The Plains of Morgador: The Plains of the Morgador ('Plains of Battle' in the Sidfirian language) have an ancient and significant history dating back to the Golden Age where the area was once the heart of Sidfir civilisation. During the Apocalypse, the place was the site of the Final Battle of the Apocalypse where the Graced Peoples defeated Brethnor's servants.

In the Silver Age, the Turakindi built their civilisation upon the ruins of the old Sidfirian cities in this same place, only for their civilisation to similarly be destroyed in the First Cycle War.

Now the Morgador is a place of ancient ruins, largely abandoned, home to ancient secrets and terrible dangers.

The Domain of Vaurinth: This is the place where Vaurinth lurks, surrounded by foul creatures. Nobody who crosses the Raxanor Mountains has ever returned.

The Taurethil Forest: A great forest filled with strange magical creatures and the hidden cities of the Fair Folk. Unless you have been invited and have an escort (or are one of the native races), venturing into the Taurethil Forest is ill-advised and very dangerous.

The Grey Mountains: The Mountain range where Aderynel, a young Sylpharim Scout, has just found an ancient Turakindi ruin that you are setting out to explore...

Ealdormuda: A pleasant coastal city of thatched wooden houses and long halls surrounded by a low stone wall and a dyke. Ealdormuda is the seat of the King of Eaham, who lives in the Great Stone Hall built atop the central hill, guarded by his Housecarls. This is the location where your party is assembling before setting out...

In the beginning, there was no space and there was no time. There was only Eruherion. Then, Eruherion breathed and breathed life into the first of its creations, a being of its own likeness without form, and it named the creation ‘Brethnor’. And Eruherion and Brethnor dwelt \in the primeval darkness.

Then Eruherion breathed life into other beings in the darkness. All were beings of pure spirit without shape or form, yet not rivalled Brethnor in its strength or power. These beings became known as the ‘First-Born’ in the ages to come.

Then Eruherion created the world, set the boundaries between heaven and earth, and made all the creatures that dwell in the sky, in the sea, on the earth and beneath it. Eruherion named the world ‘Minadra’ and the First Born descended from the Heavens, took on form and dwelt upon it.

But Brethnor did not take on physical form. In Brethnor’s pride, Brethnor asked Eruherion which of its creations Eruherion loved the most, for Brethnor was the most powerful. Eruherion answered that it loved all its creations equally and for the first time, Brethnor felt anger and jealousy. And on that day, evil was born into the world.


Then Eruherion created the Golden-Age races the Jinn and the Sidfir.

The Jinn were people of the elements – earth, fire, water and air. They were solitary beings that went to dwell in places where they could be near the element of their affinity. The Sidfir, meanwhile, were a people of mind, magic and spirit who built cities of beauty upon Minadra that have never been surpassed in the ages since. There was no death amongst the Jinn or the Sidfir and Eruherion walked amongst its people under the guise of many faces and Eruherion was pleased with its creation.

It was then that Brethnor took on corporeal form and moved amongst the races. And Brethnor spread temptation and corruption amongst both the First-Born and the Golden-Age peoples, never creating but twisting and perverting. Many First-Born fell to Brethnor’s temptation while the Jinn and Sidfir who fell became known as the Gorthaz and Fomori.

In the parts of Minadra under the gaze of Eruherion, all appeared well, yet in the darkness, evil grew, until the time came when Brethnor’s followers thought themselves powerful enough to destroy the Graced people of Minadra and rebuilt it in Brethnor’s twisted image. In the place now known as the Plains of Mordagor, the vast hosts met and fought and for the first time, blood was shed on the fields on Minadra. The losses were countless on both sides, but eventually the Graced peoples triumphed and those twisted First-Born, Gorthaz and Fomori who survived fled into the dark and hidden places of Minadra.

The Golden Age lasted 14,840 years.


Eruherion saw the suffering and death that had come upon Minadra and created Nalmarin – a place beyond the reach of Brethnor’s corruption, where its Creations could go. And Eruherion set the First-Born ‘Hirlome’ to guard the gates of Nalmarin so that no creature might enter that would bring corruption to it. Nalmarin is the place where the souls of the righteous travel after death.

On Minadra, the lines of the Jinn and the Sidfir gave the shoots of new races. The Turakindi (who are now known as giants), the Gwylfinn (who are now known as the Fae of the Seelie Court) and the Valindor (who are the ancestors of humans).

The races of the Silver Age were not immortal like the Jinn and Sidfir – they aged and died and the souls of the righteous among them travelled to Nalmarin. Similarly, the world was not free of strife, as the Golden Age had been, yet they built great cities and tended the forests and Minadra healed from the wounds of the Apocalypse.

Yet in the darkness, the Evil beings that had survived the Apocalypse of the Golden Age began to multiply and their corruption began to spread among the races of the Silver age. From the Tarakindi came the race known as the Durgorim, the Unseelie court of the Gwylfinn was founded and the Valindor were corrupted into the Thaurindor.

And in the dying days of the Silver Age, the Hosts of Darkness spewed forth onto the land, fighting a war that lasted for 20 years and left Minadra in ruins once again. Ultimately, the Graced people triumphed for a second time though a mere handful of the First-Born and few of the Golden-Age people survived to remain on Minadra after the First Cycle War. And the evil creatures retreated into the dark places once again, led by one of the last First-Born on Minadra, a being known as Vaurinth.

The Silver Age lasted for 13,440 years.


The Steel Age races sprung forth from the line of the Silver Age races. The races of the Age of Steel are shorter lived and lack the magical talents of the Silver Age peoples, yet they have multiplied and spread across the face of Minadra, rebuilding again, though not with the same majesty as the races of the Silver Age though in places the cities of the Valindor, the glades of the Seelie Court and the last bastions of the Sidfir remain to provoke awe.

It is now the year 4,017 of the Age of Steel and in the shadows, a darkness is moving again. Vaurinth has revealed himself after millenia in hiding and a Second Cycle War is now all but inevitable…

In the 3,769th year of the Age of Steel, the people from the deep south, known as the Nemrozan invaded the Empire of Varadaban. The Nemrozan (whom the Mitradaevaka viewed as primitives) had lived peacefully alongside the Mitradaevaka for centuries and the invasion came as something of a surprise.

The young General Vahumisa, was sent to confront the Nemrozan and raised the Southern levies. Despite realising he was outnumbered 30,000 to 20,000, Vahumisa was confident of victory, assembling his forces on the Artavara plains South of the Casm-Dahyu. In the opening phases of the battle, Vahumisa ordered his cataphracts to charge the Nemrozan light cavalry (who formed the largest part of their forces), which they did, though the Nemrozans refused to stand and led Vahumisan’s forces back and forth across the plains until, heavily armoured and riding under the heat of the Southern Sun, they were, exhausted, parched with thirst, scattered and disorganised. Then, and only then, did the Nemrozan turn to attack. Vahumisa’s cavalry was destroyed in the ensuing fighting. Witnessing the unfolding chaos, many of the levies turned and fled, only to be cut down by Nemrozan horsemen. Vahumisa was slain by an arrow while trying to rally his men.

As the Nemrozan force marched North, looting and pillaging as they went, terror gripped the Mitadaevaka people, many of whom fled to their Capital of Ap-Vio. Emperor Dahyusah, whom history would remember as ‘the Wise’, commissioned General Zaranaka to call together the Northern levy and also sent word to King Calion of the Sidfir, pleading for his aid.

The Sidfir were not generally given to interfering in the ways of the Steel Age peoples, but given their long friendship with the Mitradaevaka, Calion decided to send 2,000 of his finest soldiers to support Zaranaka’s army. The news of the Sidfir’s support gave hope to the Mitradaevaka army who continued their preparations for battle with renewed zeal. Traveling with the Sidfir host (led by King Calion) was the Valindorian mage, Calanthor, who at 427, had been studying magic amongst the Sidfir for the best part of a century.

Zaranaka assembled his host South of Ap-Vio in the place known as Navavasta, to await their Sidfir allies. Few Cataphracts had survived the Battle of Artavara and Zaranaka’s force was mostly made up of levy soldiers and a few horse archers.

Perhaps, sensing the danger the Sidfir force presented (it was commonly thought that one Sidfir warrior was equivalent to a score of humans), the Nemrozan rode hard to strike Zaranaka’s army before the Sidfir could arrive. Realising the danger, Emperor Dahyusah personally led forth his Royal Guard - the finest spearmen of the Empire, helmets wrapped in purple cloth against the heat. Upon reaching the field and realising the Sidfir were still some way off, Emperor Dahyusah yielded command to the experienced Zaranaka, who placed the guard on the right flank of his host of infantry.

As evening fell the night before the battle, Dahyusah and Zaranaka received word that the Sidfir expected to reach them by the next evening. Zaranaka’s army numbered no more than 10,000 men, yet they chose to take their stand on the field with prayers to Eruherion for the deliverance of their people.

Shortly after dawn, the Nemrozan attacked. And through the morning, under a withering hail of arrows and javelins, Zaranaka’s army stood firm. Sensing his men would not break, the Nemrozan charged, engaging the Mitradaevaka in vicious hand to hand fighting.

For several more hours the Mitradaevaka held until finally, in the late afternoon, the Sidfir were sighted in the West: rank upon rank of riders on white horses with armour that gleamed like the sun.

Many of the Nemrozan fled at that point and the Sidfir came upon them with an unstoppable force, sweeping those that had not fled from the field amidst great slaughter. The Battle of Navavasta has since gone down in History as the battle that saved the Empire of Varadaban and marks the last time the Sidfir took the field.

