Lord Wyron

D&D 3.5e - The Marches of the Savage Realm

ℜ𝔢𝔫𝔞𝔲𝔩𝔱 𝔅𝔢𝔞𝔲𝔪𝔬𝔫𝔱

---

Forced to center his focus back upon the tangible, Renault looked but did not see; his empty, unaware gaze meeting the Goliath's own. Or rather, from his height, her torso. Barely able to croak out a bewildered "Wh--" in response to her, Vah'lux's expression changed, her features twisting into a scowl not unlike that of an aggressive animal.

Immediately beset by rodent-like monstrosities as large as a mangy stray hound, Renault took a swift step back to avoid the two leaping at him, reaching for his shield beside him as he did so. But in his distraction, another rat struck from behind: foul-toothed fangs clamping around his shin, sending sharp, searing pain up his body. With a lone cry at the sudden attack, Renault lost his footing for a moment, forced to shift weight onto his uninjured leg.

Drawing his sword in one sweeping motion, Renault twisted his upper body to get as good a view as he could on the savage creature, swinging at it with all the grace of a butcher armed with meat cleaver. His inefficacy wasn't due to any fault of his own; even seven years out-of-practice, life spent training with a sword kept Renault a capable duelist - particularly when his opponent lacked hands to wield a sword. But his assailant knew where to strike on larger, bipedal foes, affecting his ability to properly fight on level field.

Though focused on his current predicament, Renault could hear his fellows engaged in battles of their own, and knew more than one had their eyes set on him as prey. He could only hope that they were easily-dispatched, lest he get overwhelmed by sheer numbers.

Attack roll on the Rat

20

Damage to Rat

9

D&D 3.5e - The Marches of the Savage Realm

ℜ𝔢𝔫𝔞𝔲𝔩𝔱 𝔅𝔢𝔞𝔲𝔪𝔬𝔫𝔱

---

With a look of concerned bewilderment, Renault once more set to discovery and investigation. There was something off in the air, something that caused his hair to stand on end. With each step he took, Renault couldn't help but wonder if there were another set of footprints he was hearing, just behind him. The burrows surrounding them, like jaws of oblivion clawing to the surface. It was enough to make any man wary.

There was a whisper in the back of Renault's mind, the whisper of instinct, one he'd tried for the past seven years to ignore. He had forsaken the powers and abilities that Erithar once granted him, for his sin made him unworthy of bearing the title. But maybe...

His movements clumsy and uncertain from time spent out of practice, Renault first dropped his shield upon the ground, drawing his hand to the crest that felt like a millstone around his neck. There was a pounding in his chest, whether from his heart or Erithar's symbol pulsating remained uncertain.

Though unable to grab his pendant proper through his breastplate, Renault could feel it even through the layers of armor-and-clothing he wore, and hoped it would be enough. With opposite hand, Renault outstretched his arm towards the field and burrows before him, eyes fluttering shut.

One of the first lessons he was taught in the Order was to perceive beyond his five senses. Good and evil were energies present in all things, living and non-living. Energy that, when properly strengthened, could bind itself even to wood or stone.

Tapping into means Renault thought he had forgotten, he opened his unseen eye to search for any presence of Evil that may lurk here, with a hushed "Reveal yourself" completing the spell's verbal requirement.

D&D 3.5e - The Marches of the Savage Realm

ℜ𝔢𝔫𝔞𝔲𝔩𝔱 𝔅𝔢𝔞𝔲𝔪𝔬𝔫𝔱

---

There was a stop in his gaze as he scanned the perimeter of wild-land beyond the once-claimed homestead. A shape - no, three - large and squarely built. Renault's eyes met with one of them; beady black orbs piercing back at him. 'Boars...' For awhile, at least what felt like awhile, both parties did nothing but stare at each other in tense showdown.

Silently cursing the fact that his shield was still secured to his back, Renault came-to-terms with the possibility of fighting with only a blade. He'd have to be quicker on his feet; dodging the beasts' perilous tusks and responding with a slash of steel. There was little doubt that he'd be forced on the defensive in a contest of strength, if not overwhelmed outright. But more than anything else, he had to stay standing. Falling prone would be a fast way to a gruesome death. It was uncommon for a boar to kill a man outright, though not out of any mercy or malice on the beast's part. Most men gored perished within a day or two from infected wounds too deep to be properly treated without the aid of a dedicated healer.

