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1st person POV is difficult to write well, but it certainly can be done. DIckens proved it twice.
8 yrs ago
Do people actually read these things?
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The Gates of Hell opened twenty years ago, and all the world is covered in darkness. The streets of proud cities ran with blood, and humble villages were burned to ash. Men and women in their countless thousands were cruelly abused, worked to death as thralls or tortured endlessly for the amusement of Demon-Lords. Some resisted, but the King of Hell had laid his plans well and all who stood against his legions fell. Everywhere hope died.
Everywhere but here. In the rough highlands of the Silverpeak Mountains, a small remnant survived in relative peace and freedom. But all is not well. Even here the corrupting hand of evil is at work. The land withers, albeit slowly, and no children are born to replace the aging generations that first fled here. Something must be done, and soon, if the hope that has sustained this place is to survive against the gathering gloom.
The evening sun shone brightly through the stained glass windows set in the western wall, spreading a riot of dazzling color across the stones of the chapel floor below. Sinuous columns marched along the nave toward the high altar, where a fuming censer filled the air with the heavy smell of incense. Beside it was a golden vessel, filled with the ritual libation. It should properly have been wine, but the monastery cellars had been emptied of that years ago. Mead from the village of Whimble would have to do.
Osric hoped the gods were not offended by the substitution. He paused in his silent prayer and glanced upward, over his shoulder. The dome above the transept was painted a dark blue, spangled with starbursts of gold. Along its rims were the gods: Merciful Omida, the sagely god-man, dressed in tattered robes; Gashana, the beautiful Handmaid of the Queen; Garash her brother, mighty captain of Heaven's host; Harran the Herald, the bearer of messages to men. Others too were there, but above them all, among the glittering stars that were her handiwork, was Her. The Queen of Heaven, the Mother Above, looking down upon him in – what? Judgment? Forbearance?
The gears turned madly in Osric's mind. Surely the gods could not blame them, when wine was simply not available. But perhaps, on the other hand, they had just not tried hard enough to establish a vineyard. It might be that the grape vines might have taken to the soil, if they had just found the right place. Yet... and so on, ad nauseam. He often became lost in his thoughts when he contemplated divine matters. He was so preoccupied, in fact, that he failed to hear the footsteps approaching him from the chancel.
“You know very well that incense is only to be used for high holidays. It's much too dear, now, to be squandered on personal prayer.”
The rebuke was gently spoken by a familiar voice. Osric turned and rose, bowing his head in submission.
“I am sorry, Father. I needed guidance.”
“I expect you did, my son.” Father Superior Robert's wizened face cracked, ever so slightly, into a knowing smile, “As would I have. I do not blame you, though I think Brother Maynard will be rather upset at your indiscretion.”
Osric hadn't thought of that. He frowned, and began to walk up the steps toward the altar. “I will snuff it out at once, and return whatever hasn't been burned.”
A curt gesture from the elder man stopped him in his tracks before he had made it halfway. “I will see to that. You should have started for the village already. The Assembly will be waiting for you.”
“Of course,” Osric said, nodding, “I will go at once. Thank you, Father.”
But Robert interrupted him again. “You have quite made up your mind?”
“Yes,” he said, without hesitation, “I will go.”
The old man glanced briefly up at the dome that had so stupefied his young counterpart before nodding thoughtfully. “I am glad you are so steadfast. You will be carrying all our hope out of these mountains with you, you and whomever you can convince to join you. The road ahead will be difficult, but...” he sighed, shaking his head, “Ah, but you should be off. We will speak again soon. You are dismissed, my son.”
Osric forced a smile and bowed his head, before turning and scurrying down the nave with all the dignity he could muster. Despite his bravado, he was terrified.
The westering sun was sinking fast. The village green was shadowed by the monastery on the heights above. Torches had been driven into the ground at regular intervals, and their light illuminated more people than Osric had ever seen in his life. Everyone from each of the seven villages must have turned out. Men and women stood all over the green in clumps and knots, drinking and talking and smoking valley-weed from wooden pipes. He could hear the din of their merrymaking from the time he had passed the outer wall of the monastery.
It was hardly surprising that so many would come. Even without knowing what he intended, they would have guessed it was important. The members of the Order of Holy Wisdom had the right to call a General Assembly, though in twenty long years they had never bothered. To do so now, with rumors flying about as they were, was sure to stoke curiosity.
