Phantom of the North
Chapter 1 Ages Past
Tamilis sifted through the scrolls, almost like an old sage; examining every piece of evidence, and searching for answers. The storage room she was in had a cold feeling to it, an ambient blue to it, and her breath was an icy white in front of her face. The smell of crusty old tomes and rotting papers filled the room with a horrid stench, and her ears couldn't even catch the sign of life of mice. The timbers holding the roof up seemed ready to collapse, eaten by time and decay. She hated this part of her job. President of Unther, huh? Talk about false titles! She thought, as she lifted up an old portrait of her mother, Khelwana.
Khelwana was a beautiful woman, with high cheek bones, a firm chin and starlight twinkling in her blue eyes. A lean muscular figure showed a warrior, but one would never have guessed she'd been a blacksmith before her presidency. The problems of battle and hardship had left Khelwana's once full, wide lips cracked and dry. Her face was scarred, and ash was left on her right cheek in a blurry gray spot.
Tamilis smiled, absently, remembering the days of when her mother would tuck her in bed at night. The days where Tamilis would sit up late, asking her old crush, Eric, the guard captain, to fetch her things. He would do so, without question.
Oh, damn! Tamilis shook her head, and the smile faded. The council was waiting for her. There was that trouble in the farms to the south, the sudden abandonment of the Monastery of the Shining Wolf to the East, and the strange invaders from the Northern lands.
Tamilis tucked the portrait under arm, and turned toward the winding staircase. Eric was there, now an old man. Still very alive and eager, Eric was hunched over, with a gray goatee, and a round face. He had a smile on his face, as he led Tamilis back up the stairs to castle grounds.
Tamilis thought as she walked, the invaders could be more stragglers of the Arm of Revan. or could the Orc tribes be striking the towns again? They have that bad habit. Still, mother left that note. Tamilis lifted a piece of paper from the back of the portrait; her real objective down in the storage rooms.
She held it up, so that the light from Eric's torch lit the backside of the note, lighting up the words. She read it with care, aiming to catch lying undertones that gave away more information;
In the Year 217, here lie the sayings of President Khelwana Blackforge, and the Day of Judgment. Barbarian commander Yonan has fallen, his commanding amulet crushed by one of his hill giant troops. Without their leader, the army collapses, and the Arm of Revan are no longer.
Without the Amulet of Gigan, he held no control over his troops, and the army of the North was easily overwhelmed. In the defense of Terevas, many of our finest soldiers were slain. The siege weapons of Revan were nearly too much. But, we prevailed.
The ashes of Yonan's amulet were destroyed, thrown into the sea, never to be seen again. Yonan's body was given to his people for whatever punishment they wished their oppressive leader to take. My reign has just begun, and yet I can already feel the weight of the burden upon Unther and myself. Without me, this country would fall. I have saved Unther twice now, and I have no wish to do it a third time. The burden weighs heavily on my shoulders.
I plan to leave soon, on a trip to lessen the damage, and to reinstate order in our war-torn countries. I hope everything goes well.
This is a Notice from President Khelwana Blackforge, 217, April
She never returned from her trip. Suspects were found, but no real charges were pressed on any one. Tamilis hated her mother for that. Tamilis had gotten every piece of unwanted profession from Khelwana; Scribe, President, Blacksmith. The heir Dom of Unther. A ten-year presidential term, and life of writing, and hitting metals. What a life was laid out for her.
* * * *
Bryon Janura drank heavily from his pint of ale. The ranger found no comfort in the drink, yet felt soothed from his day's anguishes. An orc raider, a dead doe, and a burning village. What else must he save to make things right in his world? And why couldn't the world just leave him be?
He took another drink, draining the glass. The bottom of the iron mug appeared in his face, with little bits of froth still sticking to the sides of the glass. He set the mug down and called for another, with a few coppers waved in the air.
The inn was dimly lit, with a grayish brown floor, and walls. A Krenshar rug, gifted to the innkeeper, Aren, as a thank you, lay in the center of the room. The array of tables and chairs were set around it, as if the rug held some significance in life. Bryon thought the use of the monster's fur was horrible. Aren could at least clothe one of the townsfolk who wore ten year old rags from their birth.
Aren stepped over and handed the Bryon another mug of ale. Bryon gave Aren his empty mug and the cost of the new drink over. Bryon's hands were dry, even in the humid room. The arid stench of smoke and alcohol would probably never leave.
