CG human Commoner 2/Rogue 1

Eric likes to think he has everything under control.

He doesn’t.

Eric was born and raised in the farmlands outside Otraxis. When his father died suddenly with his hidden gambling debts unpaid, Eric’s poverty-stricken family was left in something of a bind–they didn’t have the money to pay the standover men who demanded recompense, and they couldn’t offer anything of value in barter or down-payment. Eric has, consequently, turned to a life of crime in order to pay off his father’s debts.

Snatching up a shortsword that is more heirloom than weapon of war, and creating his own armour out of heavy woolen blankets, Eric is every inch the bumbling buffoon. What he doesn’t realise is that the shortsword he treats so carelessly is–below the patina of rust–an intelligent magical weapon worth more than his family’s entire farmstead and all the land they work.

Eric owes the fact that he is still alive to the weapon–when Eric is faced with a foe he can’t beat or escape from, it unleashes its special ability to daze its opponents. That, and the fact that the weapon cannot kill unless a command word is spoken, has kept Eric out of any serious trouble so far.

Eric stalks the streets of Otraxis at night, waylaying  the rich and adding their coins to his own purse. He hasn’t been caught yet, but it’s only a matter of time, and when he is the men who are looking for money won’t be too happy to find that he’s been holding out on them with his family’s magical sword…

Eric’s Sword

+1 merciful keen shortsword, Int 12, Wis 10, Cha 12, Ego 6

Daze monster 3/day

Yuri Chernyaev

Andrew’s cleric (Sun: light/Protection)

My life was never difficult. I’ve tried to learn gratitude for it, but I can’t help resent it a little instead. Well alright, maybe a lot. It’s foolish, I know, but I just can’t shake that chip on my shoulder. You see, great heroes never have it easy. Astrid the Seer watched her parents die in The Creep. Yorick of Pent was raised from the dead and haunted by visions of hell forever after. Even Garpo the Wastelander fits the bill, being a goblin and all.

Not I; my parents were happy, we were well educated and I’m sure we had meat with every meal. I am kin to no twisted sibling (my sister Eva is a lovely girl). I don’t think I even had a single piece of itchy clothing, for Molkai’s sake. My brother Daniil was first in line for father’s business, so he learned the accounting, the politics and the heraldry. I, on the other hand, was ushered onto the path of a clergyman; dabbling with the usual ‘wealthy male child’ things on the way (you know -sword play, horse riding, hunting, archery and the like).

Of course, given the size of my father’s donation, I ascended to a comfortable administrative post, leaving the beggar-bathing and leper-tending to my brothers. It felt very wrong. All this time I’d told myself I would make a difference once I became a priest. No more lounging and eating grapes, no more house dogs with better diets than most people. I was going to make a difference. Yet there I found myself, waited on hand and foot by laymen while I made administrative entries in a gilded book and held meetings with other over-indulged low-level functionaries.

So I vacated my position and ventured outside the High City to become a mendicant, begging for a living and speaking of the Circle to all that would hear me. Sadly, the peasant-brothers refused to take me seriously. What sacrifice is poverty, they would say, when Yuri may go home for a meal when he gets hungry? Attend a hospice if he gets sick? Bend the Guards’ ear when someone does him wrong? I suppose in a way they were right, but my exclusion lead to disillusionment. Were these humble beggar-priests any less arrogant then their wealthy superiors? So I left them, convinced that there was no justice in wealth and power, or strength in poverty. It seemed to me that the high clergy made themselves soft, and the low clergy made themselves weak, both in a very deliberate way.

Of all the gods in the circle, it seemed to me that in the City of Otraxis we love Eurus least. Every man in trouble speaks his name for personal protection, but when does that same man heed his call to defend someone else? So I returned to the Great Temple and read. I ignored the dark looks from my brothers and the chastisement from my betters and re-learned the old ways. A hundred years ago, the clergy of Otraxis were just like those in the outside world; they would be called by a certain god and strive to exemplify that god’s virtue. Now we are all required to put equal weight on all segments of the Circle and I tell you, a priest can find an excuse for any kind of behaviour if he assembles his creed from whatever pieces of scripture he likes.

So carved my own symbol (a wooden Circle to represent the gods, but with a shield icon for Eurus placed at the top) and went out on my own. Now, I don’t know what I am. Though nominally I’m still a Clergyman, the Circle say I have lost my way by expounding the virtues of Eurus overmuch. The laymen ask me to conduct the standard rites, and I’m happy to, but they care nothing for my ideas and ask for no special protection. So I wander, supporting myself with odd jobs where I can and waiting for Eurus to guide me to where I am needed. The gods have not abandoned me, despite my penchant for ‘mild heresy’ and I take this as proof that I walk a legitimate path.

Orcs are the scourge of Otraxis. Even goblins, widely seen as brutish barbarians, despise orcs. They are able to survive on nothing more than rocks, lichen and dirt, although they prefer more nutritious fare, especially fresh meat. They breed prodigiously, often whelping litters of 12 or more. They produce almost nothing; orc craftsmanship is limited to badly tanned hides and weapons. Everything they need, they acquire through raiding, theft or the actions of slaves.

Orcs live in clans, often with names chosen to inspire fear in their enemies: Fleshtearers, Blooddrinkers, Worldeaters, Speartongues, Cleftskulls, and so on. Social standing is linked solely to how many orcs you can cow, through force of arms, magic or treachery. Only the strong survive; they have no patience or sympathy for weakness of any kind.