Thousands of prisoners were taken that day and after oaths never to make war upon the Mitradaevaka again, were released to return home. The Mitradaevaka guard their southern border to this day, but the Nemrozan have never since proved to be so dangerous.

Before their release, Calanthor spoke to many of the prisoners, hoping to discern the reason for the seemingly unprovoked Nemrozan aggression. Quickly, Calanthor began to realise that Vaurinth had been moving amongst the Nemrozan, spreading Envy of the wealth of the Mitradaevaka people and Contempt for their peaceful society. Darkness, it seemed, was spreading across the lands once again. Seeking further wisdom, Calanthor rode back with King Calion to consult with the Sidfir mages.


Calanthor’s message was received gravely by the Sidfir mages. For many years they pondered what Calanthor had observed and messages were sent to the Kings of the Age of Steel warning of the coming of a Second Cycle War. Yet few heeded the messages for the threat seemed far off and the thoughts of the peoples of the Age of Steel are fixed in the present.

21 years after the defeat of the Newrozan at Artavara, the ancient seer, Ilmaereon received words of prophecy which he relayed to the other Sidfir mages;

When the seventh dawn shall rise
Upon the golden hills of Arventia,
And the seventh daughter draws her first breath
Beneath the whispering elm of twilight,
An unborn son shall open his eyes to the unseen.
He shall bear the Sight,
A vision unclouded,
And in his gaze shall shine the path
To the Eternal Light,
Who shall wade through shadow and flame
To break the darkness that lies upon the world.
The daughter shall not dwell in marble halls nor in gilded keep,
But where the river bends thrice, and the moonlight kisses the reeds.
Seek her where the night flowers bloom,
And the owl calls thrice before the dawn.

The mages set about the task of deciphering Ilmaereon’s words concluding that at some point in the future a leader known as ‘the Eternal Light’ would be born to unite the peoples against the coming darkness. But to find that leader they would need to find the ‘Son who bears the Sight’, who was yet unborn, with the prophecy lending information as to the location of his mother.

The exact location she was to be found, or indeed when, remained obscure in the words, yet it would be somewhere in the Regnum Arventia. Equipped with missives from King Calion, Calanthor rode to the Regnum in search of the woman.


At that time the Regnum Arventia was ruled over by Rex Sebastianus V Camillus, though he was in his 81st year and his health was waning. While Sebastianus received the missives of King Calion graciously, he gave little aid to Calanthor save allowing him access to the Royal Library.

Sebastianus had two sons who still lived (having originally had five and three daughters). Isidorus, who at that point was already 58 years of age, was the first-born and due to inherit the throne. Isidorus Camillus was a wise and just Prince who was a skilled diplomat and administrator. His younger brother, the youngest of Sebastianus’ sons, Quintus Camillus, was 30 years of age, a skilled and brilliant military commander, handsome and friend of many in the military. Quintus harboured a deep resentment towards his brother, seeing him as a decadent wastrel, unfit to rule the Regnum and had begun to speak openly to this effect as his father’s health waned.

Knowing the risk of civil war, Rex Sebastianus decreed that upon his death the Regnum would be split between the Northern Coast (the lands now known as ‘Skeroparalia’), which Quintus Camillus would rule, and the Southern Arventian heartland, which would go to Isidorus.

In 3792 AS, Rex Sebastianus died, Rex Isidorus II was crowned, Quintus rode north to take possession of his dominion and for two years peace reigned.

In 3794 AS, Calanthor’s studies were disturbed by the news from the Kingdom of Elarion that Gurzat warbands had been sighted in the Tuarethil Forest. Suspecting that Vaurinth was at work once again, Calanthor temporarily abandoned his quest for the ‘seventh daughter’, riding north to meet King Oronhir of Elarion and provide what counsel he could.

King Oronhir welcomed Calanthor as one who had studied with the Sidfir mages, hoping that Calanthor could help in driving the darkness out of Tuarethil. Calanthor tracked the Gurzat back to the caves under the Windy Mountains. Realising that the Gurzat from these mountains could raid as easily into the domain of Quintus Camillus as they could into Elarion, he road South, around the coastal road with the hopes of uniting Quintus Camillus and Oronhir in a common cause.

To Calanthor’s dismay, however, upon reaching Skeroparalia it became clear that driven by hatred and Envy, Quintus Camillus had chosen to serve Vaurinth, allowing the Gurzat and other foul beings of darkness to establish themselves in the Windy Mountains. In exchange they would join forces with his own people in conquering the Regnum Arventia.

Narrowly escaping capture and death, Calanthor fled South to warn Rex Isidorus, at his capital city of Segestia. He was joined here by emissaries from Nimrithil, Calenoril, Stormfjellheim and Binn Nechtain, whom King Oronhir had also sent messengers to, warning of the impending darkness.

In 3795 AS, the Grand Alliance of Segestia was formed to oppose Quintus Camillus and the coming darkness. It was the first and, thus far, only Alliance formed between humans, Firindor, Gundrukan and Sylpharim.

Theoretically, Quintus Camillus ought to have been easily defeated but a number of factors played to his favour. The first was the slowness of the Gundrukan armies to mobilise. The second was disagreement over the right course of action; the humans and Sylpharim favoured forcing the Sea Pass and driving North into Skeroparalia to dethrone Quintus. The Firindor, however, favoured prioritising the defense of their woodland realms. The Gundrukan sat on the fence. Finally, the Sea Pass itself provided a narrow avenue of assault on Skeroparalia which promised to be costly for the Alliance.

Finally though, in 3802 AS, the Alliance forced the Pass in the Fourth Battle of the Sea Pass and the following year Quintus Camillus took his own life as Alliance forces marched up the coast.

To this day, there are still Gurzat in the Windy Mountains though they do not pose the same threat they once did.


Sadly the Grand Alliance did not last long. As the tired soldiers returned home, Calanthor held a conclave of mages in Segestia to decide on the next course of action as it was becoming increasingly clear that Vaurinth’s influence on the Nemrozan was not an isolated incident, but part of a larger strategy.

Relying on the memory of the Gwylfinn and Sidfir, it was decided that an expedition should be mounted to the Frozen North where Vaurinth had fled after the First Cycle War and where Gurzat raids had been a problem since the second millenia of the Age of Steel. Vaurinth, it was feared, was building up his forces once again.

This mission, however, was temporarily delayed by the outbreak of the War of Gallus Nascia which shattered the Grand Alliance.

In the aftermath of the war, Rex Isidorus had settled many retiring soldiers on the border with the Kingdom of Elarion. Traditionally this land had been more-or-less deserted due to the danger of clashes between humans and Firindor. Rex Isidorus assumed that his veterans, having fought alongside the Firindor for several years, would be able to avoid confrontation. However, this was not to be. Veterans began logging on the edges of the Tuarethil Forest which concerned the Elarions who regarded the forest as the walls of their Kingdom. Arguments broke out, threats were levelled and on one inauspicious morning, the body of a man named ‘Gallus Nasica’ was found on the edges of the forest, killed by a Firindor arrow.

Passions were inflamed on both sides and war broke out. Skirmishes on the edge of the Tuarethil Forest went the way of the Elarions. Isidorus’ General in the North, Galerius Vocula, realised the only way to defeat the Elarions was to push through the forest. Vocula led a force of 7,000 men through the fringes of the Tuarethil, into the Kingdom’s sheltered farmland, to confront King Oronhir’s army of 5,000 at the Battle of the Valinel Fields. The battle was bloody and inconclusive, with around 1,000 Arvenses killed or wounded and 500 Elarions. The Arvenses retreated to their camp, while the Elarions withdrew to their city.

In the aftermath of the Battle, diplomats were able to negotiate an end to the war and the Arvenses withdrew from the Kingdom though mistrust between the peoples remains to this day, particularly amongst the long-lived Firindor, where many veterans of the Battle still live.


Amongst the Segestia Conclave was a mage from the Kingdom of Ledosever by the name of Velimir Volkhiv. Following on from the Conclave, Volkhiv was dispatched to return home to organise the expedition to the Frozen North, stopping in Caryandor on the way, where he picked up an escort of several Valindorian knights.

King Bogoslav received Volkhiv graciously and lent him the services of several fine knights to journey Eastwards to discern if Vaurinth was raising the Host of Darkness in the Frozen North.

In the spring of 3805 AS they set out, returning six months later with the dreadful news that Vaurinth was, indeed, forming an Army to the East.

Alarmed, Bogoslav called for a council of nobles, monks and mages, and in the spring of 3806 AS, they came together in at the Sovetnyj Monastery to decide on a course of action. Volkhiv called for a ‘Bran’ (the Ledoseveran word for a Holy War) and though the delegation from Caryandor cautioned them to wait, insisting that Ledosever alone was not enough to defeat Vaurinth, their words were lost in the enthusiasm to drive the corruption from the land.

In 3807, King Bogoslav set forth with a host of 17,000 men, intent on destroying Vaurinth. Of that host only one man returned to inform the world of the Battle of the Zurbathul Pass where King Bogoslav had been cut off, surrounded, and his men slaughtered, with just the one man allowed to return to tell of the disaster. Both Bogoslav and Volkhiv were numbered among the dead on that day.

The messenger returned with promises of peace from Vaurinth provided he was left undisturbed. While Gurzat raids have continued in the North, the Host of Darkness has not spilled forth and, while it is known Vaurinth is active, there has been no appetite for further warfare in the North. The threat seems far off and the thoughts of the peoples of the Age of Steel are fixed in the present.


