Drewden

The WISHGRANTER Saga (Deprecated)

Reinold Sul’athar, the Outcast. (MAIN)

Reinold Sul'athar is a name feared amongst many.

He was death incarnate.

Where he walked, his blade would never dry.

A trail of bodies remained in his wake.

The name "Sul'athar" came from an ancient dialect -- meaning "Gods' Fury."

They believed that Reinold was the act of a forgotten goddess -- Ner --, and that he was augmented with her power. It was by his overwhelming strength that he won a war that threatened to destroy his homeland and her people. But, it was at no small price.

Conflict in the Dragon's Maw

As his homeland's reach ran too far, civil war erupted. Men who were too tired of living under the boots of an untouchable caste rose to strike them down. Farm were drenched with blood. Soldiers and commoners littered the ground, where their atrocities would render the land barren for generations to come. As the soldiers sworn to protect and uphold any semblance of order fought and died for their cause, many independent branches were faced with a grim decision. Which side would they take? Would they have to slay their own kin?

Many withheld from choosing, as Ner's Shield did. A religious sect had no place in a war, after all.

When the war first began, Reinold prepared and prepared. He sought to learn everything he could, to be as ready as he could for the battles to come. However, the Shield was not to partake in the war. They were an order of pacifists, and were to uphold that principle to the death in Ner's name. As time went by, more and more innocent lives paid the price of the order's code.

On the day that Reinold was given the title of Templar -- the second-highest rank among those in the Shield -- he made a choice. No code, no forbidden action would outweigh the lives lost each day the religious order stood by.

By night, he slipped away from the Shield's temple, and made for the frontlines. Though he discarded the Shield's sigil, it was clear the moment he stepped forth into Commander-Knight Theseus' camp that he was no mere peasant looking to earn his pay.

During the campaign to retake the border, Reinold stood unmatched in combat. Through countless trials, he outperformed his commander's expectations, and earned the fear of his opponents. From the first battle to the last, he stood with his fellow soldiers. When the campaign ended, there were few who didn't recognize Reinold as a hero. However, Ner's Shield was not oblivious to his actions.

When he returned to the temple, they placed him on trial. He was expelled from the order, and was told that Oner would no longer tolerate his presence on its soil. He had saved the war effort, but at the cost of his life's dedication. Reinold was no longer a child of Ner. He would not longer devote his life to her will.

What became of him?

On that same night, he was sent over across the border into the world unknown; to hide like a coward, or find an honorable death. Reinold now wanders without a purpose; a blade for hire for some, a potential soldier with undying loyalty for others. What one makes of him is in the hands of his employer, leader, or god.

Though he had disgraced the Shield by his actions, Reinold holds their virtues without wavering. Quiet and stoic, his temper is not quick to flare. He will defend those who earn his respect, and teach those he comes to admire.

Those who ally themselves with the Templar learn quickly that he is not weak in combat. He is a master of the battlefield; ready to take as much punishment as he will deliver. There is not much one can do to determine if he is confident, cocky, or plain stubborn.
Reinold is a Weaponsmaster; adept with a wide arsenal. Very few blades, clubs and axes feel alien in his tested hands. However, his weapon of preference is a bastard sword, made of plain steel. With his gauntlets, he can turn the hand and a half blade into a hammer in a pinch. The pommel itself is sharpened to a point, more as a tool than a weapon. He wears a mix of chainmail and leather, preferring to be more mobile in combat. While his equipment holds no special properties, he has an emotional attachment with them. They are all he has left.

The remnants of divine favor that he still holds grants him resistance to some sources of profane magic. This sacred protection can be overcome by the more adept magic users.

Due to the same divine favor that protects him from the arcane, Reinold is incapable of utilizing any form of magic. There is a reason he sticks to what he knows.

While a skilled opponent on the battlefield, Reinold is a mere man. Illness, poisons and the likes can do him under as they would any other mortal. His wounds take some time to mend without the aid of a divine healer. Arcane methods will not sew his flesh together.

Humble Beginnings

Many, many years ago Reinold was but an urchin in a city, in some distant land. Incapable of fending for himself, the Temple took him in. He was shown at a young age the kindness in many hearts. He was fed, taught, and looked after by the sisterhood that carried out Ner's work. He wanted to follow in their footsteps; to become a man of religion. He wanted to devote himself to the Goddess of Life.

However, such dreams were never meant to be achieved. The sisterhood could not accept the flesh of a man in their cloth. They were afraid of how their goddess might react to the break in a tradition that stood since the beginning of time. However, Reinold was determined to devote himself to Ner, by any means necessary. When it became clear that his determination was unbreakable, the High Sister sent him to join Ner's Shield.