But Renault's thoughts and worries dissipated as the three boars ran - not towards them but away, back into the woods where they made their home. Most men would have breathed a sigh of relief, let their guard down, if only for a moment or two. But boars, like all beasts of the wild, operated under survival instinct. Did their party present a threat the boars weren't willing to engage? Or was there something stronger, tougher lurking just beyond their sight?

With the threat gone for the moment, Renault took a moment to retrieve his shield, securing it to his forearm. "Best keep going." He said mildly, treading cautiously toward the field.

D&D 3.5e - The Marches of the Savage Realm

ℜ𝔢𝔫𝔞𝔲𝔩𝔱 𝔅𝔢𝔞𝔲𝔪𝔬𝔫𝔱

---

Renault couldn't help but shift his gaze to the group's mysterious Elf companion with a look of tired agitation. In the short time he'd known her, she seemed devoted to biting the hand that freed them by any means necessary. They were prisoners, still, and didn't exactly have the privilege of objection in the tasks assigned to them.

The Marches were no mere woodland, and it was more than likely that any creature they encountered would be beyond taming. But Renault was thankful that Marthan was a man of patience and reason, more suited for the robe he wore than the stern helm of distributing justice. Not an insult, for there was more virtue in a heart that bled heavily for others than one hardened to the world's cries.

Though doing his best to present himself - and the group - with a certain confidence, Renault could not deny the anxiety that was welling in his chest as the reality of their task sank in. He rarely, if ever, dealt with wild beasts in his time as a Paladin. Andallia and Dorrathar boasted walls and fortifications sufficient enough to weather even Nature's might. But the unwalled towns and villages on the outskirts, much like Reddenbarrow, had to make do with whatever manpower they could muster. Those closest to the cities could count on at least a detachment of trained guardsmen to respond to threats, but a wolf pack or lone brown bear could make quick work of several men if caught unawares.

It was times like this where Renault missed the protection of full plate.

With Renault entrusted with the scroll and its case, it was time for them all to be on their way. Using the temple's only other room, Renault took the spare few minutes they had to don his scale armor, ensuring every buckle and strap was comfortably secured to his body.

Now as prepared as he was going to be, Renault and his four companions were gently ushered out of the temple with reminder of their task's haste and the time it would take to reach their destination.

Walking towards what would almost certainly be a fight, Renault's muscles tensed, his heartbeat quickened, and his eyes glanced all around them for any sign of ambush. But the walk south was quiet...peaceful, even. As fortunate as that was, it did little to calm Renault. He anticipated battle, and unseen as it was, the threat still loomed overhead, manifesting as flashes in his peripheral vision that he would have ignored in any other circumstance.

Stopping when their group came across the clearing and the charred husk of the farm Marthan spoke of, Renault swallowed hard. It was unsettling for him to see the vibrant green-gold of the vegetation creeping onto the scorched earth and blackened wood of what was, at one point, a quaint and fertile land.

“There is much death here as there is life. Be on guard.”

Renault looked to Vah'lux and nodded in agreement at her words. With hand reaching towards the hilt of his blade against his hip, Renault allowed instinct to take over as he cautiously began to move further into the clearing; and closer to the desiccated corpse of the farmhouse.

"Form up, don't stray too far." He warned to the others, scanning both the burned building and the outlying woods for sign of life, be it passive or hostile.

Initiative Roll

16

D&D 3.5e - The Marches of the Savage Realm

ℜ𝔢𝔫𝔞𝔲𝔩𝔱 𝔅𝔢𝔞𝔲𝔪𝔬𝔫𝔱

---

After stepping in the temple proper, Renault froze in place, as if anticipating that he would catch fire any moment. Feeling exactly the same as he had, Renault let his guard down; moving to inspect the few pews that decorated the temple, gliding his fingers across the old wood. Eyeing the ornate stained-glass windows that helped distinguish the temple's otherwise humble construction. He felt at peace, like he was in familiar territory - though he hadn't visited Reddenbarrow's temple until now.

At Marthan's offer for prayer and offering, Renault smiled softly, a gesture nearly hidden beneath his beard. His smile quickly faded, however, when the Elf responded with venom and spite. Tensed by a flash of anger, Renault's grip on the pew tightened until the wood creaked in muted agony, though he said not a word. Internalizing as much of it as he could, no amount of discipline or stoicism could hide the indignation in Renault's eyes.