In Segestia, Calanthor stayed on to advise Isidorus and his descendants. Many fine men and women took up the title of Rex or Regina, ruling the land with wisdom and the Arvenses continued to flourish though in the North, the shadow of Vaurinth remained. Through his years as an advisor, Calanthor never forgot his original mission, to find the ‘Seventh Daughter’ prophesied by Ilmareon all those years before. He studied hard in the libraries, yet it was by pure chance that, 170 years after the death of King Bogoslav, that he happened to be staying at an inn in the village of Ripae Floriferae.

Ripae Floriferae is a small village in the crook of a riverbank that is shown on no maps. It was, however, to the eye of the ancient Valindorian mage, a place of incredible beauty with banks covered in wildflowers, attended by a lazy court of bees rising from slow, reed filled waters. Feeling the place was a respite for his weary soul, Calanthor decided to stay a week. It was on his final day, walking amongst the moonflowers at night, the seventh night, that he heard the owl call, then again and on the third call he met a young maiden walking the other way, and he understood who she was.

The young maiden’s name was Atronia Arius. She was tall, with golden hair, which was uncommon amongst the Arvenses and Calanthor decided to befriend her to ensure she remained safe from Vaurinth's minions, not telling her why he was doing so or who she was.

Yet within weeks of coming to Ripae Floriferae, Calanthor realised that a dark presence was lurking in the nearby woods - a Fomorian - a being of terrible, dark power, well beyond his own, was here. Without needing to be told why, Calanthor instantly knew it had come for Atronia.

With the sun at its highest, a time when the Fomorian would hide away, Calanthor took Atronia and fled Ripae Floriferae, spiriting her away into hiding in the West, in Eaham, where she would not stand out amongst the tall, fair, Western folk.

In short, just have common sense and be courteous to your other RPers and we will have no problems! But if you want specifics...

Decisions
My word and the word of any Co-GM is binding. If you don’t like a decision, you can, of course, ask for us to reconsider it. Once. If we made a decision you don’t like, complaining for pages and pages is not going to endear you to anyone. Not me, not the Co-GM and not your fellow writers.

On that note, I intend to run this thread as an anarcho-communist cooperative. This is an unnecessarily complicated way of saying that my word DOES NOT overrule theirs. If there is an appeal and a dispute amongst the Co-GMs we will take a vote on the matter.

Post Quality
I don’t have a problem with short posts but please use proper spelling (I don’t care what regional variant), grammar etc.

Ideally (this is advise, rather than a rule) also try to include a 'hook' when you write a post, which is to say something that gives other people something to respond to. If your post is something along the lines of 'Bilbo Baggins stayed in his room and read a book while the world was ending', don't be surprised if nobody responds to you.

Posting Commitment
Nothing is worse than making an RP only for it to die. Please try to make at least one post every 48 hours or so. If you find yourself unable to post, please let me know in the OOC thread or Discord.

If it looks like you've abandoned a character I might decide to kill them off. Killing characters is great for the plot, makes the villains seem more of a threat! So if you want to avoid it, communicate.

Posting Speed
On the flip side, blitz posting can also be infuriating. So, especially during the important scenes, I recommend giving your fellow players a reasonable time to make a reply. We all have real lives.

That being said, if someone leaves everyone waiting for an annoying length of time, and the rest of the writers are rearing to go, it’s probably reasonable to continue. Talk to me or one of the Co-OPs and we’ll work a way through!

OOC thread Manners
Nothing annoys me more than bad manners on an OOC thread/the Discord. Swearing, passive-aggressive sniping or any other rude behaviour are not welcome. You will be warned once. If you can’t control yourself, slow-downs, temporary bans etc. may be applied on the Discord. If you continue to cause problems these may be made permanent. But we really, really don’t want to do that, so play nice!

IC thread Manners
Remember, we are writing a story together, not playing to win.

Character Death
Player death is possible in this RP, though it will be avoidable if you play to your character's strengths, work with your team and don't do anything too stupid.

As previously mentioned, if you abandon a character, I may decide to kill them off.

Godmodding
Within the context of this thread, some enemies will be flagged as major threats while others can be treated as mooks (Fallen, Age of Steel races are the mooks). It will be clearly communicated which is which and which ones will murder you and wear your spleen as a necklace if you try to tangle with them. Writing that you instantly overcome a dangerous enemy is not okay and I will ask you to change that. Also, if I communicate that there are too damned many mooks for you to deal with and you ignore my prompt, I will give you the same treatment.

Note that I reserve the right to write that your character has taken an injury.

Banning Players
I really don’t want to be doing that but reserve the right to do so if you cannot follow the (hopefully, rather simple) rules above.

There are a few rules to be mindful in creating a character app.

First, we are only allowing you to app as an Age of Steel Race. This is to avoid a character being too powerful. You will encounter NPCs from Silver and Gold Age races though.

Second - No mages unless the Co-OP team know you well, trust you to write well and trust that you understand how magic in the setting works. In practice, if you want to write a mage, we’ll get into a huddle and, if all three of us agree we are happy for you to do that, we’ll give you the go ahead. Show us you understand and we are likely to allow it.

Third - If you’re writing a female character who bucks gender norms for this setting (see the section on Gender relations), try to write it believably. Characters in literature such as Éowyn in Lord of the Rings or Brienne of Tarth in a Song of Ice and Fire are ones who work. They have a reason to act, they struggle, they overcome patriarchal structures through guile, perseverance or sheer bloody-mindedness and carve their own path.

Fourth - Lets keep the names thematic. I really don’t want someone called ‘Blaze Slaughterfest’ or ‘Amethyst Starbright’ randomly strolling into a scene where everyone else has a thematically appropriate name. They break immersion. To help you along, I’ve included some name generators and info to help you construct a name for the different races, below. Most people will use a Patronymic/Matronymic style of naming (e.g. <son’s name> son of <father’s name>/ <daughter’s name> daughter of <mother’s name>), however a few cultures don’t (e.g. the Arvenses).

Leofric, was only six when he was recruited by the Eruheronosetsy pri Ordynskaya Storozha, The Holy Militant Order of the Horde Watch, which for generations had guarded the main pass through the great Rzhagomir Mountains against the orcish hordes. Hundreds of years protecting Jugkrai, only to be stabbed in the backs by the very people they’d been sworn to protect.

The men that took Leofric in were the grizzled survivors of that losing battle, passing through Eahamingas on their pilgrimage south, seeking the benediction of the Sidfir before embarking on their great vision to redeem themselves and their order, and reclaim their holy citadel.

He was raised among these men. On their stories of the desperate fighting in the passes and in the unfamiliar snows. Training with them, as they travelled the land, recruiting, preparing, talking always of the great journey north.

Leofric grew strong among them. Trained as a shield-bearer - a squire - to the knights of noble men the Order took on. The Order taught him many things. He learned to speak northern jugkaraian, until his own native tongue began to feel clumsy and unfamiliar on his lips. He learned how to make camps, how to be a shield-bearer - but most of all he learned that if any of them were to survive they would have to train to fight. He learned and trained, until the mother and father and sister he’d left behind faded into distant dreams and he could no longer recall their faces or names.

Leofric was no knight, but he took to the blade. He trained like his life depended upon it. Trained whenever he could. The knights, who had honed their skills now with some of the finest warriors the world over found it amusing at first, then interesting - then useful. They tested each other constantly, honed their skills together until none could best him with a blade. As a young shieldbearer not yet come into his prime, already he was acknowledged as an emerging master of the sword and frequently began to train both knights and squires.

And then the day came when it was announced they would be returning to Junkai - for Leorfric, the first time, but he was confident. They all were.

Leofric won great renown for his surpassing skill with a blade as a squire in Jugkrai, both an instructor and fighting as a squire in many battles against both orcs and the Northern Jugkrai army. Unfortunately, mostly on the losing side.

Twenty years of fighting, and Leofric, son of Aelwin is done with Jugkrai and its wars, the Ordynskaya Storozha he joined is dead and gone, he’s done with dreams of knighthood, done with the other Eruheronosetsy orders, done with civil war and everything else around it.

He left Eahamingas a boy, with dreams of becoming a great swordsman and left Jugkrai, a bitter and jaded master of the blade after so many years with little ambition left save to continue perfecting the craft he'd taken up in youth - in truth more now from habit and stubborness than any real drive. Crossing half the world, through many trials, he returned to Eahamingas chasing work; a caravan guard while travelling, a deckhand at sea, he'd thought he might retire to teaching young nobles his craft, perhaps finding kindred spirits to follow in his footsteps but quickly found he had no stomach for youthful nobles. Eventually he sought out the half-remembered life and family he'd left behind, only to find them passed with barely a remembrance of the son that might have carried on their line.

Eventually, Leofric found once again as a squire for an aging knight-errant on some quest or another, while Leofric confronts the trajectory of his life.

Leoka squinted into the golden sunlight that pierced his eyes from just above the treeline as he scanned the fallow field that stretched before him, searching for something, anything familiar. He glanced back over his shoulder down the narrow, muddly lane that wound its way down towards the village off in the distance, comparing the track against half recollected memories and dreams.

“Are you lost stranger?”

Leoka turned abruptly enough the weathered, middle aged man standing a distance away took a step back and gripped his pitchfork tighter. The man’s weathered faced regarded him with wary eyes beneath a brow etched with sweat as he planted the haft of his pitchfork in the earth. Leoka’s blue eyes searched the face and features as they’d searched the fields, but there was nothing familiar there either. “I lived here.” He was painfully aware of the thick Jugkrian accent that afflicted what was once his native tongue as he turned back again, searching one last time against the treeline for some trace of the daub and thatch hut he imagined from his youth. “Somewhere.”