Ner's Shield was a quiet, almost-forgotten order of priests and men like Reinold who sought to serve their goddess, either as a form of atonement or devotion. It was there that he was taught the way of the blade. Each member of the Shield learned and mastered various combat forms not to participate in battle, but to understand the warriors who lived their lives through them.

Plain stats

Age: 24
Build: Muscular
Eye color: Grey
Gender: Male
Hair: Brown
Race: Human
Weight: 195 lbs
Height/Length: 6'
Occupation: Mercenary (Former Templar)
Personality: Stoic, quiet, reserved

The WISHGRANTER Saga (Deprecated)

Looking to join in? Join this discord server for rules, guidelines, and wiki information.

Don't like discord? Private message me for the information you need.

Erelith's Wiki can be accessed here.

Discord/General Rules

1. Be polite.

2. No Metagaming.

3. Keep discussions in the appropriate channels.*

4. Keep bot comands in #bot-commands.*

5. Listen to any @Gamemaster . Feel free to ping them if you have any questions/concerns.*

6. Check announcements now and then for info.*

*Applicable to discord members.

IC Rules

ANY AND ALL CHARACTERS MUST BE SUBMITTED IN #CHAR-APPLICATIONS FOR APPROVAL PRIOR TO USAGE (Non-discord members PM me through the site itself)

1. Erelith is host to wide variety of beasts and races. That being said, if you're planning to introduce an unconventional race (Not Elf, Human, Dwarf, Halfling, Orc, or a mix of those) please run it by a @Gamemaster beforehand. (Non-discord members PM me through the site itself)

2. Normal roleplaying rules apply. No Godmoding, metagaming (mentioned already).

3. Your main characters work on a 3 strike system. Basically, you get 3 near-death events bypassed during the roleplay. Any time your character may die after that, you must make a roll to determine your survival. As of right now, the roll you must make is a command in the #bot-commands , just type
&roll 1d2
; 1 means death, 2 means life. Side characters do not get any bypasses. (If you are not in the discord, a member/gamemaster will roll for you.)

4. If your character dies, they're dead. Any chance for them to come back lies within profane magics, or an act of the gods themselves.

5. Reminder that it's a roleplay for story, not a TDM.

6. As of right now, we're not forcing characters to adhere to any kind of mechanics. Things work on good faith between the group, however should the group grow too large/show that such mechanics are needed it will be done.

The WISHGRANTER Saga (Deprecated)

Many millennia before the creation of modern Erelith existed the Arezian nation. A utopian world that surpassed all of Erelith, Arezia worked with technology in one hand, and magic in the other. A great inventor, Kal, strove to place the Sentient Races on the level of gods. In his relentless efforts, he pioneered the way through the most profane magics in the world; soulburning.

 

In normal practices of the arcane, a mage physically and mentally exerts himself to channel the auras through his frame, which manifests to his will. The more powerful the spell, the harder it is to channel, and the greater of a physical toll the aura takes. In the case that a mage attempts and fails a spell, the mages suffers a hemorrhage, and likely dies. Soulburning magic bypasses this by using the soul itself - unhindered by the mortal coil - to channel and fuel the magic. Instead of the soul going through the Cycle, it is destroyed. In order to obtain the soul, its mortal vessel is destroyed, and it is captured by other magics.

​

Soulburning allowed Kal to create tools that pushed the realm of possibilities. Cities were raised in moments. Farms yielded endless crops. Diseases and death were all but absent. For many of Arezia, this was the perfect world. For Kal and his subordinates, however, this was not the end. They would not stop until they were gods. Thus, Kal sacrificed countless lives to bestow upon Arezia three treasures of unlimited strength; the Northern Edge, a blade which allowed its wielder to control the tides of battle, and kill the gods themselves; the Harmony, a pendant which protected its user from any magic; and, the most powerful of all, the Wishgranter, a ring that gave the user the ability to rewrite the realm itself.

​

In Kal's hubris, he wore the Wishgranter, and wished to become a god. The power needed by the Wishgranter to grant his wish was so tremendous that it triggered a cataclysm. Every single Arezian soul, gone in an instant. Kal became the god he sought to become, but of an empty world. In his shame, he used his limitless control of the auras to grant three more wishes: to bury away all remnants of Arezia under a new world, to bury his great and powerful tools, and to restore life to the new world. Erelith was born, and Kal became a god in recluse; driven by his shame to keep his secrets away from mortals.

