Sevrin's Crusade: Fateful Meeting?

If you were to make a list of all the great heroes in Lucadere's past there would be one thing they all share in common, companions that stuck by them when things got tough. They needed a friend at their back when surrounded by enemies on all sides, someone to reach out a balancing hand to catch them before they fell, comrades they could trust to be at their side no matter what happened. No man, no matter how great, can stand alone against the countless threats that plague the lands.

Up to this point in his life Sevrin has not had the fortune of meeting such people. His time in the temple was spent as a half breed outcast. In the early days the Elven children considered him beneath their notice and ignored him. When he surpassed them their demeanor changed from inattention to envious and unfriendly. Once his training was complete he was assigned to patrolling the borders of the Elven Forests. His time there was spent with the trees and animals except for occasional contact with other border patrols. If he was going to achieve his goal of making Lucadere a safer place he was going to have to do it alone.

After events have calmed down following the Battle of Ofaylum Sevrin retrieves a small leather-bound book and quill from his pack. He flips about halfway through the book and reads over the last few pages.

Dwarven Kingpriest - First Impressions:
Meeting too short to form any real conclusions.
Threat Level: 5 - Follows Epicusp. Good reputation. Needs to be further examined.

Malcear Balifier! - First Impressions:
Before Malcear was even close enough to get a good look at I could sense a good aura emanating from him. As he approached I took a quick stock of his features and found that I couldn't easily determine what he was. He was like no Human or Elf I had seen before. Strangely I felt a small amount of comfort rather than unease from his unfamiliar appearance. His holy symbol marked him as a follower of Noreal, a trustworthy goddess.
Threat Level: 2 - Unlikely to cause any trouble. Safe to ignore.

Gasadrael Spyrn - First Impressions:
A young elven female dressed like a member of the nobility out beyond the safety of the forests. I couldn't stop myself from drawing parallels between her and my mother as a young woman with a taste for adventure. This leaves me with a very uneasy feeling knowing how my mother ended up. What reason could this woman have for leaving the forests? All the work I did guarding the borders now seems useless somehow. What good was keeping all of the threats out when the ones I was protecting leave the safety I provided so willingly?
Threat Level: 5 - Likely to get herself into trouble and end up getting the ones protecting her killed in the process. Thankfully for her I will be around for this journey.

Dethias...... First Impressions:
The moment I laid eyes on him I knew he was trouble. I didn't sense any evil from him, but something about him was still... wrong. He did not appear to be any race I have encountered to date, but unlike Malcear he had a sinister look to his features which wasn't improved by the way he dressed and carried himself. I found it odd that he shared company with one such as Malcear. Perhaps there is more to him than his appearance suggests.
Threat Level: 8 - Likely to cause trouble. Need to keep a close eye on him.

Malcear Balifier! - Journey to Ofaylum:
Took it upon himself to tell me the story of their trek through the Sunken Citadel without me even having to ask. Was good company over the long road. Did not detect any falsehood from him the entire time which in my experience is a rare trait. One odd thing to note... After 3 weeks of travel he didn't smell like the rest of us. If anything he had a pleasant odor. Could this be a clue about his origins? Certainly nothing to complain about.
Threat Level: 1 - Further interaction has solidified my initial impressions. I could get to like this guy.

Gasadrael Spyrn - Journey to Ofaylum:
Kept her distance from me most of the time. More than likely doesn't want anything to do with a lowly half-elf... Pretty much what I expected from an elf of her station. I am used to such treatment so I won't hold it against her. Despite the distance she kept she did seem to keep a wary eye on me. Considering I am a stranger this is a good thing. Maybe she has a bit of sense after all.
Threat Level: 4 - Still not comfortable about a fragile elven girl traveling beyond the protection of the forest, but at least she shows a bit of caution.

Dethias...... Journey to Ofaylum:
Upon arriving in Ofaylum I feel fortunate to still have all of my possessions. Perhaps I was quick to judge or could he just be waiting until I drop my guard?
Threat Level: 7 - Has not proved my suspicions yet, but will continue to keep an eye on him at all times. Sevrin dips his quill and begins writing a new entry in his journal of threats to the realm.

Malcear Balifier! - Events in Ofaylum:
Stuck to his beliefs and refused to break into the Baron's home without prior evidence. When Ofaylum was invaded he was the first person to join the fight. Put himself between me and 2 ogres, a large zombie gnoll, and a host of kobolds, golbins, and orcs.
Threat Level...
Sevrin's hand becomes suddenly still on the page. He remains motionless like that for a few moments and appears to be in deep thought. Honest... Reliable... Courageous... Sturdy... Powerful... This man is no threat to the realm. He seems more likely to save it. This has never happened before... What do I do now? After a few more moments Sevrin crosses out the section on Malcear Balifier and then begins writing again.

Gasadrael Spyrn - Events in Ofaylum:
A little too willing to follow Dethias in breaking into the Baron Toko's home. It needed to be done... but didn't seem like a task for a noble lady. Had I not been so focused on tending to the fallen boy Dethias had just ruthlessly stabbed I would have followed her in. I shudder to think of what could have happened to her alone with the likes of Dethias... My opinions on her safety made a sudden shift the moment she emerged from the inn and conjured an enormous ball of fire and hurled it at a group of charging orcs. Who could have guessed such fury could be unleashed from such a small frame? It is also well worth noting that she the power to infuse others with amazing bursts of speed. What a rush that was.
Threat Level: 2 - There seems to be some truth behind the old saying "You can't judge a sword by its scabbard." Will continue to look out for her safety, but it seems much less necessary than I previously thought. If only she would show a bit more caution.

Dethias...... Events in Ofaylum:
Snuck up and stabbed a young boy nearly killing him to gain entrance to Baron Toko's residence. Nearly drew my sword, but noticed he gave the boy a healing potion which at least brought him out of danger. During the battle he always seemed to be positioned exactly where I wanted him, behind the backs of my enemies... rather than mine. As I was nearly overcome by an enormous bear and a swarm of gnolls and goblins I noticed him behind me and thought for sure the dagger was coming. I closed my eyes and inwardly berated myself for allowing him the opportunity. To my great surprise a potion was placed in my hand instead. My first thought was poison, but why would he waste it when it would have been just as easy to use his dagger? I had no time to think so I downed it and was relieved to feel healing magic coursing through my veins.
Threat Level....6 - Why is this guy so hard to read? One moment he is stabbing a seemingly innocent child in the back and the next coming to my aid right when I need it. Far too unpredictable for my liking, but at least aligned himself on the right side of the battle.

Baron Toko
I could sense he was hiding something the moment he opened his mouth. Found damning evidence in his study. Has connections powerful enough to call forth an army of kobolds, orcs, goblins, gnolls, and far more dangerous creatures including a dire bear, zombie gnoll, and ogres.
Threat Level: 10 - Soon to eliminated, but not before I find out more about his associates.

