. Perhaps any soldier of this land might have fled then, but by now the Band of Wax was well accustomed to battling horror. Galka propelled himself forth, taking one of the creature's legs in a single swipe of his old pickaxe, a sight that immediately justifies his travel with the Band in the watering eyes of Eman. With that opportunity, Jas drove his halberd's tip again and again into the chest of the thrashing monster, bleeding it dry far before it could truly do battle with them.



A sharp, 'Oh!' grabs their attention from just outside, as the moon casts its rays upon the eyes of the wounded goblin, their body begins to shift in Jol's arms. Flesh burbles and muscles tense, all manner of veins across their skin expand and bulge. Their eyes take on a scarlet hue, and with a sudden will, the blood streaked goblin lunges for Jol, though he manages to drop them and bound away. The eyes of the Band of Wax are all upon the agonized creature, but before they could make a move, Galka drives his pickaxe into the creature's head. . . They decide first thing in the morning, they'd move on from Partnerdaub.


A sizable figure clad in armor stands firmly in the middle of the road leading west out of the city. Lengthy blond hair and strong features bear the man's expression against the four bandsmen who amble out from Partnerdaub. The figure grips tightly their implement and shouts them down. "Halt!" As Jas attempts to speak, stepping forward to meet the man, he finds that in an instant the speartip of the armored stranger is inches from his throat. "One long month I'd hunted my prey, how do you think I feel when you lot snatched it from my fingertips?"

Eman and Jol draw their blades from behind their leader, whom slowly, yet firmly raises a hand their way. Those hawkish eyes of the strangers are affixed on naught but Jas' own. With a sudden flourish, the golden haired leader of the band takes a stride backward, parrying away his opponent's weapon in the same breath, "This one speaks only through battle." Jas murmurs, losing not track of the younger fellow's eyes. The stranger is the first to act, using the momentum from his tip being driven away to bring the axe-head back around to the other side, barely being caught by Jas' own halberd with a metallic screech. The bandsman clenches his teeth, stepping inwards with their weapons still in the bind. He quickly slips past the axe-head and levers his haft into the other man's chin, sending him to the ground. He does not relent, pointing now his own spear-tip at his opponent's throat. "Have you a name, o' valiant one?"

A wide smile cracks across the younger man's mouth, "Quenir Abcango!" He roars, both hands passing the haft of his weapon across the road into Jas' legs, sending him down to join them. Quenir laughs heartily, casting aside his arms to the relief of the rest of the band. He lends a hand toward the other man, "We'll consider that a tie, you're a fine warrior. . ."

"Jas. Jas Anthrad." He replies.

"You four have done a great service for Omon Obin, both in slaying that werebeast, and in your earlier exploits." Quenir shakes Jas' hand strongly, "Bring me glory and death, and your efforts here in Partnerdaub will not have been in vain."

Jas can't help but smile himself at the straightforward nature of the man, a a certain carefree feeling welling up within him, "That brashness of yours will surely find you killed someday, so death we can promise you. Welcome to the Band of Wax, Quenir Abcabgo. . ."




Might have gotten a little lazy with the last part there, have a good amount of content to still get through and not a ton of freetime left this week. Hopefully I get it all finished by Tuesday.

[kesperan]

This is epic dude. I’m invested!

Zom Tormentchaos the Leap of Cudgels, the goblin weremoose, had been terrorising Partnerdaub for 300 years. He somehow managed to avoid both Avolition Holyblood and Moldath's ghoul cleanses before. Thank you for your service in this grim task!

[Unraveller]

Given that Moldath and Holyblood have been through much of the Realm of Silver, more than once even, I'm surprised at the amount of leftover horrors, Blight or otherwise. I suppose it's easy for things to slip through the cracks. Not to mention those two are probably a little more aloof to the fate of Omon Obin -- Not so for the Band of Wax! No stones unturned. Aside from Streammartyred. . . As crashes happen around the city for the most part. In one iteration of the save before I lost some data, I'd managed to get to the keep and destroy the Blighted Thralls there, but I couldn't be bothered to do it again as it slowed down to a chug hardcore. In fact, that may be the only place left in Omon Obin where they haven't visited. Hopefully the blight there does not spread too greatly.

Glad you're liking it Kesperan, not sure if it's truly reached epic levels yet tho. Haha.

[AvolitionBrit]

Thank you for your service, glad to see an indepth ghoul purge

[Unraveller]

Hollowed out homes line dilapidated and overgrown roads nestled between snowdrifts as instruments howling by the breath of Orid Xem -- The frosty gusts of deep winter bit and stung at the Band of Wax, their armour practically glistened 'neathe the sun, coated in glassy ice. Each trudge through the ever deepening snow grew more difficult than the last. "How come. . . We can't keep up with that invalid?" Eman wheezed from above the Yak-Hide scarf wrapped firmly about his neck, the swordsman's breath crystallizing in the air, practically blinding him in his own fog. True enough, that enigmatic wanderer pulled himself forth with speed across the blanketed ground several paces ahead of the rest, despite the loss of his legs. Perhaps, in a way, that debilitation had made the man stronger.

"His will is legendary." Quenir applauds. "Master Galka's desire to see this quest through is greater than even ser Anthrad, we could learn much from their resolve, you and I." Eman merely growls, perhaps a pout as well from behind his bundles. Quenirs's wild eyes dance from destitute hovel to destitute hovel, scanning from some semblance of life, and worse yet, the mark of death. Perhaps for good, neither lurks in this somber place of Enterframed. "All too common a sight, long the road of recovery will be after our mission is through." His words ring out even above harrowing wind.

"Already thinking on success? Your boldness is intoxicating new-fellow." The jolly voice of the spearman, Jol, brings up the back of the group, each of them keeping strong their march despite the climate.

Quenir belts out a hearty laugh to warm the spirits, "From where do you men hail?" He asks, testing each step with a quick jab of his haft.

"Waxfight." Replies Jas, his eyes trained on the horizon. "Sleepy little Hamlet to the south. . . " His voice was wistful, there were deep remembrances within those words, "We are not like to see it again, I suspect."

Again Quenir laughed, "That the truest saviors of this land be its common serfs, we of no background, nor lineage. We men who would be forgotten on the morrow. I cannot help but laugh!"

"Saviors, you name us?" Jas questions, "Our's is a grisly task."

"You travel not for glory, nor for riches, nor even for yourselves. Rather for the sake of the realm without patron, who with a mind quicker than molasses could name you anything but? Long live the Band of Wax!" Upon his proclamation, their collective boots made way into the adjoining hamlet -- Stabbedechoed. Before them. . . A field of gore.




"Loli above, move your ass you old bastard!" A booming voice filled the discordant hall, battering away the horrifying groans of handfuls of crimson blistered soldiers -- blood and rot oozing from the bursts in their skin, hunger in their eyes and dripping saliva for the flesh of the last two amongst them still untouched by the gifts of the Obin Blight. Unprepared for the sudden influx of the curse amongst his people, the lord hobbled their way past their final broad-shouldered guard, barely out of the grasp of the thralls made of his court. "Do away with them, do away with them! Destis you must!" The old nobleman cried and wailed, darting behind her Destis Laniecroh, her muscled figure interposed between he and the worst of the rabble. "Yeah, yeah your lordship, just hide. I've got this under control." She cooed, though a certain rasp in her voice betrayed her immense trepidation, 'six of them. . . Her mind bemoaned, 'We're dead meat, ain't we?'