A hush fell over the crowd, though, as he approached, a handful of his fellow monks and nuns following behind him as a sort of escort. The Elder of Saint Antonia, Godwin, called unnecessarily for order and gestured grandly at a rickety old stool. It must have been carried out from The Gray Maiden, the local inn. Osric was glad for the extra height; he was shorter by nearly a head than most other men, and he needed every advantage he could get. He stepped gingerly up to his ad hoc platform and cleared his throat.
He felt every eye upon him, and was glad that the long sleeves of his habit hid his hands. He could feel them shaking as the other Wisdomites formed a semicircle behind him. None of them spoke, nor would they. This task was his alone.
“Thank you all for coming,” he said at last, “I am Brother Osric – ”
“What?!” Shouted one old-timer, several rows back, “What did he say?”
“All this ado about about meeting at once, and they send us a little boy?” Snickered a woman nearer to the front.
Osric felt his face flush, and silently thanked Heaven. Anger coursed through his heart, and anger always gave him courage. He drew up one arm and pointed slowly in a wide arc at the outer fringes of the crowd. Most of the villagers turned to look, gazing upon the empty space in surprise. He spoke loudly, his voice hard with conviction.
“In days gone by, there would have been scores, even hundreds of children playing there. Now there are none. Hell has taken that from you, you who laugh and smile as if all were well.”
There were no snide remarks now. No one spoke at all, as far as Osric could hear. The only sound was the low moaning of the autumn breeze, and the boughs of the nearby trees sighing. He went on.
“By now, most of you know that a knight passed our borders a fortnight ago and came to the Monastery. Despite all our efforts he is dead now, worsted by infernal blades, and may he be reborn upon the Starry Field. He came not only seeking healing, but also to commend unto the keeping of my order a holy relic. After much careful study, we are confident that it is the Cup of Woe.”
There was much murmuring at this, and well there would be. The Cup of Woe was the very vessel that had borne the poisoned wine that had slain Omida himself, the only son of the Queen of Heaven. It was a relic without equal, and one believed lost long ago. Osric raised his hands, calling silently for silence.
“We are blessed indeed to have the Cup, but not all is well. Before he died, its bearer informed us that he was being followed along the road –”
“Is there something wrong with the Barrier?” interrupted someone in the crowd. Concern was evident in the voice, and nervous muttering rippled through the assembly.
“No, no,” Osric said, shaking his head, “the Barrier is as strong as ever. But if our departed visitor was followed to the borders of these lands, it may only be a matter of time before the Demon-Lords know of our presence here. The fragile peace we have long enjoyed stands in jeopardy, but with vigilance and faith we shall yet prevail over the darkness.”
He had hoped his words would reassure the villagers. But they had rather the opposite effect. In an instant many were on the edge of panic, talking over one another and beseeching Heaven for aid. Godwin and the other village elders were all shouting, attempting to restore order. The whole gathering looked likely to degenerate into a frenzied stampede.
Osric watched helplessly for a moment, before exhaling sharply and clapping his hands together. A sound like thunder roared over the green. He extended his arms skyward and an eerie light appeared overhead, ghostly pale against the deepening darkness. In a moment it coalesced into a great chalice, sized for a giant. Aside from the healing arts, such glorified parlor tricks were all Osric knew of magic. Still, it very much got their attention, so he went on speaking.
“The coming of the Cup of Woe has brought us to the edge of terrible danger, and yet this event may prove to be our salvation. My brothers and sisters of the Order have been searching through the Book of Dreams, the Book of Wisdom, and the other holy texts for answers. We may have one.”
He paused, though not for dramatic effect. He was coming to the point, and was terribly nervous about how his plan might be received. He glanced back for the first time at the faces of his fellow Wisdomites. Something in their stolid silence gave him the will to continue.
“Saint Antonia herself said that the days of this world would not end so long as the Cup of Woe remained in its rightful place of honor in ancient Aldren Priory. That this prophecy was uttered by the patroness of our own monastery, by the namesake of this very village in which we stand tonight; such a thing could not possibly be a coincidence. It is the will of Heaven, the will of Our Mother Above! She has given us a sign, we are not abandoned! There is hope yet!”
He broke off briefly, near to rapture, breathing heavily. After a moment he went on again.