Ruddy... Baron Tom
Another difficult one to read... Likes to steal the glory from others. Not a very commendable trait, but no sign of him using the power he has gained from it wrongly. Luck seems to be on his side which brought the help he needed at the right time.
Threat Level: 6 - Has sway over the people of Ofaylum, a problem with alcohol, and powerful enemies. Not a great combination.

Lord Eddar
Left Ofaylum with his guards after learning about a potential attack on the city. In my opion... negligence of his duties to protect the people in his lands.
Threat Level: 8 - Not comfortable with such a man in power. Perhaps something can be done about that in these elections I keep hearing about.

 

  Something Sevrin is not likely to forget

Sevrin's Crusade: A Tragic Beginning

The tales of adventure told by bards throughout Lucadere inspire many young would be heroes to set out on journeys of their own. These brave souls are drawn off the safe path most travelers follow in search of ancient ruins, strange cultures, magic, and treasures.  Some find the glory and riches they seek, but all too often they end in tragedy and this is how Sevrin's story begins.

In a frontier village south of the Elven Forests far from her home a young elven maiden's quest takes a turn for the worse. The village is attacked by a barbarian raiding party which results in rape and plunder and she is among the unfortunate victims. As a result of this tramatic event she loses her fervor for adventure and returns home only to find an unwelcome gift from the experience in the form of half breed child in her womb. Fearing the shame bearing such a child would bring she takes refuge in a Temple of Epicusp deep in the Elven forests away from the city where the child is born. Upon seeing his golden hair and emerald green eyes that match her own she her hatred for the unwanted child falters and she leaves her sword with the priests to give him when he is old enough to use it.

Twelve years later...
While growing up in the temple Sevrin noticed there was something a little different between himself and the elven children. Unfortunately for him they noticed too. He never quite fit in so he spent a lot of his time alone wandering the forests around the temple and practicing his swordsmanship. He listened to the teachings of Epicusp the priests taught with rapt attention. The ideals really resonated with him and he quickly outpaced the other children in training. The priests noticed his fervor and promise with the blade and began teaching him separately from the other students. For the next several years he was taught about the art of battle, the dangers of Lucadere, and how to see through the masks people wear to hide their true intentions.

At the age of twenty-two he was called to the sacred springs north of the temple where he bathed in the hot cleansing waters. He was garbed in ceremonial armor, given a blade, and tasked with retrieving a frost lily which only grow in the mountains northwest of the Elven Forests. Upon his return from the Orc invested northern mountains with frost lily in hand he was anointed to the priesthood and given the sword his mother left to him. He was told the story of his birth and vowed to dedicate his life to rooting out the dangers that threaten Lucadere and making it a safer place where people can enjoy wandering the lands like Epicusp intended.

He was assigned to guard the borders of the forest and to deal with anything that threatened it. After years of service protecting the Elven cities from the dangers lurking beyond their realm he was called to the Dwarven Citadel for an audience with the Kingpriest where he heard news of a group of adventurers that recently appeared from the depths of the Sunken Citadel. Interested in knowing more about this strange party he seeks them out.

  

Well, this accelerated quickly.

Tfft tfft tfft tfft tfftfftfftftftftftftftftf

This was madness. No, it made madness seem pretty rational. This was pure chaotic insanity.

What were they thinking? “Let's just climb into this ancient machine hundreds of feet below the surface of the ocean in a tower infested with undead and denizens from nightmares!” Maybe the poison was still clouding their judgment. Maybe the powers of that demonic sea beast had affected their minds. Maybe after everything they had been through up to this point, the idea of loading themselves into a mechanisms of a giant crossbow and getting shot head first into an endless black abyss seemed like a nice vacation. One thing was for certain. It was too late to turn around.

Tftftftftftftftftftftftftftftftftf

Somehow the weight of the falling water against the slanted metal plates was pushing them faster than any horse could dream of running. Malcear didn't understand the science at work here, but he was not enjoying the resulting reactions in his digestive track. If you've never vomited hard tack and dry rations, avoid it at all cost. He couldn't even turn his head to see if his allies were in the same turmoil. The speed and fear and darkness were all too much. He wasn't afraid. He was never afraid of anything, but he was overpowered with sensations.

Tfttftffftftftftftftftftftftffftftftftftfftf

His knuckles gripped white against the walls of the contraption. Cold sea water splashed against his face and armor. He was being gently choked as the weight of his cloak flapped heavily behind him. The swim they had taken did a good job of cleaning most of the Dryder and Naga blood from his clothing, but the sea water made the dagger wounds he had received (in abundance) sting to the bone. This was the most uncomfortable he had been in his entire cloistered life. He longed for the beatings and bruises of his sword-brothers. He longed for the incendiary disciplinary practices of the fire priests of his Goddess. Even the dreams he often had of being chained up and tortured seems a small comfort in comparison. The one thing though, that made things unbearable was the fear of never again seeing the stars at night.

Tftftftftftftftftftftftftftftf

Malcear prayed.

The Journal of Dethias: Fragile Beginnings

There are these two young fish swimming along and they happen to meet an older fish swimming the other way, who nods at them and says "morning, boys. How is the water?" And the two young fish swim on for a bit, and then eventually one of them looks over at the other and goes "what the hell is water?"

This is a standard requirement of journal entries at the beginning of great quests, the deployment of didactic little parable-ish stories. The story turns out to be one of the better, less bullshitty conventions of embarking on a quest, but if you're worried that I plan to present myself here as the wise, older fish explaining what water is to adventurers reading my journal, please don't be. I am not the wise old fish. The point of the fish story is merely that the most obvious, important realities are often the ones that are hardest to see and convey. Stated as a sentence, of course, this is just a banal platitude, but the fact is that in the day to day trenches of questing, banal platitudes can have a life or death importance, or so I wish to suggest to you while catapulting through this wet wind blasting into the unknown.

Here's another didactic little story. There are these two guys sitting together in a tavern in the remote Hub wilderness. One of the guys is a cleric, the other is an atheist, and the two are arguing about the existence of Gods with a special intensity that comes after about the fourth grog. And the atheist says: "Look, it's not like I don't have actual reasons for not believing in the gods. It's not like I haven't ever experimented with the whole God and prayer thing. Just last month I got caught away from the mining camp in that terrible blizzard and I was totally lost and I couldn't see a thing, and it was 50 below, and so I tried it: I fell to my knees in the snow and cried out 'Oh, God, if there is any God, I'm lost in this blizzard, and I'm going to die if you don't help me.'" And now, in the bar, the cleric looks at the atheist all puzzled. "Well you must believe now," he says, "After all, here you are, alive." The atheist just rolls his eyes. "No, man, all that was was a couple Dwarves happened to come wondering by and showed me the way back to camp."