 

Yet, secrets are only so to be uncovered. With the Northern Edge's appearance during the Umbral Reign to slay the Queen, treasure hunters began scouring the world, only to find passages to the ruins of Arezia ...

The WISHGRANTER Saga

Return of Erelith

Reinold Sul’athar, the Outcast. (MAIN)

Artis Port

Reinold looked up at the sky as he rolled onto his back. The glaring sun still beat down on him; baking him in his own armor. With a pained groan, the Templar managed to stand up. Bruises and cuts aside, he was still in one piece. While he would certainly be sore once he had time to rest, he did not plan to recover in a cell. He left his sword, and walked over to Jameson, folding his arms over his chest. While the Templar’s wounds were unaffected by Yy’Sil’s healing, the city guard would need her to mend what she could. If they were arrested, this poor sod was the closest thing to an alibi that they had.

"Hopefully it'll be fixed. I just hope he doesn't dare strain himself...It could re-open.."

“Just get him well enough to see tomorrow.” Once he was sure that Sil was done healing, Reinold lifted the city guard with a grunt. Whether it was Jameson being heavy, or the Templar was growing weak, carrying the body was difficult. As if on queue, the barking of orders resounded through the air. “I know you saved my life, ” Reinold said, “and that we just saved yours, but I’ll snap your neck in a heartbeat if you so much as whimper to give us away. ” He walked back into the inn at a brisk pace. Though they committed no crime, he knew that he and Yy’Sil would be questioned for some time. At the end of that, prison was still possible.

As he walked through the inn, he looked over his shoulder at Yy’Sil. “If you had any other plans for us here, they will have to wait for another day. ” Once he emerged from the inn, he was the center of attention for the crowded streets. Screaming and explosions had a penchant for stealing attention. Muttering an oath under-breath, Reinold walked quickly through the crowd. He was not so bothered by the looks of panic, confusion and anger. He could only hope that Yy’Sil was not, either.

“What are you doing with that guard?” one man asked, stepping in front of Reinold – a poor mistake. The Templar cocked his head back and slammed it into the obstructor’s nose. The man was knocked onto his ass, and he crawled out of the way without another word. So much for slipping away into the crowd. As Reinold moved as quickly as the crowd parted for a man with blood splattered on his face – carrying a city guard – several other guards emerged from the inn in the trio’s wake.

The Templar stopped as a pair of guards moved in front of them. No words were needed. Reinold remained still as Artis’ finest surrounded him. They did not seem particularly interested in Yy’Sil – the them, there was only one culprit to apprehend.

“Put Jameson down,” one guard demanded.

“You’re going to arrest me. ”

“Did you think you could come here, blow things up and leave?” The guard scoffed. “Of course you’re under arrest, you dimwit. Now, put Jameson down or I’ll kill you where you –“

Reinold walked up to the guard, and let the blade rest at his throat. “Try me. ”

Return of Erelith

Reinold Sul’athar, the Outcast. (MAIN)

Artis Port

The Husk had cut off Reinold’s air passage, seemingly enthralled by the Templar’s struggle to breathe. It made some sort of guttural growl, before a city guard’s sword stabbed trhough one of its lungs. Instead osmashing Reinold’s skull, the Husk staggered back and wheezed, the lung deflating like a balloon. It looked at the sword, before reaching to rip it free. Before it could, Reinold pushed the blade further with a kick. The Husk whined and trembled as an ink-like fluid gushed out over the Templar and its nearby surroundigns. The rancid stench would have made Reinold vomit, if his neck was not being crushed. Then, the Husk dropped him, using both hands to rip the blade free.

“You whoreson!” one of the Artificers raised a crossbow and fired at the city guard turned hero. The bolt caught the guard by the shoulder, the sheer force behind it enough to bore a hole through his flesh and shoulder. The Artificer loaded another bolt, and took aim.

“Fire.”

The husk turned into a ball of fire; stumbling as it tried in vain to put out the flames. On the ground, Reinold looked up at Yy’Sil as he approached. However, rather than looking thankful in the slightest, there was this look of sheer disbelief. He tried to gesture for her to run away, but lacked the strength as she placed her hand on his neck. His entire body went limp, as he existed between a state of healing and rotting. Every attempt to mend his damaged tissues would only be counteracted by the damage reoccurring. His blessing and curse.
The sound of one Artificer approaching filled Reinold with a burst of energy. It was enough for him to force himself to his feet and shove away Yy’Sil. He reached for his sword, before the Artificer took aim. They locked eyes; both knowing that death was a breath away.