“I have called you here to inform you of my intention: I will return the Cup of Woe to its proper place. I will go alone if I must, but first I ask if any here assembled will join me in this quest. I will not lie; the road is long, and doubtless filled with danger. Few who have left these valleys have returned. No, alas, we are not assured of victory, only that victory is possible. But what other choice do we have? Shall we wait, as the earth withers, slowly starving? Shall we meekly cower, praying only that we remain hidden for another year, another season?
“I ask again: Has anyone here the courage, the faith, the will to do what must be done?”
His last words spoken, Osric bowed his head and fell quiet. He had made his play, and there was nothing to do now but see how his plan was received.
Sorry about the long-winded intro. So, you have volunteered. You will accompany the Cup of Woe to its rightful place, or die trying. Please feel free to fill out a character sheet and ask any questions you may have. I will add more to the lore sections below as necessary, particularly as the adventure proceeds.
In the north of Monothrana, hidden away deep in the Silverpeak Mountains, seven small villages hold out against the end of the world. Through hard work they scratch a thin living from the soil, though every year the yield is a little less. Some are zealous in their optimism that things will turn around, but most are just quietly desperate. Even so, there are moments of levity at spring dances and harvest fairs, and the goodness of the old world (such as it was) is not entirely forgotten.
The villagers are ethnically diverse, having fled from every corner of Monothrana and beyond to the safety of the mountains. Some worship gods outside The Faith, or none at all. Village elders handle the day-to-day affairs of government, with major decisions being made at assemblies where all adults vote. Class distinction has been rendered largely irrelevant. Men who had once been knights and high lords have no more say than goatherds and plowmen.
No children have been born for nearly twenty years, and the crisis that this fact may entail is already apparent. Time is running out, and soon the population may be too old to feed itself.
The largest and most important village is Saint Antonia, situated in the highlands near the center of the territory. Here is the best pastureland for cattle, as well as the Gray Maiden, the only fully-fledged inn. The inhabitants of this village have the most regular contact with the Order, and some of the leading men and women act as intermediaries in trade with the outlying settlements.
Other villages include: Whimble, a center for mead and beer production, and which also contains a number of disused silver mines; Lastbridge, a watchful settlement athwart the only easy pass in or out of the Silverpeak Mountains; and Fairwater, a fishing village built along the banks of the mighty River Irenflow, boasting both a sawmill and a gristmill.
On the rocky heights above the largest village, Saint Antonia, looms the monastery of the same name. Behind its high walls the monks and nuns of the Order of Holy Wisdom work and pray ceaselessly. They are largely self-sufficient, and trade with the villagers for what little they cannot grow or make for themselves. The knowledge of the scribes in their great library is an asset to the community, aiding in a wide variety of projects.
Their true purpose, however, is far more significant than repairing bridges and and copying manuscripts. By their magical arts they maintain a barrier that no evil can pass, a ward that not even the most powerful lord of Hell has managed to peer through. As far as the Order can tell, the demons don't even know of their presence.
It is doubtful, however, that this subterfuge will last forever. As many capable novices as could be found have been pressed into service with the Order, but with no new children being born eventually the monks and nuns will be too few to maintain the barrier.
The rough country now home to the Seven Villages was once part of the Kingdom of Pendria, the most powerful of the Monothanian realms. A great highway, often called the King's Road, ran north from the royal city of Caerlon, through the rich green fields of the Pendish Midlands, before terminating at the former mining town of Whimble.
Once the King's Road was famous for its safety. Inns and watchtowers were built at regular intervals along its length, usually about half a day's travel apart, and armed patrols passed frequently in either direction. By all accounts, this is no longer the case.
As Aldren Priory is located rather close to Caerlon, it is likely that the King's Road will be the first path taken by the party.
The currency-based economics that once facilitated commerce in Monothrana has been all but forgotten in the mountains, where gold and silver are now valued only for their ability to shine brightly in the firelight above a mantle. Simple bartering (and outright gifting) is the norm, though more complex transactions can be simplified by recourse to a unit of account known simply as the Pound. A Pound is the arbitrarily-fixed value of a one-pound iron bar, of the sort used in elder days to balance a merchant's scale.
Since very few actual Pounds are in circulation, is is exceedingly difficult for anyone to build wealth over the long term. This has had a leveling effect on the villagers as a whole, as the disparity between the richest and poorest among them is rather small.