Bryon shifted on his stool, his left hand grazing an old scar on his belly. Creature damn near took my belly out.
His thoughts were interrupted with a shout and call for contest, "Hey, Ogre- hoar, let's see how tough you are in REAL battle, eh?" A little, balding man of maybe 30 was standing up on one of the chairs, waving his fists in the air like a fool. The man he was challenging was about 6 feet tall, and pure muscle; a half-orc. The half-orc wore armor of the North; a barbarian of Orcania, the Northern Lands. The challenger was obviously drunk, and the orc, by size alone, almost couldn't be drunk.
Bryon sighed, and stood up. One fight, meant a bar brawl. At least in the Singing Star Tavern it did.
The half-orc casually kicked the chair's feet from under the bald man. The challenger fell, and smashed one of the tables in half. Chaos ensued.
Bryon punched out an oncoming drunk man, and then elbowed a woman in the stomach. Punching and kicking, Bryon waded his way through the crowd. Suddenly, he felt a pang of pain in his head, and he fell flat on his back. Bryon stood up, and looked around for the chair thrower.
The dwarf who'd thrown it decided to hide the moment Bryon saw him, but the ranger had no intent on chasing down the dwarf. Bryon somehow found his way to the orc, and gently took him out of the riot, to a dark corner of the tavern.
"You're new around here, aren't you?" Bryon asked, as he began to drink from someone's abandoned ale.
The half-orc nodded, "I am a messenger from the North."
"Messenger?" Bryon nodded with approval, What in Hell's an Orcanian doing in Unther? "Who to?"
The half-orc shook his head, "I cannot disclose that information."
Bryon gave a look of respect, and expectance, "Regency?" Bryon asked.
The half-orc slowly nodded, after understanding that Bryon was inferring to his heritage, "I'm Drekas, the half-son of Regent Iren of Revan."
Bryon quickly raised a hand to clamp the half-orc's mouth shut on the last part, "Cut the Revan part, people here don't like that word."
The half-orc nodded understandingly, "I know why."
Another chair. Bryon flinched, seeing it coming out of the corner of his eye, but Drekas extended his arm forward, and caught it. The then, lobbed it back, with a flick of his wrist. Bryon stared at the direction of the throw; perfectly countered and re-thrown, "You and I could become good friends, Drekas."
Chapter 1 Ages Past
Tamilis sifted through the scrolls, almost like an old sage; examining every piece of evidence, and searching for answers. The storage room she was in had a cold feeling to it, an ambient blue to it, and her breath was an icy white in front of her face. The smell of crusty old tomes and rotting papers filled the room with a horrid stench, and her ears couldn't even catch the sign of life of mice. The timbers holding the roof up seemed ready to collapse, eaten by time and decay. She hated this part of her job. President of Unther, huh? Talk about false titles! She thought, as she lifted up an old portrait of her mother, Khelwana.
Khelwana was a beautiful woman, with high cheek bones, a firm chin and starlight twinkling in her blue eyes. A lean muscular figure showed a warrior, but one would never have guessed she'd been a blacksmith before her presidency. The problems of battle and hardship had left Khelwana's once full, wide lips cracked and dry. Her face was scarred, and ash was left on her right cheek in a blurry gray spot.
Tamilis smiled, absently, remembering the days of when her mother would tuck her in bed at night. The days where Tamilis would sit up late, asking her old crush, Eric, the guard captain, to fetch her things. He would do so, without question.
Oh, damn! Tamilis shook her head, and the smile faded. The council was waiting for her. There was that trouble in the farms to the south, the sudden abandonment of the Monastery of the Shining Wolf to the East, and the strange invaders from the Northern lands.
Tamilis tucked the portrait under arm, and turned toward the winding staircase. Eric was there, now an old man. Still very alive and eager, Eric was hunched over, with a gray goatee, and a round face. He had a smile on his face, as he led Tamilis back up the stairs to castle grounds.
Tamilis thought as she walked, the invaders could be more stragglers of the Arm of Revan. or could the Orc tribes be striking the towns again? They have that bad habit. Still, mother left that note. Tamilis lifted a piece of paper from the back of the portrait; her real objective down in the storage rooms.
She held it up, so that the light from Eric's torch lit the backside of the note, lighting up the words. She read it with care, aiming to catch lying undertones that gave away more information;
In the Year 217, here lie the sayings of President Khelwana Blackforge, and the Day of Judgment. Barbarian commander Yonan has fallen, his commanding amulet crushed by one of his hill giant troops. Without their leader, the army collapses, and the Arm of Revan are no longer.