It's easy to run the story through a kind of standard magus' analysis: the exact same experience can mean two totally different things to two different people, given those peoples two different beliefs and two different ways of constructing meaning from experience. Which is fine, except that as a seeker of knowledge I must delve deeper into the machinery constructing personal beliefs; recognizing my orientation toward the world as a matter of intentional choice, not automatically absorbed from culture, like language, but constructed from arrogance. Arrogance of certainty. Blind certainty of interpretations erects a close-mindedness that amounts to an imprisonment so total that the prisoner doesn't even know he's locked up.

The point here is that I think this is one part of what questing is really supposed to deliver. To be just a little less arrogant. To have just a little critical awareness about myself and my certainties. Because a huge percentage of the stuff that I tend to be automatically certain of is, it turns out, totally wrong and deluded (specifically activating ancient Artifacts). I have learned this the hard way, as I predict adventurers reading this will, too.

"Oh Occhidy, if you ever listen, I'm imprisoned in an ancient Dwarven ballistic cart, and I'm going to die if you don't help me."

Malcear Balfier: Journey through doubt.

 If you have never had the honor of riding for one month's time on a boat fully crewed and lead by men who despise you, the only words of advice you might receive from Malcear would be to bring a few books.

The Red Circus creaked and protested like an aching old codger against the wind and waves. The ship was in fine enough repair, but Malcear was convinced it sunk a little more with each passing day. He was also convinced each passing day was doubling in length. Perhaps just the madness of the sea speaking to his fears. They were being taxed.

Each night the crew assembled on deck before dark to share in dinner, drink, and sometimes old songs. His allies seemed to be doing well enough. The men drooled and swooned over the elf maiden, and while she seemed to appreciate the attention, it was obvious she was no fan of sailors, or the banquet of smells they brought with them. She spoke to them with dignity, and often moved the conversation to other things, sometimes distracting them with small shows of her arcane magic. The dwarf had drink, and that always seemed to be enough. Dethias was often hidden somewhere, the Gods only know where that man hides, but more than one Malcear saw him playing at dice and cards with some of the softer spoken sailors. Mal had keen eyes, and could see at least some of the tricks Dethias used to cheat the men out of their coin, but he was smart about it. He always let them win enough so he only walked away with a small profit. No one asked any questions. He was glad the others in the group could pass the time, but he felt outcast. Forever on display.

The sailors were large men. As the days passed they grew beards and the stink of salt and sweat surrounded them like armor. Malcear always smelled like fresh linen. He was tall enough, but slender. His hair was always clean and tangle free. He never brushed or bathed more than others, but it seemed to be in his nature to appear pampered and clean at all times. And he never grew facial hair. He was as clean faces as a boy in his tenth year. While others laughed and sang and feasted he simply sat wrapped in his cloak and watched the stars. Malcear could always tell which way was North. He had no idea why, but he just knew. It was clear the others viewed him as a joke. A strange silent city boy, clean as a whistle and soft as a lamb. They had no idea he was raised on the streets. They would never know the beatings and bruises he amassed in his training. Why did they make him feel so weak and foolish?

One saving grace of this horrible voyage was the night sky. It is a common fear in men of the temples that being away from your church for too long with sever your ties with the divine. Too long without reading the scriptures would alienate their meaning. Malcear found the opposite to be true, to his surprise. Gazing up at the endless star-scape made him feel a direct connection to his Goddess. The teachings and histories were inspiring, but here under the blanket of night he could see Noreal face to face. Her cold calm presence washed over him, and he could feel the warmth of some far off fire and hear her voice singing. Once after some nearby sailors erupted in a fit of guffaws, he realized he had been singing along to some strange song of starlight. Apparently it sounded pretty foolish.

In just over a week he would be home again, and back on the path he followed. Somewhere out there was a darkness that needed the silver light of the North to reveal it's secrets. Somewhere out there someone was cold and afraid, and the warmth of Noreal's flame would heal their heart and mind. The thought put a smile on his face, but a small knot formed in his stomach. On instinct Malcear reached down to his side and slid his Scimitar out of it's sheath. He wrapped both of his gloved hands around the polished hilt and displayed the blade outward, towards the Moon and stars. No matter what darkness lay in his future, he would bring to it the flame of his conviction. He would cut away fear and watch it bleed. He would burn cruelty and heal innocence. For her.

Like an pool of oil, the night horizon erupted with the swirling gray spirits of the Northern Lights. 

The Journal of Dethias: Capsized

The decision of whether to fight or flee, every life hinges on this choice.

I naturally tend towards the later, but since joining this group of heros I have found myself emboldened with courage to stand my ground and fight for my friends.

Lately I have learned a new lesson. What seems brave in one moment may turn to foolishness the next.

It is one thing to slip in unnoticed to cut the throats of sleeping goblins. But an entirely other matter diving into an ocean to dance with a giant octopus. I count my lucky stars that my new friends have the more sense than I, and are able to haul me out of a wet situation.

Yet here we are hinging on yet another choice at the precipice of this sunken fortress. Hopefully this time, I have learned a lesson that I will not quickly forget.

Malcear Balfier: The Cookies of Justice

The most interesting thing to note about Gnollish weapons is their strange duality in being both rustedly dull and razor sharp. Malcear became an expert on this fact in the deepest bowels of the Ofalum Cold Iron Mines. Rothyde and his personal guard proved to be the biggest challenge his team had yet encountered. Needless to say the battle had been a close one, and tested the skills and endurance of each and every combatant. At one key moment Malcear had seen an opening to dispose of the goblin archers, freeing his allies of their burden, so he spun on his heels and ran to accomplish it. It was that moment when one of the two massive terrible Gnolls buried his axe into Mal's spine. He fell.

He could hear the sounds of battle still raging around him, but all he saw was blackness, and all he felt was pain. Darkness was strange to Malcear. He had never had a problem being able to make out images clearly even in the darkest night, but this blackness was like an iron veil. He could tell his eyes were open. No doubt rolled into the back of his head. His lips struggled to form words but just flapped like a dying fish as he yearned to call out to his allies.

Suddenly everything was brought to full light. It was jarring. He stood in an empty chamber, under some kind of spotlight. It's source seemed to be a bright white energy dancing around in the darkness above him. Something in the back of his mind told him it was Noreal. The chamber seemed to go on forever. He felt a chill and every breath seemed to echo outward eternally. Where was this bizarre place?

The lights shifted and from the darkness emerged a massive metal disc. It was polished brightly and into every facet was etched tiny runes. It slowly spun on both axes. Mal was baffled at what he was looking at. He stood there dwarfed by the giant rotating iron wheel. He focused on the markings and came to understand it was a circular map of Corlace. Every centimeter was a metal replica of each city, every tree, river, and mountain. Parts shifted and moved, as though time was passing quickly. There where fires burning in every corner. White to the north, red to the east, blue to the west, and dark black flames to the south. Soon they began to spread and the entire disc was covered in a roaring prismatic inferno. It crumbled away bit by bit. It seemed to be falling in pieces to the floor leaving only a small piece left floating in the air. It was too far to make out. It looked like a smaller version of the original, but perhaps it was a crown? For some reason the burning made the smell of warm chocolate cookies. That is what really pulled Malcear out of the vision. The flavor lingered on his tongue and slowly turned into a bitter acidic flavor that filled his whole body.

