They say we are in an era of peace.
Though the years have certainly not been tranquil, there has been a relative lull in hostilities across the known world in recent years. The orcs of the Golden Horde and their innumerable vassals, while a looming threat over the so-called civilized nations it borders, have deigned fit not to shatter the walls of their neighbors. Trade has flourished all across the western world, the two halves of the continent connected by trade along the Golden Road, the river route that courses through the center of the Golden Horde's vast territory. Exotic product flows out into the seas and out east, reaching the most distant of nations as such trade empires as the Kingdom of Zhodul and the Republic of Vuts work their mercantile magic.
The people from the apple lands send out their emissaries as ever, peaceably learning of the outside world. The Thangoradrim and the Clans of the Kashar rejoice in their good relations with one another, finding common ground upon which to stand. Even the Order of Anvill and the Crown of Virith, truly bitter enemies, have made peace with one another. The optimistic suggest that the world is in a golden age, and there is hope that peace will last.
But this could not be farther from the truth. Many nations prepare for inevitable war. The leaders in the Isles of Drejur fortify themselves, fearing that raiders or perhaps even invaders will strike them yet again. The City-States of Brescia are embroiled in a bitter civil war, the rulers of those avian people vying to fill a power vacuum caused by their war with Anvill. That the Golden Horde grows hungry for even more land is doubtless, and some wager that the tribes of the Blacklands feel the same thirst for battle. The beastmasters of Fenea command vast numbers of terrible creatures of war, and if they leave their isle it will be to find peoples to enslave. It is possible, too, that the Bailish may look to conquer once again, as they have in the past. And there is no doubt in any sane soul's mind that the Order of Anvill must inevitably clash with their neighbors once again, either directly or through their agents in foreign lands.
Strange forces are at work as well, magical ones. The mists surrounding the isles of Myrstrost have given way, revealing an ancient and enchanted realm in which the dead walk amongst the living. The dragons of Ardonia, long having abandoned the Kings of that land, have returned to serve as protectors once more. And might the distant Thabossians, the strange peoples who call the far south-eastern isles home, have some cause to bring their mystical powers to bear?
Magic, however, will not remain uncontested. A new power has entered the arena: that of black powder. The musketeer, the arquebusier, the grenadier and cannoneer: these are a new breed of soldier, wielders of new era weapons that possess a deadliness like none ordinary folk have wielded before. Will these weapons that belch smoke make extinct the powers of the past? Will the vaunted traditions of magic be squashed by the coming tide of fire and steel?
There is but one certainty: there shall soon be peace no more.
"...and as he were keeper of the earth," spoke the Draoi, the old woman sprinkling some dirt over the body. "So now will the earth keep him. Old Father Oak and the Honest Stone will see his rest be restful. They'll see his soul return to the soil, where it were born in the times o' yore."
Brendan stared at his father. There he lay, the old Sheriff, wearing the clothes he always wore on holy days: a white shirt, a green vest, and his brown pants that always seemed to make his gut seem an inch wider. He had a smile on his face - the same smile he'd worn when his broken heart finally stopped fighting. Brendan remembered the words of his father so clearly:
"Keep them safe," he'd told his son with that sad smile. "Keep them all safe. They need you."
But I still need you, thought the young halfling as he stood there, leaning on his walking stick. He still could not believe that his father was gone. He still wasn't sure how he'd cope.
Brendan had cried enough to salt a field already. The whole of the Heartvale had mourned with him. But standing before his father once more, surrounded only by family, friends, and the highest officials of the province, he found himself unable to cry. His tears were gone. So why did he still feel so hollow?
"Master Brendan," came a gentle voice. Brendan looked up and saw the robed halfling matron offering him a soft and encouraging smile. "Would you care to say a few words?"
The young man took a deep breath. He stepped closer to the stone upon which his father lay. The High Sheriff held a sheaf of wheat in one hand, as befit the harvest season. Bringing the Good Grain with him into the earth would please the spirits, so it was said in the Old Faith. In his other hand was a short staff carved with a number of runes: a record of his deeds and a wish for him to be restful and remembered.
Brendan turned away from his father and looked at the gathered company. His sister was there, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. His uncle was there, too, and so were his twin friends, Candor and Keane. There were two dozen others, some of whom he did not recognize. Toward the back were six knights of Ardonia, each of them reverent in their stance, quiet and respectful. A great many folk had known Keegan Brandywell. The High Sheriff had been well loved for his generosity and wisdom.
