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[chubby2man]

It takes a couple days of discussion, but you arrange an agreement with the young merchant Beryl Levari. She will arrange for goods and wagons to make the trek to the villages where you will gather your crafts and raw materials to sell. She, being a good Leahorn woman, was at first reluctant to deal with a Lich King, but the promise of wealth and your earnest desire to improve the lives of people swayed her to your side.

While she haggles to keep more of the earnings for yourself, you hold the cards in this transaction, and she avoids pushing her luck in the negotiations. The deal you come up with is highly favorable to you, and as she grows her enterprise you will keep a significant stake. However, it will take her some time to grow her reach and manage the flow of goods your growing economy will produce.

Though you have some work on your end to do as well. Beryl was asking about the conditions of the road leading to your tower, when you had to admit that while you had a favored goat path currently, calling it a road was a bit of stretch. And as for comfortable quarters to shelter merchants, you had none. You did have rebels to provide protection on the dirt paths between villages though.


“Well, Lord Unholy, I got to say its quite the venture you present, but I’m up for the challenge,” she extends her hand.

You grasp her hand and nod your agreement. She shivers a bit at the coldness of your flesh.



You return to your lands and take a view on your other project. Not too far from your tower, you located a proper cavern, one suitably sized for your new rebel army. Of course, you made a few alterations for defense and livability, mostly expanding and concealing entrances and adding proper ventilation. While you wouldn’t want to stash your living troops here permanently, it is a comfortable enough spot to return to while out on patrol.

The Red Fox was plenty pleased with the new quarters, and just as pleased with the distress this caused the Baron. Progress proceed apace on his Pathfinder’s, with his chosen volunteers learning unnervingly quickly under his tutelage.

You may have had a hand to play there.


With the rebels making their move into the caverns well underway, you decide to investigate more of the mysteries of the lake. You had sensed some sort of power there, and it would not do to leave that so close to the source of your power.

And so one misty morning you walk to the water’s edge, and find a boat waiting there for you, waves gently lapping at its sides. Its prow swept up into a swan’s head, intricately carved.

You have never seen this boat before.

You check for any footprints, but find none. You sense a faint aura of enchantment, a lure to beguile that you contemptuously overcome, but nothing to present a danger to you. The boat is also spelled to return to wherever it came from.

It seems you have an invitation.

A-Accept it. Board the boat.

B-Walk along the bottom of the lake to your destination, you have no need to breathe.

C-Just go underground and travel to the source of the power.

D-Something else? Turn around and go home?

[Glass]

A
There’s no need to be rude, and likely little risk from any potential ambush.

[Sudurandom]

A. We've been given an invitation and it would be rude to refuse.
We should still remain alert and ready to jump out if there's trouble. Just because it can't kill us while our phylactery is safe doesn't mean we should let it do whatever it wants.

[King Zultan]

A

[Rockeater]

A

[Glass]

The Knights of the Parchment

The overwhelming majority of knightly orders are inaugurated with a name, driving purpose, 'theme' already considered and selected. After all, who would dedicate themselves to an order that hasn't even dedicated itself to anything yet (don't let any Solstice Knights hear that kind of talk, though). Of course, more deeply, one can see that this means that most knightly orders only begin to exist after an image has been carefully crafted for them to fill. Most knightly orders are younger than their names.

Not all are. And those strangely-called orders are, to a significant degree, the ones to most watch out for.

Let us take the Knights of the Parchment as an example. An order with a history so long, that they are named for its remnants.


Nobody knows when the Knights of the Parchment were founded. They were not named that then, of course, but nobody knows what they were called when they were founded, either. It's not even clear if the Knights of the Parchment began as a formal knightly order, or if it merely eventually adopted the structure due to convenience, necessity, or what-have-you. The weight of history has pressed any trace of the path their trod flat, yet they have carried it far beyond their starting point.

What is known is that once, long ago, the Knights of the Parchment had a holy book, from which the whole of their history was written, and their divine purpose was extolled. Within this book lay the law of the order, both that which lay upon themselves and that which must be enforced upon the land. The book separated Right from Wrong, showing the way in all things. Under their rule - under the rule of the book - life was peaceful, if standardized, and prosperous, if uniformly so. Crime and monsters were dealt with promptly and efficiently, and their demesne was the envy of all lords. So the legends go, at least.

The last part, at least, must have been true. Why else would their neighbors have taken up arms to invade? They were not provoked; indeed, they had been granted entrance to the chivalrous domain, under the pretext that they desired to organize a crusade to strike at distant foes, beyond the reach of any one realm. And then, as one, they turned on their hosts in a grand slaughter, escaping with what treasures they could and leaving flames in their wake.