Both of her thick hands grasped tightly upon her copper maul, just the right size for a woman of her stature. Yet the great hammer only afforded her a small tinge of security. She roared, "All of you damn idiots getting bit. . . Should be ashamed. Come on! Lemme fix that for ya." As if on queue, her old comrades raced towards her where she blocked the threshold at the back of the mead hall. The first came barreling toward her, pain stricken in those hollowed out eyes, without a moment's hesitation it's face is met with a mouthful of copper. The jawbones jammed upward into the brain, both slaying and sending the cursed hearthsman to the side, allowing the next two to advance. 'Always were an ass, Mec.' She mused to herself, grasping for some kind of levity midst the danger. Cobi was next, she crushed a leg out from under him with all the might she could muster in a swing, dropping the thrall to the floor. She carried the momentum through to bash in the armored spine of her good friend Jonu.

But for all her strength, she couldn't move fast enough -- A speartip took a healthy bite of her side, pinning her against a wall thanks to the unnatural power coursing now within the blood of the infected ones. Destis ground her teeth against themselves, stifling a wrack of pain, but the last of her two old comrades clattered beyond her. She struggles as much as she can manage against the blighted one, snapping and slavering as its fangs draw in. Even so, her wavering eyes are drawn to the back, the lord scrambled but could find purchase, yet the two thralls upon him could. Their fingernails dug and hooked into the elderly noble's flesh, then came the teeth. Rending and ripping, the blighted thralls that once served the lord were his undoing, "Destis!" He screamed, "Destis!" As he entrails spilled out unto the floors. Only in that moment could the hammerwoman find the strength to dislodge the spear from her side and beat back the thrall upon her. Without looking back at her lord, she fled from the mead hall, a few tear drops sparkling in her clenched eyes.

Destis charged through the onion fields flanking the hall, her only thought was to head toward the village. A firm fist at her wound, she came upon a sight even more dire -- From each home the blistered ghouls, freshly minted, tore apart the innocent, rending flesh and blood from the bone by the all consuming burden of their immeasurable hunger. How mothers and fathers became cursed then to devour the children they held so dear, how the dead became one with the roads, all of it nearly became too much for her, balancing upon a knife edge with one side begging for a desperate retreat, while the other whispered a valiant demise. . . Without much thought she waded into the thick of it, maul firm in her strong grip.


"Band of Wax!  Now is the time to make well on thy oaths!" Jas Anthrad rose his axe to the tumultuous skies, daring either to opening up on another all encompassing blizzard, or fade away for the sun to have a chance. At his back, the four men -- Galka, Jol, Eman, and Quenir each and all raise their own arms and bellow out a tremendous battle cry befitting an army moreso than a small band. Those armored few descended into Stabbedechoed with abandon, a purpose heralding them on in their hearts. Their skills sharp and minds trained for their months of hunting down the accursed, the Band of Wax's blades strike true, cutting down the blighted common folk, and on occasion something more frightening. . .



^{"You stinkin' bags of meat!"}

Quenir's halberd tore mid-way through the torso of an old milker, as he withdrew it and lent an ear to the wind, he could hear the cries of that voice once more, ^{"I'm gonna. . . Gonna smash all-a-ya!"}

"Ser Anthrad!" He called, snapping his head to one of the many little homes upon the road, the bronze-armored Jas emerges from its threshold shimmering slickly in crimson, a child curled up within, terror in their eyes. "To the west! Someone is resisting, we must lend them aid!" Quenir cries, as Eman and Jol finish off another of the thralls seeking out a meal upon the muddying road. Without hesitation, the men charge in swift.

Destis batters away another of the cursed serfs, she lingers on the edge of the village, clearing a path for the frightened and unaffiliated to make their escape. Her maul utterly destroys the head of another thrall like that of a melon, electing a scream from the little group she'd saved, no doubt kin with the fallen one. She grits her teeth, wounds piling up clearly from 'neath her dented armour. Another three of the maddened creatures hungrily drinking in her image as they amble towards her, 'This is it. . .This is the end!' Yet before Destis Laniecroh could swing her maul for the final time, the three oncoming thralls were felled in unison. At last did the shaded sky open-up casting rays and silhouetting the warriors as the drew near. The front man removed his blooded helm, golden-hair flowing freely as he spoke, "That should be the last of them. Jol, master Galka, Quenir, double around and check in on all the shuttered homes." With a fine salute, the three marched off to be sure of Stabbedechoed's safety. Jas turned then to the hammerwoman, "Such bravery, legendary." He says.

Before he could extend a hand in greeting, Detsis musters a grand smile and all the harrowed fear washes away from her face, "Ahh, my knight in shining armor's turned out to be a prince charming too?" She coos, taking a step forward and wrestling a thick arm around the back of the man's neck and pulling him in just a tinge closer, "Name's Detsis, life's short, wanna be mine?" She added, much to the immense confusion of her would be suitor.

Eman cackles from behind, "Don't think I ever seen you this fluster Jas! Bwaaahhahaa."

The captain promptly separates himself from the towering woman and clears his throat, "Ahem. I am Jas Anthrad. leader of the Band of Wax. You have done well in protecting these people Miss Destis. . . You've our respect." He raises an eye behind her to see the small group she'd kept safe, a mixture of fear, loathing, and despair gazed back at him, they'd not truly appreciated the gravity that this day alone held.

"It was nothin'." Destis proclaimed before immediately falling to her knees with a mighty thud, keeping herself upright by leaning on the haft of her heavy maul. She seethed in pain as Jas knelt to steady her, "That wasn't all of 'em." She managed to croak, "In seconds the Blight was within the hall, only I managed to get out of there. . ."

"I understand." Spoke Jas then, "You remain here with these folk who owe their lives to you. We'll--"

"No ya won't." Destis let out with a wheeze, mustering the strength to stand once more, "This's my fight too. Those're my comrades we need to put down, and I'll be there, ya got that?"

Jas Anthrad's eyes met with her's amidst the corpse strewn village, her determination was that of their likes, he could not deny her request. The Band of Wax marched to fell the final motes of rot there in Stabbedechoed.




A roiling inferno warmed their spirits as night fell, Jas, Eman, Jol, Quenir, Galka, Destis, they all gathered about the flame, it's tongues licked out against their battered and exhausted bodies yet could not burn them. The stench of cremation had drawn the remaining townsfolk from their hovels. The reverent and quiet peoples had joined hands amongst the band. There in that place, they were all people of Omon Obin, there they gathered to mourn the lost, to share gratitude, to see the souls of their loved ones stripped from the curse of Thranan Echohail the Rapidity of Helms originating more than five centuries ago, not that any amongst them save Galka knew of such arcane lore.

"Ser Anthrad. . ." Whispered Quenir. "Still you would not name thyself a saviour?"

Before the captain could make much of response, two young ones cozied up to Jas' leg wearing pots upon their heads, "We're gonna go with you!" One cried, "Yeah, yeah! We're strong warriors." Added the other. The golden-haired man harbored a smile, though his heart ached, he placed both hands upon them and spoke soft, "If the two of you are such great warriors, Stabbedechoed will need your strength to remain safe and free. They're counting on you." In their flushed faces he could see they'd been made orphans by the Blight, hardly a rare story in this 'Golden Age'.

"We share the boys' sentiment." Spoke a stout blacksmith, "Our Lord couldn't protect us, and in our most dire days, ye show up like a gift from Loli Fairclearing herself. We're in yer debt sers." A collective agreement ran through the humble folk. Eman let out a great sigh, "Sure is nice to hear a little praise fer once." The Blacksmith again spoke, "Destis ought to go with you all, she can bear our dreams with her."