His eyes focused and he was brought back to the world of the living. There was a potion being poured down his throat.

The journal of Dethias: Of the nature of magic

Never were all graces given to any man.

The anxiety to do well, and the struggling of the mind too constrained and too intent upon its undertaking, bewilder, interrupt and impede the intent. As happens to water, which by force of pressure from its violence and abundance, cannot vent itself in an open sluice.

As was my experience with learning magic.

Some men… or women wield it better without preparation; that they owe more to good fortune than to diligence. They experience an inborn disposition which cannot sustain eager and laborious premeditation; if it does not move joyously and freely, it does nothing that is worth while.

I used to say of others that ‘they smell of the oil and lamp,’ because of a certain harshness and roughness which labor imparts to those in which it has a large share. But in studying further magic with Gasadrael I find that it demands not to be set in motion and spurred by the strong passions, like the sorcerers (for that impulsion would be too violent); it requires to be kindled and aroused by outward circumstances, immediate and accidental. If allowed to move by itself unshaped, it does but drag along and hang fire. Excitement is its life and is favorable to it. And yet it is willing and supplicant to focused intent, not unlike the precision with which I wield my knife. 

Perhaps there are undiscovered synergies in the two compliments that I endeavor to harness.

Symbol of Noreal Idea

Malcear Balfier: Hen in a Kennel

The pounding of equestrian hooves into the soft soil sent jolts throughout Malcear's frame. In one hand he gripped the reins under white knuckles. In the other he tried to hold his curved iron blade away from himself so he didn't accidentally cut his own leg off. Both legs clung tightly to the saddle prolonging what seemed like an inevitable spill to the ground at a high speed. The smell of forest, blood (mostly his own), and horses blended with the shouting and wind blowing against his face made him all but blind and deaf. He had no idea what he was doing.

It had been an ambush. No sooner had they passed the sad excuse for a wooden gate than deadly whistling crossbow bolts came raining down on them. They caught him completely off-guard. His first thought was how he let his allies down, having lead them into this trap, foolishly proud of his idea to avoid any bloodshed. Then he saw spears to the right and men running through the woods to the left. He had to act.

It had been chaos. He had swung his blade like an angry woodsman. All power, no finesse. When he called on the white fire it belched from his hands burning everything in its path, even some of the horses. He looked like a fool. A child wielding the powers of an ancient God, hunting rabbits with a catapult. The dwarf moved with an air of experience, slamming and chopping those around him like a tempest. The rogue-devil seemed to keep disappearing in one spot and reappearing in another with a new knife in his hand ready to strike a killing blow. The elf maiden was even casting spells in this chaos. That level of focus bewildered him. But he put on a face of confidence, and pretended he knew what he was doing. And that had lead him to this.

He had exchanged shots with one of the guards who had been hiding in the forest. His arrows hit more trees than enemy, but the man had fled regardless. Without thinking Malcear leaped back into his saddle and chased the man down before he got away to warn the town. That dark confusing little town full of mystery and lies. It seemed like everyone there wanted to take a bite out of him and his friends. That night in the inn he had felt like a hen in a kennel. Just waiting to be ripped apart.

His thoughts focused as another crossbow bolt ripped through his chain armor and dug into his breast. He almost spilled backwards out of the saddle, but his hand never let go of the reins. He could feel his heart beating against the shaft of the bolt. That was an odd feeling. He grit his teeth, tightened the grip on his blade and spurred the steed into a full gallop. Another bolt came whizzing at him as the running man spun deftly and fired, but Mal was serious now. He could feel the fires burning behind his eyes. He struck out with his blade and slapped the bolt off course. That act slowed the man down enough for Maclear to overtake him.

Mal didn't so much leap from the saddle as go flying out of it as he tugged his steed to a halt. He crashed down onto the man blade first. That was an idiot move. He felt his wounds ooze out more of his blood. Why was it cold? He was a tangle of arms and weapons with the man. They both got to their feet, and as Malcear raised his blade to ready for combat, the man turned and fled AGAIN. Malcear had been trained not to curse, but he came pretty close. Throwing his blade aside in frustration, and halting his movement (mostly giving in to the pain wracking his body) Mal lifted his open hand towards his near murderer, and cried out for Noreal. He begged her to make it all end. The fighting, the pain, the anxiety.

There was a flash of white light and when his vision returned, Mal saw that the man had fallen, in smolders. All he could do was fall to his knees, say a thankful murmur to the goddess of the North, and crawl on his hands and knees looking for the sword he threw aside.

It took all his strength to get back into the saddle and ride back to the others. They were wounded as well, but their antagonists had been felled. Mal wasn't sure if he looked as shaken and terrified as he was on the inside, but nobody seemed to notice regardless. He rolled up his sleeves, climbed out of the saddle, and began to chant the prayer of healing. Where would he be without his goddess?

Where indeed.

Ruddy Tom's Flight

"Raymond, you're with me!" Tom roared among the confusion.

Raymond was pressed up against a wall staring blankly as city guards filed through the doors and began forcing their way through every part of the Beast of Burden Trading Company.

"Now!" shouted the red-faced man. Raymond crossed the warehouse floor and followed the swordsman outside. In the night-darkened street the hooded form of Tom's boy held the reins of three horses all kitted out for a long ride.

Tom snatched two sets of reins and pressed one into Raymond's hands before swinging up into his saddle and wheeling his horse around. Raymond dutifully stood there in place, holding the reins until Tom snarled "Mount!"  The bewildered young man scrambled into the saddle and moved to follow Tom and his son's forms disappearing into the dark night of Hub.

After the sun had been up for an hour, Raymond rode alongside Tom and broke the silence "Say, Tom, what happened back there?"

"We must not have caught all the intruders from the other night. One must have got away " growled Tom.

"Those four in the cell? Who are they?"

Tom laughed. "Must have started out as five or six. I don't know who they are, I don't much care."

"I see." Raymond looked around at their surroundings, the city giving way to small homes with overgrown gardens and tiny fields. "What now?"

"We ride to the mines. We see what parts of this mess we can save. YAW!" Tom kicked his horse faster and moved away from the bewildered young man.

It was a hard ride. Tom traded out horses at every opportunity and at great expense. On the morning of the third day a familiar sight slowed their progress. It was a wagon with its load covered by a canvas tarp. Two men sat in the front and two men with loaded crossbows stood at the back, looking around for danger.

"Hullo, Tom!" called out a grizzled man from a wagon. "Come to check up on us?"

"Aye" boomed the large fighter, his wide smile not reflected in his eyes. "How go things at the mines? Your load doesn't look like it'll make quota this month."