Words trickled out from Brendan at first, but slowly his words became more clearer and more confident. His father was a good man, he said. He had always cared for his family; he had ever been a beacon of hope to the people of the Vale and took great joy in watching the fields grow. His father loved the land dearly, stayed true to the Old Faith, and had always told Brendan that good friends were worth more than all the gold in the world. He had loved Ardonia, and had ever made good on his promise to be the caretaker of the land.
"And now," Brendan said as he set a flower upon his father's chest, "the earth will take her child back into her arms."
Brendan didn't know what else to say for a long moment. He stood there in silence, his father's corpse seeming so peaceful with his eyes closed. Finally, he placed his hand upon those of his old man and patted the fellow gently.
"Goodbye, father," he whispered down to the High Sheriff.
They spent the rest of the morning burying the old halfling. They spent the evening feasting and toasting his memory.
"You could run to be a Sheriff, you know," suggested his sister for the upteenth time. "Father would have liked that."
In answer, Brendan shot his sister a glare for the upteenth time. "I already told you," he said squarely, "I'm going to join the New Army."
"Oh, and you'll be wearing yourself a fancy suit like all the other soldiers?" Kathleen turned away from the bubbling pot and shook her ladle at Brendan. "You know, that's just like you; going off to get yourself kill't before second breakfast's even been had! I swear, you haven't changed a bit in twelve years."
Brendan groaned and ran his hand through his curly red hair, then stood up from the dining table and waved his hand about the room. "Why do you always do this whenever we talk?" he demanded. "We can't even have porridge without you butting in with your 'Oh, you shouldn't do this' and your 'Oh, you should do that!'"
"I'm just suggesting that you mightn't want to get yourself kill't, you hairy toad!" Kathleen rapped the ladle loudly upon the table, then pointed it at him again. "And don't try to huff and puff your way out of this one. I'm still your older sister, even if you'd rather t'weren't the case."
Brendan grumbled, then slowly slid back down into his seat. He took a deep breath. "I don't care for politics," he explained, smacking one hand into the air. "I can't stand those long meetings, and I'd like to see the world, anyway! Cor, Kathy: I'm bored stiff of the Vale! I want to travel; I want to see places!"
"Cousin Gammel got bored stiff of the Vale, too," remarked his sister with a derisive snort. She whipped long, red braided hair back, returning to her spot by the fireplace. She stirred in silence, then asked quite sharply, "You remember what happened to him, don't you?"
"Yes," groaned Brendan. "Vividly."
"Drowned at sea, he did. That's what happens when you get wanderlust."
"Yes, but Gammel was a dunce, Kathleen."
"And you're not?" Kathleen turned and gave Brendan an angry look.
The two of them were silent for a time. Kathleen finished cooking the porridge. They sat down at opposite sides of the table and ate, still silent. It was Brendan who finally broke it.
"Please, Kathleen," he began, setting his spoon down and looking over at his sister with a sincere expression. "Please understand - I'm going to do this. I'm going to join the New Army and become a Manticore. The decision's made. I just don't want you to... I want you to respect that, and I want to know I can still visit. You're still my sister."
The silence fell again. Kathleen set her spoon down, cleared her throat, and looked Brendan in the eyes.
"Alright," she said.
"How long 'til we reach Lowbank, Mr. Burlock?" called out the rotund halfling to the fellow at the wheel.
"Well, we're bobbing at about five knots," answered the halfling by the wheel, pausing to take a drink from his flask of brandy. "Could reach six knots should the wind get fairer. Given the num-"
"Time, Burlock, time!" pleaded the fatter halfling.
"We'll be there by morning," answered Mr. Burlock with a huff, muttering something under his breath.
Whatever it was wouldn't get in the way of Marl Moorfallow's good cheer. "Excellent work!" he called over to the navigator. "Steady with that wheel, and don't drink all the brandy! God knows we've got to make it last 'til the morrow, boy!"
Of course, Marl knew it wouldn't help to say that. Brandy and beer had a habit of sprouting legs and walking away aboard the Sweet Sheilah. Such was the nature of the business.