"But. . . You idiots'll all die without me. . ." She protested in slight. Though to little avail.

Hungrily, Jas' eyes supped upon the flame, each bonfire they built it seemed only added to the candle they'd represented. Leaning upon their pick as always, Galka spoke quietly, that only Jas could hear. "Thou hast seen it, thou has lived it -- No place amongst our Realm of Silver is free from this madness, this curse. Those that sit at the head of our nation wouldst sooner see it fall to ruin than to rise from these ashes. Even those with the power to act make no movements, choosing only to secure their paltry holdings than to aid those that wouldst seek peace." The sounds of growing murmurs amongst the people and the band are slowly drowned out to Jas' mind, only the backdrop of crackling flames and the words that the strange traveler Galka spoke could reach his ears. "If tine ambitions are true, then thou wouldst need to act beyond a mere cleansing of this Blight. Thou must seek Entrancegrape. . ."

"I've naught a drop of noble blood in my body." Replies the man, reaffirming, "Murderers and usurpers the likes of us need not have such ambitions."

"Thou speak to tradition and the aristocracy. . . They've no mind for the common folk, thou knowest this well." Galka's yellowed orbs pierce the night beyond the fire, digging deep into Jas' armor, "Who better to steward the realm than he who hath been borne amongst its bosom?"

Jas cannot find the words to fight with Galka, worse yet for he, the voice of Quenir breaks that ephemeral silence, "Long live the Band of Wax!" It ceased his moment of introspection, his gaze fell upon each and all of the townsfolk, in unison they cried, "Long live the Band of Wax! Long live the Band of Wax. . !"

"Take this chance Jas Anthrad." Spoke Galka once more. "This is the crossroads of the future of Omon Obin, I pray thee choose wisely."

He sucked in a deep breath of the frigid winter night and the smoky flame before them, sacrifices must be made for the sake of peace, he affirmed. "People of Stabbedechoed." He began, raising a fist to his chest. "Your dreams and powerful hopes are the fuel that we require to continue burning bright. Ours is a battle without end, yet with your support our burden is as light as feathers. This day, we have freed Stabbedechoed from the shackles of the accursed Blight, and one day soon we will free Omon Obin from the shackles of its malicious governors who lend no aid nor creed to its humble folk. On that day, we in turn ask for your aid, should we deserve it."

"Long live the Band of Wax, long live the Band of Wax!"


Under the urging of Galka Linarad that night, after observing the moon above, the band remained in Stabbedechoed for two weeks more, recuperating and resting after their many hard battles and long journeying. In those quiet and peaceable days, one could almost forget the long road ahead and the tragedies that lurked there. Treated as heroes among the populous, they at last set off again with provisions aplenty and one more warrior to swell the Band's strength. Destis bore the weight of her people's resolve across her broad shoulders, just as well as her maul. From there, days wheeled by on traveling north, heading towards the old districts of Omon Obin.

Speechrags, Foggycradle, Heattreated, Pleatedtongs, Tunneluttered, Pricetressed, Stillhandle. . . Not one of the villages, abandoned or not that they'd passed through on their travels then had escaped the ravages of the Obin Blight, indeed the further northwards they traveled, the deeper the shadows grew, yet as did their skill, their experience, and their despisal towards the ones who would allow their homelands fall into such decay. The Band rested upon the edge of a forest clearing, just beyond the horizon they could make out the city of Scarletbronze, their next heading. As the night drew in, and the comrades gathered about a small flame, Destis spoke, "I've heard tale of Scarletbronze. They say the city is cursed whole-cloth."

Eman butts in, "Yeah, like every other place we've been through."

"Let us not lower out guard, bandsmen." Quenir makes clear, resting with his halberd upon a shoulder. "A city is still a city, if Scarletbronze has fallen entirely to the Blight, then we've an army to contend with. . . My blood is boiling with the excitement."

"Whether it is a thousand, or but one, our aim is as true as ever." Jas coos, stoking the flame.

"We're all behind you good fellow." Jol adds, serving a hearty portion of stew to the collective band.

On the edge of camp, Galka gazes upward at the stars, his eyes affixed on the nearly complete moon, musing with a great sigh, "Let us rest into the day on the morrow." He addresses the rest of them, "My bones are weary from our long journey." His words are met with an incredulous gaze from the captain of the band, who had never once before heard a complaint out of the crippled man. Yet, he does not protest.




"Tis truly eerie a sight." The rotund spearman spoke, though his voice was low and soft, still yet it carried itself in great echo over the emptied cityscape. Roads bore no travelers, shops remained empty and unopened, neither child nor animal played in the streets, nor patrolled an entourage of guards keeping the townsfolk safe. Scarletbronze was well and truly abandoned. Each of the band slowly moved through the town, opening doors, or gazing in through windows to find wares and clothes untouched, already the sun hung low in the sky. The quiet played upon their mortal psyches, each movement from another bandsman beyond their sight put them further and further on edge until at last Eman's scratchy voice leaped over the rows of houses. "Hey! Hey! I found someone!" He cried. Causing the entire group to cram into the threshold of one particular house.



The figure of a human stood completely still, gazing longingly up at the ceiling of their home. The man's skin was pale, their body gaunt, eyes like voids of the darkest sky burned holes through whatever sight they were set upon, yet the figure did not even so much as turn their way as they entered. "Are you quite alright good fellow?" Asked Jol as he drew in close. Each of them had lowered their arms for no signs of the Blight had so much as shown themselves anywhere across the city. No response came from the man, they merely stood. The sight sent shivers down the bandsmens' spines, though they could not then pinpoint rightly why. Eman gently jabs the figure with the flat of his blade, nothing. "Master Galka, what affliction befalls this man?" Asks Quenir.

"I-I know not." Stammers the wanderer, "I believe they must be wallowing too deeply in despair. There will be nothing we can do." Galka goes quiet, leaving the domicile, electing the rest to do much of the same.



It's not long after that another crosses their path, moving without purpose to their human eyes, simply heading onward down the road, nothing could halt their advance. The deep orange glow of the setting sun had befallen them, yet after all this time, the Band of Wax could find nothing resembling the Obin Blight amongst Scarletbronze. . . Nearing the end of their inquest within the city, the group opens yet one more door, a small home where yet another despairing hollow figure stands, they do not even attempt to speak. Behind them, they shut the door, slumping thereupon. "Spose the stories were not so." Destis says, "Not sure if I'm glad about that or not."

"Place is a ghosttown, wonder what the hell happened here anyway." Eman sighs.

Jas grips his squared chin, "Famine, War, Disease. Still many great tragedies haunt our land than simply the Obin Blight. When all this is said and done, we must surely turn our attention to those. . ." The brightest of moons had risen into the sky, a wrap of darkness surrounded the Band of Wax quicker than they could have imagined. Each of them with great, wide eyes turned in horror to the sounds emanating from the home they'd just left. A monstrous trumpeting shook the very firmament of the land beneath their boots, and from there, a howl that tore the spirits from them. Armaments are grasped tightly, Jas creaks open the door again. from within the gloom a pair of great cyan orbs gaze back.



Jas cannot utter a word, he remains like that of a statue in doorway, though his eyes glimpse yet that which lurks within -- Shaggy scarlet fur like that of streaks of blood coat a twisted humanoid monster reaching up into the heights of the room, two great tusks glimmered in the darkness. One small motion came from the shadows. "Jas, what's wrong!?" Cried Eman.