The Continent of Monothrana (often simply called the Midrealms, owing to its position near the center of the known world) was once home to kingdoms, republics, and principalities of every description. The most significant of these were the Kingdom of Pendria, the Kingdom of Boliponia, and the Republic of Cortes.
Monothrana was a rich land, divided politically but united culturally. The Faith dominated religious life in every realm, its clerics and monks moving freely across borders. A common tongue, the High Speech, bound the upper classes together, while vulgar dialects spoken by the common folk of the various realms were (mostly) mutually intelligible.
Though sporadic warfare between the Midrealms was common, a delicate balance of power usually stopped these conflicts from escalating out of control and kept any one state from becoming truly preeminent over its neighbors. Complex, multi-polar diplomatic negotiations were the norm.
But things have changed. The world beyond the sheltered mountain valleys has been laid to waste, cities decimated and kingdoms of ancient pedigree reduced to ashes and memories. There are still many people, and here and there even towns, but you should not expect to make friends on the road. The few places where humans are not ruled directly by demons are little better off. Savage cruelty is the order of the day, and the whims of petty warlords are the only law.
Formerly a part of the Kingdom of Pendria, Watshire was a strategically-significant territory of vast forests and rocky highlands ruled by the mighty Rowan Clan. Laying between the fertile agricultural lands of the Pendish Midlands and the mineral wealth of the Silverpeak Mountains, its lords were tasked with protecting against incursions from the neighboring states to the east and west. Over generations of loyal service they grew both rich and powerful, building imposing fortresses and founding religious houses to glorify themselves and their gods. None of this availed them against the forces of darkness.
Watshire escaped the worst of the desolation that was visited upon the southern lands of Pendria, yet it would still be unrecognizable to its former rulers. The monasteries and shrines have long since been despoiled, and the cities decimated. Many of the castles and strongholds remain more or less intact, though, now serving as bases for local human warlords. These unsavory men and women rule as petty-kings and -queens, largely free of interference from Hell. This independence comes at a price: The demon-lords have an ever-growing need for new thralls, and so the warlords of Watshire must constantly war among themselves to take enough captives to fulfill their demands. The raiding bands are seldom particular about who they seize.
Mere human cruelty is not the only danger here. The depths of the Rowanwood, through which the King's Road runs for many leagues, is said to be be home to all manner of frightful creatures: wolves, spiders, and other beasts of monstrous size stalk their prey at will; malevolent spirits haunt ruined settlements and tempt unwary travelers to their doom; and various demonic beings, of lesser strength and intelligence than true demons, wander aimlessly in search of mortal flesh.
In theory any human is capable of learning magic, but most would require decades of strenuous effort to achieve even the simplest spells. Perhaps as few as one in a thousand have the inborn ability to really learn, but with proper training those few can work wonders. This ability generally manifests in early childhood, often first noticed by a dramatic (and unconscious) discharge of magical power. Such children are sent off at once to learn to control their abilities under a master or mistress of the arts, lest they be a danger to themselves and those around them.
Unless some few have hidden their talents, every magically-capable resident of the Seven Villages has been pressed into service with the Order of Holy Wisdom. Such heavy-handedness is regrettable, but without enough mages to maintain the Barrier all would be lost.
Interestingly, there does seem to be an unusually high number of mages among the local people, approaching ten times the average seen in elder days. None can say for sure why this is, but many suspect divine intervention to be the cause.
The Faith revolves around the worship of Our Mother Above the Queen of Heaven and her son Omida, the god-man and advocate of humanity. Alongside these are a panoply of lesser gods and saints which make up the Heavenly Court. The Faithful believe that, should they behave themselves, they will be reborn upon the Starry Field and live forever at the feet of the Mother Above. It is further asserted that, at the completion of the Last Days, She will unsheathe The Sword Unstained and destroy the Demon King.
Each of the Seven Villages maintains its own shrine to the gods of the Faith, and a few even keep holy places dedicated to foreign deities. Faithful shrines are administered by members of the Order of Holy Wisdom, who hold regular services for the edification and salvation of the villagers.
The heart of the Faith is to be found in a large body of ancient texts. The most prominent of these include the Book of the Law, the Book of Dreams, and the Book of Wisdom. These are joined by lesser works of edification, namely commentaries penned by religious scholars and books detailing the lives and deeds of holy saints. Careful study of these texts plays an essential role in the training of monks, nuns, and priests, and they are also popular reading for educated laypeople.