Orcs belive the gods are malevolent spirits, who hate the orcs (after all, everyone else does). After creating the orcs, the gods were so terrified of them they made the other (weaker) races to try to eradicate them, at which they have never succeeded. They therefore live their lives in spite of the gods, nihilistically destroying the handiwork of the gods to prove their own mastery. While orcs have clerics and other divine spellcasters, they see prayer as more a means of extortion than piety: orc clerics “steal” magic from the gods to power their spells.

 Although brutish, orcs are intelligent enough to realise that half-orcs often possess talents they themselves do not, like reduced sensitivity to light and increased magical abilities. They therefore rape their slaves in an attempt to breed spies, day guards and spellcasters. The half-orcs are treated appallingly until they can wrench some standing in the tribe, and then are treated according to the fear they inspire (i.e. as orcs). New half-orcs are often bred at the behest of the older generation of half-orcs. 

Current news:

High in the Palir Mountains, a great orc barbarian is welding the tribes into the greatest raiding party ever seen. They intend to sack the city of Otraxis. Buoyed by excitement, even the lowlander tribes are becoming rowdier: raiders have already attacked some of Otraxis’ satellite towns, raizing the town of Arenburg, kidnapping several villagers and stealing livestock and valuable goods.

The Creep hasn’t always been the (relatively) safe place it is today.

Because the Creep is officially outside the City of Otraxis, guild statutes prevent the City Watch from enforcing Otraxin law within the former Perellian Mining Complex. Moreover, scrying into the complex is impossible thanks to the legendary orb that Thane Arred reinstalled when the Creep was first founded.

Although the City Watch is all-but powerless to operate inside the Creep, the Duke’s standing army is not. The very same guild statutes that deny the City Watch jurisdiction  mean that those within the Creep are subject to common law rather than Otraxin law, and that gives the Duke the right of conquest over the tunnels, regardless of the convoluted legal entities set up by Arred to manage their ownership.

In practice, however, the subjugation of the denizens of the Creep has always been both politically and economically unviable, and the Duke is only rarely motivated–usually by the Miners’ Guild–to muster the banners in order to flush the Creep out.

This lack of law enforcement once made the Creep a particularly attractive place for those who sought to operate outside Otraxin law, from merchants of questionable character who merely wished to escape the city’s punishing duties on some imported goods, to hardened criminals who needed a place to lie low or a base from which to run their operations. It was typically a simple matter to find out ahead of time when the army was coming, and either hide or decamp temporarily.

The sequence of events that changed all that involved the entity that became known as the Shadow of the Creep.

Roughly fifteen years ago, Creepers started dying. There had always been accidents, and in the particularly lawless depths of the Creep murders were not entirely uncommon, but this was an entirely different order of magnitude. It started with the death of Martha Tabram, whose body was discovered with more than thirty stab wounds. Over the following days, more victims were found, and although the Shadow’s first victim was a woman, the killer was largely indiscriminate in the killings that followed, with victims ranging from a 75-year-old woman to a seven-year-old boy. As the days stretched into weeks, and the Shadow had still not been brought to justice, the killings became progressively more brutal. The killer began removing organs from victims, and mutilating the corpses–sometimes beyond hope of normal means of identification.

The Creep was in uproar. The Duke was considering sending the army in to clear the place out once and for all. The citizens of Otraxis proper were terrified that once the killer tired of the Creep, he or she (or it) would come after them next. In the Creep, neighbour accused neighbour and total anarchy was dangerously close; the entire community teetered on a knife edge.

Then, the killings simply stopped. Speculation since then has suggested that the killer simply moved on or tired of his ‘game’. Or perhaps he was finally killed by one of his or her victims who fought back.

Whatever the case, the Creep slowly settled back to some form of normality, and as a direct consequence of the killings, the Creepers formed their own volunteer law enforcement agency, albeit one that operates on a different set of laws to the city of Otraxis itself.

One thing remains on everyone’s minds, though, and that is the prospect that the Shadow may one day return to the Creep, and begin the killings anew.

Ixtli: An Overview

Alignment: LN
Capital: Hachtlan (98,000, est.)
Notable Settlements: Blackwater [trading port] (42,200), Greycliff [trading port] (63,800), Kultan (22,000, est.), Mango Bay [trading port] (31,200), Raza (14,000, est.), Yaxa (4,000, est.)
Ruler: Ayato, Golden Emperor of Ixtli and Steward of Mahasamatman
Government: Complex semi-theocratic timocracy
Languages: Ixtli, Common
Religion: The Eightfold Path, Lathenna, Emesh, Molkai

History

To most of the peoples of Gönd, Ixtli is an enigma. A little over four hundred years ago, Ixtli sent out a massive fleet. In the historical records that remain from that time, this event is known as The Diaspora.

Scholars, students, historians, explorers, scientists, diplomats and researchers—Ixtli sent out its best and brightest to every corner of the Known World to catalogue and report upon the myriad civilisations sharing the world. Over two decades, Ixtli’s greatest minds embedded themselves in the affairs of other principalities, with some of them rising to high station despite their origins in a largely unknown foreign land. Destiny Divided, the famous tragedy by the elven bard Merethrel, is based on the true story of two Ixtlian brothers who found themselves advising opposite sides in a great and bitter war.

How the Ixtlian delegations were received in Ellôria or the Dwarven Kingdom is not recorded in Leyira’s histories, but most historians who have bothered to study this curious period in the history of the Known World suspect that the Ixtlians received little in the way of co-operation from either the elves or dwarves.