The captain of the band is thrust like a ragdoll out from the threshold, a bolt of bronze fired past the band, slamming into the house opposite. Though shaken, Eman and Quenir charge within to bear witness to the immense twisted mammoth. "A werebeast! 'Tis a werebeast greater than the likes of Partnerdaub!" Quenir bellows, catching the monster's attention. Eman takes the opportunity to strike.



The slash of his sword does little than shred some of the fur from the undead weremammoth's hide, a wave of despair erupts throughout the Band of Wax, yet it is not deep enough yet to halt their advance. Quenir barely manages to move his body out of the way of the accursed beast's fists, utterly destroying the foundation of the building. Jol then enters next and Destis slaps some sense back into Jas. The fat spearman sends his iron tip through the abdomen of the great creature, though no horrendous screams are given in response, only a quiet, murderous stare.



Jol's left leg is practically blown off of his body, the bronze of his greaves shorne completely as if paper. Galka manages to pull Jol from the melee as wails in utter agony. It's just enough for Jas to regain some semblance of coherence, he scoops up his axe and halberd along the way and rejoins the battle along with Destis. For a short time, the four of them dance about the overwhelming creature, well aware of their frailty in comparison to such a beast. No matter how much blood they spilled from its lower half, the fell one did not even so much a slow, Jas' footing trips up then only in slight as the band tires, two ivory tusks drove forth with immense speed to run him through. "JAS!" Cried both Destis and Eman, but the moment was too short, they could do nothing. Blood spouted, painting the wall into a dire mural of their hubris. Jas gathered himself, standing back up from the ground to see that it was rather Quenir who had been gored through, having leapt to save their captain. Yet another good man fallen to the bleakness of Orid Xem.

Jas Anthrad let out a sorrowful battlecry, dropping the halberd and raising his iron great axe with both hands. Whilst the weremammoth played with the dying food upon its tusks, the golden-haired leader hacked straight through one of its tree trunk legs. An immense quake rippled through the city as the creature fell, thrashing a trumpeting. Eman quickly put a stop to that with a swipe of his blade, severing the wild trunk from the werebeast's body. There and then, together, Jas and Destis leapt with mighty abandon, crushing and severing the monster's horrendous head with their weapons. . .



"Quenir! Quenir!" Roared the captain, falling to his knees beside the other man, two sizable holes like ballistae shot poured gallons of blood from their body.

"So. . . You didn't lie after all." Feebly, Quenir spoke, a smile breaking across his face. "You would lead me to glory and death, and here I lay. . ."

"Damn you. Why did you push me out of the way you fool?" Jas pleaded with him, nothing could be done for the mortal wounds he bore.

"Because. . . Because you must live, that our Realm may see again peaceable days. . ." Quenir's eyes drifted, "You are a man that I was happy to follow. . ." The last words of Quenir Abcango struck deeply into Jas' spirit. The golden haired man held his comrade tightly, there was no turning back after that, the path to save Omon Obin became clear.

"Quenir." He said, "Losing you is like losing an army at our side. . ."

They remained there for a few moments more before Jol's voice, stricken in pain managed to break through, "Fellows! M-Master Galka, you must aid him!" The wounded spearman points from the threshold, Eman, Destis, and Jas rush on through. That horrid beast for whom all their might could barely rend. . . It was not alone. Galka scrambled and rolled with great speed and precision 'neath another of the weremammoth's legs, unable to find a moment to strike -- The Band of Wax would give it to them. The three charged forth, their weapons aloft, knowing now what irreparable damage the beast could dish out they gathered what vigor they yet still bore and dodged about the creature's attacks, striking again and again at its legs to little avail. Then, taking after Galka, Jol fights through the pain within his leg and crawls forth, driving his iron spear into the werebeast's knee, shattering the bone, causing a sickening crack as the femur pierces the flesh. Yet another quake threatens to tear Scarletbronze asunder as the monster clamors to grasp Jol.



With a powerful swipe, Jas manages to hack away most of the creature's hand, yet still it continued. Galka drives his pickaxe into the werebeast's spine, yet even with Destis and Eman's help, they cannot pull the beast back. A tusk impales Jol's shoulder inciting another horrible wail. The captain of the band destroys the ivory with another swing of his axe before the other three at last manage to pull the monster upon its back. "This one's fer Quenir!" Cries Eman, leaping upon the blooded chest of the weremammoth and stabbing his scimitar straight through one eye. "This one's fer Jol!" He adds, leaping away from a fist before carving out another of those cyan orbs. "And by Loli, this one's fer me!!!!" With a final great slash.



Each and all of them began to catch their breaths amidst the battlefield. Jol's voice, despite its pain was the first to reach them, "D- Do you remember our promise. . . As we set off from Waxfight?" He asks, Jas and Eman clambering to where he lay.

"Don't talk ya dumbass." Eman wheezed, prying the spearman's armour off to get at his wounds. "We can still save ya, ya don't need no meaningful last words. . !"

"Eman, dear fellow. . ." Jol muttered, bringing both arms around he and Jas to draw them close. "You heard what Quenir said, t'was a werebeast through and through."

The realization shook Eman and Jas, the oath-brothers three who left on this grandiose quest together. Yet. . . They could not muster their weapons. "T-That was for the Blight, this is different!" The grouchy swordmaster bellowed. "We can just tied ya up, every time yer gonna transform, ya got that? WE AIN'T GONNA KILL YOU OVER THIS!!! Right Jas. . ?" The captain was at a loss for words, he could only gaze down upon his oath-brother and swear vengeance against the shadows of Orid Xem.

Without warning, Jol pushed the pair off of him. With both hands he raised his spear, "Brothers! I know you'll find the strength to see our journey through!" He cries, driving the spear through his own chest. "Long. . . Live. . . The Band of Wax!"


Trumpets sound in the distance, quakes shudder the land. The Band of Wax is surrounded on all sides.



As light broke and the sunrise commemorated a new dawn, three men and one woman marched from the city of Scarletbronze, each bearing an immense scarlet trunk, symbols of their survival.


Thank you for the INSANELY difficult challenge in creating the Fell One Weremammoths, Braalbard. Truly the timeline in which Raki Umberclan the Bulbous continued their horrendous reign as the Mad Monkey King would have been armageddon for Orid Xem. His spawn where incredibly powerful, honestly some of my most difficult fights in adventure mode by far, if not for their size and strength, then for their ability to fling and paralyze people with a mere gesture. Without the Band of Wax being as large as it was, Jas or even Galka would have stood no chance against them, one paralysis likely would have been all it took to be annihilated.

[Quantum Drop]

My god, Unraveller, that was magnificent to read. Had me on the edge of my seat throughout, and I feel it's only going to get better. Great work!

[Unraveller]

Always cheering me on QD, much appreciated. 😁

We've only time enough for one last post, tomorrow's the due date. Hopefully the finale will be worthwhile!

[AvolitionBrit]

The band of wax, is certainly a grand force of power. Interested to see what they do next.

[kesperan]

This is great, Unraveller. Weremammoth fell ones are a formidable foe. I can't help but think timing your trip to Scarletbronze for the full moon was reckless!

I hope the Band of Wax make it to Entrancegrape!