The afternoon turned to evening, and Marl spent it well, double checking the wares he brought with him from Vuts. Furs, acorn bread, some clockwork wares and some gunpowder as well: it was all worth a fair price back in Ardonia. He could sell the acorn bread and some of the furs in Lowbank, where the farmers would make good use of those wars, then pick up some vegetables and beer to sell with the rest of his goods in the capital of Dragongarde. Then, Marl surmised, he could spend the remaining months of fall and the whole of winter relaxing in his warm home in the hilly town of Barrows, there to scald his toes near the fire and tell stories about his travels to his grandchildren. One couldn't ask for a better way to spend the winter.
And all the goods were in order, though it seemed the crew had "borrowed" some of the acorn bread. Ah, well. That couldn't be helped.
Marl took to bed, retreating to the captain's quarters. Truth be told, he didn't know altogether much about sailing, though he knew a considerable lot about business. But he had good sailors working for him, halfling and human alike, and Moorfallow's ventures grew more and more profitable by the year as he got a better understanding of foreign markets. He wondered if, perhaps, he might try dealing with the lizard people of Kush. Though they were a queer folk, they certainly must have some interesting goods to sell...
When he awoke the next morning, Marl found himself in the port city of Lowbank. It was a busy day for sure, as farmers from the hamlets and townships surrounding Lowbank and the Sweetwater River came to sell their wares. Harvest season was a great time to visit the city if you were a merchant.
But there was a certain sombre talk that was being had. Marl asked about it, and learned that the High Sheriff, dear old Keegan Brandywell, had died in bed of heart pains. It was a terrible thing to hear: the old boy had always been good for the Heartvale, and he'd helped make the little folk respected throughout Ardonia. He would be dearly missed.
And, of course, the best way to miss the dead was with a round or six of beer.
Marl didn't remember much about that night, though he did remember declaring that he'd try and run for High Sheriff himself. He couldn't remember why he did that; someone's dare, he figured. And then he remembered nailing several pieces of paper with his name on them upon some notice boards, calls for folk to vote for him at the next meeting of the Grand Moot.
It all seemed a dream, really. But, Marl thought as he prepared himself for that next morning, he could at least be sure nobody would take the brash antics of a drunken merchant seriously. Nobody would vote for him.
Certainly not.
Though the years have certainly not been tranquil, there has been a relative lull in hostilities across the known world in recent years. The orcs of the Golden Horde and their innumerable vassals, while a looming threat over the so-called civilized nations it borders, have deigned fit not to shatter the walls of their neighbors. Trade has flourished all across the western world, the two halves of the continent connected by trade along the Golden Road, the river route that courses through the center of the Golden Horde's vast territory. Exotic product flows out into the seas and out east, reaching the most distant of nations as such trade empires as the Kingdom of Zhodul and the Republic of Vuts work their mercantile magic.
The people from the apple lands send out their emissaries as ever, peaceably learning of the outside world. The Thangoradrim and the Clans of the Kashar rejoice in their good relations with one another, finding common ground upon which to stand. Even the Order of Anvill and the Crown of Virith, truly bitter enemies, have made peace with one another. The optimistic suggest that the world is in a golden age, and there is hope that peace will last.
But this could not be farther from the truth. Many nations prepare for inevitable war. The leaders in the Isles of Drejur fortify themselves, fearing that raiders or perhaps even invaders will strike them yet again. The City-States of Brescia are embroiled in a bitter civil war, the rulers of those avian people vying to fill a power vacuum caused by their war with Anvill. That the Golden Horde grows hungry for even more land is doubtless, and some wager that the tribes of the Blacklands feel the same thirst for battle. The beastmasters of Fenea command vast numbers of terrible creatures of war, and if they leave their isle it will be to find peoples to enslave. It is possible, too, that the Bailish may look to conquer once again, as they have in the past. And there is no doubt in any sane soul's mind that the Order of Anvill must inevitably clash with their neighbors once again, either directly or through their agents in foreign lands.
Strange forces are at work as well, magical ones. The mists surrounding the isles of Myrstrost have given way, revealing an ancient and enchanted realm in which the dead walk amongst the living. The dragons of Ardonia, long having abandoned the Kings of that land, have returned to serve as protectors once more. And might the distant Thabossians, the strange peoples who call the far south-eastern isles home, have some cause to bring their mystical powers to bear?