The man’s face scrunched in disbelief though his shoulders relaxed and he leaned on his pitchfork, seeming less wary and more amused. “You don’t sound like you’re from around here. I sure don’t recognize you.”

“I was here all the same. My name is Leofric, son of Aelwin.” Leoka waved his hand, vaguely toward the field and back towards the village. “The homestead was here. I remember this. This lane, to the village. It was here.”

“Aye, Aelwin lived here…” The man’s face shifted, the disbelief given way to now searching Leoka’s face for something familiar, struggling to do so. He seemed to give up on the attempt pointing instead towards the distant treeline. “Over there.”

Leoka studied the treeline, the ground of it, trying to fit the fallow field and trees to his memory.

“Aelwin died, about ten years back. Not long after his wife passed if I recall. I don’t know I ever met a son…”

Leoka stood still a moment, and only nodded. He glanced back towards the village. “There was a daughter too. She was my sister…” He tried to remember the name, the face, but somehow it was lost to time. He’d known it once. As familiar as breathing but somehow, somewhere along the line it’d been lost. It hadn’t seemed important then, and now it was gone.

The man took a moment before responding. His previous standoffishness evaporated as something in Leoka’s bearing told him this man was exactly what he seemed. “The lord said she sold the sharecrop back after he passed, and left soon after. Not sure anyone did hear from her. You might ask at the manor house.”

Leoka said nothing, and just inhaled, taking in the smell of wet hay and manure sensing some distant memory linked to the scent drifting just beyond his ken.

“There was a cousin too, I think. Next village over.” The man offered after a fashion then, not getting a response ventured further. “You got a place for the night, Leofric?”

Leoka sensed an offer there, but his hand went instinctively to the pouch on his belt, his thoughts turning to the road, to costs, to how far he could get - his other hand coming to rest on the pommel of his sword. “Aye, I’m well appointed enough. I’d just hoped old Aelwin might take comfort, knowing his son was alive and made something for himself.”

“I am sorry friend.”

“What reason is there to be sorry?” Leoka asked brisquely, turning the faded holy emblem on the back of his weathered cloak to the man, while giving a conciliatory waive of his hand that whatever ill he’d done was forgiven. “This too is Eruharion’s grand Design. Who are we to complain?”

The man said nothing then. A simple grunt of acknowledgement to The Maker.

“Eruhu vamu spasi, good man.” Leoka gave the reign of his mule a tug, and the beast lurched forward following the warrior off, down the road.

The old farmer stood there a time, leaning against his pitch-folk as he watched the holy warrior disappearing into the setting sun. Finally stood upright, took a breath and turned back to his fields, resolved to ask the elders in town whether any among them recalled as son of Aelwin who’d gone off to one of the holy orders.

There followed for a few days among the elders in the village discussions and recollections of the day fine knights and riders, their armors gleaming had come riding through town and that poor old Aelwin had sent his son away with them to become a man.

Not that any of it mattered. The man himself was long gone, and never did return.

Name: vashthishtra silent sands. “Vashra” cut down.
Species: Scale Kin Beastmen
Race/Nationality: Scale Folk Clans.
Gender: Male.
Age: 26
Languages:

Arventian
Native language is a hybrid of multiple languages and has naturally evolved in the region. Its become a evolving language of many, and somewhat less advanced, it works for the scale folk...
Loan words and small amounts from other languages but far from fluent.

Appearance:

Serpentine typical of the Scale folk and a darkish brown fading into sand tones with stripes and patterns that break up the form instead of one solid colour. Scales are tough yet flexible and protect against natural harm at least.

A number of scars but these mostly show as paler lines of scales more than anything from a lifetime of adventures, fights and scrapes. Has tried snd got better armour since they started.

Personal Effects:

Iron tipped spear.
Seax style war knife.
Bow + arrows.
Leather armour reinforced with scraps of metal like coat of plates, chain mail, and other materials of Bronze, Iron laminar and such. Very much hand made and maintained.
Rough cloak to break up hard lines of silhouette like a gillie cloak

General survival gear.

An old amulet, metal and stone found in ruins. Silvery and unknown if ancient, dropped or just thrown away. On a rough leather cord. Could be cheap or a priceless relic. No one knows.





Character Intro:

Name: Gweirca ferch Gwenllwyfo
Species: Sylpharim
Race/Nationality: Sylpharim
Gender: Female
Age: 18
Languages:Arventian and North Sylpharimese.

Appearance:
Personal Effects: She has a necklace made from the first flight feather of her best friend/crush. She also has a letter from said person.

---

Role: Thief.
Backstory: Gweirca was born to a polygamous group of Carnival folk. Not quite sure who her actual parents are, all of the folk helped raise her. She learned the art of Pickpocketing at her uncle's knee. Her aunt showed her the best way to choose marks and cut purses. Gweirca learned juggling, card counting, and sleight of hand from her Nona who, even with her arthritis, was the best gambler this side of the country.

Gweirca would soon meet her best friend, the daughter of an elected official. The girl, Lliwelydd, had snuck into the carnival tent where Gweirca. The two immediately hit it off, with Gweirca being completely head over heels for her even at such a young age. Not wanting to ruin the friendship, Gweirca would keep her love under wraps, for the most part at least.

As the years went on, Gweirca and Lliwelydd's bond would grow as they spend much of the waking hours together. Still in love with her BFF, Gweirca would occasionally try to woo her with various trinkets taken with her particular skills. Unfortunately, her attempts were continually ignored as Lliwelydd still saw each other as friends.

Lliwelydd would eventually gain the attention of various suitors, prompting the younger Gweirca to take drastic measures. Since the previous attempts to gain Lliwelydd's attention with shiny trinkets have failed, Gweirca decided to take it up a notch.

Hearing rumors of treasure in The Morgador, Gweirca would reach out to expedition teams in Ardbenn Solas. After finding out that she'd have to pay her own way onto a team, Gweirca did whatcshe does best to get coin, stealing. Unfortunately, due to her being new to the area, got caught stealing from the one mpeerson she shouldn't have, the proprietor of the expeditions in the city. Bidding a hasty retreat out of Ardbenn Solas, Gweirca headed to Ealdormunda, to try her luck with the human expeditions. Nothing was going to stop her from getting that treasure and winning the hand of her BFF.

Character Intro:

Gweirca sat on the edge of a cliff, overlooking a distant village. The Sylpharim had her wings fully outstretched to warm in the morning sun. It had been a long journey from home, but she was more excited than ever.

Gweirca had a parchment of paper in her hands, a letter from her now long distant friend. She skimmed the letter, but the same few words stuck with her over and over again. “ Come home again.” Those three words echoed in her mind. It filled her with determination and joy. The next time Gweirca would see Lliwelydd again, she would have a ton of money and her hand in marriage.

Folding the letter up again and putting it in her pocket, Gweirca stood up. She stretched, wings and all, before grabbing her bag. In one fluid motion of her wings, Gweirca lifted into the air and took off.

Name: Emanuil Fyodoreth
Species: Human
Race/Nationality: Borearion (Ledosevertsy)
Gender: M
Age: 48
Languages: Ledoseveran, Central Valindorian, North Valindorian,Turakindian, Arventian, High Valindorian, Gundrukanian, Sidfirian

Appearance:
Personal Effects:
A journal and charcoal: Emanuil keeps a hefty book which he claims as a journal, packed with years of notes and stories. He is protective of it to a degree, and has a tendency to speak aloud when journaling. His penmanship is exceptional for one of the Ledosevertsy, betraying a high status.

A suit of gleaming plate armor: Intricately shaped and fitted for him, having runes of protection inscribed on the plates. The armor is clearly from the Valindorians, whether it was given, bought, found, or taken, it provides him a degree of protection that most armor cannot.

A longsword: A long three-foot blade made for a hand and a half. It seems to have an Treuring make with a full guard and notable taper towards the leading edge. Emanuil fights often with an open hand to adjust his grip.

A kite shield: It bears a white star streaking over a field of green, a testament to the land and the guiding light of the faithful. It marks him as a devout knight, sworn to belief rather than a nation or a lord.

---

Role: The Knight Who’s Been Everywhere
Backstory: Born the third son of a Sviatodruzhina companion knight, Emanuil was raised and trained in a secluded monastery as a warrior-monk, a highborn calling which he took to naturally as breathing. A zealot ready to take his sword up as his father had against the evil that encroaches, he was recognized as an impressive warrior and wisdom alike, proclaiming the truths of their Lord’s goodness as quickly as he was to curse the evil that lurked beyond the river.

His reputation and potential was such to attract the attention of the freeblade palatine Georgi, known as the Star of the Snow. After a short time, he would announce Emanuil as his squire. The pair would travel the lands of Ledosevertsy vanquishing dark corrupting forces through bitter frost, and it would not take long for their reputation to rise to the halls of nobles. When there was a call for a Bran into the wastes beyond the Strazhovitsa, both were eager to heed the call.

The Bran was called to destroy an army massing in the dominion of Vaurinth, under one of his lieutenants, a terrible Fomori known as Hwinion. It would be an arduous campaign, the land itself seemed allied to the dark one, and many righteous souls perished to sudden frost before blades could even be crossed. By the time that the Enemy had been found, the warriors were thinned, and their foe’s bloodlust was deep. In the battle, Georgi and Emanuil alongside other companions would fight through the twisted monsters to face Hwinion. Only Emanuil would survive this battle, his knight and ten more slain by the ancient evil. With their leader slain, the tide of battle would be turned and the beleaguered crusaders would prevail at grave cost.