Before things could escalate further, it was Gorosk who made move to dispel the Elf's anger by appealing to Erithar's indifference to other gods' worship. Indeed, this was a tenet of His that many within the Order tended to forget, if not ignore outright. Renault had witnessed many supposed heretics flogged, beaten, or even executed for blasphemy. Though never directly participating in such affairs, Renault would often stand guard as an armed-and-armored symbol of the Order's might, shielded by steel and faith. With features obscured beneath a great helm, he was Renault no longer, but an extension of the Order's reach and will.

Swallowing disdain as the all-too-familiar feeling of guilt crept up his throat, Renault's grip loosened along with his anger. Truly, he was in no position to judge, for innocent though he may be in the eyes of Erithar, he was a wayward son, still, unable to find his way home.

As Marthan moved back-and-forth between the temple's antechamber and an unseen second room, his movements and demeanor were more comfortable, controlled. As small as the temple was, there was a closeness Renault could see between it and Marthan. Paired like a husband and wife, intimate and understanding. For men of the cloth, this was their bond.

Renault followed after Gorosk, Vah'lux, and Quentin as Marthan brought their bundled gear to the main room, wrapped in wool blankets for storage and safekeeping. Finding his, he gingerly unfolded the fabric covering, revealing his sword and dagger sheathed beside each other. Lifting the sword up, Renault drew it from its scabbard, his deft movements hinting at familiarity, perhaps even training with the weapon. Glinting in the early light beamed through the temple's windows, the sword was as humble-looking as its wielder, bearing no adornment in either hilt, blade, or sheath. It was a practical weapon, one that wouldn't look out-of-place in the hands of a guardsman or sellsword. His shield and dagger were much of the same; with the former bearing no standard on the front, whether for lord, land, or association.

Returning the blade to its scabbard, Renault made quick work securing both sword and dagger to his belt, feeling greater security and comfort at their return. Joining the others in giving thanks, Renault nodded humbly at Marthan with a smile and a meek "My thanks."

As Marthan left and returned for the last time, bearing scroll-in-case, the matter of their earned redemption came at hand. There was an anxious uncertainty to the vagueness associated "creatures of the wood", stirring in Renault's minds the ghost stories and folktales of the Marches. Whatever these creatures were, be they beasts of the wild or something...worse, it was up to them to cleanse the land.

Pausing for a moment, mouth forming empty shapes as Renault struggled at what to say, the words soon found him, concise and clear. "We will do what we must."

D&D 3.5e - The Marches of the Savage Realm

ℜ𝔢𝔫𝔞𝔲𝔩𝔱 𝔅𝔢𝔞𝔲𝔪𝔬𝔫𝔱

---

Reddenbarrow. The village, quaint and unassuming as it was, held the distinction of being the last bastion that separated mankind's handiwork from the Marches and the dread wilderness beyond. Few had dared try and civilize the lands past this point, and those that did lacked the ability or resources to cultivate anything grander than a few thatched buildings. In a twist of irony, the area past the outskirts of Reddenbarrow seemed almost peaceful, at least to the unassuming eye. But there was something, something past Renault's own eyes that gave the Marches its grim reputation, embellished or otherwise. For a time simply staring out, Renault bitterly noted how being sent out here was all-but-equal to condemning them to the headsman's axe; and arguably a crueler fate than that.

Brought out of his momentary reverie as the priest spoke again, Renault brought his gaze to the younger man as well as the stone building beside, bearing Erithar's standard above the door. Feeling the weight of his pendant almost pull on him with a throbbing that instinctively drew his hand towards the crest separated by the moth-eaten folds of his clothing, Renault took one step, wary and uncertain, closer. As the priest - Marthan - unlocked and opened the door, inviting them in, Renault's movements turned timid, cautious; as if he were in the presence of a serpent in the tall grass.

Treading closer to the threshold that separated the mortal from the divine, Renault dragged his fingers along the frame and the unfaltering stone, his heart pounding in his ears. He hadn't stepped foot in a temple since his exile, better for everyone that way. Renault stopped and looked up to the heavens, perhaps looking for a sign, or even Erithar, Himself looking back at him.

Seeing no such sign, and left with only his own discernment, Renault crossed the border into the temple.

D&D 3.5e - The Marches of the Savage Realm

ℜ𝔢𝔫𝔞𝔲𝔩𝔱 𝔅𝔢𝔞𝔲𝔪𝔬𝔫𝔱

---

The moment he stepped foot outside, Renault shot a hand over his eyes, nearly overtaken by blindness as the fresh beams of the morning sun hit his gaze. By the gods, how the days spent in dark confinement had ruined his eyesight. But his initial discomfort lasted only seconds before turning to sudden relief. Renault did not fall to his knees or let his fingers run across the leaves as Gorosk did. Rather, there was a visible relaxing in his shoulders, as though a great weight had been lifted. He let out a deep exhale, taking in the first breath of fresh air he had in days.

Now in plain view, all around could see just how ragged Renault had become during his imprisonment. His countenance, already-untidy when the militia first found him, had fallen further into neglect. His face and hair were tinted brown with dirt-and-grime, highlighting every crag and wrinkle; and it was clear he was in desperate need of a shave and haircut.

With chests emptied before them, Renault quickly set upon his confiscated possessions, fishing through his pack and traveling gear in search of that glint of silver. Seeing it out of the corner of his eye, Renault wrapped his callused fingers around the pendant, drawing it close to his chest. The cool metal soon turned warm in his grip; warm enough that a superstitious man might have placed significance on it.

With a fresh set of modest clothing in his pack that felt to Renult like the finest silk, he made a mental note to change at the first possible opportunity...and perhaps wash up while he was at it.

Clasping the pendant around his neck and hiding it beneath the collar of his worn tunic - a habit born out of shame - Renault ensured all his armor and other belongings were properly accounted for before hoisting the pack over one shoulder. He'd armor up once he was changed and had access to proper smallclothes. Still feeling somewhat vulnerable without access to his weapons, Renault assured himself that all would be returned to him in time. Reaching for his flask, Renault groaned, though not surprisingly, that its contents were empty and bone-dry. When imprisoned, Renault had resigned himself to their shared fate of stale black bread and lukewarm water. But now that they were free, with all the possibilities that came with it, the lust for wine returned.

As he caught sight of a mysterious fifth prisoner, an elf to boot, Renault shifted uncertainly from one leg to another. Elves were a rare sight; rare enough that some may go their entire lives without laying eyes on one, in Andallia especially. The Elf, however, was not standoffish, engaging Gorosk in conversation before being approached by Vah'lux.

It was only sensible: the five of them were to be together for the foreseeable future, expected to share food, camp, and come to each other's aid when necessary. Trust was a commodity, and one they all had to dispense to each other.

D&D 3.5e - The Marches of the Savage Realm

ℜ𝔢𝔫𝔞𝔲𝔩𝔱 𝔅𝔢𝔞𝔲𝔪𝔬𝔫𝔱

---

"Judgment in the eyes of the holy has been passed. You may pronounce divine judgment in the eyes of our god upon the next."
Releasing a breath he didn't realize he was holding, Renault felt something wash over him - a stirring of the heart, of the spirit. Stepping back from the bars, Renault's stance seemed uncertain, like he was afraid of falling.

Choosing instead to sit, Renault drew his knees in towards his chest and rested his head upon them, as if trying to imitate a posture of prayer. But no prayer formed, either on his lips or in his thoughts.

Quentin was next to be judged, and met his invitation with confidence born of apparent contempt. Mighty and indomitable as the gods were, the most irreverent of mortals only had to look up to spit in their eye. The priest's response was measured and thoughtful, echoing sermons of the temple. Though the more jaded among them might have found the priest's words to be not more than waxing theology, Renault felt a silent comfort. It was something beyond nostalgia...homesickness. He remembered the years spent in the temple back home, the fresh air perfumed by the censer's incense; priests in their ornate ceremonial robes, and Renault, himself in resplendent plate armor, bearing the sword-and-shield of his faith.

Then he remembered the sound of that same armor stripped and scattered upon the cold marble floor; his cloak torn from his shoulders, and his blade sheathed within the fabric. Grimly, Renault swallowed hard. No...this meant nothing.

Looking up to see the priest walk away from their cell, Renault could only hear his voice calling to Gorosk, offering Erithar's unbiased judgment even to one of 'cursed blood', as it was said. With the same words echoed now a third time, Renault knew only one remained: the pseudo-giantess Vah'Lux.

Puzzled, Renault was unsure on how a Goliath would perceive such a ritual, and how Erithar would reconcile it. The woman was silent, a stoic defense that neither admitted guilt nor professed innocence. She would not submit to justice or try to resist the spell, but simply weather it. Renault had to wonder if such endurance was a hallmark of her people, or a trait acquired through discipline and hardship.

With the words spoken a fourth and final time, both men withdrew from the prison and made way toward the entrance. Unable to discern what was being said, Renault reasonably pieced together that it had something to do with the test they had all been subject to, and what that meant for their final fates.

Rising again to his feet, Renault decided that he would accept his sentence with whatever small grace he could muster from within the cell. From the very first words spoken by the town justice, Renault found himself speechless aside from a choked sound he was unable to restrain. Innocent in the eyes of the divine. Renault struggled to even process the words as they were spoken. For seven years, he had felt his guilt upon his back, against his chest, and wrapped around his ankles. It was a part of him now. But for a moment - and only a moment - it felt as if the weight had been lifted.

"Have the guilty anything to say before the justice?"

Half-afraid and half-uncertain, the dangling glimmer of hope that their sentence held in front of it drew Renault's eyes, and with it, an assuredness he hadn't felt in years.

"We will not fail."

D&D 3.5e - The Marches of the Savage Realm

ℜ𝔢𝔫𝔞𝔲𝔩𝔱 𝔅𝔢𝔞𝔲𝔪𝔬𝔫𝔱

---

Was he dreaming? No...nightmare. Flashes of discordant sounds and images painted a horrific canvas; images that were so personal, yet tainted by sin and shame. In his head, he reached out, reaching for the one thing that could save him. But he took one step too far, and the ground beneath him fell.

Plummeting through shadow, his lifeline grew smaller, dimmer, heralded by a lone shriek.

A cloister bell began to ring.

---

"...Up, and up now." The ringing faded, eclipsed by the gruff voice of the jailer rapping his boot against the iron bars. With eyes weakly opening, Renault's lethargy lasted only a few moments when he saw who the jailer was accompanied by. A weight formed in his chest, followed by a tightening of the throat. This was it.

The nervousness he felt was only exacerbated by the first words spoken by the holy man: the Test of Purity. For ten years, Renault had seen such rituals performed by clerics, and even certain Paladins in the field. Their shared ability to ascertain one's motives and alignment all-but-trivialized many disputes, and hastened a process that could otherwise take days or even weeks.

Slowly rising to his feet on stiff, wobbly legs, Renault's mouth fell open as the priest drew back his hood and revealed the wooden symbol of Erithar worn around his neck. Overwhelmed with shame, Renault quickly bowed his head, as if subconsciously hoping the priest would not recognize his face. The absence of his own pendant made him feel naked, vulnerable.

Next came the words Renault had heard a hundred times a hundred different ways, yet this time more harrowing than the last. "May the holiest of holies, the name of our great sacred protector and judge of that which is righteous and good, find you all without stain in his vision for us all."

"May it be so." Renault responded, half to himself, and half to an unknown audience. Swallowing hard, he lifted his head to meet the priest's gaze. "I will go first." He said, the bravery in his voice wavering ever-so-slightly. "Judgment is an old friend." Taking one step closer towards the bars, Renault bowed slightly in deference, submitting himself.

D&D 3.5e - The Marches of the Savage Realm

ℜ𝔢𝔫𝔞𝔲𝔩𝔱 𝔅𝔢𝔞𝔲𝔪𝔬𝔫𝔱

---

What tensions had risen within the cramped confines of the prison dissipated just as quickly. With a heavy sigh, Renault seemed to visibly deflate, slumping against the wall and letting gravity take him down again. Even as he spoke, the words felt hollow coming out. How could one be expected to make the most of this - confinement. As it seemed, if the four of them weren't sentenced to death, it was just-as-likely they'd be left here to starve. Easy for a man to go mad within these walls that whisper such cruelties.

Though Renault had spent the last seven years trying to escape his past, coincidence -- or fate-- found him here with nothing else to draw upon. The Holy Order of Andallia taught him the value of poverty and humility. Noble sons that they were, those who joined were poor fellows united by faith and restrained by discipline. To live a comfortless life was devotion, and to deny yourself was to achieve closeness with Erithar.

So here he was: Andallia's most devout outcast.

Swallowing once, he mustered the breath and courage needed to speak again. "I've read about your people before - the Goliaths. Though more...conjecture than anything else, I suppose. What cruel fate brought you here?"