Whilst the true purpose of the Diaspora was known only to the Ixtlians, nobody was left in any doubt as to when it was over. On the first day of spring in the year 22,692, every Ixtlian vanished from his or her lodgings. How the thousands of Ixtlians that had inveigled their way into human (and possibly elven and dwarven) society disappeared without a trace remains a mystery, although one popular theory has all of them displaced through use of a delayed wish spell. If that is indeed the case, the sheer volume of wealth and strength of organisation required to cast so many wish spells speaks volumes about Ixtli’s resources.

Whatever the peripatetic Ixtlians were looking for, it appears that either they didn’t find it, or that what they found wasn’t to their liking. The first Leyiran ship sent to Ixtli as an envoy after the disappearance was turned away. So was the next. And the one after that.

So began more than four centuries of isolation. Ixtli closed its doors to the Known World. Precisely why they did so may never come to light, but beyond a handful of trusted trader captains and wizard lords, not a single non-Ixtlian set foot on Ixtli’s shores for more than four hundred years, and each of them took whatever secrets they learned about Ixtli to the grave.

Whatever happened in Ixtli over the last four hundred years, upon his ascension to the throne, Emperor Ayato threw open Ixtli’s borders, and so for some six years Ixtli has traded with the other nations of the Known World once again.

Foreigners are still limited to one of three strictly controlled and quarantined trading ports spaced around Ixtli’s coastline, but the very fact that Ixtli has resumed trading has been cause for celebration amongst Leyira’s merchant families; whether they are true or not, stories are still told about Ixtli’s vast untapped mineral and natural wealth, and delegations from every major mercantile guild and family have set up a permanent presence in one or more of Ixtli’s trading ports.

In the beginning, several delegations attempted to covertly circumvent the regulations that prevented them from leaving the trading ports. All of them found themselves mysteriously back at their lodgings before having gone more than a few hundred feet from the town walls. Eventually, a delegation from the Ostermeyer mercantile family managed to plunge into the jungles in Ixtli’s interior. Two days later, their dismembered and mutilated remains were returned to Blackwater by and Ixtlian hunting party. Rumours abound as to precisely how the Ostermeyer delegation met their end, but whatever the truth, very few have been willing to risk their lives in exploration of the island’s interior ever since, and some delegations have left Ixtli entirely.

Religion

The majority of Leyirans find Ixtli a strange place. Whilst Ixtlians acknowledge the existence of and worship the gods as the Leyirans do, the vast majority are first and foremost adherents of a philosophy known as The Eightfold Path.

As far as most Leyiran philosophers understand it, The Eightfold Path is publicised as a means to achieve enlightenment, or freedom from suffering. The foundation of The Eightfold Path can be found in the Four Truths, which are inscribed on a plaque in every set of foreign lodgings in Blackwater, Mango Bay and Greycliff:

1. Life is Suffering.
2. The source of Suffering is Craving.
3. Enlightenment eliminates Craving.
4. Enlightenment is achieved via The Eightfold Path.

Further, the followers of the Eightfold Path believe that over the course of their lives they accumulate what they call patua. Every deed, regardless of how small, generates an amount of either positive or negative patua. At the end of their lives, the followers of the Eightfold Path believe that they are judged by their patua: a sufficient amount of positive patua in conjunction with the achievement of enlightenment is said to be enough to guarantee entry to Nirvana, a mystical outer plane where the souls of the enlightened faithful may spend the remainder of their days in contemplation of the mysteries of the multiverse. For those who fail to generate sufficient positive patua—or fail to reach enlightenment—their life’s journey is not over; they are said to be reincarnated in another form to make another attempt at following The Eightfold Path. The accumulation of enough negative patua is said to result in reincarnation in the form of an animal or beast, the better to contemplate the essence of the Four Truths.

The precise origin of The Eightfold Path is somewhat unclear, but over the last six years Leyiran anthropologists have collected stories of a legendary man named Mahasamatman, who is said to have lived in Ixtli some thousands of years ago. If even half the stories ascribed to Mahasamatman’s legend are true, then the vast majority of Gönd’s inhabitants would consider him a god. Not so the Ixtlians—they insist he was merely a man, albeit one who reached a state of living enlightenment few could hope to match.

Alongside The Eightfold Path, Ixtlians do venerate the gods as do the denizens of other nations. Whilst joint worship of the gods is practised in Ixtli just as it is in Leyira, most offerings are made to Lathenna and Emesh, with Molkai not too far behind.

Politics

From what visitors to the trading ports have been able to gather, in principle Emperor Ayato wields absolute power over Ixtli—his word is law in every aspect of the islanders’ lives. In practice, however, Ayato is advised by a select group of men and women who have demonstrated expertise in various fields. These chief ministers are able to exercise some power of their own, but Emperor Ayato may countermand their orders at any time—which, if it happens, is not good for those ministers’ careers.

The ins and outs of Ixtlian politics are incredibly complex, even to someone used to the intrigues of court in some of Leyira’s more convoluted and tortuous aristocracies. Essentially all of Ixtli’s public servants and senior public figures operate on the basis of genra, a concept that—loosely translated—means ‘honour’, ‘standing’, ‘relationships’, and a dozen other concepts besides. It is up to each individual member of the bureaucracy to understand his or her genra relative to the scores or hundreds of others he or she might come into contact with regularly, as there are different protocols required depending on the relative positions of the participants in a conversation or negotiation. Some Ixtlians even make a living tracking changes in genra. Their advice is highly sought after, but if they make an error and provide inappropriate advice to a client, their careers can easily be ruined overnight.