When the Bran Hwinion returned to Ledosevertsy, they had perhaps only a quarter of the men they had set out with. The Noble Lords, upon seeing the head of the Fomori, held a great celebration to honor the fallen, and Emanuil was proclaimed the Star of the Snow. The now-knight would take the honor out of respect to his late master, but a Valindor observer from Caryandor would take his humility and provide him a new purpose. He would become itinerant, and do for the lands beyond what he had done for Ledosever.

This new purpose fuelled him for nearly 3 decades. A symbol of devotion and clarity who would travel the lands of Minarda. His travels first took him to the Treuring Kingdoms, where after years of service he unveiled a conspiracy among the nobles against the King of Drachenfels to install a friend of the darkness as lord. He then ascended the mountains and lived among the Skyborn, calming the wrath of a Djinn whose tempests threatened to destroy a mountain roost.

Following a brief consorting with the Valindorians of Thangolad he set off for the great plains of Tridanu and Morgador, learning the old tongues among the ruins of elf, man, and giant alike. Armed with this knowledge, he ventured into the Taurethil, living nearly a decade among the elves, convincing a Sidfir hermit to return to his lowborn counterparts in Elarion. Following this, he destroyed darkbound poachers seeking to stir hatred between the Regnum and the lowborn elves.

Some among the Arventians claim that he had ventured into the lands of the High Elves after living among them, others go so far as to say that he attempted to traverse the mists, but he has not spoken of such things openly. In recent years reappeared among the grey mountains and Strommark, studying the lore of the Dwarves and their Giant forebearers. Now, he has made himself present in Ealdormuda, eagerly lending his sword against the dark that lurks in the woods near the city. Despite his age, he is not yet graying, but he has sought out the business in the ruins, and new heroes to guide into the unknown.

Character Intro: The Kingdom of Eoham was a beautiful place, its pleasant rivers and rolling greens seemed to stretch into infinity. Compared to the more rugged land of Strommark on the other side of the mountains, it was cozy and a far cry from the brutal, sparse land of his upbringing. Even now, twenty-eight years into his quest, it was a blessing from Eruherion himself that this world held places that felt bathed in His light. There was little darkness here, the people reminded him of his home in a way, a joviality that was because of the land, not in spite of it.

Even as he told tales of his travels in the inn, he still considered the news he had heard: that a ruin of the Turakindi had been discovered. It would be only a matter of time before treasure-seekers would be scouring the Greymounts, seeking profit and fame and danger. He knew many such people, but he was lucky enough for one of them to have imparted a name: Aderynel. The name was one he had heard before in the Bodeira rather than the roosts of southern mountains.

The palatine knight would be seeking her at first light. With any luck, she would be able to lead him and anyone else she had found to the ruin before it could be defiled and looted. The secrets of the Giants are tantalizing to many, and the value that such knowledge from past times could bring cannot be allowed to fall to greed.

Name: vashthishtra silent sands. “Vashra” cut down.
Species: Scale Kin Beastmen
Race/Nationality: Scale Folk Clans.
Gender: Male.
Age: 26
Languages:

Arventian
Native language is a hybrid of multiple languages and has naturally evolved in the region. Its become a evolving language of many, and somewhat less advanced, it works for the scale folk...
Loan words and small amounts from other languages but far from fluent.

Appearance:

Serpentine typical of the Scale folk and a darkish brown fading into sand tones with stripes and patterns that break up the form instead of one solid colour. Scales are tough yet flexible and protect against natural harm at least.

A number of scars but these mostly show as paler lines of scales more than anything from a lifetime of adventures, fights and scrapes. Has tried snd got better armour since they started.

Personal Effects:

Iron tipped spear.
Seax style war knife.
Bow + arrows.
Leather armour reinforced with scraps of metal like coat of plates, chain mail, and other materials of Bronze, Iron laminar and such. Very much hand made and maintained.
Rough cloak to break up hard lines of silhouette like a gillie cloak

General survival gear.

An old amulet, metal and stone found in ruins. Silvery and unknown if ancient, dropped or just thrown away. On a rough leather cord. Could be cheap or a priceless relic. No one knows.





Character Intro:

Name: Síobhra ferch Aíbhinn
Species: Sylph
Race/Nationality: Binne Nechtain
Gender: F
Age: 36
Languages: South Sylpharimese, Arventian, Firindorian, & Sidfirian

Appearance:
Personal Effects: Síobhra travels light. She carries only the clothes, gambeson, and cloak on her back, two changes of clothes (one being nicer than the other, for occasions such as the feast in Ealdormuda), some needles, thread, a few ribbons and ropes, a hunting knife, a bow and arrows, a dagger, a bowl, a waterskin, and a small collection of provisions and dried medicinal herbs.

---

Role: White Mage
Backstory:
Character Intro:

Name: Markiel Sviatolev
Species: Human
Race/Nationality: Borearion(Hrankrajanie)
Gender: Male
Age: 25
Languages: Arventian, North Jugkaraian, South Jugkraian.

Appearance:
Personal Effects: Arming Sword, Seax, Kite shield, Hauberk(scale), Surcoat, journal with writing instrument, necklace with his family's sigil on it(keeps hidden), coin purse, waterskin, travel pack with supplies, and cloak with hood.

---

Role: Royal Knight
Backstory: Markiel is the youngest born to the Northern Sviatolev family. Born during the civil war that has ravaged the Jugkrai Kingdom. Markiel's early life was spent in his family's castle, staying safe as his father waged war to claim a title that he felt belonged to him. Learning the art of war and other topics as he grew older and watched as his older siblings endured strict training at the behest of his father. Strict training that he would undergo and find to be demanding and, at times, cruel. For his father wanted his children to be the best at war, so they could aid him in their fight with their cousins in the south.

But as the war drew on and more lives were lost. Markiel started to have second thoughts about the civil war and his father's drive to be king. Thoughts he would share with his mother, who while kept what he thought to herself. She tried to discourage him from such thoughts and to be a good son and support the family's claim to the throne. Markiel would listen to his mother's words, but still became more disillusioned with the civil war. More so, he started to notice that his father was growing more ruthless, and even his older brother, the heir, who was a kind man. Started to seem off to Markiel and was becoming more like his father. Then his other siblings seem to start to follow suit.

Markiel could not find a reason for this, and when his father discovered his thoughts about the civil war. He was brought before him in the throne room for all to see and was chewed out by his father. It lasted a good time, and by the end of it. His father would choose in anger to exile Markiel, and he could only return once he proved himself strong enough to bear the family's name and understand why only their branch can be rulers of the kingdom.

Markiel saw how none of his family stood up for him and let this happen unopposed. He begrudgingly obeyed and left the kingdom so after. But before he left, one of his sisters and his mother gave him gifts to help him on the road, and hoped that once the civil war was over and his father's anger would lessen. That he could return and reconcile with his father. A sentiment that Markiel did not share but chose not to reveal to them. He accepted their gifts and was reminded that some of his family still cared for him. Even if they would not stand up for him when he needed them.

So Markiel, after his exile, made the choice to see the world. Live on his terms and cared little about the requirements of returning home at the time. This brought him some peace as he saw a world that was at peace and not in a continuous war. Opening his mind to new things, he would be happy exploring and seeing the world. Becoming an adventurer, and for years it was like this, and Markiel had no plans of stopping. Though he would keep tabs on the civil war back home. Hoping that once the civil war was over, peace could return to the land, and who knows. Maybe his father would relax, and he could return. But until that day, life on the road was his, and a life of adventure was his life for now.

Character Intro: "So that is Ealdormuda," Markiel said to himself as he gazed at the city from afar. Standing on a grassy hill that gave a good view of the city. He could feel the warmth of the sun on his face as he gazed at the city. He has heard much about the capital of the Eahamingas. Good things, and now it was his next stop.

He had never been to this city, but after his last job as a caravan guard. Markiel had heard enough about the city from the guards and the traders that he should visit the city. At least once, and he could only imagine what he would find there. He has not been in the land of the Eahamingas long and is eager to explore more of the land. Once he was done with the city, that is.

Then, as he finished surveying the city from afar. Markiel had a thought, and he reached for his necklace that was hidden on his neck. Loosely holding it in his hand as he inspected the sigil on it. How would his family think of his travels? Markiel knew the answers to that, or at least what his father would think. Bitter thoughts began to invade his mind. He closed his hand over the sigil and went back to hide the necklace on his person. Expelling the bitter thoughts from his mind in the process.

No, he thought, now is not the time for thinking about his family. More so him, and so with his last thoughts becoming focused on the now. Markiel walked down the hill in a casual manner and with a warm smile. He began his final trek to Ealdormuda. Time to see what the city has in store for him and what tales he will hear. Time for maybe another adventure.

Name: Jair son of Rensar known also as Jair So’Ren
Species: Human
Race/Nationality: Prathmava of the Wayfarers of Azure (Tridanu Plains)
Gender: Male
Age: 32
Languages: Central Valindorian (native), Arventian (fluent), fragmentary Sylpharim (picked up through traders and travelers)

Appearance:
Personal Effects:

• Rider’s Sword, single-edged, slightly curved; forged in the Tridanu for cutting from horseback.
• Steel Dirk forged with Azure markings and personally crafted oak handle.
• Short recurved bow and quiver of fletched arrows.
• Lamellar cuirass of leather and steel, with shoulder and knee plates added from Arventian trade armor.
• Azure headscarf marking his old tribe, worn in faded defiance.
• Traveling cloak and saddle-pack with dried rations, flint kit, rope, small tent, and an old bronze medallion depicting the Maidens of the Wind, once his tribe’s spiritual totem.
• Yade, a blue-grey Prathmava mare. Swift, loyal, and curiously attuned to her rider’s moods.