[Unraveller]

"You knew of this, didn't you?!" Jas' voice takes on a tone the other's would nary hear, both of his hands gripping tightly about his comrade's collar. As daybreak came wit the warmth of sunrise, a deep orange glow beset itself upon the four remaining members of the Band of Wax. Yet the morning's comfort made no attempts to enshroud them. The captain of the band's brows were furrowed, the pain of their loss had gripped him so. Jas' knuckles creak as he shared a harrowed gaze with the other man. Galka did not respond, his eyes did not bear the sorrow of the other's. "How meticulously you waited out the coming of a full moon! Did you wish our demise? Have you grown bored of this circus?" With each word, the golden-haired lord grows more and more furious, not even the firmness of Destis' hand could assuage his ire. "Speak!" He roared, the power in his voice greater than the terror those trumpeting wails imbued in Scarletbronze.

"Thou nary wouldst have come this far without I." Speaks the dangling Galka who bears neither arrogance nor anger returned in their voice.

Jas reeled back, throwing the man forth, his back slamming against a tree marking the woods beyond the city. "Quenir and Jol would not have perished were it not for you!" He bellows, his tone easing downward into a seething hate. Eman joined the beefy hammerwoman in embracing their leader and friend. "Come'on Jas. . ." Eman wheezed. "Leave the guy alone, he. . . He couldn't a known all this." But the swordsman's half-hearted thoughts couldn't move his oath-brother's soul. "As far as I'm concerned. . ." Jas began, "You killed the both of them." A derogatory finger points to the crumpled man.

"Hmmph." Galka stifles a chuckle, " 'Tis all it takes to cripple our future Silver Lord?" In one swift motion, the man is again balancing upon the end of his old pick, "No amount of legitimacy, nor noble blood, nor heroism could ever see one such as thee leading this nation to a bright future, perhaps I was mistaken."

"You. . !" Jas plants a bronze boot forward, digging into the mud, he rears back a fist only to be held back by the other two.

"Thou art wrong." States Galka plainly, yet again his voice bites into Jas' psyche more deeply than the frosted wind, "Twas thine own weakness that killed Quenir Abcango and Jol Nathobdubmith. Weakness of heart, weakness of mind, weakness as a leader -- Take this tragedy into thyself and destroy the weakness within you, Jas Anthrad. Or perhaps thee would sooner tarnish their memory?"

Nothing then could keep Jas back, he forced himself forward in the grasp of the others, with no aim yet but to murder the strange wanderer in their midst, nothing save a mighty slug from Destis, knocking their leader out cold. . .


"There it is, just down from these rocks." Spoke a young soldier, clad in a mix of copper and bronze, shading him well against the red loam.

"You've done well Thaguk, now return to the village." The golden-haired man gripped the edges of his light beard, where once a squared chin had been, gazing down at the hall nestled between two overarching cliffs. He could sense it, the miasmatic stench of vile forces that emanated from that gray, blooded shelter.

"But Ser Anthrad, this is my fight too. Begone fear!" Thaguk spoke with resolve, gripping his war-hammer just so.

Those words were enough for Jas to nod in assent, "Very well." He said, gesturing a hand from abaft. Eman, Destis, and Galka too encroached up upon the cliff-side, each of them with a watchful eye toward the wooded doors of the granite hall of Chucktrades. There the Band of Wax remained for a time, perhaps an hour, seeing no more than a goblin or two slink in and out of the oppressed hamlet's seat of power. When at last it seemed that all was quiet, in unison, the five warriors clambered down the hill with great haste, kicking up a cloud of dust to obscure their advance, yet when at last they stood before the threshold, they'd stammered. . .

Their hearts wavered, something there, within the confines of the room beyond. . . It beat and it beat, palpitations in the deep and dark, that which is beyond mortal, or perhaps even immortal understanding, a shred of knowledge better lost to time than uncovered once more. Galka found himself affected most by this strange and otherworldly pulse. "Turn back now, even I cannot say what lurks therein. . ." He whispers, yet Jas' flame is given fuel by the strength of the young Thaguk beside him who would see his home freed of shadowy influence.

"Heed thy worry we shall, Master Galka. But the Band of Wax cannot back down!" With a will, Jas Anthrad bore the iron axe so bequeathed, 'Goldenbreath', and battered down their doors, Destis, Eman, and Thaguk alongside him. His eyes were opened torn, a wave of uncaring thought assaulted each of them, vibrating up from the earth below their feet, tingling across their spinal cords, and daggering their minds.

THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM THE WORM

Their breaths had quickened, Thaguk nearly passed into unconsciousness from the hyperventilation. Together upon a sea of endless black, their sub-waking minds did drift. This coldness, this emptiness, this despair for all things of life and unlife, how it invaded the Band of Wax's very souls. Amidst the nothing, there twisted and roiled, thrashed and moaned, an unfeeling non-something that filled all space beyond the firmament of Orix Xem. A non-something that threatened to devour their very beings, yet. . . Within, a blazing flame burned, a light that proclaimed their truest existence did shine and warm the coldness of that ephemeral place. . .

When at last Jas and his comrades could muster the will to shake that dire vision from their heads, a new terror was before them.



Bodies of the former lords and men of this place were strung, hung, quartered, and staked all across the confines therein. Gore and viscera rotting and congealing about the sullied grounds thereof embodied the decay of the Realm of Silver, its fall to decadence, excess, its fall to the grasp of not monsters, but the darkest recesses of the human id. Thereupon the walls where old nobles lay, some yet still drew breath, a false breathe, that which magicks beyond the Band of Wax's understanding ensorcelled for the sake of experiments into the beyond. The face of their foe then made itself apparent in the gloam, eyes that bore no semblance of reality. A mouth that wordlessly spoke curses and unknowable things. There from every side thralls of the Obin Blight and worse experiments yet still shuddered to drag the Band of Wax into their domain.



With a mighty swing, Jas rends one of the ghoulish figures asunder as his comrades too pour into the hall, battling their own demons. Yet just as soon as the putrid one is felled, so too with the mere flick of wrist, does it return to its false-life. Again grasping and clawing upon the man's bronze armour. Across the hall, limbs are hacked away from their masters, the heads of fanciful creatures -- kobolds, trolls, goblins, they're rent from their homes, and again do they return to life. Snaking arms grasp their legs, weighing them down, rolling heads bound and snap with teeth that would inflict states even more vile than the Blight, while headless shuddering bodies swing their blades with abandon. Yet still, the flames within them are emboldened, they do not back down -- For without they, who would polish Omon Obin to a luster once more. . ?

The melee is fierce, their mortal bodies tire against the ever returning onslaught. There and then, Galka weaves between flesh and damning teeth, with a single well-put strike of his pick, it is done.



The experiments of the mad one ceased to be, leaving only now the rolling head of their master. Ezif Bluewave. . . Upon their face, the constant twisted expression of insanity, the imprint of what even Galka cannot explain, a non-thing for prophesying mayhaps when the day yet comes. . . For now the Band collectively agrees to put their collective experience out of their minds, focusing on the future of their realm. Amidst the gore, they are quiet, somber for the lost. "What manner of being was that. . ?" Asks Jas, Eman and Destis look to Galka for the answer.

"A Necromancer." He so speaks, as if it be evident. "The very same kin of those who began this great Blight. But this one was merely a fledgling." Those words struck another pang of fear in their hearts. "I had thought their kind nearly extinguished, but this one's presence was unknown to me." Jas knelt to the stained floor beside the dead, a glimmer had caught his eye. Before long he'd hefted upward two immaculate pieces of metalwork.