In the aftermath, but a single, tattered page of knights' precious holy text remained. Torn in places, burned in others, much was wholly illegible. But what could be read was thus:

                  BE NOT AFRAID OF THE DARK
  IT WILL TEST YOU AND TRY YOU TO TEACH YOU TO GROW

           NO GLORY WAITS FOR THOSE WHO DEFY THE DARKNESS
HER EMBRACE SOOTHES THE GLARE OF THE SUN, WHO STANDS APART FROM THE WORLD


    YOU MUST BE EVER-VIGILANT AGAINST DEATH OF THE SHADOWS WHO GUARD YOU
            YOU SHALL BE AS ONE BASTION FOR YOUR PEOPLE


     KNOW YOUR PART IN THE BALANCE OF LIGHT AND DARK
    A SHADOW AT NOON SHINES AS GREATLY AS A CANDLE AT MIDNIGHT

They could no loner be who they were before, bereft of their charges and betrayed by their fellows. Yet they took to heart the message of the parchment - the flames had tested and tried them, and in them they would be reborn, reforged. They would defy the darkness and burn it away, from themselves and from those who needed it. They would be vigilant, always ready wheresoever the shade might creep in, and the corruption and death it wrought would never be permitted to remain. Even at the darkest hour, they would shine, a candle in the night.

This they swore, and so rose the Knights of the Parchment, perhaps the greatest knights of the realm.

[King Zultan]

Where do you come up so much of this kind of stuff, I would have trouble making even one post like this.

[Glass]

In this particular case, a name generator popped out “Knights of the Parchment” and I decided that there must be a good story for how they got such a name when it’s rather outside the realm of what people think of for knightly orders.

A lot of the other stuff has been nabbing story bits from other games or web-novels, or just writing up “hey, how might a relatively normal person be dealing with this right now?”

[chubby2man]

 The white pine hull cut through the water like a knife. The morning fog thickened, the sun becoming hazy and distant in the sky.

 Soon, it is just you surrounded by a sea of fog.

Of course, that is when the whispers begin, promising you secret knowledge and power. Whispers of the buried wealth below, of the fabulous treasures that can be yours, if only you enter the dark water below.

You notice the beguiling enchantment on the boat grows in strength, but you pay it little mind. Being aware of its effects makes it much easier to disregard them.

You keep your eyes open, and thus see as a scaled man climbs onto the boat, gripping a bone dagger.  You point your finger at your potential assailant. “NO.” You utter, and the fishman cries out in surprise as your will crashes against his own. He stumbles off the side and splashes into the water.

The voices quiet and the roiling fog stills. You wait, but not for long.


 “Welcome, unliving king, what brings you here to MY lake?” The voice comes from behind you in a sybillant whisper.



You frown as you turn to behold an ancient looking fish person, scales gray and flaking, wearing dripping robes. His eyes glow red with an unnatural power. He didn’t make a sound coming onto the boat.


You assume a ready posture. “ I am Magnimian the Unholy. You sent me this vessel, did you not?”


The old fish person laughs wetly, “The boat comes to those who are curious and foolhardy. They make for excellent eating,” Those eyes glare brightly at you.

“You are different, powerful like the kings of old. I have power as well, so even they would fear my wrath.”


The air is still, the fog hardening into pillars around you. The scent changes, a hum permeates the air faintly. You have entered a domain of some sort. It doesn’t extend far, and it is poorly made in your opinion, but it would be disadvantageous for you to fight here.

“I merely wished to explore the lake which is my home.” Looking through the water, you can see a half dozen fish-persons circling the boat.


The ancient fish man shakes his head. “You have no claim, squatting here for a week. Years have I ruled this lake, and harvested those who dared my shores. Tribute I demand, Lich King. Blood and worship I desire. In return, I will give you power and knowledge, a place in my right hand. Or I will sup on your bones,” And of course the eyes shine even brighter at that. This old man is but the vessel for a greater power, one that is marshaling its strength.

 You shrug your shoulders and say:

A. No. And attack.

  B. Sure, sounds like a deal. Well, you would only give him your enemies, those who really deserve it, you know. But honestly, what sort of Lich King doesn’t have an allied monster in their lake?

C. Would you take gold and gemstones instead? Try to do a bit of haggling, you are not very interested in the offering of souls and such.

D. Something else?

[Glass]

Rude. We shall be nobody's right hand, much less in their right hand, and I quite assure you, our bones are rather unpalatable.