---

Role: Sellsword, wanderer, and guide. Formerly Sentinel of the Wayfarers of Azure.
Backstory:
Jair son of Rensar was born beneath the open skies of Tridanu, among the Wayfarers of Azure, a proud tribe of the Prathmava confederation. They were riders of legend, known for their herds and for their devotion to Eruherion’s Breath, a philosophy that taught that the wind itself was the purest expression of the Creator’s will. The Maidens of the Win would read the movements of air and storm as signs of Eruherion’s guidance. Among the Wayfarers, mares were revered for their strength and grace, and by tradition only the Maidens could claim them as mounts, no man could ever claim a mare.

From his father, a horse-tamer and poet, Jair inherited a restless heart and a fierce respect for the old songs of the plains. From his mother, a shieldmaiden of the Maidens’ court, he learned discipline and the harsh truth that honor was often the first casualty of tradition. By seventeen, Jair had served as a Sentinel of the Wayfarers, a scout on the windswept borders where the steppe met the Raxanor foothills.

When his elder brother fell defending a sacred herd from raiders, the Maidens decreed his death “the will of Eruherion.” To Jair, that answer was hollow. On the night after the funeral pyre burned down to embers, he went alone into the storm-lands, grief gnawing at him like frost. For three days he rode through sleet and thunder, searching for meaning — or perhaps punishment. It was there, amidst the howling plains, that he found her.

The mare was silver-grey, fierce and wild, the same that his brother had once tried and failed to tame. But when Jair approached her, he did not reach for the reins. He fell to his knees and wept. He spoke no command, only sorrow, and for reasons he would never understand, the mare did not flee. She came to him instead, lowering her head as if listening. From that moment, something passed between them — not of man and beast, but of two wounded souls recognizing each other. He named her Yade.

When Jair returned astride her, the sky darkened with swirling dust, and the Maidens cried blasphemy. To them, his bond was no miracle but corruption, man claiming a sacred connection forbidden since the elder days. They called it Eruherion’s Reproach, a curse born of arrogance.

By their judgment, Jair was given two choices: to take his own life and cleanse his name, or to slay the “tainted” mare and thus prove his soul loyal to the spirits. He refused both. When the tribe’s shieldmaidens advanced to carry out his sentence, Yade reared and struck them down, scattering the banners of the court in a fury of hooves and storm. The Maidens declared it proof that the pair were touched by the Wind’s Wrath as Jair’s soul had bound itself unnaturally to a creature of the divine, and that the wrath of Eruherion Himself would follow any tribe that took him in.

That night, the elders gathered in the circle of banners and pronounced Jair’s name accursed. He was branded Windbreaker by the elders, a Heretic by all means. They cursed him so that no other Prathmava tribe would ever take him in, for any who did would share in his doom.

Jair wandered the plains, and for a time, other Prathmava tribes took him in. Yet each stay ended the same with whispers, accidents, and fear that his presence invited ill fate. The word “Windbreaker” carried farther than truth and soon he became an outcast among all Prathmava. He turned west beyond the grasslands, taking work where he could. Sometimes a sellsword, sometimes a guide, sometimes a nameless hero in forgotten frontier villages. He fought for merchants and border lords, for the Empire of Varadaban, for men who would never remember his name. He suffered hunger and cold and loneliness in measures few could endure. Yet he always rode on, keeping to the code of his people: honor in trade, fairness in battle, never strike the helpless.

And through it all, Yade remained as the only witness to his better nature and his shame. In time, their bond deepened into something few could name. Those who fought beside him swore that when rider and mare moved as one, the air shimmered faintly with light, and wounds seemed to knit faster; that storms broke against them as if the wind itself were shielding them. Jair denied all tales of magic. “The wind remembers the free,” he would say. “That is enough.”

Now his road has brought him north to the port-city of Ealdormuda, where word spreads of a Sylpharim scout seeking companions for an expedition into the Grey Mountains. They say ancient Turakindi ruins lie buried there, filled with danger and old truths. Jair, weary of coin and conscience alike, listens in silence.

For the first time in years, he feels the pull of purpose, the faint promise of meaning. Perhaps it is the wind calling again, whispering of redemption. Or perhaps it is only the memory of home, and a man too stubborn to stop listening.
Character Intro: The inn smelled of rain and salt when Jair entered. The noise of the door dulled as heads turned, not from fear, but mild curiosity. The white headband with blue markings, the kind worn only by the Prathmava of Tridanu, was a rare sight this far north. He set his bow against the wall and ordered water for his mare before ale for himself. When he drank, he did not smile. The firelight caught on the azure threads of his scarf, and for a moment, he looked less a wanderer than a ghost of a people long forgotten.

Talk drifted between tables, of mountains, the Grey Mountains, and a winged woman calling for riders to brave them. Jair listened in silence, his thumb tracing the rim of his mug, eyes half on the rain that lashed the shutters. Beyond the wall, Yade stamped once, and he felt it before he heard it, a flicker of impatience that stirred behind his ribs like a whisper not his own. She wanted to ride. To move. To answer whatever call the wind carried.

“Mountains,” he muttered, half to her, half to the storm. “If the wind calls, I’ll answer. For once, it may carry something worth hearing.”

He rose, leaving coin enough for the ale and the water and stepped out into the downpour. Yade was waiting, silver-grey and restless, eyes gleaming like steel. He met her gaze as he padded her mane, the rain running cold down his face, and without a word between them, the decision was made.


The Bond of Wind and Flesh
Scholars call it sympathetic resonance; Jair’s people once called it Breath-Shared. Whatever the name, the bond between Jair and Yade is a harmony of will between man and beast, they both seem to know where the other one is, if they're in harm or have been hurt. When they move in battle they do so with one mind, fighting as if guided beyond speech: the mare’s and rider's strengths are amplified, speed uncanny and devastating to anyone in their path, the mare's awareness is almost human. To see them ride together is to witness precision no training could teach.

Apart, they are ordinary; a weary man and his steadfast mare. Together, for fleeting moments, they are a powerful yet still mortal force, in perfect rhythm with the world.

The Curse of the Windbreaker
Superstition has a way of binding tighter than magic. The Maidens’ warning that misfortune would follow any tribe to shelter Jair spread until it became truth through fear alone.

He has lived under many skies since then, taken in by kind hearts and turned away when whispers caught up. To most Prathmava, his name is a story to frighten children, an ill omen. Because of this, Jair hides his lineage and his true self. Yet the secret carries risk as should a Prathmava recognize the mark or the name, it could turn allies against him or doom the company he keeps to mistrust.

In the silence between journeys, he sometimes wonders if the curse is real after all, or if the wind merely punishes him with solitude. He has stopped asking which would be worse.

Name: Ardashir son of Mehr of Navavasta, called by some the Farseeker, called by others "Arda"
Species: Human
Race/Nationality: Austarion (Mitradaevka)
Gender: Male
Age: Twenty-seven.
Languages:
Appearance:
Personal Effects:

---

Role: The Farseeker: the Searcher after Secrets, the Hunter of Hidden Truths.

Backstory:

What, then, would you have me tell you of my wandering brother? Would you hear that we knew all along that he was fated for a great destiny - that he would be chosen by the Ancient Fair Ones to seek the secrets of their past? Would you know what star he was born under, or what great deed he performed in the cradle to show that he was fated for such honor?

Well, I was there when he was born, and I can tell you that he seemed an ordinary enough child - at least to me, and at least for a while. We were, however, no ordinary family. 221 years before Arda was born, our great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather Zaranaka the Unbroken defeated the Nemrozan horde at the Battle of Navavasta, and saved the Empire of the Elf-Friends. We are his blood - the House of Zaranaka - and at Navavasta our citadel has stood ever since. There our family keeps its watch as Marzbans of Casm-Dahyu, the southern bulwark of Varadaban, sentinels against the return of the Nemrozan threat. Here Arda grew up, the second child but the eldest son and heir - heir not just to our land, but to our name and our legacy and our duty. Perhaps you can understand why I am not - that is, why I celebrate less than wholeheartedly his discovery of high purpose elsewhere.

But I must admit: even if Arda did not strangle serpents in his cradle, we still knew from an early age that he was a prodigy. He was one of those golden children who excelled at every task to which he applied himself, and for whom the only challenge was growing bored with his studies ere he had mastered them. In the combat ring and riding lists of the castle at Navavasta, our family's furusiyya-master Kurush taught Ardashir to ride and to fight. Arda was a magnificent horseman from a young age, and a competent archer with the recurve bow - both in the saddle and on foot; and he was graceful and precise in his practice of zourkhaneh, the Mitradaevka art of grappling and throwing and wrestling. He struggled at first with the sword, until Kurush - who understood Arda better than any of us, I think - made the training harder rather than easier: he took away Arda's shield and taught him the Arsama way of the sword. This is the most elegant and the most risky of all the furusiyya traditions, and requires the greatest skill to master: it shifts unpredictably between a one-handed and a two-handed grip, and uses an armored forearm to control and redirect the enemy's blows instead of relying on a shield to block them. Before he was ten, Arda had a dozen scars from training accidents. But he found Arsama a challenge worthy of his abilities, I think; and that is why he persisted until he was as fine a swordsman as he was a horseman, and his skill with a blade surpassed his ability with the bow.

