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.

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.”

After his exploits, Hugh Kade became his father’s heir. All agreed, except perhaps his brothers, that it was fair that the youth who had saved the Duchy should one day rule it.

The youth himself only expressed hope that that day would be far off.

The elder brother, who had fled to the south and never returned, began to spread lies about his brother into the ear of Alarak the Cruel. He told the king that Hugh had made an evil bargain with the dragon, that he was poisoning his father, that he had designs on the Leyiran throne. At first, the king paid no mind to these slanders.

In good time, the old Duke was taken by Emesh and Hugh became the new duke of Otraxis. His rule was wise and fair, and under his guiding hand, the city flourished. The dwarves were thankful he had defeated Salizarr, and showered him with gifts and offers of trade. The moutain orcs were scattered, first by the dragon, then by the dragon’s disappearance, so an uncommon peace fell upon the duchy.

Alarak’s cold eyes saw the Jewel of the North begin to shine, and his cold heart became filled with desire for it. First, he raised the tithes the duchy paid him, then raised them again. He began to tax the merchants who traded with the city harshly. Finally, falling back on the old lies of Hugh’s brother, he declared that Hugh was guilty of treason and patricide, abhorred by the gods, and raised his banners against him.

Hugh himself was horrified at both the slanders and the foul acts of the king. At first, he intended to journey south to plead his case, but his advisors counselled against it: the king would simply seize him, and demand a ransom from the city for his return, if he let Hugh return at all. Alarak may have been king, but he had turned his back on Eurus’ justice. They pointed out the king’s many cruelties.

Finally, Hugh held vigil in the temple for a day and a night. When he emerged the next day, he said that Molkai had granted him a vision: Alarak no longer deserved to be king.

The people of Otraxis rallied to their young duke. The dwarves rallied with them to repay their debt. The army marched south, dwarfed by Alarak’s army, but carrying the will of the gods with them.

Hugh  led his small army in a long game of cat and mouse, striking Alarak here, ambushing him there, scoring victory after victory but forced to always retreat before the king’s superior forces without fully engaging in battle. People began to whisper that Hugh no longer beleived the gods were with him, that Enlil would win the day for them if only Hugh would turn and fight, but Hugh never did.

Finally, having retreated back to the very fields before Otraxis, having won every skirmish but now, finally, in danger of losing the war, Hugh turned and faced the king. Before his city, the armies clashed, Hugh’s tiny force swallowed almost completely by Alarak’s army. The brave soldiers faced wave after wave of attacks, but all knew that Hugh’s Rebellion, the War of Shrinking Swords (as Alarak’s men sneeringly called it), had finally come to an end.

At the very blackest hour of the battle, a great roar like rolling thunder was heard. Stormheads sprang from nowhere. Lightning pounded the ground. All men but Hugh cowered before what seemed the very wrath of Branchala.

Salizarr appeared from the heart of the storm. Every breath brought death to waves of Alarak’s men. Every blow unhorsed a knight or destroyed a war engine. Every roar struck terror into the hearts of the king’s men. Unable to face the dragon or its storm, the army broke, and fled.

Salizarr snatched Hugh up in one clawed hand, and Alarak in the other. Faster than the fastest birds, the old dragon flew south to the King’s palace. Alarak screamed and begged and pleaded. Hugh was silent, knowing his life was in the hands of the gods.

Salizarr crashed through the dome of the palace, into the throne room. With booming voice, the dragon said, “This man has waged war upon a man to whom I owe a debt of honour. This is his punishment!” Alarak screamed once, then Salizarr swallow him whole.

“This man shall now by king!” thundered Salizarr. “And as long and he rules, and his sons rule, and his sons’ sons rule, they shall have my protection!”

And that is how the Severan dynasty ended, and the Kadian dynasty, our own, began, with the wise rule of King Hugh the Pious, the first of his name. It is how the Kadian family came to take the blue dragon and gold chain for their arms. It is how the Salic Law–that a Kadian should rule–was spoken. It is why the Kadian Kings send a gift to the mountains on their coronations, and it is why that is a gift, not a tribute. And it is how Salizarr first revealed how seriously he took his oath to Hugh, six hundred years ago.

Approximately 600 years ago, in the twilight of the Severan dynasty, during the reign of King Alarak the Cruel, a great blue wyrm settled in the barren Palir Mountains above what was then the fledgeling town of Otraxis. The dragon was already old beyond measure; longer than a river galley, with a head the size of an aurochs and scales the colour of the deepest oceans.

The people of Otraxis were terrified and fled. The Dwarves closed the gateways to their mountain homes and cut off all trade. All living things waited to see what cruelty the great dragon would perform.

Its first target was the Dwarven mines. With claws of adamantium and a breath of lightning, the dragon began to dig deep into the mountain rock, hunting out the precious stones and metals the dwarves had hoarded. Many lives were lost; many mines and sacred crypts were looted and destroyed, the treasures lifted back to the dragon’s lair on leathery wings.

In desperation, the Dwarves begged the dragon for mercy. It agreed to spare their lives and homes in return for crippling annual tribute. The Dwarves paid, and gave the dragon the name “Salizarr”, which means “The Burrowing Death” in their language.

The mountain orcs were unable to resist the Dwarven tribute caravans, and raided them–the Dwarves perhaps less ardent defenders than they would have been under other circumstances. Enraged, Salizarr tracked the orcs back to their lairs, took back his treasure, and breathed death into the orc lairs. He killed their leaders, laughed off the hexes of their witches, and broke the spirits of the tribes. They, too, agreed to serve Salizarr.

Salizarr turned his greedy eye southwards, towards Otraxis. At this time, the Duke of Otraxis had three sons, the youngest of which was Hugh Kade. In desperation, the Duke sent his eldest son south, to the rulers of the Kingdom, to beg for help. He sent his second son west, to seek aid from the magic users of the broken lands. He sent his youngest son east, to the lands of the elves.

Hugh was a pious boy, and every night prayed to the gods to save his home and the good people of Otraxis. He did so one night on the very borders of the elf lands, and fell into a deep slumber. He dreamed of a beautiful woman in white, who gave him eight strands of her hair.

When he awoke, a beautiful golden chain was laid across his chest.

Hugh rode back to Otraxis as quickly as his horse could bear him. He gathered what paltry tribute remained to the people of Otraxis in an ox cart and drove it into the mountains in search of Salizarr.

Salizarr of course found the boy and his cart soon enough. The dragon took the gold and was about to leave when Hugh told him that the ox was tribute from Otraxis as well. Pleased with the fine looking animal and its golden harness, Salizarr devoured the ox in a single gulp.

As soon as it touch his tongue, the ox’s gold harness unravelled into the golden chain, and wrapped itself around Salizarr’s mouth, then head, then neck, then body. Tighter and tighter flexed the chains, until the dragon was trussed like a goose and whimpering in pain. He tried to breath lightning. The chain ignored it. He tried to break free. The chain would not break. Finally, he begged for help from the boy.

“Torment the young races of this area no more,” said Hugh. “Know that I could slay thee now, for I have thee at my mercy. I choose not to, for truly you are creature of surpassing nobility and power, and I would not strike such a splendid child of the gods. Give me your word of honour to trouble us no more, and we shall part as friends.”

Touched by the youth’s nobility, piety and of course flattery, Salizarr gave his word and the chain melted away. True to his word, he returned to his lair, and bothered the younger races no more. Hugh returned to his father’s castle and was hailed as a hero.