The Ixtlian Caste System

Ixtlians are born into one of six castes:

1. Ura: This is the lowest Ixtlian caste. Often seen as barely human, Ura Ixtlians typically perform the sorts of jobs that go against The Eightfold Path, but are seen as necessary for society to function. Examples of roles performed by the Ura caste include the slaughter of animals for food, executioners, and (perhaps interestingly), those who monitor genra. A life as a member of the Ura caste is seen by adherents of The Eightfold Path as an opportunity to show composure in the face of adversity, and thus improve the chances of being reborn into a higher caste during the next life.
2. P’alta: Ranked above the Ura but below every other caste, members of the P’alta caste form the bulk of Ixtli’s populace. They are public servants, labourers, supervisors and a hundred other roles.
3. Pirqachay: Ranked equally with the Wañuchiy and Bindiy castes, the Pirqachay are the philosophers, artists, playwrights, composers, architects and scholars of the Ixtlians. They are the creative members of society whose efforts are seen as integral to Ixtli’s continued cultural development.
4. Wañuchiy: The Wañuchiy caste is made up of Ixtli’s soldiers. A man or woman born into the Wañuchiy caste is expected to pursue a life in the military.
5. Bindiy: Members of the Bindiy caste are merchants, traders, or deal in money.
6. Kiswar: The highest caste, the Kiswar are Ixtli’s aristocracy. Lords and ladies whose authority is unquestioned, the Kiswar command (and get) the respect of every Ixtlian. It is not uncommon to see a wave of Ixtlians falling to their knees as a member of the Kiswar caste passes along a street. More than a few foreigners have found their dreams of a lucrative trading contract shattered when they failed to show due deference to a member of the Kiswar caste.

Along with these six castes, a further two groups of Ixtlians exist. The casteless are a collection of those Ixtlians who—for whatever reason—have made the decision not to hold to the tenets of the caste into which they were born. A member of the Wañuchiy caste who wishes to be a seamstress, or a member of the Ura caste who aspires to a role above his station—regardless of their origin or their reasons for abandoning their caste, the outcome is the same. The casteless are not recognised as citizens of Ixtli and many die without achieving their goals; in the eyes of the other castes, the casteless simply do not exist.

A select few of the casteless, however, prove themselves worthy of joining another caste, typically by doing something so spectacular it simply cannot be ignored. A goatherd who designs a beautiful building or an army sergeant who pens a stirring epic poem may both be permitted to join the Pirqachay caste, just as a poet who devises a cunning military strategy may be accepted into the Wañuchiy caste. Whilst changing castes is in itself unusual, it is especially rare for an Ixtlian to move to the P’alta caste; as the most numerous and least skilled of the castes, there are few opportunities for greatness, and as a consequence very few Ixtlians aspire to join the P’alta caste.

The second group of Ixtlians outside the caste system are those who have dedicated their entire lives to following and teaching The Eightfold Path. Similar in many ways to the organised clergy of other nations and religions, these learned men and women are venerated by other Ixtlians with almost the same reverence as that reserved for the Kiswar caste. Perhaps ironically, they are also the only Ixtlians who recognise the existence of the casteless, taking many of them under their wing and influencing a proportion of them to abandon their original goals in favour of joining the priesthood.

This priesthood—such that it is—is not a monolithic organisation. There are several Noble Orders of The Eightfold Path, each of them seeking a different path to enlightenment—whilst many Ixtlians following The Eightfold Path live an ascetic lifestyle, eschewing worldly pleasures and possessions in order to discover their true selves, some seek enlightenment through the attainment of physical perfection. It is these men and women who form what is probably Ixtli’s most well-known export—warrior-monks who appear to defy the laws of physics through the attainment of the perfect self.

These men and women perform incredible feats of martial and physical skill, all seemingly without the support of arcane or divine energies. In Leyira, these monks are seen as oddities to be marvelled at, although in some parts of Leyira temples dedicated to The Eightfold Path have opened up in the last six years, some run by genuine Ixtlians who have emigrated from their homeland, some run by Leyirans enamoured with the concept of The Eightfold Path, and some run by charlatans seeing a way to make some quick coin from the gullible public.

The Ixtlian Legal System

Ixtli’s legal system operates on the basis of a strict (if convoluted) penal code that sets out a statute of crimes and the recommended commensurate punishments. Ixtli practises both corporal and capital punishment, and whilst it is Ixtlian policy not to submit foreigners to capital punishment (they are expelled instead), no small number of foreigners have run afoul of Ixtli’s strict importation and decency laws, finding themselves on the wrong end of a flogging in a public square.

Capital punishment in Ixtli can be a somewhat confronting affair for most foreigners. Unlike in Leyira where a headsman’s axe or gallows makes quick work of the condemned, in Ixtli many of these criminals are seen as irreversibly tainted and incapable of following The Eightfold Path. In such instances, the goal of the execution is not simply to remove any chance of the offender reoffending, it is also to remove his or her soul from the great wheel and prevent him or her from ever reaching Nirvana.

To do so, the criminal is first branded with runes meant to prevent the soul from leaving the body. Then, they are bled dry and vivisected, their internal organs burned in a brazier. Lastly, the shell of their body is cast into a deep well, where it is believed that by returning their flesh to the soil that those who truly wish to redeem themselves will have one final chance of reincarnation. Some tales—usually whispered far from the ears of any in positions of authority—suggest that the great Mahasamatman was once dealt with in such a way, and that it was his myriad reincarnations in various forms over the following centuries that gave him the perspective required to reach true enlightenment.