Religious rites include baptism by water, formal marriage ceremonies, weekly sacrifices of sanctified alcohol accompanied by prayerful singing, and cremation of the dead, whose ashes are scattered in a ritual pattern determined the the position of the stars at the moment of death.
The Faithful are commanded to speak honestly, to live humbly, to act with charity, and to kill only as a last resort. They are likewise forbidden from engaging in adultery, gambling, fraud, and are discouraged from seeking wealth over spiritual purity. As one might imagine, the extent to which an individual obeys these precepts can vary considerably.
While there is no legal requirement for villagers to participate in the Faith, the turbulence of the present age has resulted in a level of peer pressure that most would find difficult to resist.
Name: Self-explanatory.
Age: How old is your character? I was vague about exactly how long ago children stopped being born, but I think 17-18 years of age would be a good minimum. While I think it would be best that no one's too old, to preserve a sense of surprise at what the cataclysm has done to the outside world, I'm not going to set a hard cap. Use your best judgment.
Strengths: What is your character good at? Particularly, what skills or abilities do they have that might be useful on this quest? Are they handy with a bow, or particularly quiet? Are they strong, or fearless? Feel free to list as many as you like, but I'd suggest no more than three or four.
Weaknesses: What is your character bad at? Are they easily frightened, or do they get along poorly with others? Please list at least one fewer weaknesses than strengths (two weaknesses for three strengths, for instance).
Features: What does your character look like? How does their voice sound? How do they generally dress? Go as nuts as you want with little details. You can also include a picture, if you like.
Connections: How is your character connected to another in the group? Are they a childhood friend, a romantic interest, a hated enemy? The Seven Villages aren't large, so you probably know everyone at least in passing. You can leave this section blank initially, and then work out connections among yourselves via PM or directly in the OOC thread. If you can't think of one for the other PCs, you can always ask me for ideas on how to connect to Brother Osric.
Bio: What is your character's story up to this point? Who are their parents? What kind of work do they do in the villages? You can make this section as long or as short as you like, though bear in mind that a youth that's never left the local area before is unlikely to have had too many adventures.
Assembly Response: How did your character react to Osric's spiel at the General Assembly? What did they think and say when they volunteered? Essentially, this is a writing sample. It can be as long or short as you like, and you don't need to include a reaction to other PCs responses if you don't want to. Your character doesn't even have to speak, if they're not much on conversation.
Edit 8/4: Expanded most of the existing lore blurbs, and also added sections covering local economics and the King's Road, a likely route out of the mountains. I'm unsure if adding more lore would be useful/necessary at this stage, but if anyone wants more information about something I'd be happy to add it.
Edit 8/13:Anyone interested in participating is still very much free to do so. At present the existing party hasn't yet left its rendezvous point, so there's no problem with late-comers joining in.
Edit 8/21: I think that's probably enough for now.
The old folks say that once things had been decent. The good earth was rich, and trade flowed along the highways and the sea-lanes. People lived in peace, most of the time. Oh, certainly there were wars; knights charged boldly in their shining mail, soldiers killed and died. But even the nastiest of those wars had their ends, and life went on. New people were born, homes were rebuilt, and things went on more or less as they had before. But something changed, though they can never seem to agree on just what happened: Maybe the wizards got greedy, wanted more power than they ought to have had; maybe the priests turned to wickedness and blasphemy; or maybe the kings grew proud, and thought themselves as gods. There is considerably less debate over what came next: The Last Days.
At first Evil worked subtly, secretly. Demons walked in the guise of men, and poisoned the minds of the mighty. Kings and lords grew paranoid, believing their neighbors of plotting against them and began to make plans of their own. Soon the land was plunged into fratricidal warfare. Even the lowly were not spared; men and women who before had been kind were suddenly driven to violent fits of madness, and committed all manner of unspeakable acts against family and friends. Then strange signs began to appear: the Earth shook, and the stars fell from the sky like rain; the sun fell dark, like sackcloth, and the moon was red like blood; the weather became treacherous and unpredictable, and soil that was once bountiful was now meager; whole herds of cattle died mysteriously, and beasts of burden fell sick; births slowed to a trickle, and suddenly stopped altogether.
By the time the servants of Hell were working openly it was too late to stop them, though some did try: The princes of the Holy League; the Knights of the Four Corners; the Order of Saint Gwydion. All were cast down, their bodies ground to dust beneath the tread of infernal legions. All hope faded.