Magic, however, will not remain uncontested. A new power has entered the arena: that of black powder. The musketeer, the arquebusier, the grenadier and cannoneer: these are a new breed of soldier, wielders of new era weapons that possess a deadliness like none ordinary folk have wielded before. Will these weapons that belch smoke make extinct the powers of the past? Will the vaunted traditions of magic be squashed by the coming tide of fire and steel?
There is but one certainty: there shall soon be peace no more.
Fabula Elysia
"...and as he were keeper of the earth," spoke the Draoi, the old woman sprinkling some dirt over the body. "So now will the earth keep him. Old Father Oak and the Honest Stone will see his rest be restful. They'll see his soul return to the soil, where it were born in the times o' yore."
Brendan stared at his father. There he lay, the old Sheriff, wearing the clothes he always wore on holy days: a white shirt, a green vest, and his brown pants that always seemed to make his gut seem an inch wider. He had a smile on his face - the same smile he'd worn when his broken heart finally stopped fighting. Brendan remembered the words of his father so clearly:
"Keep them safe," he'd told his son with that sad smile. "Keep them all safe. They need you."
But I still need you, thought the young halfling as he stood there, leaning on his walking stick. He still could not believe that his father was gone. He still wasn't sure how he'd cope.
Brendan had cried enough to salt a field already. The whole of the Heartvale had mourned with him. But standing before his father once more, surrounded only by family, friends, and the highest officials of the province, he found himself unable to cry. His tears were gone. So why did he still feel so hollow?
"Master Brendan," came a gentle voice. Brendan looked up and saw the robed halfling matron offering him a soft and encouraging smile. "Would you care to say a few words?"
The young man took a deep breath. He stepped closer to the stone upon which his father lay. The High Sheriff held a sheaf of wheat in one hand, as befit the harvest season. Bringing the Good Grain with him into the earth would please the spirits, so it was said in the Old Faith. In his other hand was a short staff carved with a number of runes: a record of his deeds and a wish for him to be restful and remembered.
Brendan turned away from his father and looked at the gathered company. His sister was there, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. His uncle was there, too, and so were his twin friends, Candor and Keane. There were two dozen others, some of whom he did not recognize. Toward the back were six knights of Ardonia, each of them reverent in their stance, quiet and respectful. A great many folk had known Keegan Brandywell. The High Sheriff had been well loved for his generosity and wisdom.
Words trickled out from Brendan at first, but slowly his words became more clearer and more confident. His father was a good man, he said. He had always cared for his family; he had ever been a beacon of hope to the people of the Vale and took great joy in watching the fields grow. His father loved the land dearly, stayed true to the Old Faith, and had always told Brendan that good friends were worth more than all the gold in the world. He had loved Ardonia, and had ever made good on his promise to be the caretaker of the land.
"And now," Brendan said as he set a flower upon his father's chest, "the earth will take her child back into her arms."
Brendan didn't know what else to say for a long moment. He stood there in silence, his father's corpse seeming so peaceful with his eyes closed. Finally, he placed his hand upon those of his old man and patted the fellow gently.
"Goodbye, father," he whispered down to the High Sheriff.
They spent the rest of the morning burying the old halfling. They spent the evening feasting and toasting his memory.
Heartvale - Heartwood City - The Brandywell Estate
"You could run to be a Sheriff, you know," suggested his sister for the upteenth time. "Father would have liked that."
In answer, Brendan shot his sister a glare for the upteenth time. "I already told you," he said squarely, "I'm going to join the New Army."
"Oh, and you'll be wearing yourself a fancy suit like all the other soldiers?" Kathleen turned away from the bubbling pot and shook her ladle at Brendan. "You know, that's just like you; going off to get yourself kill't before second breakfast's even been had! I swear, you haven't changed a bit in twelve years."
Brendan groaned and ran his hand through his curly red hair, then stood up from the dining table and waved his hand about the room. "Why do you always do this whenever we talk?" he demanded. "We can't even have porridge without you butting in with your 'Oh, you shouldn't do this' and your 'Oh, you should do that!'"
"I'm just suggesting that you mightn't want to get yourself kill't, you hairy toad!" Kathleen rapped the ladle loudly upon the table, then pointed it at him again. "And don't try to huff and puff your way out of this one. I'm still your older sister, even if you'd rather t'weren't the case."