Before the Artificer could fire, the Husk grew into a towering inferno. The intensity forced the man to step away, before the flames suddenly collapsed in on the Husk’s figure. While to the plain eye it appeared that the flames were being sucked away, those attuned to the magic knew far better. The flames were not vanishing. They were condensing . Reinold motioned for Yy’Sil to stay back.


It was too late. The fire released into an explosion; sending Reinold and the Artificers flying back. The Templar crashed through the window of a building; a symphony of crash, bang, snap, and boom. The stench in the air was replaced with the smell of spent sulphur, while smoke obscured everyone’s vision. When the flames died down – along with the smoke – two of the Artificers were nowhere to be seen. In the Husk’s place was a single, large crater. Next to it was the remaining portion of the Artificer that closed in on them.

Reinold groaned, sitting amidst the shards of countless pots and heirlooms. The shop owner could only look at him with a mixed expression of fury and horror. Sitting up, the Templar brushed himself off. Somehow he had avoided getting carved up by all of the broken pieces, not to mention the window. He own luck never ceased to amaze him. However, to say he was untouched was far from the truth. The entirety of Reinold’s back was a hotbed of pain; one that would not subside anytime soon. He looked at the shop owner. “Sorry about the damages,” he croaked, his windpipe barely able to force out the words. “I’m sure I could compensate you, but I’m needed elsewhere.”

He climbed through the window, before hitting the ground. He was stricken with a serious case of vertigo. Down was left. Up was forward. Everything hurt. Opting to stay on the ground, he crawled towards Yy’Sil, before raising a hand. “I’m alright,” he said, rolling onto his side. He pointed to the guard on the ground, not far away from them. “Tend to his injuries. If he dies, our word won’t hold much weight in a trial. And, I’d rather not hang for nothing short of terrorism in Praelium.”

Reinold knew little of Praelium’s laws, but something told him that having some semblance of an official word in their favor may be what it takes to leave Artis alive. He chuckled, before rolling onto his front. Whatever luck he had been keeping in reserve for the past few years was spent on killing the Husk. Those infernal abominations had seen entire armies laid to waste. Something he had the displeasure of witnessing only once before. He glanced over at Yy’Sil, remaining silent. While he would never admit it, it was thanks to her that they survived the encounter. Of course, it was her fault that he had to fight the Artifice to begin with. The Templar frowned. This would be far from the last they saw of the Artificers. A mage that beat one of their acquisition teams? That blew up a Husk? There was no way they would ever let her be now.

He glanced over at his sword; now embedded in the wall of another building, sent flying by the explosion. So much for that simple contract.

Return of Erelith

Reinold Sul’athar, the Outcast. (MAIN)

Artis Port

"If you were given a letter, I am the one you are to protect."

Reinold’s grunt was the closest to a sound of approval as Yy’Sil was going to get. Sitting down, the Templar set the letter on the table, so that she could see the signature. “My name is Reinold Sul’athar. I’m a hired sword, and there’s not much else to say. ” Remaining calm despite the commotion from outside, he leaned back into his chair in a bid to get comfortable before continuing. “I have questions of my own, when the time for them comes. ” He frowned. The way her sister was able to find him left him uncomfortable. He looked her over carefully, his eyes cold and calculating. “I don’t see a weapon, and you don’t have that ‘look’ in your eyes. The kind you get from splitting a man open. Wherever you’ve planned to go, I hope it’s nowhere risky. ”

With each thunk of steel stabbing into the wooden door, he maintained eye contact with the woman. He had to get a feel for how she held up under pressure. “Here is my proposal. ” Reinold drew his sword and set it on the table. The sound of it being set ever so gently betrayed its heavy weight. “I’ll be your bodyguard for the time being. If someone so much as threatens you, I’ll see them choking on their own teeth or worse. If your sister doesn’t compensate me after the end of this job, I’ll see you pay for it. ”

Once the door fell into splinters, Reinold stood up, sword in hand. There was silence as he watched the men enter the room, crossbows in hand. Their appearance sent the hairs on his neck stiff; a sensation he had felt only once before when his eyes fell upon the brown robes with gold trimmings. That alone was once too many for his lifetime. “You wouldn’t happen to know a little magic, would you? ”

“Don’t you move a muscle,” one of the men growled. Weapons aside, they were far from intimidating. They robes they wore betrayed them as scholars rather than soldiers. In fact, they lacked any armor. Yet Reinold knew better. He slowly sheathed his blade, and raised his hands.

“I’m not a mage, ” he said as they approached. “The girl, maybe, but I’m as plain as they get. ”

“Shut up!” The trio drew close, as one pulled a strange device from his satchel. When he pointed it at Yy’Sil, it glowed at let out a shrill ringing. One of the Artificers fired a bolt, prompting Reinold to duck As the fireball flew from his charge’s hand, he grabbed the table and flipped it towards the men; pinning them underneath. In the same breath, he pulled Yy’sil along as he ran out the back.