But in Varadaban, the sword and the pen are never opposed; even on the frontier, we learned from our Immortal Teachers that the greatest weapon is the mind. So Arda did not spend his youth only in the combat ring. He also spent it within the walls of the castle, learning languages and history and philosophy, music and art and literature. Yes, he studied military affairs too: tactics, strategy, logistics; the design of fortifications, the construction of siege engines, the analysis of terrain. As he grew older, he joined our father and uncle on the periodic punitive expeditions that we launched to the south, to keep the Nemrozans quiet; he had plenty of chances to see his classroom lessons applied in practice. But Ardashir also learned the ways of the Empire's court: how to speak the truth without giving offense, and how to conduct himself at a kingly banquet, and how to sniff out deceit or intrigue without missing a step of a formal dance. Our tutors taught Arda to play the oud and the ney, to write poetry in Mitradaean and Sidfirian, to design an irrigation system or diagnose a disease. We are the Elf-Friends; of all the peoples of this fallen age, I think, we best remember and most revere the wisdom of the past; and so a Varadaban classical education is without equal in Minadra. That was the gift we gave Ardashir, and in the end it was that gift that cleaved him from us.

The Sidfir took notice of him, I believe, for the ways in which he surpassed his tutors. Not in raw magical power: for though we learned soon that he had the gift of the Creator, never was Arda's ability so wondrous as to attract the attention of our Teachers. Rather, Arda surpassed his tutors in the independence and clarity of his thought. When he was taught a simple charm, he suggested a new way to make it simpler still; when he was taught an equation, he invented an alternative proof; when he was taught to mix a potion, he introduced variations, and tested them by trial and error until he had improved on the original. I think that for the Deathless, there is nothing so intoxicating as novelty. And so the Sidfir came to us one day when Arda was twelve, and asked to take him into their kingdom to teach him what little of their ways a mortal mind could encompass. I think that for my father, it was the greatest honor our family had received since Zaranaka prevailed at Navavasta.

Arda has never told me exactly what he learned, in the four years that he spent in the Vale of Lomendil. Perhaps he was sworn to secrecy, or at least not lightly to share the Fair Ones' lessons. Certainly, he returned to us having waxed greater in sorcery, though still he was far from mastery. Mostly, though, he seemed to have learned more of the past than seemed natural for a mortal - and certainly for a youth of sixteen. He spoke the Sidfirian tongue as one born to it; he would talk with longing of the ivory spires of Telepimas, as if he had been shown them in a dream. What we had learned from tomes of history, Arda had heard from those who had witnessed it themselves. It worked a change in him. Ever since, I think, he has walked the world with one foot in the present, and the other in ages long past, and felt in his secret heart that the latter are more to be prized than the former.

In any case - Arda returned to us a young man, and not a moment too soon. Ruin had befallen the House of Zaranaka in his absence. Our father, on his last campaign, had been ambushed by a coalition of Gurzat and Nemrozans; neither he, nor any of his company, had come home. Then his brother Ariaspes had seized the marzbanate, and he was a man both corrupt and cruel, so that the people groaned and I myself lived in fear to see to what bloated old sardar my uncle would sell me in marriage. When Ardashir returned to us from the Ancient Fair Ones, therefore, he gathered those few of our father's men who remained loyal, and set out to into the desert to find the rightful marzban and to bring him home. Long he journeyed, far beyond the edge of the map, and the survivors of that expedition told me many tales: of strange beasts and jungles, of basilisks and giant serpents, of abandoned cities of onyx stone. Tales of my brother, too: of how Arda could study a rock and know whether water was to be found nearby; of how he could place snake venom into his glass alembics and somehow distill from it an antidote to save a man's life; of how he was captured and tortured by the Gurzat, and of how he escaped by tricking them into letting him play his flute, with which he ensorceled them with Sidfirian melodies. At length, I am told, my little brother stole into a camp of the Enemy deep within a ruined city of long-lost ages, and Arda found there our father: who was wounded sore, and on the verge of perishing, but who before dying blessed his son and pressed into his hands Nashkasta, the Unbroken Blade of our ancestor Zaranaka. And with that sacred sword - and our family's honor - Arda returned alive from lands where hardly a Graced foot has ever trod.

Our uncle Ariaspes, upon beholding Arda, suddenly found his presence urgently required at court. He fled to Ap-Vio, and we made ready to proclaim Ardashir, son of Mehr, the rightful Marzban of Navavasta. It was then that Arda solemnly told us that he was called - by the Ancient Fair Ones, and more importantly by his soul, through which Eruherion speaks to all that He hath made - to a different purpose than the guardianship of the frontier. He gave to me the seal and signet of the marzban, and explained that he was bound to wander in search of the ancient secrets of former ages, of which the Sidfir had showed him much, and which he longed to behold with his own waking eye. He asked only a yearly share of gold from the marzbanate's revenues - one third, which I granted gladly - and Nashkasta, which I could scarcely deny him when he had returned her with his own hand from the camps of the Nemrozans. So we embraced, and I blessed his name, and he blessed my rule, and Arda went his way.

That was ten years ago, now. I have not seen him since.

But I have heard stories. I have heard that his road led south again, at least at first: for he copied the glyphs with which the ancient onyx cities are inscribed, and sought to decipher them. There, too, Arda tracked and found the Nemrozan chieftain who had captured our father and tortured him unto death - and he discovered that this warlord was, in truth, a witch of the Unseelie, whom he dueled with sword and spell. She had nearly overcome him when, with some alchemical potion, Arda ignited the whole cursed cave in which they fought - burning away the Shadow that concealed his foe's minions and that nourished her strength. Then, as she stood illuminated in cleansing flame, Arda took her life, and avenged our father's torments.

I have heard that Arda next sojourned for a time among islands of white sand, where pepper and cloves grew wild and coconuts littered the ground. Here he found a crew of strange-speaking Firindor, and a graceful dhow, and he sailed up the southern sea from beyond the edge of the map until at last he arrived back in lands that are known, and docked in Segestia. Here, they say he passed a year or two in study at the knee of the great Arventian sages, and spoke to them of their kingdom's past, and learned what they knew of the ancient ways of the Valindorians in the Silver Age: in remembrance whereof the Arvenses outstrip all other mortals, just as we of Varadaban surpass others in our acquaintance with the Ancient Fair Ones. The Arventian scholars awarded Ardashir a seal of the Universitas Segestiae, in recognition of his studies among the Sidfir; but he delved too deep into the sages' archives, as was ever his wont, and found certain secrets concerning the War of Arventian Succession that had been meant to remain hidden. So Arda left Segestia in the middle of the night, under hot pursuit by assassins who wore angelically beautiful masks of bronze, and fled into the Taurethil Forest.

There Ardashir remained for several years. He sojourned in Nimrithil, where a wight of the deepwoods troubled the Firindor hunters; Arda tracked the wight to its tomb, and by magical skill escaped with his life. Then, by long research in the city's archive, he found who had been laid to rest in that tomb, and the circumstances under which he died. In so doing, Arda solved a murder from two centuries ago - and when he shared his findings with the city guard, and the murderer was at last brought to justice, so the wight returned to its tomb and troubled Nimrithil no more.

Next Arda climbed the passes of the Ambarrones, and learned the Skyborn tongue in Binn Nechtain, and compiled a collection of Sylpharim tales and legends. He was thereafter a guest in the deep-delved halls of Stormfjellheim, and helped to excavate one of the vast Turakindi ruins nearby - where Arda found a collection of surviving letters from the Silver Age, exchanged between great lords of the giants and the High Elves. He wrote me after that, for the first time in months, and his own letter was filled with the exhilaration of a purpose confirmed and a dream achieved. And so, by small steps, my brother came to the sea of grass at the heart of Minadra, and traveled into Tridanu.

Here, in a small city of tents upon the windswept steppe, a mighty chief of the Prathmava offered Ardashir her hospitality. She was Opoea, sister of King Ardaros - a great warrior and seeress. She was intrigued by this stranger from far Varadaban, and feasted Ardashir in her tent, and much he taught her of the deep history of the world, and much she shared with him of her own ancient people's cherished lore. It was here that Arda met Sahar, the mad mare of Opoea's herd, whom no Prathmava horse-lord had ever been able to ride: for she was cursed. Long did Ardashir toil with that horse, attempting one treatment after another, magical and medicinal and both combined, until finally he discovered a rune cut into the mare's flesh that bore the curse of madness. This evil spirit he mastered, and cast out into a flock of goats, who raced into the waters of Belkhazun and there destroyed themselves. Thereafter the mare would not be parted from Arda, and he named her Sahar, and made ready to go his way again. And at this the Lady Opoea was sore grieved, for I have heard that she had loved Arda, and that he had passed the nights those many months in her tent; and perhaps he returned her love, for he tarried in those grasslands longer than anywhere else in his journeys. But he had a different path to walk; and so he journeyed on into the waste of Morgador.

There, the report of Arda is that he fell in with a tribe of the Scale Folk, whom he recruited as guides to the ruins of that desolate place. Long months he spent alone among the serpent creatures, exploring the buried cities of lost ages, filling notebooks and sketchbooks with ancient glyphs and street-maps and renderings of the shattered statues of dead kings - and fighting off the blighted monsters, weapons of long-ago wars, who linger in the places time forgot. Arda wrote to me of the end of that adventure: at last, deep beneath the earth in an Elf-hall lost for countless millennia - a place whose very stones were turned to glass by the heat of Apocalypse - he found a treasure so fair, a secret so profound, that even to behold it struck his scaly guides blind. But when Ardashir reached out his hand to claim it, it vanished from his grasp, and instead that entire ancient city quaked and began to crumble around him, so that he fled through passages that filled with sand beneath his feet, and barely escaped with his life. And afterward, Arda found that he could not recall what he had found beneath the earth, for the curse that buried the city had buried its secret as well, in a place so deep that even memory could no longer touch it.

