A Conversation over Steel

Hethir got below deck as an argument seemed to be boiling over in the quarters the mercs had been given.
"Just for once Trace, would you relax, everything isn't about your holy crusade!"
"For me, it is! I don't know how many times I've explained this to you Garius, I cannot simply lay down my mantle when it is inconvenient for me, or for you! My 'holy crusade' as you so put it is what I am!"
A woman's voice broke in, "Gentlemen, please, you are giving me a headache. Garius, stop antagonizing Sir Trace, you know you will never convince him of anything, you aren't clever enough for it."
"Why you little..."
"Enough Garius! I know you do not share my faith, nor understand why I hold it, but I will not betray my god for the sake of your pocketbook and that is final."
"Yeah? And what about our lives? Huh? Does that matter to you! If we really did get drug in with pirates then you're either going to have to play along or end up in a quick trip to the bottom in all that fancy knight's armor you're so proud of."
"Garius, we don't know that they are pirates, in fact you have no proof of that at all, and Trace, please just promise me that you will not do anything rash before all three of us are willing to act? I for one do not wish to repeat what happened in Trahern."
The second voice--the knight--sighed with resignation, "very well Mary, I will wait for your lead, though my heart is troubled about this situation."
"As well you have reason to," Hethir muttered to himself. Michael must have spoken to only a few of the mercs, he would never have hired a knight knowingly. Well, the damage was now done, he would just have to do his best to contain it.
Without bothering to knock, Hethir toggled the clasp and thrust the door open. The three mercs jumped to their feet at his entrance. The one in patched leather and chain armor he guessed was Garius, and he held a notched but lethal-looking axe in his hand, already in position for a quick strike. The knight was almost painfully obvious--no, Michael definitely didn't see him. His hair was brown, and tied back behind his head in an intricate braid, and his plate armor gleamed even in the dim ship lights. He had been sitting with his back to the door, and had only managed a half turn, but he had dropped into a defensive stance, clearly ready to use his better armor to defend himself and his two companions. The woman, Mary, had reacted the least. She had only straightened in her chair rather than standing, but one hand had dropped to a pouch at her belt, and the other had been lifted in the first of a series of gestures. An arcanist, well that made things a little better, provided they could keep the knight from wanting to kill him.