“A bloody mage, ” he muttered under his breath. “Why couldn’t you just be normal? ” As they back door opened, sunlight poured into the inn. Shielding his eyes, the Templar led the way into the back alleys. They were nearly as crowded as the main streets, yet he made quick work of clearing the way. Not many stood in front of an armor-clad juggernaut.

The Artificers rushed out the door in purist, and it did not take long for the remaining bystanders to draw accurate assumptions. As a bolt flew by Reinold’s head and caught the skull of a street performer, panic spread through the streets. Many cried for help as they surged out of the alley; blocking the exits. Muttering a curse under his breath, Reinold turned around to face the Artificers.

“If you’ve got any tricks up your sleeve, don’t use them yet. ” His face was pale. While many things could not break his calm exterior, the Templar lacked any real confidence in the confrontation. It was not the men who worked that fear into him.

From the inn emerged a tall, hooded figure. Its height would have indicated half-giant roots, but something was off. The way it walked as unnatural and forced. If one listened carefully, it could hear a slight wheezing from under that hood. Moving in front of the Artificers, it pulled down the hood to reveal a head made of steel; a crude mask lacking anything but eyes hiding away any shred of humanity. One who was sensitive to magic would be as repulsed by the abomination as one would if they stepped in excrement. It was an affront to nature, and reeked of rotting flesh and oil. As the hood fell, so did its cloak; revealing nothing but metal plating, as if it was a suit of armor.

“Drop your weapons,” one of the Artificers said, “or we’ll fit them down your throat.”

Reinold stepped in front of Yy’Sil, and grunted. “We’re lucky, this time. Husks rely on the braindead hosts within to regulate its magic intake. Listen to me carefully. ”

“HALT!” City guards squeezed their way into the alley, surrounding Reinold, Yy’Sil, the Artificers and the one thing no sane man would confront. “Drop your weapons! You’re under arrest!” One of them moved towards the Artificers. The Husk – in a startling display of speed – whirled around and grabbed the guard by the throat; lifting him up like a doll. Nothing but wheezes came from the guard as the others stepped back.

“Cover your eyes, ” Reinold muttered.

The guard kicked and tried to try the hands free, before the Husk threw its fist into his face. With a loud crunch the bloodied fist emerged from the back of the guard’s skull; covered in blood, matter and bone fragments. The Husk let go of the corpse’s throat, before using its bloodied arm to throw it through the wall of the inn. The Artificers raised their crossbows to the city guard.

“Interfere, and the rest of you will die far worse deaths,” one said, as the Husk turned to face Reinold and Yy’Sil again.

The Templar rushed forth, swinging his blade to get the Husk’s attention. With a swing of its arm, the construct met his blade and sent him stumbling back and his blade to the ground, before reaching for his throat as well. Lifting him up, its metal fingers closed around his windpipe. His face quickly turned red, and the veins started to protrude from his skin. However, Reinold remained calm. Swinging his legs, he caught one of his boots on the Husk’s chest. The other boot lined up with it before he extended his body into a plank.

The sound of chains breaking came from the Husk’s chest before the metal plate opened to reveal an exposed chest cavity. The heart was pumping erratically, and what skin that could be seen was green in color. The Husk raised its fist to do the Templar in, much like the guard. Reinold looked over his shoulder at Yy’Sil.


“Fire, ” he croaked, “now!”

Return of Erelith

The General-Kings. (SIDES)

Inside the Ministry of Okeluiso, Capital of On’hino

Inside the Ministry, there was not a single peep as the eyes of every Minister were fixed on the podium at the center. Amid the house of nobility and politicians stood a single man; plastered in mud and dirt, his clothes torn to rags. He shook under the glare of Galedrith, who gestured for him to begin.

“I- we didn’t think they were telling the truth, sires,” the man began, running a thumb over the back of his left hand. “Figured that we would go out to the island, maybe find a bit of metals in the shaft and be on our way. But when we got there, somethin’ was off ‘bout the land. The trip was easy, but there was nobody else there. No buildings, or people.”

“We are aware of Blackreach’s conditions in terms of population,” Galedrith interjected. He frowned, glaring at the man. “You were part of the excavation crew. That is the part we want to hear.”

“Aye, sir.” The man paused, looking around the room as he trembled softly.

“Quit your shaking and speak!” Thibault boomed, before Galedrith raised a hand to halt him.