"Ahhh. . . Artefacts of Dwarven make." Galka gazed upon them as if having known the intricate histories of each craft. "'Tis a boon greater than thee realize, for our purposes, the dwarves in these lands will welcome the Band of Wax with wide open arms for having recovered their legendary armaments. . ."


For a time, the Band lay in rest and recuperation putting a mountain of Blighted bodies to rest behind them. There, they stood in awe, their human eyes had never laid yet upon the stout bearded men of the mountains, and yet there in the bosom of the fortress of Clearmasters they gazed on as Galka spoke in low, harsh tones to the expedition leader there, as if old friends uniting after a long time apart. "Just who exactly is this guy anyway?" Destis questions, wrapping a thick arm around Jas to draw him in. He doesn't struggle against her, saying only, "A simple traveler, nothing more. . ." Galka's discussion led the dwarf across from them to grow wide in his eyes, gazing back at the band with a hearty laugh and goodly spirits. A deal was brokered then, though they would not know of its import until later. . .


"Señamatem -- Weatherponder." Jas stood over an embankment rising above the little town upon one of the great rivers of Orid Xem. The fresh air did them well, and so he spoke, "What better place for the Band of Wax to call their home than the first capital of Omon Obin?"

"Aye, let poetic justice be done to the bastards at Entrancegrape!" Called Eman, a strong pat upon their leader's back along with.

"The people here have long been under the yoke of the aristocracy, and will support our cause." Adds the young Thaguk.

Destis leans at Jas' side, dwarfing him even still, "Now's the time to use up all that good-will we earned, huh?"


Their words whisked upon the chilling wind over Weatherponder as Winter spent the last motes of its strength. They looked to the Sunny Water, the lake that fed nearly all of Southern Omon Obin, and began their march thence. Over the next two months there rose the small fort of Candlekeepers, here would the Band of Wax stage the final legs of their quest. Time moved on as ever did, how many more would have lost their lives to the Blight or worse yet shadows had on that day in Waxfight, Jas Anthrad, Eman Sedastishas, and Jol Nathobdubmith not forged a bond of brotherhood to bring light back to their homeland? The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing, or so they say. Despite the death the dealt, Jas could only hope that their wills had made good on their promise.

"Legitimacy. . . What claim to the throne have we truly?" Muses Jas, overlooking the Sunny Water from the battlements of their woodfort, beside him alone Galka finds the right affirming words, "What greater claim need we than the support of the people? Our purpose is just, our aim true, and our strength. . ." He gazes back over the confines of Candlekeepers, men and women from across the realm had swelled their numbers two fold, "Our strength in time will be the hearts and minds of all those who seek peaceable days."

"I fear 'tis a greater trial than I have ever faced before." Jas proclaims, though no triumph resides within his voice. "I know little aught than killing, Master Galka. I am no administer of realms."

"Hard times create strong men." The other did speak, "When at last thee come out from beyond the other side of this, thy people will rejoice. Thy sword arm will yet be needed even then I daresay." They remain quiet for a time before again Galka finds the words to stoke his understudy, "Jas Anthrad, eighty years hence, I journeyed far to the north, far beyond the great Tundra of Heroes. There for the sake of a young boy, we visited the Museum of Boltspumpkin. There heroes of legend, names even thee from thy little hamlet of Waxfight shouldst know well, did cement themselves in history forever. Lonleythrall, Umberrazors, Hammerfishes. . ."

He could feel the bright flame within his chest, he could feel its blistering heat, "Yes. . . There I will shed this name, the last days of Jas Anthrad, that is what you will say, for it is what you have done with your own."

Galka chuckles, his yellowed slit eyes marveling over the crystalline lake waters breaking through isles of ice, "To live, to love, to care for our own, it is to sacrifice." A droplet from dry, old, eyes does fall from the battlement, it mingles in the fresh waters below. "I-- The Realm of Silver's faith is with you."


"Eman. My oldest friend. My brother." In the center of Candlekeepers, just outside the main hall, Jas places both hands upon the gruff swordsman's shoulders, "Our quest is not at an end, the cradle of Omon Obin is yet still amidst the influence of the Blight. Go, as Lord of the Band of Wax, and see that it is made right."

"Yo-You. . ." Despite his abrasive hide, Eman can't help but to break out, he hugs tightly about Jas, "Bastard. If you don't come back, then I'm gonna find you an' Jol in hell and beat the fuck outta ya, ya got that!?"

He pats his dearest friend's back, sharing in the comradarie. "Must you go alone?" Destis asks, crossing her arms, "I mean. . . Surely you need protecti--"

Before she could continue, Jas had held the burl hammerwoman in embrace, and with her, shared a deep kiss. "I must." He spoke as he drew away from the now-flustered Destis. "I go not as claimant to Omon Obin, nor as the Lord of the Band of Wax, but as Jas Anthrad, for the final time."




He bore no worry for his comrades, tested and true were they against the perils of the world, and now nothing could halt the Band of Wax from seeing the next horizon. There he stood, far, far, far beyond the sleepy little village of Waxfight from whence he was born and raised alongside their ambitions, stretching out further than the furthest reaches of the eye did the Tundra of Heroes stretch, and endless sea of ice, snow, and biting wind all days of the year. Bundled up, mustering the courage within him, Jas took his first steps outside of the Realm of Silver for which he bore love unrelenting. Days wheeled by amidst the harshness of the Tundra, yet now with the gathered flames of his people within him, no mere cold would claim his life.

Through ice trudged he.



Against dark foes trudged he.





Against all that would see him through 'fore his quest complete.





And before long stood he, in the midst of a grand fortress the likes of Dwarven hands, nestled in the endless tundra.



There in the place known as Stocakdeoutrage, capital of the furtive Staff of Kissing, the first true feeling of warmth shot up from the earth below Jas' feet. The volcanic power that ran the industry of this place welcomed him as a traveler with open arms. Yet as he walked its halls, the only response to greet him was the echo of his metal shoes cascading down the obsidian walls. "Death and decay greet us all." He mouths aloud, the bigness of Orid Xem refocusing his ideals, his ambitions, "Even beyond the Realm of Silver, we cannot escape these plights." As mere happenstance, his bronze boot clatters across a gleaming band of white metal, sitting humbly in the center of the fortress grounds. He kneels down to it, a sense of unease for its meaning.



Fingers reach out to the glint of silver below but they halt themselves before gracing it, turmoil brews within, an old argument amongst himself. Yet a sound from the darkness of the fortress rings out. Alerting him. Before Jas could draw his weapon, an elder voice speaks thus. "Will you take up the crown, Jas Gloryage the Worshipful?" His eyes adhere to the dark, within the shape of an ancient, graying dwarf. "It is a heavy burden, is it not?" The old woman prods, draped in fine clothes despite the detritus of this place.

"Who yet speaks?" Jas asks aloud.

"Be not alarmed." She replies, "We know well of you, you stand before Vucar Axesafety. I ask again, will you take up the crown?"

How the mixture of metaphor and reality dance within the golden-haired man's head. At last, midst the dim light and the warmth of Stockadeoutrage he speaks, "If it is for my people, then I shall take upon these shoulders any burden."

The old dwarf smiles, "An apt answer. We of the Staff of Kissing offer you this crown, for we know you shall wear it well." Before Jas knew it, the woman was gone amongst the twists of the fortress. There and then he did grasp tightly the cold surface of the silver crown, how its frost bit into his flesh. Thereon his travels continued.