It was after that, alone and harrowed, that Ardashir came to Eoham. He has learned, I think, that there are some things too vast for a mortal mind to compass - even Arda's mind. But he is no less determined to learn what he can; his commission from the Ancient Fair Ones will permit no less. There are rumors of lost cities in the Grey Mountains, and if I know my brother, he is already seeking guides and guards and supplies to pursue them. He has, the Creator knows, enough money: one third of the revenues of one of the Empire's great provinces. Perhaps soon he will find what he is looking for; perhaps then, he will come home.

But I doubt it. A mortal life is but the flare of a lamp-wick to those who sent him out, and my brother will be old and grey and dead before he has found what our Immortal Friends lost to the sands of time before any of us were born. So be it - a life pledged to such a quest is spent, not wasted. And the Sidfir would not have chosen him were he not equal to the task.

I know. All of this I know of Ardashir the Farseeker, slayer of monsters and explorer of lost cities. Yes, I know.

And still: I miss my little brother Arda.

Character Intro:

Name: Sir Hagen son of Griffon
Species: Human
Race/Nationality: Stromfolc
Gender: Male
Age: 36
Languages:Stromish, Eahamish, Arventian and Ledoseveran - all quite fluently.

Appearance: Hagen is a tall (6'2''), lean, muscular man. He has dark brown hair and a dark eyes and usually has a short scruffy beard, having no particular desire to actually grow a beard but, similarly, no inclination to regularly shave. He has a long, oval shaped face with a straight nose and a strong chin. His face is patterned with a number of scars from previous battles lending him a rugged look that some (though certainly not all) might find handsome.

Hagen is capable of dressing well and has the coin to afford fashionable clothing, though he is more commonly found wearing hard-wearing, simple tunics and hose.


Personal Effects: Hagen carries a large round shield painted red with three golden bees (his personal sigil). Hagen carries a beautifully made steel spatha he has named "Gurzats' Bane" with a scabbard decorated with Ledoseveran designs. a pair of wicked throwing axes and a seax (just in case). In battle he wears an old, but well-maintained steel habergeon and a steel spangenhelm with, spectacle and cheek guards guards, bronze ornamentation around the bands and a red, horse-hair crest.

---

Role: (Foot)Knight errant
Backstory: Hagen is a knight of the Strommark, hailing from a small coastal village on the country's Western border. He was born to this role (the younger son of one of his Lord's leading knights), spent his childhood training for it and is intensely proud of his martial heritage. Growing up on tales of adventure, Hagen was eager to grow up and join his Lord's retinue, imagining a world full of daring adventures.

His parents did not neglect Hagen's education more broadly and he is literate, able to write with a quill (and fashion his own from a feather), numerate and was taught to understand the tongue of the Eahamingas (whose villages they visited frequently) along with Arventian.

Unfortunately for Hagen though, the Strommark has been a peaceful place fir centuries, gradually growing wealthy off trade along the West coast of Minadra. Hagen spent some time onboard ships, guarding his Lord's cargo, though, while there were stories of pirates and sea monsters, in his two years aboard, Hagen saw nothing more dangerous than a shark off the stern. When stories of a wyrm from the Grey Mountains terrorising villagers circulated during a time on shore, Hagen was eager to volunteer to help rid the land of the beast.

After fruitlessly searching for it for the best part of a month, the local sheriff discovered that the story stemmed, in truth, from the attempts of a local farmer to get away with a murder. Arrests were made, though while Hagen had found no creature, the quest had awakened his sense of adventure and he requested that his Lord release him from his oath of fealty so that he might travel to the Kingdom of Ledosever and join the defense of the free peoples against the darkness.

His Lord agreed and, at the age of 20, Hagen took a ship North to the frozen lands of the Northern kingdom.

Here, Hagen did find adventure, pitting his strength against roving gurzat, entering the cauldron an unbloodied, though well trained youth, and emerging again, many years later as a seasoned, deadly veteran.

By the time he was 35, and thinking about returning home and his own legacy, Hagen had acquired comfortable amount of coin from bounties. Being a frugal man at heart he had spent little on anything other than his weapons and armour in the intervening time, though those investments (particularly his helm and shield) had made him a recognisable figure in any battle line: a figure that, when sighted, spread hope amongst his friends and fear amongst his foes.

Imagining it might be fun to build a homestead and raise animals back in his homeland, perhaps find a wife, Hagen travelled back to the Strommark intending to help his father with his manor for some time, to get an understanding of what he might need to do. Rapidly though, he discovered that he found everything about farming incredibly boring and longed to travel in search of adventure once again.

Hearing rumors of lost Sidfir artefacts in the forest West of the Vale of Mists, Hagen decided to investigate, taking a ship bound for the South of Eaham where the Mitradaevakan traders come to ply their wares - as close as any ship from the Strommark comes to those strange woods.


Character Intro: The inn was a cheerful place with a roaring fire at one end that took the chill from the cool night air, "So there we were, three of us against a score or more of gurzat led by one of those big, hulking thaurindor creatures. I can tell you now, that we gelt at that moment like our doom had come upon us."

"Couldn't you have run?" one of the patrons, an older, balding man asked.

Hagen shook his head, "Retreat would have been my first option when so outnumbered, but those creatures were between us and where we'd tied the horses and over distance those creatures do not tire easily. With the mountain to our back, the best we could hope for was to scramble up and try to give ourselves the high ground. We found a spot between two boulders where it would be hard to flank us and made our stand. gurzat aren't the most cunning things and they came at us straight, like a wave of fell fury."

He paused for dramatic effect. The dozen or so people clustered around him seemed to be enjoying the story and Hagen enjoyed telling it. Within the safe comfort of the tavern, with the crackling fire and a warm mug of mulled wine, they seemed a lifespan away from the small skirmish on the Ledosever border. And here, in this comfortable setting, there was nothing to truly fear, "But we had chosen our place well and they struggled to use their numbers to their advantage. Still, it was a hard fight. I felled three of the fiends, though a took a beating in the process," he tilted his head to one side, tracing the shape of a long scar on his cheek, "That's how I got this one. Blade bounced off the guard by my eyes and slid in between that and the cheek guard. Though at that moment the pain didn't really register, I just ran the creature through and kept on fighting."

One of the women in the group, he noticed was a sylph... you didn't see them much in Ledosever, though he remembered encountering a few of the winged folk during his childhood.

"I said gurzat aren't the most cunning creatures. They also aren't brave and while they might well have overwhelmed us in a few more moments, they fell back down the mountain to regroup. They might have run if it wasn't for the thaurindor, physically shoving the foul creatures back."

"What does a thaurindor look like?" that would came from the woman who was acting as innkeeper.

"Big," Hagen chuckled, realising it wasn't the best description, "They look a bit like us, but with less hair in places they should have it and more in places they shouldn't. Their faces are twisted, like they are half-beast and their skin is all manner of unhealthy shades. They look much like the gurzat, but they're bigger, stronger, faster and much more vicious. Bigger, stronger and faster than any man I've seen." She nodded thoughtfully and he continued, "If it had attacked us first, the fight might have gone differently. Well the damned creature stepped out in front to bellow some war cry. It sounded like a wounded bull. But at that moment it lowered its shield and a threw one of these."

Hagen patted one of the axes he had on the bench next to him. The edge of the axe gleamed in the firelight. Freshly sharpened and oiled you could imagine the damage the weapon could do, "And by luck more than skill on my part, it struck the thaurindor clean in the face, dropping the monster like a felled tree." He paused again, hearing a gasp and a few chuckles from his audience, "And that was enough for the gurzat, I think there were eight of their dead on the field and the thaurindor and both I and my two companions, were still standing if bloodied. They fled," he grinned wryly, "So before they could realise their mistake, we ran back to the horses."

There was a murmur of approval. A couple of people clapped, "Tell us another, Sir Knight!" one man called.

Hagen raised his mug in gracious thanks, "Later, later, good ladies and gentlemen, at least give me the time to enjoy this mug of wine before I spend my voice regaling you with another story!"

People began to shuffle away, to acquire food or drink, though the sylph didn't. Boldly, she sat down across from Hagen, switching to fluent Arventian but with that melodic lilting accent that placed her as one of the Northern tribe of her people, "I think I caught some of that, but my Eahamish isn't so good... I gathered you're on some personal quest to find some ancient Sidfir artefacts?"

"Aye," Hagen nodded, "Thought I'd put together an expedition while I'm here. Maybe charter a ship to take us down the coast," he gave her an appraising look. He knew sylph women could be fighters but she didn't look like one. She didn't have the build of someone who spent their life with weapons and he caught ink stains on her fingers. She looked... bookish, "You want to sign on?" he asked, trying to keep the edge of incredulity out of his voice.

"Oh goodness, no!" the sylph laughed, "There are potentially Sidfir ruins out in that forest. It is a strange, dangerous place that few venture into and you would be walking about blindly, hoping to come across something," she paused, before adding, "But what if I told you there was a known, and unexplored ruin but a few days from here? Turankindi and infested with troglodytes and Eruherion knows what else!"

Hagen thought about that. For all of about three seconds. He smiled, "Full of troglodytes you say? Well I suppose you could do with a knightly escort. Sir Hagen," he introduced himself, "Though don't worry about the 'Sir' bit. Hagen is just fine."

"Aderynel," she introduced herself, extending a hand across the table.