"Things are slow, yes. The lazy sots haven't kept pace I'm afraid. We've brought in new management to encourage them."

"Huh, well I'll have to see that for myself." said Tom, looking at his boy. The half-elf sat his horse hooded and unmoving.

"Any news from Hub?" asked the driver of the wagon.

"Hells, yes!" exclaimed Raymond from the back, and all eyes turned to him as he walked his horse forward.  No one saw Tom close his eyes, bare his teeth and clutch his reins tight.

"The Beast of Burden has been compromised! Some thugs from the agency next door snuck in through the sewers on some outrageous pretense. Strange crew they were. An elf woman, some battle cleric of Noreal, a foul-looking lurker and a dwarf, of all things. We caught a few of them but some must have got away and alerted the city guard! They swarmed in and confiscated everything. I saw them fighting Mr. Taro. All is lost!"

"All is not lost you damned fool!" Tom reached out an arm and shoved Raymond nearly out of his saddle. "You think we haven't planed for this?" Tom turned to the wagon. "As he said, the Beast of Burden isn't safe anymore. Get to town, find some place safe to store the wagon and the goods and wait for me. We've come to alert the rest of the operation. Taro's confiscated records are sure to give away something. We're probably being followed by the city guard or those damned sneaks Ray mentioned. Be wary on the road to Hub."

"Huh." the wagon crew looked at each other uneasily. The men in the back held their crossbows more firmly and nodded to their leader up front. "If we see anything, we'll be ready. Good luck, Tom. We'll be at the Low Rat." The driver flicked the reins and the wagon pulled away.

The three riders started to walk their horses towards the west. As soon as the wagon was out of sight Tom released a bellow and leaped off his horse, grabbing Raymond up in his huge arms and throwing them both to the ground. "You'll learn your place! Damn. your. big. mouth!" Tom landed a few heavy fists on the young man knocking the awareness out of him.

When Raymond could open his eyes again he found himself off the road, his travelling companions gone and his whole body tied to a tree. He hung his head. Nothing made any sense anymore.

Gasadrael Spyrn: First Letter Home

Dearest Mother and Father,

My first week in Corlace has been eventful, to say the least. In striking out on my own, I've taken up with the Silver Spokes Trading Company as...some combination of security, investigator, and exterminator. Our first job put myself and my new colleagues in a situation that left us with a nice business arrangement; as our employer is the newly-reelected president of the city's Business Guil, we were allowed to split a large sum of assets from a nearby business which has gone under, as well as a combined "silent partnership" of 1% of SSTC's ongoing profits (we figured that if we requested a smaller amount of his business, he would have less of problem giving so much of the other business).

This situation we've found ourselves in is the key reason why I'm writing home to you so soon (as well as hiring a messenger to bring this to you speedily). First, I would suggest that when you eventually arrive in Corlace (whether or not I'm still here; my new position may take me to other towns or lands), you should probably set up a business here in the city. Whether it's a new shop, or an extension of one of the many businesses back home, I've found that being a member of the Business Guild can be very beneficial (especially towards campaigning to become part of the Council).

Second, and this is far more important in the long run: part of my new lot in life came about from a rival business being caught trying to smuggle large amounts of cold iron to Gurrem. Given their propensity to attack civilizations that are more prosperous than their own, I fear this may possibly indicate a preparation to invade or attack our people in the North (as I doubt that those half-orcs have suddenly gone into the demon-slaying business). Although I have no confirmation at this time, it could be prudent to let some local leaders know to be on their guard, both and land and at sea.

I hope this message finds you both well, and I am certain that your fears about me will be assuaged, as I have found both excitement and adventure, as well as a source of proper income. May Noreal's white flame warm you both.

Your grateful daughter,
Gasadrael

The journal of Dethias: Revealing a mischief

I thought about his death for so many hours tangled there in the cloak of the night, that it came to have a body and dimensions, more than a regret gurgling from my blade or the red stain blackening on the wall he clung to for support.

His death now had an entrance and an exit, doors and stairs, windows and shutters which are the motionless wings of windows. His death had a head and clothes, nagging and biting my conscience.

His death had pages, a dark leather cover, and index, and the print was too blotted for anyone to read. His death had hinges and bolts which were oiled and locked, had a piercing whinny, four black hooves, ears pinned back which listened to the wind, and a shiny saddle horn in which you could see the past.

His death had sockets and keys, it had walls and beams. It had a handle which you could not hold and a floor you could not lie down on in the middle of the night.

In the freakish pink and grey of dawn I took his death to bed and his death was my bed and in every corner of the room it hid from the light, and then it was the next day and all the days to follow, and it moved into the future like the sharp tip of a quill moving across an empty page.

A rat scampered through my room, again the arbiter of my sin.

Malcear Balfier: Dream of Fire

Oh simple flame

We see you dance

Consuming all

With happenstance

Upon a wick

Or match

Or pyre

You stand for life

Oh sacred fire

To keep us warm

To let us see

Without you

Would we even be?

And though our love

For you is great

Your sad life

We commiserate

You can't be held

You can't be kissed

Both rain and sea

Turn you to mist

You stand for freedom

Hunger

Lust

Lock you away

We must

We must

But when the flame

Got trapped inside

It starved to death

And quickly died

So when confined

Your fate is met

But your last breath

Was brightest yet.

Malcear bolted upright in is straw-mat bed. The inn was bustling with noise down below, and the Dwarf's snores rattled the walls, but that wasn't what had woken him. It was that dream again.

He was deep in the lowest dungeons of Skylight Temple. But the temple had no dungeons.... And it was there he was bound and chained. It was there the white flame was put against his skin, and forced inside him. The song of the priests washed all memory and thought from his mind and he slowly screamed away his past. They told him his new name. They gave him the faith he thought came naturally, sewn like a hot silver seed into his soul. The warm glow of Noreal's love had turned to a cruel burning. A torture disguised as ritual. 

He knew he had trained with a sword his whole life, until it was a part of himself, only now outside the temple in the real world the weapon felt bulky and challenging. He fumbled with arrows when drawing his bow. He couldn't remember the scriptures he had taken to heart his whole life. At this moment all he could do was remember the fire being put in his chest. The white light that engulfed his heart. 

But this couldn't be a repressed memory. The priests were his family. They loved him, and showed him the light. Yet, for the life of him, he couldn't remember the moment he chose to pledge his life to the Northern Goddess. He must have been very young. That was the answer. He convinced himself. Without thinking he reached up to run his hands over the faintest hint of a burnt scar over his left breast. It had been healed long ago. Healed with the magic of Noreal, the truth seeker and the beacon in the night. Magic was a powerful gift to those who knew how to use it.

He did no more dreaming that night. 