I see a few main options. We could Miracle up a Stygian Wind to potentially just kill everything here (3d10 damage on everybody in a 90-foot cone? That'd hurt like fuck). We could also Miracle up Suffocating Terror (same cost, so we're clear, an Effort dedicated for the day) to take out the entourage (3 automatic mental damage will probably disable all the Lesser Foes around) nonlethally and then attempt to negotiate from a position of more power. We could also start with Illimitable Darkness and then doing one of the other two, or whatever else. And we could probably also dump a bunch of rocks in the water just as an extra freebie.

I'm not particularly interested in humoring these guys.

[King Zultan]

They sound like a bunch of dicks, lets kill em.

[Glass]

Is everybody watching the thread in agreement that we tell them what to do with all the hot air they're blowing with some Stygian Wind?

[King Zultan]

Blowing them away with a Stygian wind sounds like a good idea.

[Glass]

Peaceful Rest

They all laughed as he turned around slow
They said you ain't welcome 'round here anymore
You just might as well go

The prayer chamber was desecrated, mud and shit liberally spread out all across it. The sacred tapestries were ablaze; the stained glass was shattered. And in the middle of it was a young girl, arms broken and cut open, lying atop the remains of the sacred scroll. Around her, the rioters laughed, gleefully watching the youth - just as desecrated as the rest of the building - agonizingly twisting and turning, trying to get her feet under her.

He wiped the blood from his face as he slowly came to his knees
He said, I'll be back when you least expect it
And hell's coming with me

The sounds quieted, then silenced themselves, as the girl finally managed it. Her bloodstained robes were torn to shreds; the symbol of her god, once embroidered on the left breast, had been completely ripped out, while the dress had been cut apart to allow the men to indulge their most base desires. Her arms hung limply at her sides, more like stockings with rocks in them than limbs. But despite all this, she stood.
And as she walked - slowly, painfully - out of the temple, the rioters silently - warily, disgustedly - moved to let her pass.

She did not stop until she was miles outside the city, not until she finally collapsed on the side of the road.

There is a hill at the bottom of the valley
Where all the poor souls go when they die
And if you listen real close
You can hear em' like a ghost
Saying you're never gonna make it out alive

The whispers roused her, then. They wanted the same thing she did, after all.

Revenge.

They've roused her since then, too. She couldn't die yet, after all, not if they all wanted to reach their goal. Those monsters had taken everything. For her, her religion, her home, her family, her purity. For the whispers, all that and more. Beyond even taking their lives, taking their bodies. But never their souls.

Her arms were shattered to uselessness, so they would be her hands. Others could not hear them, so she would be their voice. And together, justice would be served.


There is a town at the bottom of that hill
They got a secret that they keep like a slave
They got a black magic preacher (ooh)
We'd do well to let him teach her
You'll be heading up that hill to the grave

The mayor had a nice deal cut out between himself, the local businessfolk, and the priesthood of the Hand of Maugh. Workers would come for employment and the proprietors could treat them as they pleased, his police would ensure that any attempts at rebellion were swiftly quashed, and the priests would make sure that mortality was no barrier to service. Tidy as you pleased, and even though he barely had to do anything, he got a rather nice helping of the profits and a promise that he'd stay in office for the rest of his long and comfortable life.

And it is well, with my soul
You line your pockets full of money that you steal from the poor
And on your way down to hell, you hear me ring that bell
I'd pay the devil twice as much to keep your soul

Oh, sure, sometimes some wannabe hero would wander by and stir up trouble. Sometimes one church or the other would stop by, try to set up shop, give the workers "hope" or whatever - organize them, more like, and undermine the Hand. It happened every couple years. A shame, really; such events called for rather heavy-handed tactics, and he didn't much like those. It got messy when that had to happen, and he prided himself on the stability he'd cultivated. But oh well; such things were why the police were so well-equipped, after all. Worker revolts didn't exactly need that much to suppress, much less individual rebels, though it helped to put on a good show of force to discourage others from trying. Why, there hadn't even been a single attempt these past six months!

And it was upon that jolly thought that the chief of his police slammed his office door open, face red and eyes wide with rage and fear.

"All my men are dead."

There was a drifter passing through that little valley
See he had promised he was coming back to town (coming back to town)
They didn't know him by his face, or by the gun around his waist (ooh)
But he come back to burn that town to the ground

She wore a drab brown hooded cloak, clasped tight around her form. A glimpse beneath it would have shown the same bloody robes she had worn all those years ago, stretched and torn further upon her grown frame. Her arms were gone, long since cut off with the assistance of the spirits of the wronged; ghostly hands now hovered at her side, grasping a wicked-looking scythe - simple in shape, but with a blade of shadow-like metal, and whispering with the voices of a million restless souls. Not quite real, yet as grave as death's gentle touch.
Contrary to the police chief's words, his forces were not dead. There merely wished they were, as they lay in pieces around the reaping maiden. Limbs, heads, and torsos all were collected by the dead, called away from the duties assigned to them to instead do the work their souls demanded of them, spectral visages settling over long-bleached skeletons, keeping the pieces of their tormenters close enough to the one who commanded death.

