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Defending Turmish, Three Against Ironfang Keep Articles / Stories Date: Dec 18, 2008 - 09:33 AM |
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The Hin Realmwalker Ganelon the Scarred tells something of his grim past and what lead to him and two other mighty adventurers to a show down with the vicious Black Beast of Ironfang Keep.... "My name is Ganelon the Scarred, ‘the Scarred’ being an epithet I’ve borne since it first set me apart from my people, the Hin of Lurien. Most folk call my people Halflings, but in Lurien, we are the people and we don’t much hold with being called half of anything. If you catch a bit of pride, yes that’s there, but also distance. "I haven’t belonged there since the first time I died, at the hands of a dark elven sadist, tortured because I discovered his existence in our town, his activities. Perhaps in my line of work, as a middling skilled tailor, I was too kind hearted and naïve but I’d actually been trying to be helpful to my tormentor, delivering a cloak and gloves he’d wanted made to protect his skin from the rays of the sun. He had used arcane powers to bend our perceptions, that we might see him as an albino, rather than as an dark elf. I made the simple mistake of letting myself into his shop, to deliver the goods ahead of schedule, figuring I might get a nice tip for my diligence. The nightmare I went through ended when he finally let me die, strung up by my neck from the rafters in his cellar. His only concern was his secrecy and I told him early on that no one else knew, I had no intention of revealing him… but then I would have said anything to make him stop, but he never believed me. Well, that’s often the way of those who live by the ways of deceit, they never know the truth when they hear it. Some have asked me what I saw as I was dead. I saw nothing. I heard nothing. But there was something there and I was at peace, my torments long over and only a few wisps left of care for things in the world, more regrets than anything of substance. My pony Katrina, I’d miss. My family, I think I remembered them there, where ever it was. I was not alone. Perhaps I was resting in the embrace of Yondalla, a goddess many of the Hin still revere. But I was pulled back from that tranquility, rudely – horridly, into the world of the living. I have been told that those who have been killed cannot be revived if their souls do not wish to come back to the world, that much seems untrue to me. Perhaps my regrets were enough that I was uncertain and whatever brought me back coaxed me into returning. Or maybe I was willing, not knowing what I would face when I came back, only now feeling that it was the wrong choice. When I was brought back, I was questioned by the authorities, questioned by the Priest who had worked the resurrection upon me and questioned by the Sherriff of our County. I revealed who had tortured and killed me, but he had already caught wind of their intention to raise me and escaped, fleeing town and leaving Lurien behind. No justice was served, but having been dead and buried, my family, my own brothers and sisters, my whole clan looked upon me as an unclean thing, a revenant soul back from the grave. No kindness or warm hearth, only fear and loathing for the walking dead, for in their eyes, I was. You can see, if there’s one thing I know about first hand, it is death. The trauma of my death was severe enough to leave lasting marks on my body as well. Limbs stiff, muscles long unused, even restored and revived by divine magic, I was not the same Hin I once had been. A deep gravelly voice, fit for one of the big folk, horrid ridges of scar tissue around my neck, bearing the imprint of knotted hempen cord, those were the trophies I walked away with from my ordeal. I tell you this here and now as a cautionary tale, an example how even in your life, safe in a city or a town, the forces of darkness and misfortune can reach out and touch you, through no fault of your own. You may pray to your gods, or believe in your Militia, or your constables, but still you may have your entire existence laid waste, by forces beyond your control. As you can see from my tale, there are worse things than death. Be thankful for those who protect you, from the dark things that lurk just outside your understanding. Even now, in this time when you see so few of those adventurers and men-at-arms who would venture against Orc Invasions in Gulthmere, or the undead menace in the Saerinyl Valley, there are brave souls out there saving the lives of you and your whole nation. Brave souls who know what it means to lose all, yet would do so anyways, so that you do not have to face the horrors or bear the scars they carry. Ironfang Keep, high in the Orasaun Mountains, is north and east of the Shining Plains of Ormath, north and west of Alaghon and southeast of the land of Gulthmere. It is featured in many a foreboding bard’s tale, a high mountain fastness occupied once by dwarves and at other times by dark wizards, rumored to be driven mad by study of forbidden magics. Ironfang is also home to the greatest threat to life and limb that I know of in the Turmish Lands today. I speak of a single creature, so deadly as to lay waste to an entire army and walk away unscathed. A creature so rare that it is a legend even amongst legendary adventurers and questers of the highest degree. It is known only as the Black Beast, and it is kept locked away by the mad wizards of Ironfang Keep. I know not if it is their