The Gag's Tale

The huge black hat with its fluffy often-changed feathers. The long, curly, glossy black wig. The toy sword and fat purse on his hip. The mishapen lump of putty on his nose. That ridiculous bandit mask over his eyes. There are few in Corlace who don't know The Gag.

It was a festival day in Corlace, many years ago.  Nobles filled the large viewing stands.  The king was finishing his speech announcing the start of festivities.

A young man had his hand burried to the wrist in the purse of a lower-ranking noble in the back of the stands. He was intent on his theft. His heart was pounding too loudly to hear that the king's words were coming to an end.

His mark stood suddenly to applaud and the unexpected moment dragged him forward from his hidden perch behind a banner and he tumbled down the steps of the stands. He rolled through the elite, scattering them like nine-pins. He landed at His Majesty's feet still clutching the embroidered purse.

The applause died. First there was a collective gasp and then bubbling laughter began to ripple through the crowd.

The guards swarmed him immediately. He tried to throw the purse away, coins dribbling at his feet. His feeble attempts to distance himself from his crime only caused the crowd to laugh harder. His howls of protest and denial could barely be heard above the people's enjoyment of his foolishness.

A certain man in the crowd smiled to himself smugly, at first. Amateurism has that effect on the professional. But as he watched the filthy boy being hauled away, saw his naked heels clearing two parallel paths through the scattered coins, his smile faded. He knew how many times in his life that could have been him. He turned and walked away from the scene, looking into every laughing face he passed.

That night the king received a letter. It was signed "Us". The letter described the anger and humiliation suffered by all proper thieves at having to watch their profession be so poorly represented. The author of the letter begged the king to absolve the boy of all wrongdoing, to set him free immediately and in return the author pledged that the full vengeance of an embarrassed host of cutpurses would be released.  'His name will never be spoken again' the letter concluded.

The following morning the boy was released. He was given a royal writ of pardon granting its bearer relief from all past and future accusations. It was flowery with ribons and seals bearing the imprint of the king's own ring. As an added gesture he was allowed to keep the purse, sans coin. Clutching his writ and purse he fled from the jail into the city streets.

It is not known what happened to him. He wasn't seen for many months. When he returned he wore a huge wig and a fat putty nose. He also had that same purse at his waist, and it was filled to bursting with gold.

After a few days in town he was recognized and arrested for more theivery. It was assumed his disguise was merely more amateurism. But he swore he came by his coin rightfully, and he waved his writ of pardon in the guards' faces. Without an accuser they had to let him go on his way. When they asked him his name he said "The Gag".

Since then he's lived his life much the same way.  Walking through town, feathers bobbing on his proud head. Wandering here and there, visiting shopkeepers, talking to beggars, staying in the homes of various minor nobles and well-to-do merchants.  He has no estate of his own save the streets. An uneventful life of leisure but for one notable event scarely a year after his return.

Some toughs in the service of a visiting wealthy family found him mincing about in the streets and thought they'd have some fun at his expense. They chased him down the streets, heckling, demanding he duel them with his toy sword.  The Gag was still a youth then, a funny scrawny thing in his foppery.  Eventually they trapped him an alley and worked him over for his coin.

The Gag dragged himself to a temple and it was weeks before he was well enough to leave their care. Meanwhile gristly discoveries were being made all over Corlace. First they found fingers and toes stuffed into coin purses.  Then hands and feet a few days later. Ears, noses and tongues after a week and finally the heads of The Gag's tormentors wearing bandit masks over their eyes were perched on the porches of their employers.

The Gag was questioned but no guilt could be ascribed to him. Since then his purse has only dispensed its coins to the needy children of Hub, its beggars and its honest merchants.

Gasadrael's Journey

"Gasadrael, I have reservations about you going away...but your plan certainly shows promise. Your Mother has misjudged you, methinks. Go forth into the world and prove yourself; when you return, you may be on your way to becoming a princess."

"I don't know if that term will even still be appropriate, Father. If anything, I would become a High Councilwoman, the first elven female to have power over this land in millenia. That is, unless Mother beats me to the punch."

My name is Gasadrael Chen Spyrn, daughter of Celian and Gomortha Spyrn. I was born in Hasaden (where I've lived all my life) during a full hailstorm, complete with lightning. Some of the local holy men considered it an auspice that I was to become a leader or a warrior, but my parents, too set in the old ways, took it to mean that I might one day become a noblewoman, or perhaps a Princess. My Mother, more than anyone, seemed to fixate on my being mated well and staying in the "upper ranks" rather than worrying upon my well-being or becoming a great woman on my own.

I have recently turned 95 years old, still just a child in my people's eyes, but I have learned much. My parents have lived quite long and are the wealthiest family anywhere outside of the Wheels, so being their only child made for...shall I say, an interesting upbringing. Most of it I found to simply be pageantry and "grooming", teaching me things like manners and proper riding techniques; in other words, subjects fit for an aristocratic female. Thankfully, my parents trusted my tutors enough that they left me alone with them most of the time. Whenever I knew they would be away, I made these teachers give me subjects of real importance: history, languages, combat, and most of all, magic.

That one was somewhat of a given, as most of my family were wizards (with the odd cleric or bard in the family, but we didn't talk much about them). I was taught in many ways of magic; my parents hoped that I would focus on enchantment or illusion (as is "befitting" a elven female in their eyes), but I grew to love conjuration. The idea of summoning creatures to do my bidding gave me such a feeling of power; having dominion over the creatures of our Plane and others made me feel closer in my devotion to Noreal, the fiery Goddess of the north. My devotion to her was welcomed and expected (as it is with most elves in our region); the carefully crafted tattoo of her scimitar curved around an aurora borealis upon my back, however, was neither welcomed nor expected nor approved. To this day, it is my most prized purchase.

As a youth, I didn't have too many friends. First, my time training with all my tutors didn't afford me much time with my peers. Second, some of the children in township automatically hated me due to my family's wealth. Some even took to calling me "Gassy" when I walked by. I found it such a rude name, since the joke only works in the Common language; I mean, yes, I was fluent in Common, but for fellow elves to craft such crude jokes in a simple tongue like that was doubly insulting. Not to say that I don't like humans; they were the only people I had ever encountered other than other elves and the odd halfling, as I had been discouraged for so long from leaving the Northern Shores. Humans are curious creatures: no matter where they end up, or what situation you put them in, they always seem to make the best of it, and use the best of whatever abilities the gods have given them. I hold humans in good regards overall (except for the human wizards, but then again, who does?).

At 75, despite my parents' objections, I began weapons training as well. I gained quite a bit of skill in daggers and bowed weapons (preferring crossbows), which my parents reluctantly approved of, but just to spite them, I also asked for training in swords, the quarterstaff, and the club. That was the one that nearly infuriated them: the idea that their well-bred, well-raised daughter would bother to train in a weapon they considered barely fit for half-orcs (and which my mother took to calling "the Ogre Stick").