All but here. Here, in the wild mountain valleys of the north, a desperate few cling to life and hope. This handful of villages, too small and remote to be any great concern for the forces of evil, are home to the last free people in the world. Guided and protected the Order of Holy Wisdom, they enjoy a precious measure of safety, and have for many years. This is your home, the only one you have ever truly known. You are one of the last children to be born before the Doom fell, and now you have to leave.
But you won't be going alone.
Alright, thanks for reading. In summary, a cataclysmic series of events has been visited upon the world, for reasons that are not altogether clear. The player characters are a group of young people living in one of the only (or perhaps the only) safe places left. The holy men and women of the Order of Holy Wisdom have come to believe that a recently recovered artifact, The Cup of Woe, might hold the key to restoring cosmic order and banishing the demonic hordes from the world. It must, they assert, be returned to its rightful place at Aldren Priory.
There is a problem, however: Most of the monks and nuns are too old to undertake the long and dangerous journey. Only one is willing and able to go, the young and zealous Brother Osric. But knowing he could never hope to make it alone, he calls a general assembly and explains his quest to the villagers before asking for volunteers to accompany him. Many skills might prove useful on the road, and for whatever reason you step forward – or perhaps, are gently persuaded to do so by your friends and family.
And so you set out, with a handful of other young people and Brother Osric, braving the terrors of the outside world with little more than a faint hope that you'll come out of it alive.
So, that's pretty much it. I'm hoping for 4-6 players, though I imagine it could probably work with less. Let me know if you're interested, and feel free to ask questions. I've included some lore below, which I'll probably expand upon by the time I post an OOC thread.
In the north of Monothrana, hidden away deep in the Silverpeak Mountains, seven small villages hold out against the end of the world. Through hard work they scratch a thin living from the soil, though every year the yield is a little less. Some are zealous in their optimism that things will turn around, but most are just quietly desperate. Even so, there are moments of levity at spring dances and harvest fairs, and the goodness of the old world (such as it was) is not entirely forgotten.
The villagers are ethnically diverse, having fled from every corner of Monothrana and beyond to the safety of the mountains. Some worship gods outside The Faith, or none at all. Village elders handle the day-to-day affairs of government, with major decisions being made at assemblies where all adults vote. Class distinction has been rendered largely irrelevant. Men who had once been knights and high lords have no more say than goatherds and plowmen.
No children have been born for nearly twenty years, and the crisis that this fact may entail is already apparent. Time is running out, and soon the population may be too old to feed itself.
The largest and most important village is Saint Antonia, situated in the highlands near the center of the territory. Here is the best pastureland for cattle, as well as the Gray Maiden, the only fully-fledged inn. The inhabitants of this village have the most regular contact with the Order, and some of the leading men and women act as intermediaries in trade with the outlying settlements.
Other villages include: Whimble, a center for mead and beer production, and which also contains a number of disused silver mines; Lastbridge, a watchful settlement athwart the only easy pass in or out of the Silverpeak Mountains; and Fairwater, a fishing village built along the banks of the mighty River Irenflow, boasting both a sawmill and a gristmill.
On the rocky heights above the largest village, Saint Antonia, looms the monastery of the same name. Behind its high walls the monks and nuns of the Order of Holy Wisdom work and pray ceaselessly. They are largely self-sufficient, and trade with the villagers for what little they cannot grow or make for themselves. The knowledge of the scribes in their great library is an asset to the community, aiding in a wide variety of projects.
Their true purpose, however, is far more significant than repairing bridges and and copying manuscripts. By their magical arts they maintain a barrier that no evil can pass, a ward that not even the most powerful lord of Hell has managed to peer through. As far as the Order can tell, the demons don't even know of their presence.
It is doubtful, however, that this subterfuge will last forever. As many capable novices as could be found have been pressed into service with the Order, but with no new children being born eventually the monks and nuns will be too few to maintain the barrier.
The rough country now home to the Seven Villages was once part of the Kingdom of Pendria, the most powerful of the Monothanian realms. A great highway, often called the King's Road, ran north from the royal city of Caerlon, through the rich green fields of the Pendish Midlands, before terminating at the former mining town of Whimble.
Once the King's Road was famous for its safety. Inns and watchtowers were built at regular intervals along its length, usually about half a day's travel apart, and armed patrols passed frequently in either direction. By all accounts, this is no longer the case.
As Aldren Priory is located rather close to Caerlon, it is likely that the King's Road will be the first path taken by the party.
The currency-based economics that once facilitated commerce in Monothrana has been all but forgotten in the mountains, where gold and silver are now valued only for their ability to shine brightly in the firelight above a mantle. Simple bartering (and outright gifting) is the norm, though more complex transactions can be simplified by recourse to a unit of account known simply as the Pound. A Pound is the arbitrarily-fixed value of a one-pound iron bar, of the sort used in elder days to balance a merchant's scale.
Since very few actual Pounds are in circulation, is is exceedingly difficult for anyone to build wealth over the long term. This has had a leveling effect on the villagers as a whole, as the disparity between the richest and poorest among them is rather small.
The Continent of Monothrana (often simply called the Midrealms, owing to its position near the center of the known world) was once home to kingdoms, republics, and principalities of every description. The most significant of these were the Kingdom of Pendria, the Kingdom of Boliponia, and the Republic of Cortes.
Monothrana was a rich land, divided politically but united culturally. The Faith dominated religious life in every realm, its clerics and monks moving freely across borders. A common tongue, the High Speech, bound the upper classes together, while vulgar dialects spoken by the common folk of the various realms were (mostly) mutually intelligible.
Though sporadic warfare between the Midrealms was common, a delicate balance of power usually stopped these conflicts from escalating out of control and kept any one state from becoming truly preeminent over its neighbors. Complex, multi-polar diplomatic negotiations were the norm.
But things have changed. The world beyond the sheltered mountain valleys has been laid to waste, cities decimated and kingdoms of ancient pedigree reduced to ashes and memories. There are still many people, and here and there even towns, but you should not expect to make friends on the road. The few places where humans are not ruled directly by demons are little better off. Savage cruelty is the order of the day, and the whims of petty warlords are the only law.
In theory any human is capable of learning magic, but most would require decades of strenuous effort to achieve even the simplest spells. Perhaps as few as one in a thousand have the inborn ability to really learn, but with proper training those few can work wonders. This ability generally manifests in early childhood, often first noticed by a dramatic (and unconscious) discharge of magical power. Such children are sent off at once to learn to control their abilities under a master or mistress of the arts, lest they be a danger to themselves and those around them.
Unless some few have hidden their talents, every magically-capable resident of the Seven Villages has been pressed into service with the Order of Holy Wisdom. Such heavy-handedness is regrettable, but without enough mages to maintain the Barrier all would be lost.
Interestingly, there does seem to be an unusually high number of mages among the local people, approaching ten times the average seen in elder days. None can say for sure why this is, but many suspect divine intervention to be the cause.
The Faith revolves around the worship of Our Mother Above the Queen of Heaven and her son Omida, the god-man and advocate of humanity. Alongside these are a panoply of lesser gods and saints which make up the Heavenly Court. The Faithful believe that, should they behave themselves, they will be reborn upon the Starry Field and live forever at the feet of the Mother Above. It is further asserted that, at the completion of the Last Days, She will unsheathe The Sword Unstained and destroy the Demon King.
Each of the Seven Villages maintains its own shrine to the gods of the Faith, and a few even keep holy places dedicated to foreign deities. Faithful shrines are administered by members of the Order of Holy Wisdom, who hold regular services for the edification and salvation of the villagers.
The heart of the Faith is to be found in a large body of ancient texts. The most prominent of these include the Book of the Law, the Book of Dreams, and the Book of Wisdom. These are joined by lesser works of edification, namely commentaries penned by religious scholars and books detailing the lives and deeds of holy saints. Careful study of these texts plays an essential role in the training of monks, nuns, and priests, and they are also popular reading for educated laypeople.
Religious rites include baptism by water, formal marriage ceremonies, weekly sacrifices of sanctified alcohol accompanied by prayerful singing, and cremation of the dead, whose ashes are scattered in a ritual pattern determined the the position of the stars at the moment of death.
The Faithful are commanded to speak honestly, to live humbly, to act with charity, and to kill only as a last resort. They are likewise forbidden from engaging in adultery, gambling, fraud, and are discouraged from seeking wealth over spiritual purity. As one might imagine, the extent to which an individual obeys these precepts can vary considerably.
While there is no legal requirement for villagers to participate in the Faith, the turbulence of the present age has resulted in a level of peer pressure that most would find difficult to resist.
Jan nodded grimly as the mage gave him her burial instructions. It was not the first time someone had given him such a charge. He was fortunate that he had only rarely had to carry out such instructions With luck, he would not have to learn which realm Illium was. He watched as she floated toward one of the orcs. He was going to remind Ren that this was contrary to the plan he had just suggested, but it was too late- and, beside, the adrenaline was surging through his body. He had nearly forgotten his plan himself.
Taking up his shield across his right arm, he surveyed his oncoming opponents. They were three: One with a longsword, one with two blades, and one with a great mace, which Ren had already begun to assault with some manner of spell. Wasting no time, Jan turned to his remaining men.
“You three!” He called, pointing his sword toward the orc with the longsword. “On that one! Stay close, charge together! The other one is mine!”
And the priest charged, followed shortly after by the militiamen. Their spears would be better used against the orc with the longer weapon, and Jan reasoned their resolve would hold better if they stuck together.
Their orc, spotting their charge, broke ranks with it's comrade, just as Jan had hoped. The monster was quick, however. Before the spears fell upon it's frame, it struck a sidelong blow at one of the older men. The poor fellow went down screaming in agony, his left leg nearly cleft through.
But the orc had left a wide opening for the other two and crumpled back with a thud to the ground, impaled twice through the chest.
As the two remaining militiamen were struggling to free their weapons from the carcass of their fresh-slain enemy, Jan closed the distance with his quarry. The orc seemed sure of himself, despite his odds of survival. Jan cried out, raising his sword.
“Ristoth and glory!”
Shield ahead, he made a feinting strike at the orc's midriff. The orc parried, and struck a glancing blow off of Jan's shield. Sensing his opportunity, Jan shoved his shield hard at the orc, bloodying it's ghastly face.
With his enemy off balance, the priest made a heavy-handed downstroke toward its groin. Blood gouted from between it's legs as it toppled clumsily to the ground, losing one sword in the process.
It flailed wildly with its remaining weapon, but it was nearly helpless now. The priest had little trouble running his sword through the thing's neck.
“Aye!” Jan cried out above the din.
“And there is more of that for ye lot!”
He had not yet noticed his wounded man, and glanced back to see the rest of his squadron. The look of triumph ran away from his face, and he sprinted back toward poor fellow on the ground. It was a grievous wound, and needed attention immediately. He turned toward the youngest of his charges, who had only just pried his weapon from a dead orc.
“You lad! Get this fellow to the rear! See he's looked to, then come right back.”
The ploughboy nodded and drove his spear into the earth before beginning to drag his injured comrade. Moving was evidently painful, as the fellow screamed as he went.
Jan frowned at Ren's comments. Uncouth, she was, and a mage as well. He had never held much regard for spellcraft. Quite useful on the battlefield, certainly, but mages tended to make poor soldiers. They were brave enough, as a rule- had to be, to tamper with powers ethereal- but they often seemed to handle authority poorly. Too individualistic, they meshed poorly with massed formations.
This one certainly seemed sure of herself. Sure enough to make a veiled threat against a superior. The priest couldn't help but admire her spirit. He decided against picking a fight with her. Maybe later, if they both survived.
“My apologies, dear lady,” he said, with a curt half-bow. “I suppose the word I should have used was 'foreign.' Perhaps 'unusual.' In any event I must say it is lovely. I do hope no blood spills upon it.”
He smiled then, revealing his missing teeth.
“I am Father Jan Oremus. A priest, as you surmised, and a trained warrior- as you may not have. As I was telling these lads,”
He gestured at their three militiamen. Two looked to be in the forties, not much younger than Jan himself. The third was much younger, probably less than twenty tears. All three bore spears, with daggers at their belts.
“I will try to hold the front, while-”
He heard the winding of the signal horn, and looked to the horizon. Orcs. They would be upon the ragged band soon. He turned back to Ren, laying his shield gingerly upon the ground for a moment, and drew his dirk from his waist into his right hand. He held it out to the spellweaver, all levity gone from his face.
“Take my dagger. You may need it, should the enemy overpower us and close upon you.”
He smiled again, thinly and in spite of himself, turning back to watch the oncoming orcs.
“I pray it proves unnecessary. I have waited long for this moment, and they will not pass me easily.”
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