The tense moment released after only a moment as Hethir spoke. "Excellent reactions, Michael seems to have chosen well--as usual."
Garius responded first, "You the cap' then?"
"I am Captain Hethir, Michael is my first mate."
The knight Trace had finished turning to look at Hethir, and Hethir swore he could feel the man's holy heckles rising.
"Sir Trace was it? Before you go and declare me an unholy beast that should be slain let me inform you that I am not in fact a demon; neither have I ever had dealings with them. Believe me, I've seen that look in your eyes more often than I care to recount, and we can do without the next step."
The knight blinked once in response, but that was the only answer he gave.
Hethir sighed, "I didn't hire you for piracy, or to muscle someone, I hired you because I'm going to need help protecting my ship and my own skin."
"Protect you from what?" Mary spoke up, "You seem to have a substantial crew, and unless I greatly miss my guess your first mate is no slouch."
"I honestly don't know yet." Hethir admitted, "I have been contacted by an underground criminal organization, they want me to fetch something for them. Frequently this is how I make my money, but this time it's different."
Hethir looked straight at the Knight, "they want a set of chalices from the church, specifically the Archbishop of Santure."
Trace looked like he was about to make an outburst of some kind, but Hethir cut him off, "I have no idea why they want these chalices, or what they are capable of that would make the church want to lock them away, but quite frankly I don't care."
"You would ask me to defend you from my own brethren while you make off with holy relics?! You dare..."
"No, holy man, I do not, and I am not. Whatever these relics are, I've no doubt they're better off locked in the church's vaults than in the hands of criminals, especially ones with access to magic of the sort we have seen them display."
Trace closed his mouth, but still eyed Hethir venomously. "No, I need your help because I have no intention whatsoever of following these criminals' demands, and that will not sit well with them."
Hethir paused for a moment and met their eyes, "What I need the three of you for, is to keep me alive long enough for me to figure out why 'D' wants these chalices. Because if they are as powerful as I'm beginning to suspect, I think the church--and everyone else--would want to know what he is up to."
Garius shrugged, "told you we weren't dealing with pirates." Trace sighed and relaxed back into his chair, "you were the one who suggested it in the first place, Garius, stop being tiresome."
Mary just shook her head.
"I can see that the three of you have been around each other a while," Hethir remarked with a smirk. Mary looked at him and shrugged, "sometimes we all wonder how that is."
"Captain."
The Knight stood and turned to face him. Hethir was surprised to find himself looking up at the man--it wasn't common to find someone taller than him.
"Yes, Sir Trace?"
"What are you? You say you are not a demon, but you carry their stench. Explain yourself."
"Most call us tieflings. Our heritage is certainly of the lower planes, but it is long removed. The fiendish powers leave enough of a mark on humans to reoccur many generations later. I was born this way. For a while I was cared for by the church. A priest in a tiny hamlet decided that I was not evil and worth caring for. A Knight came by when I was 12 and decided otherwise, killed the priest for association with me and then came for me next. I left and never looked back."
Hethir matched the knight's steely glance with a molten one of his own, "while you may doubt me by appearance, knight, I doubt you on actions taken against innocents by your entire order, innocents whose only crime was proximity to one whom the knights disliked. Fortunately for you, I refuse to lower myself to their standards, I will judge you personally, not for your association."
Hethir's long-buried anger suddenly surfaced in a boiling flash, "but make no mistake, Knight, attempt to harm me or my crew..." The chair he had been sitting on suddenly smashed into the deck, and shattered to splinters,"...and I will be very happy to see your corpse grace my deck."
Trace glanced from the ruined chair back to Hethir, but he had already walked away, unwilling to spend any more time in the knight's presence.
"Well Trace, you managed to restrain yourself, but barely it seems."
"I checked him Mary, he didn't seem to be an evil man, but I still do not trust him."
"And you're sure giving him plenty of reasons to trust you, I thought you knights were supposed to be diplomatic." Garius shook his head and stuck his axe back through his belt. "If even half what the Cap' said is true, he has equal reason to hate you as you have him; maybe even more."
Trace scowled, "such obvious lies should sway no one, a knight would never harm an innocent! Nor a child."
Mary looked up from her seat and met his eyes, "Trace, not all knights are as dedicated as you, and not all of them are immune to the corruption of power." He glared back at her for a moment, then his face softened. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet, "I know, Mary, but I don't want to believe it. I don't believe so much could be changed."
Garius let out a heavy sigh and looked at Trace with something that almost resembled pity, "you're in for a lot of hard lessons lad, and I don't envy you their swallowing."

Dustworld: The country of Dredge

Dustworld is a contradictory world, as much of its surface is covered with water, but as a whole it has a very arid and dry climate. Much of the world is unexplored. Only two main continents are well-populated--Durim and Verdence--with many islands and small atolls between them.

Three nations rule in Dustworld: Dredge, Radia, and Astora.

Dredge rules the smaller continent of Durim. A martial society, the first rule in Dredge is that the strong rule. Now that is not to say that Dredge is a lawless society. Indiscriminate murder is punished perhaps even more harshly in Dredge than anywhere else--and theft is almost not to be countenanced. The reason for this however is very specific. The strongest in the land is known as the Warlord--or sometimes Warlady--and by ancient law, basically everything in Dredge belongs directly to them. Most Warlords don’t exercise this power too often--recognizing that it is in their best interest to keep their subjects pleased with them. For every year at the height of the new moon, at the darkest time of year, a challenge is held. The reigning Warlord enters a ring, and for the space of one hour, challenges all comers to single combat. The reason it is so important for the warlord to be well-liked, is that any subjects may bring him weapons, armor, spells, healing, or whatever other assistance they wish, provided they do not directly interfere with the duels. Challengers may choose to fight to the death, or they may accept offers of quarter levelled by the warlord. The Warlord has no such option, he fights against his death in every duel. Those challenging the warlord in the duels must overcome him with no assistance at all. Should they do so, they prove to all that they are more worthy of the mantle, and take it up. However, they must finish their time in the ring, the warlord must take all challengers for an hour.