Amidst all the dukes and duchesses of Otraxis, no reign was as brief or as tragic as that of Lady Mary Fitzroy, who was crowned 200 years before the present and whose reign lasted only nine days. Although she was never ranked higher than a Duchess (as befits the ruler of Otraxis), her sad ending passed into history and the hearts of peasants throughout the duchy, and she is remembered as the Nine Day Queen.

 Mary was a bookish child, the eldest of three daughters of William, Duke Orsay, a cousin of Duke Otto the Fat of Otraxis. When Otto reached his own celebrated end (described elsewhere in these histories), the crown passed to Otto II, called “the Posthumous”, because his lord father died during his young wife’s pregnancy. The child was born four months after the duke’s death, and Atreus, the Lord Chamberlain of Otto the Fat became regent.

 Orsay was a much more powerful town in those days than currently, and William saw an opportunity to expand his power further. His claim to the throne of Otraxis through Salic Law was weak but evidenced, and he felt that Salizar (who was more active in those days still) would, if not support his claim, would not oppose it. Of course, there were other ways to strengthen his claim.

 Orsay and his retinue travelled to Otraxis and claimed access to the ducal seat. Atreus, although regent, was weak, primarily due to a lack of support from the guild masters, but also due to his inability to take the throne under Salic law. One did not risk extending one’s power if one thought an angry dragon would protect its ancient promise to preserve the throne for the descendants of Hugh the Pious.

 In any event, Atreus dared not turn Orsay away, and this was his downfall. With what has become known as an “Orsay greeting” or “Orsay welcome” (although the latter is strictly speaking historically incorrect), William slew Atreus at their first meeting, and kidnapped the babe Otto, his lady mother Flora, and his wet nurse, whose name is not recorded. The party returned to Orsay before the Otraxis guards could respond.

 Exactly what happened to Lady Flora is unknown. For certain, she was not publically received in Orsay, and was never heard from again. Some say William slaughtered her as well on the way back to Orsay, and her ghost still haunts the moors south east of Otraxis, caught between trying to escape and trying to save her baby. Others say she escaped, and the house of Orsay is still sometimes bothered by those claiming descent from Lady Flora.

 Upon reaching Orsay, William immediately roused his daughters, and his house cleric. Before the gods, Mary and Otto were wed that very night. What the girl, who was 16 at the time, thought is also lost to history, although it is recorded that she at first refused to speak her wedding vows. Her father spoke to her privately, and upon re-emerging, Mary seemed cowed. Two servants were present at the ceremony to round the numbers out to the 8 required to represent the gods. Her younger sisters were wed to other lords in the area to cement support for the Orsay coup over the next week, and it is recorded that Jane, the youngest, wept throughout the ceremony.

 Orsay returned to Otraxis with the Duke and Duchess in tow, and claimed the seat as regent. Thousands of people turned out to watch the procession. No one cheered. No one waved. No one even moved. It was as if someone had placed 10,000 statues along the roads. One can only imagine how tense the scene had seemed to the new Duchess and the regent. Mary herself stood proudly at the head. Several contemporary records comment on how regal she seemed, despite her unhappiness and her inexperience. Her coronation speech was simple, and surprisingly brave for a young woman: “I am a most unwilling and unexpected ruler of this city, but if I am to be Duchess, then I shall act as one.” The role of her father was not commented on.

 Unfortunately for Mary, Peter, soon to be called “the Black,” another cousin of Otto, was mustering his forces. His claim was much stronger than Orsay’s, at least before the marriage of Mary and Otto, and Orsay’s murder of Atreus had increased Peter’s popularity with the people of Otraxis. When Peter’s army, 30,000 men strong rode on Otraxis, Orsay could only muster a force of 6,000 to face him.

 William fled towards Orsay. He hid in a forest for a week, but was betrayed by a servant, recaptured and executed for treason.

 The bewildered and abandoned Mary was led from the throne. “Come down from there, child,” Peter is recorded to have said. “That is no place for you.”

 “May I go home now?” she asked in return.

 Her question was greeted with a terrible silence. With great dignity, she removed the crown from her head. “Take this crown of shame,” she said. “It never did belong to me.”

 Mary was imprisoned for 15 months, awaiting her execution. Peter ruthlessly strengthened his grasp on Otraxis; anyone who spoke against him, or for Orsay, or even for Otto, was crushed. It became obvious Peter intended to rule in his own right. The baby Duke was said to have died of a chill some 6 months into Mary’s imprisonment.

 Like all royalty under sentence of death, Mary was allowed to address the crowd before her execution. She did not protest her innocence or berate her successor. Instead, she asked the crowd to join her in prayer.

 After she was blindfolded with lace, she asked the executioner to dispatch her quickly. She then reached down for the block. In her blindness however she stumbled and missed it, her hands groping empty air. For a moment her composure crumpled, and Duchess Mary of Otraxis was revealed to be a frightened girl, barely 16, lost, bewildered and terribly alone.

 “Where is it?” she cried. “What shall I do?”

 An elderly onlooker quickly mounted the platform and gently guided her hands to the block, before disappearing totally from the scene. Mary, who was never to know the identity of the man who had comforted her, then laid her head upon the block and said, “Molkai, into your hands I commend my spirit.”

 And so she died.