After this weapons training, I became fascinated with the craftsmanship that went into making many of my training weapons. Since most of them were imported from other lands, I started tinkering with how to make some on my own (due to there being no masterwork weaponsmiths nearby). This lead to my self-taught studies on building various objects, always with a flair for artistry. My mother decried this, and even my father seemed gruffly against it; even in regards to weapons or objects made with the highest skill and best materials, they still considered such things to be "peasant's work" (I was even forbidden from going near a forge or an anvil, for it was considered to be such a base thing that I might be denied any birthright or inheritance).

I was to go on what was only ever spoken of as a "spirit journey" upon my 100th birthday; however, once I heard that Prince Thay was stepping down from his throne and pushing for a council to rule the land, I asked two things of my parents: that one or both of them go to Corlace to be considered for this new council, and that I be allowed to leave home on my own journey. If I returned home before my 100th in time for my "journey", then so be it; otherwise, I would be left to learn on my own merits. I wished to become a powerful wizard like my family many generations long. It was my belief that this new council should have at least one person adept at magic on it, and that having a potential bloodline of elven wizards could repair whatever damage having the human prince learning spells from the throne had caused. If (although it's really "when") one of my parents is voted into the Council, it wouldn't be difficult to campaign for the position once they passed away or stepped down (at which time, I would be quite skilled in wizardry and nearly all facets of knowledge, both of our world and others).

My Mother wasn't there to see me off; she showed me much of her mind the night before, warning me of the dangers of the road, and mixing with all the "others" that comprised Corlace. She didn't exactly scoff at my plan, however; the idea of being a ruling family (even within a collective Council) was very appealing to her, and as such, she reluctantly gave her consent for my journey.

My Father had the biggest grin on his face as he handed me a heavy bag of gold and hugged me goodbye. I sat on a well-paid-for carriage set to take me into Corlace, where I would begin my journey into adulthood, and perhaps, greatness.

"Goodbye, my only daughter. I hope that when I gaze upon you again, you will be all the better from your journey."

"Goodbye...future Councilman Spyrn. The next time you see me, I shall be a woman, and one of the best wizards this world ever seen, elven or otherwise."

The carriage driver led his horses forward, and I began my new life, with nothing but my gold, the clothes on my back, a crossbow and a spellbook. I hadn't even left the town's gates yet, and I had never felt so alive.

The Team

The geography of Hub

The northwest coast of the Hearth Ocean is mostly a sheer cliff.  Ports along that coast are rare and small, clinging to tiny coves hollowed out by the elements.

The Greenswell River shattered the cliffs long ago, and Hub flourishes along its banks.  The ports on the delta transport the grain grown from the fields out across the sea to hundreds of cities and communities.

Hub spills out from between the cliffs out onto delta, the banks of which have long been fortified by well-maintained seawalls.  The royal palace sits atop the north cliff, the Walled Road of Prokeles starting at its front gates and extending to the northeast.

View of Hub from the sea

The journal of Dethias: Suckling the tit of corruption

The owl shrieked at my birth – an evil sign. The night crow cried aboding luckless time; dogs howled, and hideous tempest shook down trees; the raven rook'd her on the chimney’s top, and chattering pies in dismal discord sung. My mother felt more than a mother's pain, and, yet brought forth less than a mother's hope, to wit, an indigested and deformed lump, not like the fruit of such a goodly tree. The midwife wonder'd and the women cried 'O Prokeles bless us he is born with teeth!' And so I was; which plainly signified that I came to bite the world. That many a thousand, which mistrust no parcel of their fear, and many an old man's sigh and many a widow's, and many an orphan's water-standing eye – men for their sons, wives for their husbands, and orphans for their parents timeless death shall rue the hour that ever Dethias wast born. That I should snarl and bite and play the dog. Yet this word 'love,' which graybeards call divine, be resident in men, not like one another, but most in me; I am myself alone.

I had a tender, yet sheltered upbringing. Suckling of the desperate focused love only a mother, holding nothing else sacred in this world, could give. Learning to love and play like anyone, yet never allowed to play outside in the light. I would sneak to the river district at night to swim, with only the clouds and wind to partake in my games, it is by my revered banks littered with the discarded belongings of Corlace that I found the simple beauty in all things.

After the long drought of the Wheels, rats infested the lower portion of the city. I never liked their encroachment on what I considered 'my' river. So, when peddlers began selling rat meat for lack of bread; meat that the street kids collected during the day, I jumped or rather sneaked at the opportunity. I found I was a natural exterminator. I became the premier ratter; hiding in shadows, hunting with desperate focus during the hours that no other dared, learning the pain of the knife edge as well as its precision. I had to sell the carcasses to the city's underbelly at half the price other ratters got. I hated those people. They were greedy, conniving, blunt, and the worst kinds of cruel.

One particularly nasty elf, Locutious, showed me how to use poison to catch more rats, quicker. It was too late before I realized his deception... the poisons I made to kill the rats seeped into the meat, and poisoned the wretched people. Many got sick from my mistake... some died. I tried to steal back everything I had sold, but was beaten down by one particularly brutal peddler, Haamock, and his thugs. That day I promised myself I would never hurt innocent people, but rather try and protect them.

The drought ended when prince Thay was born, and the city rejoiced. Yet I was forced to look for new employ. I tried disguising myself as one of the merchants so that I could sell wares I'd collected from the river banks, but none dared approach me for trinkets. The few clients I did receive, requested other goods - I didn't display. They asked for darker things; forbidden poisons, shadowed information, or to pilfer some object of desire. The pay was ample, but I tried only to accept contracts that would hurt those crooked, duplicitous, evil dregs -- of which there were plenty. Try as I may, I could not resist the satisfaction from hearing news of my deeds reverberate back, that a misfortune had befallen some unscrupulous fuck, and I knew my streets were safer.

I had saved up a small fortune, until... a few years back my mother fell ill. I leveraged, scrounged and begged to provide her the best treatment, but nothing could dissuade the reaper. She died the same day as the King. I spread her ashes into the river. I sold all her furnishings. And with what meager sum I could piece together, I purchased these daggers I will use -- to carve out my place in this world.

Malcear Balfier: Servant of the White Flame

At the time before life, when the earth and sky become two from one, before blood and thought filled the land, a spark was born. A fire named Noreal. The flame to ignite all life. A white fire that rolled high across the planes bringing it with it the first seeds of man. A fire to seek out truth in the darkness, and a fire to fuel the burning of our souls. Some are born with the fire, others must seek it out, but in the end all will return to flame.

High Father Amethen read from the ancient scrolls by the white light of the ever-burning candle. The chamber was cold and dark. The white candles mounted in the corners of the wide stone room cast little light, and made the shadows dance with every movement. If not for them the room would be too cold to bare, but they gave off a surprising amount of heat. Sweat trickled down Timyn's body.