creation, or their curse, but it is rumored to be immortal. I know only that I was there when we managed to slay it, after a desperate fight to destroy what had been unleashed. If it can revive itself, I only hope that the surviving wizards of Ironfang managed to cage it again, because if it was free to roam it could easily find its way to a metropolis such as Alaghon, Westgate or Karunth,leaving a wasteland of empty buildings and rotting corpses. Afore you take that statement to be an exaggeration, the prattling of an easily impressed Halfling simpleton, you should take into account that many renowned adventurers, warriors, assassins, sorcerers and priests known for deeds far and wide, famed for their triumphs and invincibility, have entered Ironfang Keep and never been heard of again. Even if you believe the whispered rumors that some of those who boasted the most, slunk away in disgrace when they found themselves unable to live up to their boasts, one must give credence to the fact that it stands as the last known destination for many of them. Grimward of the long disappeared Emerald Isles similarly served as such a grave marker. That in mind, there are those who still go there, testing themselves against its reclusive and hostile inhabitants. Daisy Rocbraqour and Fey Olaven are two such individuals, whose deeds you may have heard of over the years. Daisy is known on the Plains of Ormath as a dwarven craftswoman, able to forge works of stunning potency and effectiveness. Secretly I suspect that the craftsmasters of the Underguild cry in their sleep, futilely regretting they were not lucky enough to be apprenticed to her. But no mere crafter is Daisy, she is a warrior most puissant, able to stand toe to toe with the fiercest foes and trade them blow for blow. Her axe bears within it the caged rage of a dragons soul, biting deeper than Starfire’s Teeth and able to blast a foe’s armor off their very body with waves of concussive force that render her opponents defenseless, their armor straps broken, breastplates hanging in disarray, greaves, vambraces and pauldrons scattered to the ground and hanging by torn shreds. Now, I should let you the reader know, I do not have more than a passing acquaintance with Fey Olaven. I have only impressions to share with you of her and she has always played things close to her chest as it were, around me. Perhaps my reputation is to blame. Regardless, I have to say, she is of sterling character. ‘What does that mean?’, you may ask. I mean, she is one of those who leads by example and is willing to sacrifice her life for those in need. Quite possibly, she is the reason you are not carrion, lying dead in the streets, rather than reading this. Like Sally Swordswinger, she’s never sought renown or recompense for her deeds. Maybe that’s simply because adventuring is so lucrative that she has no need, but then again, were she greedy she would always request more. She has not. What she has done, is impressed me. I am not easy to impress. Fey is tall, at least by my reckoning, moving with a grace one normally finds only in dark elves and professional assassins, of which she is neither. Still, I believe she is familiar with the underworld, no stranger to the arts of stealth, secrecy and deceit, most likely trained as a scout. As a warrior, her light armor and skirmisher tactics seemed to favor hit and run tactics, a drawback in the confined corridors of the Fang. Still, in many respects, she did better than I against the foes she faced in Ironfang Keep. Fey Olaven was Daisy’s companion on an expedition into the Fang, as Ironfang Keep is often called. I can only guess they entered to test the limits of their skill and cunning, against the mad wizards that some call the Shadow Adepts. No easy journey did they make, it is a long ways to reach the Mercenary Camp that is funded by the joint treasuries of Alaghon, Ormath and Karunth. That Mercenary camp seems responsible for keeping the worst of the tribes of the Alaeorum region of the Orasaun Mountains in check. On the front lines of a constant warzone, the mercenaries there are obscenely well paid , though to survive they must be the best of the best. Prices for equipment there also are obscene, often equating to the value of a Nobles Estate for a piece of top notch, enchanted gear. They must have had a tough fight, dealing with the Gnoll legions and Bugbear skirmishers, but such is to be expected in a land harsh as the Alaeorum. Arriving at the Keep, they battled their way in, down bizarre winding corridors, often turning in on themselves in strange tesseracts and maze like bends. Having been to Ironfang before, I happen to know that the Shadow Adepts do not walk these corridors but instead live in extra dimensional laboratories or worse, only appearing through their access portals to repel intruders, ambushing from nowhere at every turn. I do not know how many Daisy and Fey fought before they overwhelmed Daisy, but eventually she was killed in the fray. Fey, ever resourceful, fell back and waited for Daisy’s Memnethian Gem to revive her to the world of the living, or failing that, to sneak in and resurrect her friend with a resurrection rod. It was about this time I became aware of their plight. What could I do for them, however? What indeed. |
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This article comes from The Lands of Turmish http://www.iqto.com/turmish/html/ The URL for this story is: http://www.iqto.com/turmish/html/modules.php?op=modload&name=News&file=article&sid=273 |