Arred sat sullenly on his table at the Rock and Gemstone. “Waitress,” he called quietly, but she ignored him. More likely, it seemed to Arred, she simply didn’t notice him. Arred wasn’t nondescript as such – he simply didn’t command much attention. Arred was short and weedy, and his hooked nose, bulging eyes and facial ticks made him look permanently suspicious. He was also more than a little dirty, and it was a poor person’s dirt – the uncleanliness resulting from no baths rather than excessive outdoor labour. Even his close shorn scalp showed visible signs of grime.

Eventually, a waitress paused for long enough to take Arred’s order: potato stew. It was all he could afford after paying for the night’s accommodation. If he couldn’t find work tomorrow, he would have to go back to Derston Vale empty handed.

Arred’s stew eventually arrived. It was almost cold. They must have left it just sitting there on the kithen bench while Arred himself sat there, hungry as a starved dog. “Waitess!” he yelled. Arred of Derston Vale had had enough. As he glared at the waitress, who was rolling her eyes and no doubt preparing some condescending reply, Arred noticed two figures entering the taproom.

The first figure was a man, clearly overweight and balding. He was dressed in fine blue robes with silver trim – he may as well have a Faerie Fire sigil on his forehead saying “Mage”. If Arred paid attention when he was read the city civics, he’d know the blue robe was a Guild robe, and the silver trim put this wizard as one of the seventh circle.

The second figure’s features were obscured beneath a perfectly crafted suit of plate armour. Arred didn’t need to see beneath the armour to know the wearer was an Elf. Lithe movements and slim build aside, Arred had met this Elf before – and his fat friend.

The fat wizard, Rax, gave Arred a friendly smile. Jarim, the Elf, on the other hand started with purpose toward him. Arred glanced ever so briefly at the Elf’s exquisitly crafted, cold-forged Elven longsword and then bolted. Arred sprinted through the kitchen, knocked over a pot of boiling hot potato stew to hinder his pursuers, wrenched open the exit and fell flat on his face.

“Trip wire,” explained a rugged voice next to him. Arred looked up slowly, fear gripping him. Staring down at him was the strangely neat bearded face of that ranger, Lorn. Arred could hear the footfalls of Rax and Jarim behind him as Lorn’s companions blocked his only avenue of escape.

“No cause for alarm,” said Lorn conversationally in response to Arred’s wide eyes, giving him a hand up, “We are, in fact, here to help you.” Arred’s eyes widened still further. “You could even wind up being a hero to your people…”

“Or a martyr,” snickered Rax, earning himself a sharp jab to his ribs from the Elf.

“Listen carefully, Arred,” continued Lorn, “We haven’t got long. Any minute now, Migel…”

“M… M… Migel?!” stammered Arred, starting to sweat visibly, “Migel Del C… C…”

“Yes,” interrupted Lorn, losing patience, “Migel Del Coza, Head of Operations for the Miners’ Guild. Very soon, he will be visiting his diviner friend at the Wizards’ Guild, Ezrendra…”

“Filthy whore,” snapped Rax.

“…and they will begin scrying on our every move.”

“But… what about the Sphere?” asked Arred, regaining his wits somewhat.

“Useless unless it’s on its pedestal,” explained Rax, throwing the artefact to Arred, who stared at it in utter confusion.

“We want to take you up on your offer,” said Lorn calmly, “You and your people can work the mine. We have the full deed.”

Arred was shocked. He had asked the adventurers only weeks ago to allow the people of Derston Vale to mine the mine before giving it to the Miners’ Guild. The trio had refused outright, threatening to have him arrested if he ever crossed their paths again. Arred had foolishly threatened them as he left – saying that, one day, he’d kill them while they slept. His backside still smarted from those bolts of energy Rax ad scorched him with. Now, something had made them change their mind. Arred was in no position to interrogate the three, however, and the thought of being caught by the Miners’ Guild was enough to secure his cooperation.

“What do I need to do?” Arred asked.

“Not much,” said Lorn slyly, “Just return that sphere to it’s resting place, gather your folk and whoever else is in need of food this Winter, and occupy our mine. It has tunnels connecting all the way to Otraxis, and plenty of room for any willing to live below the surface. Some of it is even furnished.”

“And…” Arred began cautiously, “What would you ask in return for all of this?”

“Oh, not much,” replied Lorn whimsically, “Just provide a cheap source of mining for the mines near Otraxis and severely eat into the Guild’s profits.”

Arred went white. Go against the Miners’ Guild? That was death… or worse.

As though reading Arred’s mind, Jarim piped in, “The Perellian Mining Complex is technically not a part of the City. You won’t be bound to obey the Guild Civics – but you will be near enough to competr with their labour force. Just think of it, plenty of work available, paying much more than a farmer’s wage… and no crop shortages to worry about. With no guild fees to pay, you’ll be able to make almost as much as another miner, but for half the price. What’s more, you’ll be unscryable, and under our protection.” At that, Rax shot Lorn an incredulous look. Lorn simply nodded, agreeing with Jarim – much to Rax’s chagrin.

Arred’s mind was a blur. He could live on a tenth of a guild miner’s wage. Farm life had not been kind to the folk of Derston Vale… or, for that matter, Thraan Valley, or Prenton, or Likor Village… all were desperate, facing starvation this winter. Arred could save them all. Then he’d be noticed. “I’ll do it,” said Arred resolutely.

“Whoopie,” grouched Rax.

“Good man,” Lorn complimented Arred, ignoring the wizard, before turning to Jarim, “Now, where would we be now if we had made straight for the Pig and Barrel?”