"What are you?" Asks the man, grasping his well-formed beard of bright gold hair. A quizzical expression upon his face as he kneels in the springtime grass of the lands beyond the tundra, gazing down yet still upon a teeny-tiny little figure of pure green, snoozing discordantly against the haft of their oversized shovel.

"Bwaaah!" The little figure screams, falling upon their rear. "What am I? What're you!?" They scramble back to a stand.\

Jas, still puzzled by the little one, standing amongst rows and rows of finely crafted coffins says, "I am a human, and you?"

"Ahhh, hello Ahuman!" The creature greets, "I am Amtoc!"

Jas lets out a humored sigh, "Say, little one. Have you heard of the Museum of Boltspumpkin?"

"Have I heard of it?" The gremlin danced, "Heck, I practically live there!" They cry, darting up to Jas where he crouched and grabbing hold of a mittened hand with both of their own green graspers. "C'mon, c'mon, I'll show ya the way!"



All manner of strange eyes, some yet beyond the realms of mortality did scan the human who made their way within the ancient castle. Amtoc led him quickly along by the sake of their waddling pad-footed gait immediately within the Museum. Pointing to and fro from every manner of curio and corpse that lined the walls of Orid Xem's most premier site of history. ". . .And that's. . . Over there is. . . If you turn your attention to the left you'll see. . ." On and on Amtoc spoke, miles a minute, the little creature jumped and pointed and dragged Jas along until they were joined by two gremlins yet more who shared just as much excitement as their peer. The man couldn't even take in the sights before moving on to the next thing, yet. . . As his eyes crossed paths with a small collection in an otherwise empty corner of the Museum they were filled with a certain understanding, and a certain sorrow too. Countless bone figurines lined the walls and floors of that room at the height of the keep, all carved of a single figure unknown to him, yet the mark of his comrade was unmistakable. In the next moment he once again found himself before the threshold of the museum. "Well, what're you gonna submit?" asks Amtoc.

From thence, Jas did present a bundle out of his pack. "The symbol of our survival." He speaks, though any semblance of meaning is lost upon the little gremlin. Five trunks, each belonging to the risen Fell One Weremammoths, spawns of Raki Umberclans the Bulbous, from Scarletbronze. They were entwined together, a missive in the human tongue of Omon Obin and Dwarvish both bound them together. There, pinned upon the wall just beside the front entrance read thus,

O ye of valiance,
O ye of deed,
Shouldst thy heart weep for the land,
Shouldst thy dreams of Orid Xem be tarnished,
If thou battle the bleak,
If thou battle injustice,
Join with us the Band of Wax,
Join with us in this new Realm of Silver,
That days of peace can be assured.
-Jas Gloryage the Worshipful.

"'Tis a commemoration for my fallen brothers." He adds, the gremlin trio jumping for joy alongside him, he couldn't help but laugh, any sense of somberness washing away. The last days of simple Jas, bandman and soldier were at an end. They began the trek back south, in that grand wide world of theirs.


Jas's helm was held at his side, gone were the days of his dented and blood encrusted bronze mail, there he stood, at the gateway to Candlekeepers enwrapped in plate of glistening white. The symbols of his band of brothers, and of Omon Obin shone filigreed into the chest. Beside him there stood Eman and Destis, Thaguk and Galka there were too. And before them, rows of men and woman who pledged themselves to their cause. Jas began to speak, addressing them all, "Over the last year, the Band of Wax has saved countless lives, whether through spite of the common man, or through their thanks we done what's right for the people of our great Realm of Silver. We have suffered too, we have lost much in our quest, the lives of our brothers, the innocence of our minds, those we could not save. . . Through this pain, this sorrow, the despair we have pushed through and been born anew, not for the sake of ourselves, not for riches, not for fame, only yet to see peace and beauty return to the land." The golden haired claimant looked over them, each and every fellow who had come to the wood fort of Candlekeepers at their call to duty, he could not even begin to describe the many trials that each of them had faced, "So too have you all lost something to the Blight. Children, friends, parents, enemies, those whom we love. . . Who could not be moved by the power of will you have all shown us today?! No mountain could stand in the way of thy spirits!" His voice booms over the soldiers, hailing each and all from every corner of Omon Obin, placing that helmet upon him, Jas roars, "You! The woebegotten, the downtrodden, the oppressed, you whom bear our nation upon thy backs, the end of our quest is at hand! We march now to Entrancegrape, let thy voices be heard!"

A quake of cries rippled through the skies, the death knell of the old Realm of Silver sung its song across the land, far beyond Candlekeepers, far beyond the north, far beyond this Orid Xem, for even the souls of the once Blighted joined in its chorus. There and then, the Band of Wax began their final march.

Before Jas took the head of the column, he stepped out to one side, where a broad-shouldered woman gazed on, draped in warm robes, a hand upon her stomach. Jas stepped up to her, sharing another kiss. "You're far more beautiful without all the armor." He cooed before quickly taking a sucker punch to his mid-section, one that he could feel through the breastplate. "Come back alive, ya idiot." Destis jeered. Falling to a knee, the wide-smiling Jas pressed his forehead against the growth in her belly, "How could I not, I've two people relying on me." He spoke softly, only to be brought up again by the hammerwoman, "You've got a whole lot more than that. . . Now get out there and lead!"

Taking his spouse's command to heart, Jas Gloryage the Worshipful rode to the front of his army, taking lead. Across the beauteous spring growths all around them, the Band forded the great river, beyond the ongoing construction of an expedition of Dwarves, electing gawks of majesty from the commonfolk among them. They marched through Señamatem -- Weatherponder, the first capital of Omon Obin, and soon once again to reclaim that title. From Pointydabbler to Utteredguard, from Polishedwanes to Scrubbedstab, the true beauty of the Realm where the Blight had been cleansed made itself apparent. Nothing would slow their march, neither hunger nor exhaustion, thirst or fear, for each and all of them carried the flames to shed light upon their people's future, all the while singing songs of love, of victory, of loss.

At long last, at the end of their journey, the Band of Wax in its great score stood before the tall walls of Entrancegrape -- The castle hidden away from the common folk, a symbol of the descent of their leaders, a symbol of the aloofness from those that govern, a symbol of uncaring excess while their people starve. . . The lords of the band rode forth before the great threshold. There, young Thaguk blew a mighty horn with all his breath, summoning forth a disgruntled face from the gatehouse high above. "Who dares muster an army 'fore the gate of Omon Obin!?" The voice croaked, raising a single knobby hand in the air, and sending a glance back to those whom station the walls.

"That would be the High Chancellor." Galka whispered toward the leader of the band, Jas then spoke, firmly so, "Has the realm fallen so that its own people cannot even petition an audience with their king?" His gaze pierces the cloud cover on high, a single ray of light seethes down upon the old noble at the gatehouse. "We are the Band of Wax, on behalf of all Omon Obin. Bring us our Silver Lord that we may have words with them."

A grumble erupts from above, yet it is quickly silence by the Chancellor. "The Law-Giver meets not with troublesome rebels." He continues, a growing irritation in his eye, "Begone, lest we have our forces surround and destroy you!"

A wave of laughter meets the challenge head on, Jas responds so, "Your forces?" He brandishes a hand out beside him, the triumvirate of Armorstrife, Baron Cemir of Partnerdaub, all the just lords of the land had rallied to the Band's call, "Who can you muster that does not already stand among us?" His words do well to quiet their opposition, the old Chancellor's raised fingers waiver in the still air.

