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