“Th-the mine was all we found,” the man continued, “for the most part intact. Nobody else in sight. There was plenty to haul, so the captain put us to work. The boat was loaded to the brim with fine ores, and as it sailed away…”

“As it sailed away, one of the crew found the Door.” Galedrith shuffled a few papers on his podium. In the past few years, Blackreach had been nothing but a nuisance to him. Even if he wanted to investigate the ‘Island that ate Men’, the rest of the Ministry was quick to become a pain in his side. But, with the way things were now, he could throw as many boatloads of men as he pleased into the Abyss and not a single Minister had the stones to bring the matter up. And with reports of similar doors being found by scouting teams in their search around Lerem, perhaps there was more to the Island than men being consumed. “You’re in a rare position,” he said, sitting up. “The first to have ever left Blackreach. I want to know what you saw before you left, and how you escaped.”

“Aye sir.” The man shambled idly in his place at the center of the Ministry. “We found a stone door at the end of the mines the same day that the boat left. The captain had left with the boat, so we took it upon ourselves to dictate our next move. We opted not to touch the door, and to wait for the captain’s return.”

“According to the captain’s reports,” Val stated, “which are corroborated by logs taken by officers in Perona, he was sent off to return to the island within the week.”

“That’s wrong,” the man said, looking at the Minister. “We were stuck on that rock for months. We did what we could to survive, but each day we found less and less to eat. One of our grew so crazed by hunger, he destroyed what water supply we had left. With death awaiting us on the beach, we decided to open the door. Figured, there was no point in waiting around if we’re going to die anyways.”

“What did you find beyond the door?” Galedrith asked.

“Something… something…” the man muttered, before looking around himself again. “I’d rather have died on that beach from hunger again, and again, and again…”

“Is he right in the mind?” Thibault asked.

“I swam to get away from that place,” the man continued, sweat beading on his skin. “No man is ready for what lays within that place. It reeked of the air surrounding Lerem.”

***

“That was a waste,” Thibault muttered as he, Galedrith and Val walked through a hall in the King’s Palace. “Man was clearly deranged. It’s likely that there’s something in the air that drove him out of his right mind, and perhaps he killed the rest of his crew.”

“Perhaps.” Galedrith furrowed his brow. “Yet the captain found no signs of carnage.”

“It’s not the only place to not abide by the natural laws,” Val interjected, “with Stal and its eternal Frost being the closest example.”

“This isn’t about seasons,” Galedrith replied. “This is an island that wants us to delve into it.”

Thibault scoffed at Galedrith. “Us?”

“Yes. Do you not think it strange, how it let one single man escape?” Galedrith stopped as Thibault took a seat on a bench. He grinned as the older man groaned. “Don’t tell me you’re growing soft, Thibault.”

“I’m about as soft as a stone.” Thibault smirked, before gesturing him to go on, leaning back in his seat.

“Yes. This has never happened, not until we secured control over the Ministry.” Galedrith clasped his hands together. “But now that we decide what happens with On’hino, Blackreach spares a man to draw us in with a mystery.”

“Be careful, Galedrith,” Val said. “Remember that Alnharte is still out there, and this may just suit to fan his flames-“

“Or extinguish them.” Galedrith turned to Val. “What kind of monsters are we if our labors provide us with artifacts to match Kalold in power?” Grinning, he began to walk, leaving both ministers behind. “Yes, I think I know what course we shall take. Send out a notice across the realm, and let the most daring of explorers root through Blackreach; those who find anything of worth will be handsomely rewarded.” Looking over his shoulder, he dragged a finger over his neck. Thibault’s fit of laughter wrought a grin on his face.

Return of Erelith

Reinold Sul'athar,

Gods' Fury and unfailing warrior,

I charge with the protection of a woman, with whom the fate of Erelith rests upon. Upon completion of your contract, you will find your price more than satisfied.

Find your charge in the Burning Mare Inn.

Reinold Sul’athar, the Outcast. (MAIN)

Artis Port

Reinold groaned as the port of Artis came into view. Perhaps he spent too long in the cold climates, but the warm air cut through him. It sapped his energy, and made him sweat in his armor. He had longsince abandoned his coat. Many aboard the ship had complained about the sunlight shining off of his mail, but between overheating or being an eyesore, there was little choice.

“Can’t y’find somethin’ elsewhat to wear?” one of the crew asked. When he received nothing in response, he set down what he was doing and approached the Templar. “Did y’hear me? Or’re ye deaf?” He chuckled, and reached out to give Reinold’s shoulder a shove. “So you’re-“ the sailor was cut short by his own tongue as the Templar turned around.