"You would do well to remember your place. . ." He wails, throwing his hand down forward, "Fire!" A wave of arrows cut through the tension, raining down upon the Band. "Shields!" Eman bellows, "Shields!"

Arrowtips find their marks amongst the bronze and copper armored masses, yet Jas stands yet still unwaivered before the gate. "You would fire against your own people!?" His words shouted down the arrows that deigned to put an end to him, sticking the ground about his feet. "Defenders of Entrancegrape! Lay down thy arms and join hands with us for a better tomorrow!!" Even still, the walls did not budge, moments later armored figures, wild in movement trashed against the battlements high above. About their necks, living men heralded them along with spiny catch-poles. Unceremoniously they cast their men off the walls and into the dirt below, moments later they again shuddered to life -- Crimson blisters that oozed across their faces, the last stronghold of the Blight. Eman and Thaguk pulled Jas back from where he stood, bringing him to the shield-wall against his recklessness. As Entrancegrapes armed and armored thralls clambered forth, the battle began. . .

Teeth rent through armor, while blades did in kind, blood was shed before the walls of Entrancegrape, not of beasts, of men, of kinsmen. . .

The gates fell in time to the Band of Wax who'd mustered the spirits of all those who'd fight for their land. Within, the deepest keep of the history-rife castle, there alone Jas Anthrad stood, an axe at his side.





He fell to a knee before Ago Swallowsunk, the unfortunate soul, chained and starved, kept barely alive between wracks of agony, used as a mere tool to justify the greed and malice of those that controlled the Realm. The crowned thrall scraped and moaned as Jas grew closer, desiring his warm mortal blood. The golden-haired claimant embraced the Blighted one, bringing them in tight and close. Teeth crunched into his silver pauldron, but could not find their mark. "Shh. . ." He spoke, "Quiet now, you are free of your burden, I will take it upon myself. . ."




Galka Linarad balanced upon a finely smithed crutch of gleaming white metal. In his tired and sunken eyes he did bear witness to a sight that truly eased them. The lords of Omon Obin each and all stood for a toast in the halls of the newly minted 'Silverthrone', built by the Dwarves of the Staff of Kissing, just upon the grand river flowing through Señamatem -- Weatherponder, once more the capital of the realm. Eman there stood half-drunk, an arm around the young Thaguk, there was Baron Cemir and the lords who'd joined them in their fight, then further amongst those the soldiers of the Band of Wax. The cinnabar stone carpet led from the great threshold of the gleaming cyan mirocline keep, following it along to a trio of thrones, each masterful forged, there had sat Destis in one, a thick hand grasping tightly upon her husband's. Jas sat in the center, his now thickly bearded chin held high. He could see just more than Galka, he looked out onto his court and there the faces of Quenir, Jol, and all those who lost their lives in pursuit of their peace. As Galka lowered the silver crown upon Jas' head, the man shed a tear. Galka then proclaimed, "All hail Jas Gloryage the Worshipful, 23rd Law-Giver of Omon Obin!"

"HAIL! LONG MAY HE LIVE!


The days of the Blight proper are behind us. Still yet its festering rot could reappear at any moment. O Valiant souls, seek out the last vestiges of this curse, that it may never rear its head.
The spawn of the Mad Monkey king, the Fell Ones of Scarletbronze -- Only the most courageous must be called to action, should we ever wish to reclaim the city, they must be put to the sword.
Swordgleamed is inundated by poverty and crime, the bandit warlords there must be dealt with, less our people be put in harms way, yet. . . I hesitate to call for their demise, for they are our people too.
Streammartyred, its citizens live in huddles and tents beyond the confines of the city. . . Something must be done.
And further, the towns and hamlets of Omon Obin must be aided in rebuilding their homes, corpses and gore festering with the Blight remain all across our land, those who would aid in restoration would do a great service to our land.

Jas Anthrad removes his pen from the parchment. "We've a great deal left to do. . ." His voice carries from the heights of Silverthrone, over Weatherponder and beyond, upon the sunrise of a new dawn.


OOC: And that's all she wrote everyone. Uploading the save now.

Lurker, if you're still Lurking around, I found out that Clearingheaven the Quitescent Heather was once again stored in Entrancegrape. . . I just forgot to pick it back up. So there's another little quest if anyone wants to return it to the museum since it is an official submission. Or perhaps offer it to Jas, as it is in-fact a traditional symbol of Law-Givers. Which is probably why it kept ending up in Entrancegrape.

Furthermore, of note, I did end up killing another adventurer, though I did not realize it until the deed was well and truly done. Ezif Bluewave, of Chaospotato. The one enamored by THE WORM, due to the circumstances, I had no choice to slay them -- Well, NPC Galka chose to. Forgive me for that transgression.

Lastly, QD, if you add them to the ever growing list of adventurers you maintain, it's probably best just to do Jas, considering I bodyswapped on a few occasions, adding all of the Band of Wax to the list would just bloat it unnecessarily I think.

Regardless of all that I really hope you guys enjoyed this adventure, the official submission to the museum being the five trunks of Fell One Weremammoths, and the missive that came along with them.

[kesperan]

Well, that's a lot to unpack!

Ezif Bluewave was a necromancer, and he was given The Spot of Quietness and Twilightmolten by Moldath in return for his slab. It seems he was called to religious service by Bikda, and left his necromancer tower to lead a holy order. Until his head was chopped off. What did you end up doing with the artifact weapons?

The sterling silver crown; it once belonged to Queen Ral, gifted to her by Moldath. It seems the new Queen didn't take a liking to it!

Great turn Unraveller; your story menaces with spikes of awesomeness.

[TheFlame52]

It's been a long time since we had such a hero at the Museum! And a fully mortal one, no less!

[Unraveller]

Ezif Bluewave was a necromancer, and he was given The Spot of Quietness and Twilightmolten by Moldath in return for his slab. It seems he was called to religious service by Bikda, and left his necromancer tower to lead a holy order. Until his head was chopped off. What did you end up doing with the artifact weapons?

Ah yes! I'd forgotten. My intentions with the artefacts were to be used for Galka to barter with the dwarves, whether it had been The Staff of Kissing or The Walled Dye, in order for them to construct the fortress of Silverthrone, which in turn became the capital of Omon Obin. However, I ended up in haste forgetting to actually do so, by the time I realized this I was already about done completing the fortress, so I then decided to create a treasury and artefact room and then once again forgot to inter them there haha. So in the end Jas Anthrad still holds The Spot of Quietness and Twilightmolten in his inventory due to slipping my mind. Feel free to take them from him if it's appropriate, maybe even in turn for doing the Realm of Silver a service?

Great turn Unraveller; your story menaces with spikes of awesomeness.

It's been a long time since we had such a hero at the Museum! And a fully mortal one, no less!

Much appreciated! Galka was originally intended in my first turn here to remain mortal, though circumstances made it seem fitting for him to gain vampirism after biting the throat out of Uja Hoodbathed. Now I can at last attest to having a mighty mortal champion, especially among the hordes of necromancers and walking corpses amongst our Museum. It's my hope that this begins a new dynasty for Omon Obin, originally made Jas' goal to 'Start a Family' so we'll see if he actually ends up having children, beyond my narrative overtures.

For those curious who wish to visit Silverthrone and hold court with the 23rd Law-Giver, it's pretty much directly under the Weatherponder tile, ya can't miss it.

THE SAVE IS RIGHT HERE! @nogoodnames

_{I sure hope this is the right version, my backups confused me. haha.}