“Cray Street?” suggested Jarim.

“No, past the docks… Tala Road? Near Flavin’s Pie Shop?” asked Rax.

“Nowhere near there,” argued Jarim, “Stop thinking about your fat stomach for once.”

“Half way, then,” put in Lorn quickly, before another fight broke out, “Fir Street, near the mill.”

“Very well,” said Rax, “But we’re stopping at that pie shop, or you’re paying guild rates for this spell.”

With that, Rax snapped his fingers, and the three of them disappeared. Arred sat down aghast. Such power. These were good friends to have indeed. He paused in thought for a while – or bad enemies.

* * *

One month later, during the harshest Winter in an Age, the Creep was founded and Thane Arred of Derston Vale became a hero and leader to many.

50 years before present day

The three weary travellers stared at the path through the enormous stone gate that led up to the Guild Palace. Spruikers at the market could be heard clearly above the general cacophony of city sounds. The outlawing of voice augmentation glamours had been overturned last year when the Guilds managed to achieve a majority representation on the city council.

“Best green goods in town!” came a cry from a burly grocer. “Ressurect your friends for only five easy instalments of three thousand gold. Don’t lug the corpse, all we need is a finger!” shouted another salesman, no doubt a priest of Chemosh. “Find ultimate fulfilment at Tasha’s House of Plenty!” bellowed a seductive female voice, “Disease free for 10 years!” [how Tasha had convinced that Paladin to work for her was anybody’s guess]. If you needed it, Otraxis had it – and in several varieties.

The travellers climbed the path with renewed vigour. By Emesh it was good to be home. The trio rounded Silver Street on their way to the Miners’ Guild.

“So, 50 gold says this orb belonged to old Farnour’s mother,” cloyed Rax as he bounced an ornately inscribed and clearly ancient metal orb on his pudgy hand.

Jarim sneered – a difficult gesture for him, given his face was mostly obscured by his many-runed Elven helm. “Do you really think that a thousands year old relic belonged to the woman who spawned that fool Farnour?”

“Of course he doesn’t,” replied Lorn, clapping a friendly hand on Jarim’s plated back, “Rax is just baiting you.”

“And picking on Farnour’s age,” put in Rax quickly, “He must be nearly 80 years old!”

Jarim turned his nose up in disgust. “80 years is nothing. I have lived for over three times that number of years…”

“Yeah, but the first two hundred were spent toilet training,” sniggered Rax.

“Rax…” cautioned Lorn.

“Take that back, you fat oaf,” cried Jarim, “Before I skewer you!”

Rax’s hands crackled with arcane energy, “Just try it, you malnourished tree fucker!”

Jarim’s sword was nearly out of it’s scabbard when Lorn stepped between his two comrades, “That’s enough! We’re almost there and I will not have you pair duelling in sight of our benefactors. We stand to make a large and ongoing profit from this deal, and you will behave!” Lorn favoured the pair with one of his famous roguish grins, “At least until we get to the Pig and Barrel. You hear me?”

Both Rax and Jarim smiled and nodded. The Pig and Barrel was their favourite tavern. Where the Children of Emesh were concerned, it was everyone’s favourite tavern. The food was hearty but standard fare. The ale was average. The wine was decent, but overpriced. The spirits could rot your insides by their smell alone. The reason adventurers loved the Pig and Barrel was the exceedingly expensive and permanent mending spell that was cast long ago on the building and all the furniture. No matter what mad raucousness happened of a night, come dawn, everything was back as it should be. The tavern even had a priest of the fourth circle on staff to heal those in need – for a ridiculous fee that only a wounded, drunken and treasure-laden lout would even consider paying.

Thoughts of the night to come spurred the trio on, and cooled – if only temporarily – the tempers of the portly wizard and his Elven companion.

The Miners’ Guild hoved into view as they crossed Elm Avenue. Almost in defiance of its members’ working conditions, the Guild sported enormous vaunted ceilings, and towered many storeys into the sky. The frontage was lavish in the extreme. Bested only by the House of Plenty for sheer gaudiness, the Miners’ Guild sported ornate frescos, coated in golden paint and speckled with rare gemstones. Only a guild very secure in its power would dare have such valuables external to its headquarters.

“Wait outside,” ordered Lorn. Before the pair could protest, he added, “I want you to keep an eye on the Rock and Gemstone Resting House. Let me know if our good friend, Arred from Derston Vale, is still calling it his home in Otraxis. He’ll need to be taken into custody when all this is over.” With that, Lorn stepped inside.

Lorn was uncomfortable. As an outdoorsman, he far preferred his hunting leathers to the merchant’s garb he was currently sporting. His long, brown, matted hair was tied in a restrictive pony tail that flopped forlornly against his back. Lorn’s hands were free of their usual muddy grime, and smelled of perfumed soap – a most distasteful odour. The final discomfort was his beard. While Jarim could not convince him to shave, Lorn did concede to his first comb and trim in five years. He must have lost half his beard to that Elven butcher.

It wasn’t just Lorn’s clothing and grooming that was making him uncomfortable, though: the luxuriant interior of the Miners’ Guild was of a class in society completely alien to Lorn. For a man who would rather sleep on the hard ground beneath a starry sky, the sight of fine tapestries and silken cushions alone made him feel out of place.

“Lorn! So good to see you,” came a smooth voice from one of the overly large doorways. The voice belonged to a middle-aged gentleman, dressed almost like nobility. His red spidersilk shirt alone would have cost enough to feed a family from Lorn’s home town of Hornsridge for several years.