“Sod off.” Reinold towered over the man; his glare far more intense than the sun. He flicked his eyes to the rest of the crew, which sent them busy into their own work. Turning around again, he looked at the oncoming port. He had plenty to think over, and the letter in his hand did little to quell his thoughts. It had found him by name alone; he had no true home, and few his name or whereabouts. For him to be tracked down… the thought baffled him. Perhaps he had let something slip.

The ship reached port, and Reinold stepped off. The boards creaked underneath his boots; prompting him to move quickly. The port was not a far cry from Perona, spare that there were not as many walls. Life bustled through the streets. Merchants shouted over one another in a bid to garner interest. Urchins raced through the crowds to prey upon unattended coinpurses.

Stepping into the crowds, Reinold looked around at the buildings that lined the streets. The letter described one named ‘the Burning Mare Inn.’ It was there that he would find the beginning of his contract. A woman. While ambiguous, the letter detailed the job of protecting her, no matter where they went. But, why go through the trouble of finding him? Why not anyone else? He was always hired to kill, often discreetly. Bandits were akin to business competitors. His price was not so cheap, but he had yet to fail an agreement. Perhaps that was his draw.

Reinold stopped as he found the Burning Mare; a building indistinguishable from the others. The place was well-kept to the eye, and there was little to suggest elsewise. There he was, yet something left him hesitant. This was no ordinary job. Resting his hand on the grip of his sword, the Templar pushed open the door. There was nothing but silence to greet him. Stepping inside, he found nobody else, spare at a table in center of the room. Though hidden away under a hood, the figure sitting at the table was clearly a woman; her figure gave it away.
“Who are you?” Reinold asked, stepping inside. The door closed behind him; muffling the noises in the streets. He approached the table, yet stopped a couple paces away. “If this is a trap, don’t leave me in suspense.”

Return of Erelith

@Ryunte
Ah my freind you haven't told me this has started!

@Blueflame

D'oh! I thought you joined the discord! I am a fool..

Yes, the roleplay has started!

Return of Erelith

Reinold Sul’athar, the Outcast. (MAIN)

Somewhere in the Cutthroat’s Abode, On’hino

“It’s all I have left!” the woman pleaded, clutching onto a copper pendant. “No merchant would pay you good coin over this thing, just-“ Her eyes widened as one of the highwaymen surrounding her drew a knife. It was an effective signal to shut up, though it only stifled her whimpering; which was barely audible through the heavy rain.

The knife-wielding man knelt in front of her, and looked her in the eyes. “I don’t think you understand what’s happening.” In a sudden motion, he gripped her hair and yanked it back; exposing her throat. Cold steel met the warmth of the woman’s skin. The man’s voice turned sour. “We’re takin’ everything. I dun’ care if’s the most precious trinket in your cart, or some worthless scrap. As long as that lard-pot Garethul doesn’t pay for our protection, he’ll see his shipments and carts go disappearin’. What you do have a say in, love, is whether or not his merchants turn up dead or alive. Are we clear?” As the woman sank to her knees in the mud, she held up the pendant, and cringed as it was swiped.

The other outlaws turned their attention to the horse-drawn cart she had brought along the way. One of them stroked the horse’s mane, before giving a shrill whistle. The cart was cut free, the horse kept in place. The group dragged the cart off the road and into the forest. Only the knife-wielding man and the merchant remained.

“I did what you asked,” she said, “please let me go.”

“Well you did, but not without giving me a little trouble.” The man grinned, leaning in to look her in the eye. “’haps you should do something for my troubles.” There was a pause, before the woman got up and tried to run before slipping in the mud. The man scambled overtop of her, and pinned her down with a hearty laugh. “Go on, love, I like when they struggle!” He gripped the collar of her shirt, and dragged the knife through the cloth; splitting it in two to reveal her bare back. No sooner had he started to pry further with his barehands than he stopped. Blood gushed down his face, and poured onto the woman as the bandit gave way to a violent spasm; his hands reaching up at the spike through the top of his skull. The woman screamed as she looked over her shoulder to find another man driving the sharp handguard further.

With a sharp twist, the bandit stopped moving, and the stranger ripped his blade free before grabbing it by the handle. Pushing the bandit off of the woman and into the mud, the man planted his blade into the ground. The woman started to crawl away again, before a cloak fell over her body. She paused – wrapping herself up – and looked at the armor adorning her rescuer’s form. It was filthy; grime in some parts, broken chain in others.

“Sir Garethul hired me to investigate matters on this route,” the man explained, surveying his surroundings. He knelt beside the bandit, and turned the corpse over. “What was in your cart?”

