Category Archives: Tales from the Hinterlands

Events that take place in the Hinterlands outside Freehold.

March 2017 Prologue

PrologueRumors and News

[A BASEMENT SOMEWHERE IN FREEHOLD; MARCH 21, 2017 (WR)]

After Freydis the Whip snorted the Spice off of the table, her eyes rolled back and her body shuddered as the effects took her. Her half-empty goblet splashed wine upon her dress, her thrall-bodyguard and the meeting table even as her cup-filler thrall moved to ensure she never reached sobriety.

“Eve, my dear Chemist” She slurred when her vision returned. “Lucca’s lies, you’ve certainly outdone yourself this time!”

The candle flames shrouded the Silver Elf’s face in shadow, but her displeasure was known. She furrowed her brow and leaned upon the table before her. “Evestine, not Eve. Spice is for the ‘clients’ — not for you”

“Evestine is right. You indulge too much. What if your slaves revolt?” Valac’s right fingers curled and uncurled into a fist but his voice was even and firm, as it was to all folk he spoke to — superior, victim and underling. He kept his eyes on the door to their basement hideout. “I’d hate to have to clean another mess”

“Relaaaax” Freydis gestured with her goblet, staining the table and their plans with a dark crimson. “We have been pulling record numbers all moon, and even the moons before that. As for my *thralls*… they would. Not. Dare. A. Thing. Am I right, sweetling?”

Her bodyguard nodded, stoic and quiet at her question, then shivered and scratched at his facial brand when the slaver turned away.

Everyone, except heavy-lidded Freydis, jumped to their feet, weapon in hand, when the door slammed open. A tall tattooed human stalked in, his wrathful visage marked with a black dragon. A smaller figure followed behind him, the troll’s eyes peering cautiously at every shadow.

“Boss Dagmar” Valac nodded to his superior as he and folk at the table lowered their weapons. His deft fingers produced an alchemy stick and begin to light it with his flint-sparker.

The human took his place at the head of the table. The troll found his own on the opposite side, a place for the newer members of the leadership – such as Evestine.

As soon as weapons were sheathed and breathing was calmed, Dagmar let loose his wrath. The cup-bearer had not a chance to react as poisoned steel swept through him and added blackening blood unto the table and the reports upon it.

“Fucking Kingslayer!” Dagmar’s fury was far from sated and it grated on his voice like a grindstone.

“Dagmar, you butcher! These thralls are expensive!” Despite her words, Freydis spoke with the ease of one accustomed to buying and selling lives for little and less. Her sobriety returned to her with the death of her thrall, but only just so.

His eyes bulged and he lashed out at the Jotunbrud but her bodyguard got in his weapon’s path. The thrall fell at her feet, wounds darkened and blighted. She did not even look down.

“Fucking Brotherhood!” With a mighty slam, he broke the table in half. Candlewax, splinters and soaked papers adorned the ground. Candles died in pools of spilled wine and blood. In the wake of his rampage, silence and darkness hung in the air.

Valac’s face barely was lit by the burning ember of his alchemy stick. “They’re clamping down, Boss?”

“They’re clamping down hard” The troll answered for Dagmar, conjuring a light of his own with spellcraft instead of artifice. “They’re hitting all our ops they can find, from Northwall to Breakwater. Passing Port Dawson is easy, even for me – but there’s blood on the streets. Our people’s blood”

The meeting began to talk all at once, disagreeing, complaining and otherwise filling the room with the clangor of their discontent.

“Doesn’t matter!” Dagmar’s voice blotted out the rest of the discussion and echoed across the darkened basement. “Evestine, we double production! Freydis, we double profits! Valac, we start killing people in the streets! And you, Mule, keep the lanes open and help Valac bring in our own set of killers!”

His gaze quavered for a moment. “We do this right and we do this now! Before He gets involved!”

The quiet settled in again, a silent dread filling the space left by Dagmar’s words.

Evestine spoke, the Elf’s arms folded and her voice betraying annoyance. “Doubling production is easy with what we have. But what of the Brotherhood? The Freefolk? What of the King-slayer?”