He knew the writings by heart now, but somehow hearing them read always seemed new and refreshing to him. He moved carefully through the ritual motions, using the curved wooden blade as part of himself. Its weight was key to his balance. Shifting from left to right moving the sword in slow spirals around his body he let the words wash over him, and refresh his physical weariness. His muscles ached and his body was thin. His ribs stood out like the pillars of the city wall. And yet this life was far better than the one he had left behind.

Timyn was born with the flame. Timyn was a regular bonfire. One has to live on the streets a long time to gather enough filth and scars to hide a fire so bright. Timyn's gifts weren't discovered until he was 12 years old.

The Skylight Temple in the furthest north district of Corlace was a home for those blessed with the light of Noreal. One of the high priests saw the fire in Timyn's eyes while pushing him out of the way as he begged for pennies in the slums. They brought him in, washed him up, and saw him for what he was. A blessed son. Snow pale skin, hair the color of heated bronze, and eyes that sparkled the deep blue the sky's ether. There was some debate about whether he smelled of cinnamon cake or fresh apples. They gave him a clean room, and two meals a day. They taught him from the holy scrolls for four hours a day. They trained him in the way of the sword and bow, and watched as his flame grew stronger, and his light filled all those around him.

His fellow students didn't care for him though. Rich noble sons who had their room and training paid for by the wealth of their fathers. Families who wished to redeem themselves by offering their children to the life of the White Fire. No one knew why the church gave the sickly Timyn the same lessons and lodgings for free. It was even further beyond them that he surpassed them in their studies, and passed every test he was given.

In the Chamber of Lights he defeated them all at swordplay. In the courtyard he proved their superior with bow and arrow, thrown dagger, curved axe and crossbow. He didn't excel at his histories, or any of his studies of the sciences, but he worked hard and still finished each lesson. His piers made him feel outcast, and that was fine with Timyn. He remembered what it was like sleeping in cold alleys and feeding on dead pigeons while they slept in their soft feather beds and grew strong on bread and cream. He was never looking back again.

On the first day of his 20^th winter the high priests brought him to the highest tower and killed him. They forever destroyed the life of Timyn of Corlace. They cut the flame into his chest with curved blades, healed him with the holy white fire, and gave him his true name. He was reborn, Malcear Balfier. Now was his time to go out into the city, and spread the good of Noreal. Heal the sick, defend the weak, and prove the value of religion and morals in this dark time of political conflict.

They gave him a steel blade, an oak bow, and the midnight robes of a priest adorned with the silver flames of their Goddess. They warned him of dangerous magic gathering far beyond The Wheels. They told him that even the bright light of Noreal can create a long terrible shadow. Then they closed the doors on him, with no intent on ever opening them again. He was on his own now. For the first time since he was a child he was back on the street of Corlace with only his meager belongings and his tenacity to survive.

Malcear slung his bow over his shoulder, tucked his last few coins into his boot, pulled his hood over his bright copper hair, and set out into the streets, quickly blending with the crowd, save for the warm light he cast only few could see.

The deities

Name: Noreal
Alignment: Neutral Good
Direction: North
Symbol: The white aurora borealis against a night sky
Weapon: Scimitar
Domains: Fire, Glory, Good, Healing, Protection

Noreal is the cold flame of the north. Her pristine beauty is worshiped by elves on their icy shores and all who help those in need.  She is a fire to ward against the cold and a beacon to guide the traveler home.

Name: Prokeles
Alignment: Lawful Good
Direction: Northeast
Symbol: A stone wall with a barred gate set in it.
Weapon: Longsword
Domains: Community, Good, Law, Nobility, Protection

Prokeles is a stern father who protects his many children from the horrors of the wilderness.  He is the wall builder, the crafter of kingdoms, the patron of patrons.

Name: Aurex
Alignment: Lawful Neutral
Direction: East
Symbol: The rising sun
Weapon: Unarmed strike
Domains: Earth, Law, Rune, Strength, Sun

Aurex is discipline.  Aurex is as certain as the rising of the sun.  Aurex's face is set and carved in stone, weathering all. Aurex advises those who would set a rule in stone and call it Law.

Name: Infersol
Alignment: Lawful Evil
Direction: Southeast
Symbol: A stylized jar with a black marble inside it and a white marble suspended above it
Weapon: Mace
Domains: Destruction, Evil, Law, Strength, War

Infersol is the scourge of the nobility, a warlord raised from poverty who hates the hypocrisy of the old ways.  He came from the mob and seeks to harness its power, direct its anger.  He is the embodiment of revolution and wants to destroy the powerful while the powerless in his eyes have two choices: join or die.

Name: Meriph
Alignment: Neutral Evil
Direction: South
Symbol: A hooded cloak or a dagger crossed with its sheath
Weapon: Scythe
Domains: Darkness, Death, Evil, Knowledge, Trickery

Meriph is death waiting in the darkness. He is admired (and sometimes worshiped) by thieves and assassins.  Meriph's face is never seen.  He lures the unfortunate to the shadows and harvests their terror.

Name: Noxtergo
Alignment: Chaotic Evil
Direction: Southwest
Symbol: An upside down boat or a broken mast
Weapon: Greataxe
Domains: Chaos, Evil, Madness, Water, Weather

The gargled scream that is the last breath of the drowning is music to Noxtergo. He finds physical form in the beasts of the turbulent sea.  He twists the thoughts of the mad and his floods can wash away any feeble scrap of order.

Name: Occhidy
Alignment: Chaotic Neutral
Direction: West
Symbol: The wind or clouds, storm clouds with lightning, a tornado
Weapon: Whip
Domains: Air, Chaos, Charm, Liberation, Luck

Occhidy is depicted as a tall, strangely slender woman dressed in delicate wispy garments usually in a full sprint with her hair streaming out behind her.  Her attentions are fickle and she never stays in one place, or with one person, for long.  She said to be betrothed to Epicusp but by her nature is forever fleeing commitment and stability.

Name: Epicusp
Alignment: Chaotic Good
Direction: Northwest
Symbol: A peaceful road through a forest, an evergreen branch
Weapon: Rapier
Domains: Animal, Chaos, Good, Plant, Travel

Epicusp is a cheerful halfling wanderer.  He is forever traveling the roads, happily searching for his runaway bride-to-be.  He knows he'll never catch her but is happy to catch glimpses of her here and there.  Afterall, he gets to be in the great outdoors and hear her running through the trees, and see her ruffling the fur of all the beasts of the wild.

Name: Promni
Alignment: True Neutral
Direction: Up
Symbol: An eyepatch, a half-worn blindfold, or one eye open and one eye closed/missing
Weapon: Quarterstaff
Domains: Artifice, Knowledge, Magic, Repose, Trickery

Promni is an elderly one-eyed man.  He wears a long cloth wrapped around his head covering his missing eye and leans heavily on his staff.  He knows too much and is too old to be persuaded by any of the fleeting extremes of his fellow gods.  He longs only to be reunited with his missing eye before he dies.