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[JMiskimen]

Ronir's Travels 1 - Freedom

The pair of escaped Nithian slaves - Khaz'mir, a foreign-born Rakasta and Ronir, a dark-haired Heldanner - wandered the Northern Badlands in driving rains for several days until coming upon (and sucessfully evading) a flock of strange, flightless bird-like creatures with heavy, sharp-looking beaks and to find themselves upon a small fort south of The Ruins of Corpsewatch called Stonegullet.

Stonegullet, as the duo would learn, was built by the Jarl of Ozurfold with financial backing of the Thyatian Empire. The Thyatian Senate installed a foppish lesser noble as governor, but the Jarl ordered a Northern- born and legendary Thane as military commander. However, the territory where the small fort lies is within Nithian claimed territory, and as such, much of the decadence of Nithian culture flows like cheap wine through the markets and taverans of the surrounding village.

The so-called 'Dead Lands' of The Ruins of Corpsewatch are still a very real and grave danger to the Northern Reaches, as wandering groups of ravenous dead still stalk the hills. Thankfully, the aimless hordes are not what they were in years past.

[JMiskimen]

Ronir's Travels 2 - From the Pan, to the Flames

Our escaped pair, Ronir & Khaz'mir, arrived at Stonegullet after a rain driven flight from Nithian captivity - only to stumble into a slaver caravan camping within the courtyard of the badlands keep.

Discretely and nonchalantly slipping into the Black Dog Tavern, they encounter four patrons. A befuddled and disheveled man nearly fought with Ronir upon only being disturbed by the two. A fat Thyatian was looking for bodyguards to aid him in transporting chained slave girls to the south.

Freedom is a luxury only known to those with coins here in these southlands ...

Mataji, a slim woman of strangely exotic elfish features, and the elderly Ethengari Illusionist, Mung-Ke, join the pair of weary adventurers with a plan to raid a tower said to contain both riches and magic.

The tower was along the edge of the Ruins of Corpsewatch, yet despite the dangers within the Thrice-damned City, Ronir would take his chance among the ghosts of the haunted ruins to the North, rather than sleep among greedy slavers in Stonegullet ...

[JMiskimen]

Ronir's Travels 3 - The Ruined Tower of Atuk-Mar

The twilight sun was masked by thick, rolling clouds that periodically dropped cold showers upon the four travelers from Stonegullet as they made their way through the Wilderlands toward the ruined fortress city. The dampness seeped into them with a subtly not unlike some canny hunter stalking unsuspecting prey in the tall grass. With the passing of each rolling hill, the fabled City of the Dead, dreaded Corpsewatch, loomed ever closer and Ronir could not chase away the haunting thoughts that the Fortress of Graves that stood before them might indeed mark their very own final resting places. Like spirits of the damned escaping their eternal torment, a smattering of burnt-out hovels seeped lazily out of the low lying mists conjured by the intermittent showers.

Khaz'mir's silent, cat-like footfalls lead the group across a bone littered plaza; once bustling with caravans, merchant tents, and the chaotic haggling of men. Mung-Ke's crudely scrawled map showed their destination; a short tower nestled in and among crumbled and squatting structures that was labeled as 'The Tower of Atuk-Mar.' Passing by distracting and enticing locales, the quartet stole their way into the partially concealed courtyard. The entryway into the former Magic Shop was now clearly evident and nervous beads of sweat beaded upon Ronir's brow.

Whether produced by the anticipation of adventure or creeping fever, the dripping sweat burned his eyes - prompting him to involuntarily clear his vision. That is when it struck with the crashing strength and quickness of a thunderbolt. He rolled to his feet as pain screamed out from his shoulder. Rising from the toppled remains of rooftops and battlements was the embodiment of Ronir's every vile and haunting thought.

The shadowy hulk - standing twice that of a man - before them was barren of flesh and sinew. From unblinking and hellish points of light where its eyes once rested, it mocked their quickened, fear-drawn breath and prepared to end them all with another clenched bony fist.

"Use ye the flats of thy blades! The beast has no meat to cleeve!" Mung-Ke quickly commanded to the other three.

Obediently, the thieves took to task in destroying the monstrosity, turning the edges of their curved blades just before striking it. Ronir took another powerful bludgeoning strike from the giant, and although the effectiveness of their attacks was diminished, they dispatched the unnatural horror with practiced ease.

Listening intently, catching their labored breath, and peering nearly blind into the mist heavy darkness, the four determined that the sounds of slaying had not carried far enough to rouse the lusts of hidden demons. They creeped forward toward the double wooden doors of the tower.

After tending to Ronir's wounded shoulder, Mataji gently pushed the doors open; they were not barred from within. Her strange witch-sight spied little but a dusty, stone walled chamber with a stairwell leading to the floor above and another wooden door before them. Torchlight revealed the floor above was partially visible through damaged rafters, and among those exposed timbers stared back startled red glowing eyes that quickly fluttered to life, filling the air with a torrent of leathery wings.

Fangs, claws, and curved blades encompassed the cramped foyer and blood sprayed freely upon its dusty, stony walls. Before Mung-Ke could cast his first incantation, his fellows lay wounded upon the blood-stained stones before him. Yet his call to the Arcane was answered in the billowing form of an obscuring smoke that prevented their winged attackers from further assaulting them.

Quickly, but with great effort, the aging Illusionist dragged his companions out of the crumbling tower and into a near by shed that, in better times, might have housed a smithy. Cursing their haste, Mung-Ke knew full well at this terrible moment that they needed more hands and blades to steal away the treasures of The Ruins. There, in the darkness, with nervous and shallow breath, he tended to his wounded fellows as the entirety of Corpsewatch itself seemed to wickedly leer at thier misfortune, foolishness, and woe ...

[JMiskimen]

... An Interlude.

In dark, destitute, and forgotten halls deep within the Dwarven necropolis of Stonehell, The Dark One strode steadily toward a sullen spectacle. Before him lie the broken form of a man he once called his son. Not by blood, but by choice, this man had been selected to be his heir apparent - his successor to all things kin to the flow of power and might.

Drogo ...

Through his claim upon this man, his memory would march triumphantly onward to immortality. Indeed, without a castle or land to call his own, the fallen prince mocked the desperate warlord before the eyes of destiny. His failures dashed all hopes of remembrance for the Dark One's decrepit deeds.

Through Drogo ...

He cradled his limp son, that offspring of another man's lusts ... molded in his dark viseage. Anger swelled within the Dark One. All those years, which seemed like eons ago, preparing the boy for a birthright of conquest - dashed upon the bloodied stoney floor of a forgotten dwarfish prison.

... Such disappointments, such failings. Those clumsy aspirations of power, not yet fully taught or rightfully deserved. This time, events would be more desired. This time, he would stare back at destiny and unflinchingly claim his prize. This time, the reigns of power would be fully grasped and secured.

The Dark One, Voltan, could almost feel the pulse of ambition in the lifeless corpse of his bastard as he bore his encumbrance back to the day-lit world beyond the fabled Denwar prison of the dead. Through the Wizard's unfathomable power, his son would live again ...