Once the hour of challenge is over, the second challenge of the night comes for the warlord. To even be present at the Warlord’s challenge, one must be armed and ready to fight, and it is because of this second challenge. The warlord plants his banner upon a crag of rock worn smooth by countless feet over countless years. All who support him gather round him on the crag, while any who would challenge him plant their own banners in the field. After half an hour, a horn is blown, and the gathered forces clash. The challengers must topple the warlord’s standard in one hour, and the warlord must defend it. The challengers in this combat are not limited in their actions in any way, and neither are those that fight them directly. For all others in the trial however, the combat is more ritualistic. Very few deaths or even injuries tend to occur because of the trial, as it is seen as wasteful of the Warlord’s armies. However, the challengers are free to be fought blood for blood and steel for steel. Should a challenger be felled, any he rallied to his standard must depart the field in dishonor. Each challenger must strive to claim the banner for himself before the hour is up. At the end of the hour, if the warlord still stands with his banner, he has held his mantle. If a challenger has taken it, then they are the new Warlord.

The warlord may enact almost any law he wishes, or strike down any law that has been enacted before.
There is however a stone tablet of laws which may not be revoked or altered. These laws describe the purpose of the warlord, the trials, and the extent of his powers. The Laws of Stone, as they are called, dictate several things which the Warlord may not do, or else he dies.
This is no idle threat, as the tablet itself is an artifact of great power, and ever warlord swears in his own blood to uphold them. Failure to live up to that oath, in even the smallest respect, causes the tablet to burst out in angry fire and consume the erring warlord. If such a thing happens, the trial is held as normal, and the Warlord’s appointed second begins the hour trial. The second is under no restriction to fight to the death, and may surrender to the first challenger if he so wished, though it has never happened so easily.

Nearly the entire population of Dredge could be considered the Warlord’s army, which has caused the nations of Radia and Astora no small amount of worry. There are several reasons that Dredge rarely bothers its neighbors. The first is that Dredge has a very small number of vessels at its disposal, and not enough woodlands to make more. The second is that much of Dredge’s landmass is little better than desert. Most of the population scrapes by on living, and the Warlord frequently must go to great lengths to ensure all his people are simply fed and clothed, much less fit to march to war. And lastly, even though the warlord really does rule with an iron fist, there is a hard limit to how much he can exert that power before challengers arise and begin to usurp his dominance. Any who publicly announce their intention to challenge the warlord in the next Trial are protected from his interference by the stone law until the trial has been transgressed. And the more enemies a warlord makes, the harder it will be to hold onto his life for more than a year. For that reason alone, most warlords shy away from starting anything with their wealthier neighbors.

Dangerous Dance

Despite Valeras' implicit threat, Hethir managed to get both of them back to the Storm Hawk without anyone's skin being punctured. Their feet had hardly touched the deck before the sails were unfurled and the ship pulled away from the dock.
How do we fare Michael?
Captain, four men attempted to infiltrate the crew, one shortly after our arrival, the others after we had reached the inn.
And now?
Three are in the brig, two of them are still unconscious. Two came at the same time earlier, one of them tried to flee, I shot him down, his body will be thrown overboard later, one crewman died as well.
Unfortunate. Very well, I will attend to our unwanted guests shortly. Keep the helm, get us well out to sea, I want to be out of easy range to be tracked.
Aye sir.
Where have you situated the mercenaries?
In the rear quarters, I informed them to stay there until you came to speak with them.
Excellent, thank you Michael.

Revised Posting Schedule

In the interest of actually making myself post regularly I'm going to set myself out a posting schedule. New posts will go up Tuesday and Thursday afternoon, with occasional informative posts such as this one in between. Tuesday's posts will be story snippets or continuations on one of my ongoing tales. For now I'm going to do my best to stick with Hethir's tale, and take it as far as I can.
Thursday's post will be about a world, a character, religion, or a magic system, depending on the week. The two posts for next week I already know. Hethir's story will continue on Tuesday with further revelations of the relationship between him and the lovely Valeras, and figuring out precisely how much trouble they've gotten themselves into.
Thursday I will begin a series detailing the setting of Hethir's story, which I will hopefully be running a game through at some point as well.
I'm hoping to attract enough readers that a few of them might even go so far as to comment or ask questions, but we'll see how it goes.

In Lieu of Sanity...

Who needs to be sane anyway right? Sanity was such a dull experience, especially when compared to what I get to see now!
I mean, while I was sane I trudged to work every day, sat at the same desk, did the same boring repetitive tasks... It was misery! Now I've thrown all of that out the window, I do what I want! When I want! And I TAKE what I want! And no one wants to stop me, because you see, they're all still bound in the chains of sanity, and I'm free.
And that terrifies them...

You see, in lieu of sanity... I have power. Power to act how I would act, and no one can stop me; because if someone wanted to stop me, they would first have to free themselves of their chains of sanity. And once they did that... oh, well once they did that they wouldn't want to stop me anymore! Ohoh no... no they would join me, or perhaps try to outdo me! You see... insanity is... intoxicating.

Far better than any drug, more sensual than any lover... madness is consuming, and yet for all that it takes away, it gives back more!

Oh yes, I gave up my sanity long ago, but in return... I have become mighty indeed...

A Bloody Courtship

Tastrel was not the pirate-infested sump port one would usually expect from a city full of hired blades. It was clean and bright--white marble was the primary construction material used--and every citizen wore brilliant colors. Tastrel was a town of nobles. Nobles that threw around money like they pissed it, and who were constantly trying to get one-up on the other nobles around them. Mercenaries came here frequently both to relax, and potentially to be hired by the noble families. The nobles were forbidden from arming their own servants, but all of them avoided that royal decree by hiring scads of mercs. That is what brought Hethir here.

A Deadly Proposal

As the sun set bloody against the distant horizon, Hethir sat on the topsail spar. One hand held a line loosely for balance, the other held a piece of parchment. His dark eyes stared unblinking away from the sun, into the deep shadow cast by his ship. Far below him the crew worked in somewhat eerie silence, setting the Storm Hawk at sea anchor. For a long while he didn't move, then he lifted his hand to look at the parchment again.
The delivery of it disturbed him greatly, for many reasons. Foremost among them was the messenger that had delivered it. The small obsidian statuette was unpleasantly cold in his pocket. An hour ago it had been a huge raven, bearing down on his ship with uncanny speed with the parchment clutched in one razor-sharp talon. It had flown straight to Hethir, and no sooner had his hand touched the scroll than the bird shrunk down and stopped moving, becoming a crude statuette on the deck. A magical messenger of that sort--especially one that could seek its target as well is this one--was no small investment, and implied a certain level of power, affluence, or both, that Hethir was never very comfortable dealing with.
Then there was the message itself...

Embracing Death

I don't really remember dying anymore, that memory faded away to a dull ache a long time ago. One of the living told me once that it sounded like I was describing a toothache. I don't remember what teeth even feel like.
It has been a long time, such a long time...

Oh but we haven't met before have we? I apologize for not introducing myself-I should... right?
My name is Domnas, I lived and breathed in a small village no far from here, but that was probably before your time. One day, a curse struck my village, everyone died. Everyone except me. Somehow I managed to survive when no one else did.
Of course, as you can see, it didn't last. The witch walked into the village then, smug and seemingly pleased with herself. I did what came naturally to me, I charged right at her. She seemed to be surprised when I hit her--she must have thought everyone dead already--but the surprise only lasted a moment, and... well, while I had plenty of aggression, I simply wasn't very good.
The flames burned me away slowly, she seemed to be savoring my suffering as I writhed. "Enjoy your miserable non-existence..." The darkness beckoned, calling to me... and I willing fell towards it, then it burned. The merciful darkness vanished, replaced by cold and pain.

The village was the same, but the bodies were lined up on the street. She was still there, looking over the corpses, and as I watched, she kicked the pile of ash that had been mine. I didn't occur to me to question what had happened, only that this fiend of a witch in front of me was going to die.
She was surprised again, only this time her eyes widened in fear too. I still don't really understand how it works, but I just picked her up and slammed her into the ground, then a wall, through a house. I must have leveled half the village by the time I was done with her.
I remember her final words too, "...looks like my curse worked too well..."

So there you have it, cursed to wander as a ghost, poor Domnas. It isn't all so bad though. You wouldn't believe some of the things I've seen over the years. Of course I don' really remember most of them, something about being a ghost, you don't retain much.

Anyway, now that I've introduced myself... suppose you tell me what you're doing here, before I smash you and your friend through this wall...