“Jewelry,” the woman replied, standing up. She held the cloak tight around her form, and approached the man. “I owe you a debt,” she said, managing a sheepish smile. It was plain to see that her terrors were far from gone; there was no chill in the air strong enough to take credit for her shaking. “What is your name?”

“It won't be hard to track.” The man stood up and handed the copper pendant to the woman. “I’ll return with your cart. Stay warm.” With that, he grabbed his sword and strode off in the direction of the other outlaws. Their footprints were well defined in the mud. From what he could tell, there was at least five or six others. The canopy above sheltered his body from the rain as he followed the trail. Rain in On’hino made it difficult for thieves to get away with robbing merchants. Not only because it left tracks for anyone to follow, but because-

A loud crash resounded through the rain. The man grinned, and picked up his pace. It was easy for someone to wreck a cart in the woods when the ground is muck. He climbed up a hill to find a sharp decline ahead. The cart must have fallen down. Peering down, he found the group of bandits circling the cart, trying to pluck their take from the earth. Tightening the grip on his blade, the man walked down the decline and approached the bandits. They were nothing special; all of rather average builds, wearing little armor aside from studded leather.

“I have a message from Sir Garethul,” he said, gathering their attention. Raising his sword over his head, he threw it at one of the highwaymen. It caught one of them by the throat; the sheer force pulling him to the ground and pinning him in the mud. The rest of them drew their weapons; ranging from crudely-formed swords to axes. The man stopped, and raised his arms in a welcoming gesture. “Is there anything you’d like me to say to him?”

As the bandits charged towards him, the man curled his hand into a fist and struck the first one to come in the jaw; a snapping noise in reward to the blow. Before the foe could stagger back, the man pulled him to take the business end of an axe in motion. The force behind the blow sent both the man and his meatshield back, but he remained balanced. However, he grimaced as the bandit he held vomited a torrent of warm blood into his mail.

“Thanks,” he muttered before throwing the body to the ground; liberating a blade free from its dead owner’s clutch. As the axe-wielding outlaw readied an overhead swing to cut the man in half, the man leaned in and jammed his shoulder into the opponent’s core. His strength was enough to lift the cutthroat off of his feet.

The bandit tried to pry the man off of him, before he was slammed into a tree; impaled on a broken branch. The man stepped back before hot pain dragged like a nail through his side. Recoiling and turning around, he narrowly caught the next swing of another attacker with his steel. With one hand free, the man grabbed his assailant by the back of the head, and pulled his face into the back of his blade; eliciting a pained scream that made the last two step back. The scream only stopped as the man grunted and pulled even harder; pushing the metal past the skull.

There was a deadly silence, aside from the thud of a fresh-made corpse falling to the ground. The man stared at the two remaining outlaws. As one sank to his knees and dropped his weapon, the other turned and ran.

“W-we were just doing what was needed to get by,” the last criminal said, “we did what we were told.”

“I believe you.” The man approached him, and smiled. “Offer your hand.”

The criminal hesitated, before lifting his hand. With a single motion, the man released an agonized scream from the criminal. They both stared at the severed hand on the ground; an occasional twitch still coming from the fingers.

“Find your friend,” the man said, “and kill him. Then let everyone else know what happens to anyone who so much as points a sharp stick at Sir Garethul’s employs.” Dropping the sword, he walked over and ripped his own blade free from its flesh scabbard. “If they don’t believe you, show them the bodies.” With that, he left the remaining outlaw in the blood-saturated mud.

***

“If I didn’t know any better, I would say you’re lying,” Garethul said as he and the man walked through the streets of Perona. The amount of years the businessman had spent in the harbor-city had left him adept at weaving through the busy streets, despite his portly figure. The cries of vendors from their stalls fell deaf on his ears. “But I do know better, Reinold Sul’athar. Do you think we’ll hear anything more concerning my carts being stopped in the Abode?”

“Your carts will remain untouched, at least until the Frost sets in.” Reinold held his side, as if his hand would soothe the pain of his bandaged wound. “I’m certain that another pack will take their place, eventually.”

“Well I’d rather pay you to kill them off every now and then over being extorted.” Garethul chuckled, and patted Reinold’s shoulder. “I’ve seen to it that your reward is aboard the vessel you requested, along with a little ‘bonus’ for saving me the trouble of another dead worker.”

“Bonus?”

“Trust me, you’ll like it.” Garethul stopped in front of a store; the building itself dwarfing the houses that filled Perona. He gave a bow towards Reinold, and then opened the door. “I’ll see you when the Frost arrives, Sul’athar.”