“Good to see you, too, Mr. Del Coza,” replied Lorn, struggling to keep the discomfort from his voice.

“Migel, please, my friend. You’ve more than earned the right to use my first name. Please, step into my office.” Migel gestured toward the door behind the one he’d just entered from.

Office? He must be kidding, thought Lorn as he entered, I’ve seen entire taverns that weren’t this large.

“Excellent work clearing out that old mining complex,” said Migel as soon as Lorn had taken a seat on an exquisite leather seat opposite his ostentatiously large teak desk, “A first rate job. Especially in killing that Beholder. Most remarkable.”

“How did you…?” began Lorn.

“Oh, easy, my boy,” Migel cut him off as a smug grin spread its way across his face, “Once you’d removed that pesky orb, we were able to scry on your progress. It was a most entertaining display as you worked your way through that horde. We should have charged for tickets.”

“Yes… well…” Lorn faltered. His prepared account of events was clearly going to prove unnecessary, “Well… then… erm… speaking of charging…”

“Of course, lad, your half of the mine,” said Migel, solemnly sliding some papers Lorn’s way, “Actually, more than half. Twice that, in fact.”

“A full share of the mine?!” balked Lorn, “But… but… why?” Lorn was totally taken aback. The deal was to remove the orb from its sconce in the heart of the old Perellian Mining Complex – and to clear out any creatures that had come to call it home since the death of Arthus Perellian – in return for half the land rights and a half share of the revenue.

“Why? Well, it’s the least we can do, my dear Lorn,” replied Migel, a sly smile replacing his friendly one, “Especially since the mine is worthless.”

“What?!!” screamed Lorn.

“Yes, I’m afraid,” said Migel, feigning sadness, “Old Mr. Perellian, it seems, was broke a well as dead. Either that, or the new inhabitants knew how to mine.”

Lorn was fuming, “Then why…?”

“Send you in the first place?” Migel cut in, “We needed confirmation that the mine was indeed empty. We couldn’t get that until you removed the orb from its holding place. Pesky little anti-scrying setup, that.”

“You cheating bastard!” yelled Lorn, throwing his chair backwards and waving the worthless deeds at Migel, “I want to speak to Farnour right now!”

“Now, now,” chided Migel, “There’s no need for that. Farnour fully supported this deal. You got what was agreed – twice what was agreed, in fact.”

“Twice nothing is still nothing!”

“Yes, well, that’s too bad, isn’t it? Feel free to mine it yourself. Just don’t forget to apply for a permit. You can pick up the forms on your way out.” Lorn wasn’t sure whether to cut his losses or run the man through. Almost as if on cue, two immensely muscled and well-armed security guards entered the room, and held the door open for Lorn to step out.

“You and Farnour have played us for fools, Migel. We will not take this lightly. The day will come when you both regret your folly. As my name is Lorn Arneth, you will suffer, Migel, as we have suffered, one hundred times over.”

Migel’s face darkened, “That’s Mr Del Coza, to you. Now get out.”

Alun trudged along the mountain path along with the other score or so workers from Barstow’s illegal mine. It was a good two hours back to Otraxis, and with the snows coming early this year he was keen to get back to the relative safety—not to mention warmth—of the Creep. Ahead of him, Quentin cursed and stumbled as his too-often-repaired sandals came apart. Alun bent to help the old man, his younger fingers better suited at coaxing the leather into a temporary knot.

Quentin smiled his gap-toothed smile as Alun knelt down. “Thank you, young’un. Fingers ain’t what they used to be,” he said.

“It’s all right Quentin. Most of us would be dead without you. Helping you out with your sandals is hardly a decent repayment.”

“You’d be surprised, Alun my boy, you’d be surprised…”

His task completed, Alun straightened up again and turned to resume the descent. “We really need to find you some new shoes,” he said, negotiating his way carefully down a narrow rubble-strewn defile.

“And by ‘find’ I suppose you mean ‘steal’?” asked Quentin, putting his hand out for assistance with the last few steps across the treacherous shale.

“Not necessarily,” Alun lied, his cheeks already flushing. He turned away from Quentin so the old man wouldn’t see—which was when he saw the girl. She was just behind them, at the top of the defile they’d just passed through, and obviously uncertain about where to put her feet.

“Hey,” Alun called up to her. “You need help?”

Quentin turned to see who Alun was talking to.

“No thank you,” the girl replied. “I’ll be fine on my own.”

“Suit yourself,” shrugged Alun. “We’ll stay here though, in case it takes you a while and you get lost.”

The girl simply glared before she started down herself.

Alun turned to Quentin. “Hey,” he said quietly, “have you ever seen her before?”

Quentin squinted back upslope, one hand absently combing his scraggly beard. “Nope,” he replied. “Not that I remember, anyway.”

Alun turned back to watch the girl making her way carefully down. She was wearing clothes that had seen better days, but that had obviously once been good quality—nothing like the third-generation rags that he wore. Twice he cringed as it looked certain that she’d tumble down the rocks and he’d have to look after her—all the way back to the city—but she eventually made it without incident, and came across to stand before Alun with her hands on her hips.

“See?” she said. “I don’t need your help.”

She pushed past Alun and began heading further down the mountain. Alun turned back to Quentin with his eyebrows raised, but Quentin just grinned his infuriating grin and started down after her.

“Come on,” Quentin called. “You know how Bethany gets if we’re late for dinner.”

Alun sighed and began following them both back toward the Creep.