Without the Amulet of Gigan, he held no control over his troops, and the army of the North was easily overwhelmed. In the defense of Terevas, many of our finest soldiers were slain. The siege weapons of Revan were nearly too much. But, we prevailed.
The ashes of Yonan's amulet were destroyed, thrown into the sea, never to be seen again. Yonan's body was given to his people for whatever punishment they wished their oppressive leader to take. My reign has just begun, and yet I can already feel the weight of the burden upon Unther and myself. Without me, this country would fall. I have saved Unther twice now, and I have no wish to do it a third time. The burden weighs heavily on my shoulders.
I plan to leave soon, on a trip to lessen the damage, and to reinstate order in our war-torn countries. I hope everything goes well.
This is a Notice from President Khelwana Blackforge, 217, April
She never returned from her trip. Suspects were found, but no real charges were pressed on any one. Tamilis hated her mother for that. Tamilis had gotten every piece of unwanted profession from Khelwana; Scribe, President, Blacksmith. The heir Dom of Unther. A ten-year presidential term, and life of writing, and hitting metals. What a life was laid out for her.
* * * *
Bryon Janura drank heavily from his pint of ale. The ranger found no comfort in the drink, yet felt soothed from his day's anguishes. An orc raider, a dead doe, and a burning village. What else must he save to make things right in his world? And why couldn't the world just leave him be?
He took another drink, draining the glass. The bottom of the iron mug appeared in his face, with little bits of froth still sticking to the sides of the glass. He set the mug down and called for another, with a few coppers waved in the air.
The inn was dimly lit, with a grayish brown floor, and walls. A Krenshar rug, gifted to the innkeeper, Aren, as a thank you, lay in the center of the room. The array of tables and chairs were set around it, as if the rug held some significance in life. Bryon thought the use of the monster's fur was horrible. Aren could at least clothe one of the townsfolk who wore ten year old rags from their birth.
Aren stepped over and handed the Bryon another mug of ale. Bryon gave Aren his empty mug and the cost of the new drink over. Bryon's hands were dry, even in the humid room. The arid stench of smoke and alcohol would probably never leave.
Bryon shifted on his stool, his left hand grazing an old scar on his belly. Creature damn near took my belly out.
His thoughts were interrupted with a shout and call for contest, "Hey, Ogre- hoar, let's see how tough you are in REAL battle, eh?" A little, balding man of maybe 30 was standing up on one of the chairs, waving his fists in the air like a fool. The man he was challenging was about 6 feet tall, and pure muscle; a half-orc. The half-orc wore armor of the North; a barbarian of Orcania, the Northern Lands. The challenger was obviously drunk, and the orc, by size alone, almost couldn't be drunk.
Bryon sighed, and stood up. One fight, meant a bar brawl. At least in the Singing Star Tavern it did.
The half-orc casually kicked the chair's feet from under the bald man. The challenger fell, and smashed one of the tables in half. Chaos ensued.
Bryon punched out an oncoming drunk man, and then elbowed a woman in the stomach. Punching and kicking, Bryon waded his way through the crowd. Suddenly, he felt a pang of pain in his head, and he fell flat on his back. Bryon stood up, and looked around for the chair thrower.
The dwarf who'd thrown it decided to hide the moment Bryon saw him, but the ranger had no intent on chasing down the dwarf. Bryon somehow found his way to the orc, and gently took him out of the riot, to a dark corner of the tavern.
"You're new around here, aren't you?" Bryon asked, as he began to drink from someone's abandoned ale.
The half-orc nodded, "I am a messenger from the North."
"Messenger?" Bryon nodded with approval, What in Hell's an Orcanian doing in Unther? "Who to?"
The half-orc shook his head, "I cannot disclose that information."
Bryon gave a look of respect, and expectance, "Regency?" Bryon asked.
The half-orc slowly nodded, after understanding that Bryon was inferring to his heritage, "I'm Drekas, the half-son of Regent Iren of Revan."
Bryon quickly raised a hand to clamp the half-orc's mouth shut on the last part, "Cut the Revan part, people here don't like that word."
The half-orc nodded understandingly, "I know why."
Another chair. Bryon flinched, seeing it coming out of the corner of his eye, but Drekas extended his arm forward, and caught it. The then, lobbed it back, with a flick of his wrist. Bryon stared at the direction of the throw; perfectly countered and re-thrown, "You and I could become good friends, Drekas."