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.

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.

The world is now good enough to write some actual tales. So, this is how I would like to proceed:

• Most of the content should be generated by writing posts: “Tales” of Otraxis. These should be in the form of short (even very short) stories about Otraxis, or Gönd if you prefer. I’m thinking along the style of fan fiction here.
• These stories will start to build a feel and flavour for the City that goes beyond what has been established on the main pages.
• Where a story includes snippets of history or additions to the main canon, either I or the poster will update the pages. Specifically, the Timeline page should be updated to include any major events that are described or mentioned in a story.

In the meantime, I will continue to build on the main pages and keep the site in order. I’ll comment on the Tales, and will probably write one or two of my own. I’d like, as much as possible, to leave the tales up to your collective creative freedom.

With so many authors, though, conflicts with the main canon will inevitably appear. I will decide whether or not something is “out of canon” and put up a comment to that effect against the post. That Tale itself should remain as is… and, if possible, will be explained away as “that’s how it’s heard in the taverns” where inconsistencies remain. If it can’t be so explained, then we just ignore the bit that doesn’t make sense. The place for authoritative canon will be the pages of the site: City of Otraxis, World Information and Timeline (not the Tales/posts themself or comments on the pages of the site).