Brendan grumbled, then slowly slid back down into his seat. He took a deep breath. "I don't care for politics," he explained, smacking one hand into the air. "I can't stand those long meetings, and I'd like to see the world, anyway! Cor, Kathy: I'm bored stiff of the Vale! I want to travel; I want to see places!"
"Cousin Gammel got bored stiff of the Vale, too," remarked his sister with a derisive snort. She whipped long, red braided hair back, returning to her spot by the fireplace. She stirred in silence, then asked quite sharply, "You remember what happened to him, don't you?"
"Yes," groaned Brendan. "Vividly."
"Drowned at sea, he did. That's what happens when you get wanderlust."
"Yes, but Gammel was a dunce, Kathleen."
"And you're not?" Kathleen turned and gave Brendan an angry look.
The two of them were silent for a time. Kathleen finished cooking the porridge. They sat down at opposite sides of the table and ate, still silent. It was Brendan who finally broke it.
"Please, Kathleen," he began, setting his spoon down and looking over at his sister with a sincere expression. "Please understand - I'm going to do this. I'm going to join the New Army and become a Manticore. The decision's made. I just don't want you to... I want you to respect that, and I want to know I can still visit. You're still my sister."
The silence fell again. Kathleen set her spoon down, cleared her throat, and looked Brendan in the eyes.
"Alright," she said.
"How long 'til we reach Lowbank, Mr. Burlock?" called out the rotund halfling to the fellow at the wheel.
"Well, we're bobbing at about five knots," answered the halfling by the wheel, pausing to take a drink from his flask of brandy. "Could reach six knots should the wind get fairer. Given the num-"
"Time, Burlock, time!" pleaded the fatter halfling.
"We'll be there by morning," answered Mr. Burlock with a huff, muttering something under his breath.
Whatever it was wouldn't get in the way of Marl Moorfallow's good cheer. "Excellent work!" he called over to the navigator. "Steady with that wheel, and don't drink all the brandy! God knows we've got to make it last 'til the morrow, boy!"
Of course, Marl knew it wouldn't help to say that. Brandy and beer had a habit of sprouting legs and walking away aboard the Sweet Sheilah. Such was the nature of the business.
The afternoon turned to evening, and Marl spent it well, double checking the wares he brought with him from Vuts. Furs, acorn bread, some clockwork wares and some gunpowder as well: it was all worth a fair price back in Ardonia. He could sell the acorn bread and some of the furs in Lowbank, where the farmers would make good use of those wars, then pick up some vegetables and beer to sell with the rest of his goods in the capital of Dragongarde. Then, Marl surmised, he could spend the remaining months of fall and the whole of winter relaxing in his warm home in the hilly town of Barrows, there to scald his toes near the fire and tell stories about his travels to his grandchildren. One couldn't ask for a better way to spend the winter.
And all the goods were in order, though it seemed the crew had "borrowed" some of the acorn bread. Ah, well. That couldn't be helped.
Marl took to bed, retreating to the captain's quarters. Truth be told, he didn't know altogether much about sailing, though he knew a considerable lot about business. But he had good sailors working for him, halfling and human alike, and Moorfallow's ventures grew more and more profitable by the year as he got a better understanding of foreign markets. He wondered if, perhaps, he might try dealing with the lizard people of Kush. Though they were a queer folk, they certainly must have some interesting goods to sell...
When he awoke the next morning, Marl found himself in the port city of Lowbank. It was a busy day for sure, as farmers from the hamlets and townships surrounding Lowbank and the Sweetwater River came to sell their wares. Harvest season was a great time to visit the city if you were a merchant.
But there was a certain sombre talk that was being had. Marl asked about it, and learned that the High Sheriff, dear old Keegan Brandywell, had died in bed of heart pains. It was a terrible thing to hear: the old boy had always been good for the Heartvale, and he'd helped make the little folk respected throughout Ardonia. He would be dearly missed.
And, of course, the best way to miss the dead was with a round or six of beer.
Marl didn't remember much about that night, though he did remember declaring that he'd try and run for High Sheriff himself. He couldn't remember why he did that; someone's dare, he figured. And then he remembered nailing several pieces of paper with his name on them upon some notice boards, calls for folk to vote for him at the next meeting of the Grand Moot.
It all seemed a dream, really. But, Marl thought as he prepared himself for that next morning, he could at least be sure nobody would take the brash antics of a drunken merchant seriously. Nobody would vote for him.
Certainly not.
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