First there was fire, then there was smoke
Then that preacher man was hangin' by a rope
Then they all fell to their knees and begged that drifter
Begged him please, as he raised his fist before he spoke

The priests of the Hand of Maugh attempted to resist, throwing grave champions at the woman, soldiers they had long kept to themselves, unstoppable warriors and immovable guardians.
As one, their weapons were turned against the priests, for their command of death failed in the face of one who had known in intimately, and their dead were as vengeful as the lady's laborer masses. The temple was shattered and burned, and the high priest, the Hand himself, was dragged out of his hiding place to feel the same agonizing punishment that the finally-dying police had.

And as the temple burned behind her, the woman turned back toward the city, toward the hordes of townsfolk - some terrified, others hopeful. Finally, her spectral hands grasped her hood and pushed it back, revealing her face - darkened, thinner, but ultimately, much the same as it had been all those years ago.

Behind her, in the flames, a symbol rose up, much the same as that one long ago shattered in a ravaged church. And so she spoke:

I am the righteous hand of God
And I am the devil that you forgot
And I told you one day you will see
That I'll be back I guarantee
And that hell's coming with me



-The burning and rededication of Maugh's End by Jemaia, bishop of the Church of Vetremiel and founder of the subsect the Order of Peaceful Rest.

[Glass]

Do you hear the people sing?

Can you hear me, oh masses, will you hear me cry out
'Gainst the sins of oppressors who shan't heed my shout?

It started with a single voice, a single shout. A single call to action.

Do you see what they've done, never give, only take?
Sing with me, defy them, their chains we shall break!

They always started that way, of course. Well, almost always. Sometimes they started with a magic sword or ancient prophecy or something. The point remained.

Sing, oh, my people, today we'll be heard
Even as they try to silence every word!

They almost always ended that way, too. Typically without any intervening steps, although if it grew a bit, a defamation campaign could eventually bring it back down there.

So sing, be my people, together we stand
For if we're divided, they'll shatter our land!

They had tried that this time. It hadn't worked. Neither the swift removal nor the defamation campaign.

Do you hear, all my people, your good neighbor's cry,
Lament of the folk with gran'ries running dry?

Then they sent in the military. Not anybody too elite; the situation hardly called for that.

The empire takes and gives back only war,
So we'll take it all back and give them the what for!

It took the assignment and defections of four more divisions before they broke themselves out of that mode of thinking.

Sing, oh, my people, today we'll be heard
Even as they try to silence every word!

The problem, ultimately, was simple. Their people fought as a job, because they had to. Many were draftees; sure, the higher officers were nobles, but on the field? What nobleman would sully himself that way?

So sing, be my people, together we stand
For if we're divided, they'll shatter our land!

The rebels cared. The rebels cared greatly, and they had lost things to the appetites of the Empire. Family members lost to tax-induced starvation or sent home in boxes, chewed up by the engines of war.

The nobles grow fat off the work of the thin-
We shan't work to fund the prince's double chin!

Their grievances spoke to people, and they were spoken regularly and at great volume. And while yes, they had spoken to the commoners for years and decades... well, this time, they were spoken by a tried and tested fighting force. This time, the words had undergone a baptism in blood, and this time, they had not drowned.

So open the larders, let's have us a feast
And take all the wealth that they have from us fleeced!

Villages joined the cause, then towns. A city fell. One voice called out, and a million responded.

Sing, oh, my people, today we'll be heard
Even as they try to silence every word!

The fighting escalated. Elite forces were sent in to break the singing legion's morale.

So sing, be my people, together we stand
For if we're divided, they'll shatter our land!

And it worked. The militias and deserters died in droves, unable to face the heights of a true military.

Fires of war spread their empire far,
They steal every land, every territoire!

And so the call quieted. Dimmed. Until it was a single voice. Simple to end.

They set us at odds, keep us feuding for scraps-
No more, for together, we can make them collapse!

Except... it wasn't. The call still went out. The song yet went on. But the source could not be found.

Sing, oh, my people, today we'll be heard
Even as they try to silence every word!

And even today, as the Empire reigns over a myriad lands, shattered by its will and kept carefully divided...

So sing, be my people, together we stand
For if we're divided, they'll shatter our land!

...the voice of rebellion lives on, sings on, until the lands all shall rise up against their oppressor.

Sing, oh, my people, today we'll be heard
Even as they try to silence every word!
So sing, be my people, together we stand
For if we're divided, they'll shatter our land!