“I can help with the last, I think” The troll, Zaalamon, smiled viciously. “After all… before he set his sharks on me, I used to be one of them”

Rumor (Anyone may read this)

The Brotherhood of the Sword and Cross, hired policing force of Freehold, were seen putting up wanted posters that seek out a reward for the death or capture of Syndicate leadership. These figures have been identified thusly:

Dagmar the Butcher – current leader of the Syndicate

Evestine the Chemist – alleged creator of “Spice”

Freydis the Whip – wanted for over a hundred counts of slavery

Valac the Fist – head enforcer of the Syndicate

Zaalamon the Mule – for possession and movement of illicit items and components

Furthermore, it has been revealed that — as of the moment, possession of any type of Spice and its derivatives has been declared illegal within the boundaries of Freehold and towns affected by the Treaty of Freehold. The Brotherhood intends to confiscate and punish those found with these substances.

 

Rumormonger skill only

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

January 2017 Prologue

PrologueRumors and OOG Note

[DEEP IN THE HINTERLANDS; JANUARY 7, 2017 (W.R.)]

“This is weakness” Jarl Thronggar spit on the ground. It was a moonless night but shimmering golden light illumined his snarl. “Better to flatten them while they stand, as oats before the blizzard! We are the servants of Winter are we not?”

The Winter Wolf growled with him, as if echoing the Jarl’s discontent.

Around them, five thin pillars of golden power rose from the ground. Every now and then, they would pulse power into the sky.

“There is no weakness in following the Witch-King of the North and the West!” The tall Birdkin stepped toward him, brandishing no weapon but his resolve. “He gives us direction, just as he gives us strength! Just as he will save us from chaos, from the curses of the Immortals and from the brutal injustice of the Solari!”

Such words would have cowed a lesser being, but not a Jarl from Jotunbrud. The Chained Kingdom followed strength and since Anubisath proved the strongest, then he would be followed above all. But Jotunbrud was a land that culled weakness from mortals and weak mortals from the world–mortals such as this Beastling.

“What would you know of the brutality of the Solari, you unblooded fool?” Thronggar’s laugh was a harsh one, like twisted steel upon steel. “I have seen my lands and my brethren burn from their unholy magics.”

Horusath narrowed his eyes and put his beak inches from the Jarl’s nose. “What they’ve done to your pithy people pales when compared to what’ve done to m–“

The Gletschenschreitener’s sudden, looming presence silenced their bickering as it strode from beyond the treeline. Blood stains coated its gigantic shield and ponderous frame, likely the evidence of its grim work on the local farmsteads of the Hinterlands.

“…HRRN…” it grunted and even the Winter Wolf took back a pace from its bulk, choosing instead to patrol the threshold. All arguments, all bickering seemed miniscule to the Gletschen and its sweeping gaze.

Jarl Thronggar returned a cursory grumble then stalked off to his task: channeling over one of the golden staff-like pillars to empower it. For all his brutishness, he was a skilled spell-user, masterful in the focusing and directing of his energies. Thus was the tradition for many of the Rune-Eater Warband of Jotunbrud, who esteemed spellcraft and magic over simple brawn.

For all the power it required, the Witch-King’s plan was as subtle as it was cunning and it allowed them to bypass the Spell Wards that would normally protect Freehold from a Battlefield-Scale Ritual. Their vengeance would be long in coming, but it would be no less as sweet – Winter was patient after all.

Horusath did not do the same, standing his ground instead and peering at the Gletschen. He found a fracture-line on its shield, one that was likely much bigger a few minutes ago but grew smaller by the second. It was a curious thing, considering that luckless farmers could not possibly harbor the strength necessary to even chip ice off of this monstrosity. Only an immense amount of power emitted in a sudden burst would do such damage – and yet, it was naught but a pittance to the gigantic beast.

“What happened?”

Its gaze locked unto Horusath and though he was Hand to the Witch-King, he felt smaller than even the merest of hatchlings. This was the Gletschenshreitener after all, Dragon-wrought and put to nigh eternal slumber by the ancient ones. It would only grow stronger and stronger while it remained awakened, while it supped upon the power around it. The creature hunched toward him, bloodstains gleaming in the golden light.

The creature rumbled as though to laugh. Its fist moved slowly toward him then opened to reveal a scrap of black cloth with a white cross that fluttered off into the winter wind.

Its azure eyes followed the scrap till it vanished into the night wind, then returned to look upon Horusath with the lifeless apathy of a butcher choosing the next of the herd for his chopboard.

“…NOTHING…”

Rumor (anyone may read this):
Rumormonger skill only
Hunter-gatherer skill only

Out of Game note: Until this scourge has been quelled, Survivalists cannot get their usual Herbal components at the beginning of the Month. Those who have been Chosen and Heralds of the Season for this year are not subject to the same penalty for their seasonal benefits — however, they still do not get the Herbal components at the beginning of the month for being Survivalists.

If Anubisath’s minions are allowed to run rampant, this may persist for several months.

 

October 2016 Prologue

PrologueRumors and News

[DEEP IN THE HINTERLANDS; OCTOBER 10, 2016 (W.R)]

In the shadows of a gnarled oak tree, the night air parted like a curtain and from beyond it stepped a tall figure that was more shadow than flesh. Keeping one arm raised, he held the portal open as an army of the dead entered the Hinterlands. Some were corpseless beings, gliding through the air. Others were gaunt and hungry for flesh. Yet all were bereft of life and made animate by fell magics.

The last to exist the portal was a stocky human, garbed with black armor and with pallid flesh that betrayed his undead status. He nodded to the portal keeper as he passed – the tall one frowned but lowered his arm. The aethyric rift closed shortly afterward

“Gerion!” a woman and two men approached the stocky man, their skin pallid in a similar manner. From their number, the man clad in wolf furs and tattooed features sneered. “Is this all that you’ve brought? You promised –”

With a touch to the tome he carried with him, Gerion Vard silenced the speaker.

The tattooed man stopped in mid-speech then fell to the ground, clutching his guts. He gasped. “Pain?! But I’m… we’re…”

“Undead?” Gerion let his eyes wander over the others, the tall shadowy creature joining their ranks. Whatever dissent or discord there were had disappeared. “Liches? Or close enough to one?”

“What have you done to us?” the other man spoke quietly, disgust in his tone. A black and green object jutted from his chest, as though he was run through from between his shoulder blades with it. “You’ve each given us our tasks and we’ve completed them, except for the idol –but  you owe us at least the truth of your motives”

“One by one, I have looked for you – sought you out by the merest whispers of rumor, by the smallest pieces of your ruin. And I have awakened you from your dooms—“

The woman whispered, the black whorls on her face seeming to move with her shadows. “–For vengeance”

“Aye” Gerion moved his hand away from his tome and the prone man stopped writhing. “For vengeance…yes, that is part of it. I may no longer be Pendrakken – but that word still means EVERYTHING to me. As it should to you all – each of you found doom at the end of the Freefolk’s blade, at the end of their machinations. Some of you were even betrayed by those who should have sided with you. I know those times well”

“But how? What allowed you this spellcraft? All of us were done! We were beyond! And you ripped us back from our rewards!” The tattooed lich raised himself up from ground and pointed to the tall shadowy figure. “How did you raise him? How did you raise us?”

“Persistence. Patience. And your own hatred in the matter at hand – but never mind the how of that. Each and every one of you have talents that are integral to my plan: special talents, special abilities. And all but one of us knows well the art of necromancy. Our knowledge and expertise combined will be greater than the mere sum!”

“Why?” The man with the shard in his chest stepped forward, his voice laced with both threat and puzzlement.

Gerion looked beyond them, eyes focused in faint light of a distant hearth-fire. “This is more than revenge. My tome of ordeals has showed me a vision: an hour of doom approaches, a day of black fire upon us that will burn the every earth. And the Freefolk will not be able to stand against it, they will simply go forth and die. They were strong enough to defeat us, but their might will quail before ours – we who are reborn in undeath and hatred! We who are stronger in our new deathless bodies and bound to me, in service to the greater good”

“Greater good?” It was the shadowed one’s turn to sneer.

Gerion ignored him, keeping his eyes fixed on the lights of the frontier town.

“In order to save Midworld – and everyone living that we still hold dear — we must destroy Freehold”

Rumor (anyone may read this): In some parts of Freehold, the month of October is called the Reaper’s Moon or the Hungry Moon. It is a time of harvest, but also a time of fear. Many are the terrible memories and horrifying nightmares born of this month. Except for the foolish, the brave and the ill-intentioned, most townsfolk and hinterlanders alike bar their doors at the setting of the sun.

The winds are colder this year. Yet, they are warmer than they could be say the tellers of tales and gatherers of gossip. The heroes and mercenaries of Freehold stopped a winter spirit corrupted by an entity known as Anubisath and defeated it before it could bring about an early frost.

Rumormonger skill only:
Aura-sight skill or Spirit sight skill only: