Stories of a Kingdom [CLOSED]

[The Lundish]

This is a maintenance thread for the Kingdom of the Lundish depicting a variety of stories, decrees, and other matters relevant to it and those participating in the Magica Mundi RP community. The setting as described is relevant to High Fantasy Mid-Medieval RP. As such, cooperative works with other members of this community may be occasionally posted here.

[The Lundish]

On King's Orders

Londe, Capital of the Kingdom

The wagon rounded the bend in the hillside as its driver pulled taut the reins and drove his wagon to a stop by the roadside. Down in the valley was the shimmering waters of the Grey River, which cut across the land like a mighty serpent and dumped out to sea. By the banks was a city of moonstone with battlements in a circular fashion, and a sprawl of houses around it. Farmland stretched for miles around the imposing settlement, dotted by lines of trees, and various hamlets. It was the city of Londe, the grand capital of this country, and one not commonly seen by most of the Realm. The driver commanded his wagon's horses forward.

The countryside leading up to the city was lush and ripe with the bounties of its workers. It was midsummer now, and the harvest was still a ways off. There was one other feature that broke the rolling fields of the country other than the Grey. A road reached out from Londe like a hand and in doing so divided the country in two. Like a river of its own, it twisted and turned, and from it spurred forth many other paths like that the driver was currently on.

He came to the crossroads and looked at the size of the crossing, nearly three carriages wide this road was, and well kept by the taxes the lords required every year. It was the artery of the entire Kingdom, running from the Dominion in the west and to the Diran in the east. The driver recalled a melody once sung to him and quietly began to hum as he crossed the mighty Great Road.

''From Caligor to the Grey, she does cross the seven waters,
O mighty traveller of stone and earth, from whence have you came?
Great and mighty road, that be your name, bring the fruit of the cotters!

The fields of grain that flanked the road turned to villas and homes as the driver reflected on the townspeople now ambling about in the streets. They were different to those of the inner city, and those of the pastures he had now left behind. They were mainly labourers but not bound to work the land by the lords. Instead, many here were artisans. They sowed the clothes, shaped the pottery, traded in wares, and made their living off the various craft they did provide.

The wagon arrived at the south gate to the city. The driver looked up high onto the battlements that now towered overhead like a cliff. The mighty white wall was supported by the bastions that struck out from the rampart and tapered towards the top. These fortifications had stood for many centuries and were well-maintained. It was not until the days of Adrahas that the city of Londe was ever taken, and even then, King Adrahas could not breach its walls for seven hundred days.

''Driver, remove your hood,'' the gatesman shouted as he stepped out of his post and examined the wagon that had come. The driver obliged and pulled the brown fabric from their head, exposing the darkened hair and olive skin of a man. The gatesman looked into the back of the cart, where a tarp had covered the goods and reached out to check when the driver grabbed his hand.

''I have orders from the King,'' the driver said, pulling a small scroll from his shirt and handed it off to the gatesman. The man took it and rolled off the red ribbon and looked at the wax seal before opening the letter. He read for a moment and then handed the scroll back to the driver and made a gesture up towards the embrasures overlooking the gate. There was a loud thump and slowly the portcullis was raised and the inner gates opened by a team of men.

''On you go then, driver. Elune be with you,'' the gatesman said as he stepped back.

The driver nodded and commanded his wagon forward. As he crossed through the entrance, the guards closed the gates and the driver was greeted by the inner city. Here the housing was in considerably better shape, made of a mix of stone and wood. The streets were cobbled and the sound of the smiths could be heard working their anvils as the wagon pressed on.

[The Lundish]

On King's Orders

The tavern was filled with the idling chatter of its patrons. Candles barely illuminated the space, and the stony floor was cold and damp from the overflow of drinks and the stain of bodily fluids. A few maidens tended to the guests, bringing about drinks or cleaning up the messes that were left. Not uncommon was the wandering eye or hand by the more adventurous.

The door opened. There was a few stares, and then more. The hearty conversations turned to whispers as the stranger walked past the tables to the bar where the bartender stood and wiped down his counter. The driver put down a few gonds and spoke, ''A tankard and a mint pipe.''

The bartender hadn't yet seen the driver as he stood up and used a rag to wipe down the tankard he had in his hand. He spit into it and then gave it a good wash from a pale of water he had behind him. When he turned back around he stared at the three bronze and then up at the stranger. There was a look that was all too familiar, ''The price has gone up, stranger. It's six bronze now.''

The driver reached into his coin purse that was tied to his belt and dropped more gonds on the counter. The bartender took the coins and nodded as the driver walked away. The stranger found a seat in the corner where he could comfortably watch the room, and slowly the conversation of the tavern returned to normal though the wandering eyes still lingered.

The bartender arrived soon enough with a filled tankard and a small box. The stranger took the tankard and had his fill of the ale before opening the wooden box. A pipe rested inside with a fragrance of mint and pipeweed that the stranger carefully packed. The bartender returned with a brimstone match and striker belt and lit one for the stranger. Once the pipe was lit, the driver handed off a bronze coin and reclined now content with his pipe.

Smoke lazily played in front of the strange man's face as his brown eyes watched over the tavern. To the keen eye, the stranger's fingers were rough and calloused, and his bracers were noticeably worn with different colours of twine keeping them together and marks across them. He wore a dark brown cape made of wool that was rough and tattered at the ends. This man looked like an outlander to them, but his features said something else entirely.

There was a bout of commotion as one of the patrons slammed his hands down and slid from his chair. The others at the table had joined the man as they approached the driver. The stranger did not look up at them but continued to watch the rest of the tavern and quietly suck on his pipe. One of the men pulled a dagger and jabbed it into the table, and at last, the stranger turned to look at the blade.

''What are you doing here dark-haired? This ain't a place for your kind,'' the large man said angrily.

The stranger looked up at the man's face, his own without expression as he pulled the pipe away. ''I've come for a drink and a smoke. It's restday, as I'm sure you all know, so I am having a rest,'' he gestured, ''it's been a long ride.''

''This is King Aelfric's country, dark-haired. You're in our lands now, and we don't want you here,'' another said, a scrawnier man with a pointed cap who looked as though he had barely eaten in days.

The stranger placed the pipe back in his mouth and stared for a moment. The large man reached out to take the pipe from him, and the stranger pulled the dagger from the table and ran it through his palm. The man screamed as the stranger stood abruptly and rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. In a single breath, the stranger pulled the sword as the scrawnier man lunged, he used the hilt and jabbed him in the stomach. He ducked under the swing of the third and uppercut him with his elbow.

As the two regained their composure, the stranger now had his sword at length and ready. The large man that had the dagger driven through his hand was still beside the stranger, and screamed in pain as he withdrew the dagger from the table before being silenced by a backhand of the stranger's bracer. ''You bastard, we'll take your head for that,'' the scrawny man spat.

''You most certainly will not,'' a new voice spoke. A Kaldorei had stepped up behind them wearing long flowing robes and removing his gloves pushed through them. ''The stranger is under the King's protection, you'll not harm him. Elune be with you.''

The stranger returned his sword to its sheath and looked at the elf. The Kaldorei had purplish skin and pointed ears. They were the original inhabitants of this region many centuries ago until the Lundish defeated the Dominion. ''Elune be with you,'' the stranger spoke, ''has the King sent for me?''

''I trust you knew that when he first sent you on this assignment, Arathor. I hope that's your wagon outside,'' the Kaldorei said as he pushed aside the two men who spat at the floor as the stranger walked by. ''Don't mind them, they're not used to seeing someone of noble blood in rags.''

''You mean a ranger,'' the Arathor spoke as the two stepped outside. There was a cool breeze moving through the streets as Arathor readied his horses. The Kaldorei had brought their own, a beautiful white mare, and climbed atop and then waited. ''I never caught your name,'' Arathor spoke as he slid unto the wagon.

''Beren, come now. We mustn't keep the King waiting,'' Beren said, directing his horse out onto the street.

[The Lundish]

On King's Orders

''It's a bit cliche to have a brawl in a tavern, Arathor,'' Beren scolded as the two rode along the market road towards the keep. The tall spire that dominated the city from afar was now more imposing than ever as it cast its long shadow across the city. Arathor had heard the stories of how this great city fell to Adrahas. He'd heard how it was built by the elves with magic and made of special stone. And he heard how the spire had a special crystal charged by the light of the moon and acted as a beacon across the Gulf of Londe for ships.

''You'll break your neck that way, Arathor,'' Beren smirked as he remarked on the ranger who was staring up at the structure. A thousand years this city had stood, built by his people, but now it was ruled by man. He couldn't complain, they had centuries to work out their differences and while not perfect, the two races remained amicable. It was the King's will, afterall.

''It's a long way from Caligor,'' Arathor remarked, and indeed it was. Caligor was where Arathor had been hired by the King, he had lived in the Eastlands for many years. They arrived at the gates of the outer sanctum and were let through by the guards. The spire served two roles, Arathor came to realise, it was both the seat of the Moonstone Throne, and also the temple to Elune. Priestesses wandered the courtyard as several had gathered for prayers, some wearing traditional clothing from the Dominion. Pilgrims.

They came to a stop as a squire met them to take their horses. ''Don't worry, the cargo will be delivered to the King, come now,'' Beren said as he dismounted. Arathor followed as they approached the large, cylindrical structure that made up the base of the spire and held the many buttresses that supported it all. The doors here were titanic and made of solid iron, it took teams of men to open with some contraption unseen. The guards inside stood motionless and wore decorative plate that Arathor had never seen before.

The inner sanctum of the Moonstone Spire was massive with a large dome many hundreds of feet high and stained glass all around. The floors were decorative with many blues and whites. Crystals hung from the ceiling by chains and a very faint glow could be seen emanating from them, though the ones in direct sunlight from the windows were absent of this quality.

'''Lord Reeve,'' a man approached, handing Beren a rolled up scroll as the two stopped.

Beren opened it and read over the parchment then rolled it back up and tucked it under his arm. He looked at Arathor with a gentle smile, ''This is where I leave you, Arathor. The King will be waiting for you in the Chancellery with the High Priestess. Ensure you are on your best behaviour, the servant here will show you the way.'' Beren bowed and then departed them, leaving Arathor with the servant who gestured towards a hall.

The reinforced door opened as Arathor entered the chamber. A large wooden table sat in the middle of the room with a map and many wooden pieces placed upon its surface. A woman in silky robes was standing by the fireplace and said nothing as Arathor watched. She tilted her head as the door closed behind the ranger and then finally turned around.

''Arathor, son of Lingalas,'' she spoke. She was Kaldorei with purplish skin like Beren's. She had radiant violet eyes and slim figure as she walked around the table. ''Lingalas. That's Lundish for 'Son of Linga', if I'm not mistaken. Lord of the Lingalorn, banished because of his — rebellion,'' she said boldly, letting the air stale on that word as she sat the cup in her hand down on the table.

''That is correct, my Lady,'' Arathor said, giving a bow.

The woman lifted up Arathor's head and pensively felt his face for a brief moment as the two locked their eyes. ''Tell me, Arathor. Son of Lingalas. What destiny do you think you have?''

''Emerella, that's enough,'' came a new voice as King Aelfric appeared around the corner, seemingly from nowhere. Emerella nodded and stepped away as the King approached Arathor. He was a large man in robes of fur and a simple crown rested atop his greying head of curly hair. Like Arathor, he was a Lundedain, a descendant of the First Men to come to the Midlands.

''Your Grace,'' Arathor spoke and gave a low bow as Aelfric held out his hand. Arathor knew better than to kiss the ring, being the descendent of a banished house. Instead, he bowed lower.

''Rise, ranger. I trust you're in my presence because you've succeeded at what I asked,'' Aelfric spoke plainly, his look dismissive of the ranger as Arathor rose.

''I have, Your Grace,'' Arathor spoke.

''He's telling the truth,'' Emerella said. Arathor looked at her for a second and then back at the King, who gave pensive look like he was mulling over something. ''He is the first, but I can tell, Your Grace.''

''Hm. Yes, you're one step closer to having your honour restored, ranger. If Emerella is correct, then you've avoided the block unlike the last two,'' Aelfric said, ''We'll discuss more tomorrow. I must meet with some other guests, Emerella will show you to your quarters.''

[The Lundish]

On King's Orders

The night had came and went. As the sun rose and cast its light over the land, Arathor awoke to the sound of birds. Above him stood Beren, leaning precariously over the ranger with an inquisitive look. At first, the ranger thought he was seeing things, and then the realisation swept him from his bed.

''What good is a ranger that can be snuck up on?'' Beren mused, picking up Arathor's sword and withdrawing the blade only slightly from the sheath.

Arathor snatched the weapon from the Reeve with a glare, ''When he expects to be in good comfort and safety.''

''That can be a fatal mistake here, ranger. Come now, the King has requested an audience,'' the elf spoke, folding his arms behind him as he calmly left the room. Arathor checked his belongings, but nothing else had been touched. If anything, Beren may have come in just moments before. He dressed himself in the tunic and cloak provided, that was draped over the chair in the small room, and then headed for the Great Hall.

''My King,'' Beren bowed lowly with an arm over swung around his belly, ''Arathor, son of Lingalas, as you requested.''

Arathor stepped into the Great Hall, it was a long and tall chamber with a red rug stretching from the door to the throne. Banners carrying the King's sigil, a red stag, hung from the rafters. The room was made of moonstone, milky white in colour, and flanked by the King's Guard who stood as solid as stone. The chamber was quiet save for the small gathering of officials by the King, who sat atop his throne, and among them they whispered.

Arathor stopped just behind Beren and gave a bow, ''Your Grace.''

King Aelfric lifted his hand and the whispers from the other nobles stopped. He sized up Arathor with a dismissive glance as he had done before, and then quietly stroke his greying beard. ''Bring them in,'' Aelfric spoke.

A door beside the throne opened and three guards stepped into the hall dragging chains that had been used to secure a female wood elf — a Caldrahan. They threw her down before the King as she spoke harshly in her tongue, but she was not the last. Another, a male Caldrahan, was brought in after and likewise tossed to the floor and brought low to the ground by the boot of a guard.

King Aelfric looked at Arathor and motioned with his hand, and so the ranger followed and stepped forward just behind the Caldrahan. ''I understand that you speak their tongue, ranger. I trust you can translate for me,'' he said and settled in the throne. Arathor simply nodded. ''Good,'' the King continued, ''Tell them that I shall kill one of them unless they can provide the location of the warlord Gaerfron.''

''Silamayla Carfrones asul hire unain?'' Arathor spoke in Caldrahanic, the woman turned around to face him, her amber eyes burning into him before looking back at the King. They said nothing.

''Gaerfron's treachery must be answered for,'' Aelfric condemned, rising from his seat and walking down the steps of the throne towards the Caldrahan. ''Twelve hundred good men slain in the hills of the Greymont by an insolent, filthy, uncivilised worm. Either of you will speak of where your father is, do you hear me? Ranger!''

The female Caldrahan raised her head and spat at the floor before the King, ''I can hear you just fine — Ardalas.'' The Lundish word out of her mouth was surprising, but its meaning was clear. The King backhanded her forcefully as she fell to the floor before the guards pulled her up again. The other jerked in his chains as Aelfric stepped in front of him.

''So you can speak both Common and our tongue,'' Aelfric mused as he stared down at the male Caldrahan. ''I have seen these very eyes before, many years ago when I took my armies east and rode against Ulingoras. They're the eyes of a warrior — a fighter.''

''Don't you touch him!''

''Full of rage and bloodlust. If only your sister was as smart as you, Prince Esalyn,'' Aelfric slid a blade from his robe and plunged it into the Caldrahan's throat amid the screaming of the other Caldrahan. The blood flowed out over Aelfric's hand as he held Esalyn's face so that he would see Aelfric in his final moments. The blade was pulled out and Esalyn went pale before collapsing on the floor.

The guards wrestled with the chains as the princess tried to lunge at the Lundish King. A blow to her head sent her into a daze. Aelfric wiped the dagger he was brandishing on her clothing until it was clean, he then grabbed her by the hair and yanked her head back, pressing the blade to her throat. ''Where is Gaerfron?''

''I don't know!'' the woman shouted.

Aelfric threw her to the side and headed for the door, ''I will burn every inch of the Greymont until that bastard's head is on a pike. Beren, send for the banners. Toss the mudlas into the tower, we aren't finished here yet.''

[The Lundish]

The War of the Mountains

Eodrahas, Westerlands
Glanmer (Summer), 1061 — A Year Later

The plains of Eodrahas stretched wide along the northwestern boundary with the mighty Grey River to its west and the ancient woods of the Idranbor to its east. The town for which the plains were named, rested atop a dun or hill with a large central keep. A low lying wall surrounded the dun, retaining the homes of the town within. Fields surrounded this circular town, irrigated by the frigid meltwater of the Eodhrahas river, which was only a few feet deep.

North of the plains was the Greymont, the region that sat against the Grey Mountains. This hilly, heavily wooded region was where the Caldrahan resided. The many tribes had taken refuge here against a cataclysm that had happened many centuries ago. One they called the Great Flood. As the tale would have it, the wood elves tell of a time when Londe was nearly covered in nothing but great and old trees. Then came the roar and the shake of the ground, the waters of the gulf receded for nearly a mile and then everything was washed away in a torrent.

It was this story that Galen, a farmer from Edde, thought about as he sat atop his black but lame horse. He had answered the call of his lord last year, and though it had taken them many months, the host of King Aelfric had finally marched northward to fight a rebellion. In all, twelve banners had joined the King on this march from as far east as Caligor. Each bearing as many as five hundred men.

''This fucking heat is about to kill me,'' Wensel complained as he pried his leather helmet from his head and exposed the matted blonde hair beneath. In his desperation to get relief, he had not taken care to secure the helmet which fell from his horse. He looked back but there was no way to get it with the army on the move.

''Let's hope you didn't need that,'' Galen remarked, ''It is said that the lightskins are quite good with a bow.''

''I'd wager they would hit that massive thing you call a nose first,'' Wensel quipped, ''Even the hilt of my sword is too damn hot to touch!''

Galen shook his head and reached for the bladder of water that hung from his horse. He pulled the cork from it and took a swig before handing it off to his compatriot. As Wensel sated his thirst, Galen looked out towards the misty mountains of the Greymont. The terrain sloped dramatically at the base of the woods, while the climate down south was unbearably hot during Glanmer, it was much more mild and humid in the Greymont.

''Think we'll see snow?'' Wensel said, tossing the bladder back over. Wensel was from Falas on the coast. He thought about what it would look like exactly, he had seen snow before, but it wasn't very common along the gulf and even then it was more likely to be a dusting. Now the stories he had heard of the northmen up here was something completely different.

''As long as we get the fuck off the steppe before it does,'' Galen remarked, taking another swig of his water before replacing the cork. Like Wensel, he'd heard the stories as well. The northern steppe carried things more dangerous than snow during the onset of the Galamer season.

''Make camp! Make camp!'' a rider broke from the front and began to ride back along the army. Others joined him as they alerted the army to the change in plans. Galen and Wensel looked at each other as they pulled back on their horses. It seemed this was where they would settle for the night.

The army began to disperse over the land around them as wagons carrying vital supplies were ushered into the centre. The horses were kept around this centre as the men dismounted and quickly got to work. Several took wagons and began to ride westward towards Eodrahas for goods, and more to the Idranbor in the east for wood. Galen and Wensel pulled their bedding from their horses and found a spot to flatten the grass down for their camp. Three others had joined them as they exchanged names.

By nightfall, fires lit up the plains as men huddled around them. Galen and Wensel drank with their new compatriots — Fend, a scrawny fellow from Caligor with missing front teeth; Bisle of Waxlorn, who was larger than the gang; and at last, a quiet man named Arathor.

[The Lundish]

The War of the Mountains

Sunderbor Valley, north of Eodrahas, Westerlands
Glanmer (Summer), 1061

Swords clashed. The air was filled with the smell of sweat and blood. The left flank of Aelfric's army had been set upon by Caldrahan raiders and was quickly collapsing. Galen and Wensel had dismounted to reinforce the centre shield wall. Panic swept the ranks as volley after volley of Caldrahan arrow rained on them, and their skirmishers broke through.

''Retreat! Retreat!'' came the call. From the rear, the levies began to break, they dropped weapon and shield and started to run. Skirmishers swept into the rear and cut down those who attempted to flee. They were quickly being surrounded.

At last, the sound of the horn reverberated through the valley. Reinforcements had arrived, and the ground began to thunder at the charge of the cavalry. Caught out in the open, the Caldrahan had no place to go. They formed a line as best they could but the horn had rallied the remaining men of the King's host. Charging forward, the Lundish slammed into the rear of the enemy skirmishers. The elves formed a wall on both sides but the cavalry swept along the line and rained down javelins over their shields. They broke and were quickly ran down by the horsemen.


Galen drove his sword into the earth and ripped his helmet off. He had blood running down the side of his face from a gash along his brow. He looked out over the field of bodies that were now being searched by the Lundish. The battle seemed like it had lasted for days, but they had only been fighting off and on since early morning. Despite the Caldrahan's attempts, their skirmishers had been cut down at every push.

''Water?'' Wensel said, tossing Galen a bladder.

Galen poured it over his face to wash away the blood before taking a drink. ''How many do you reckon?'' he asked as he handed the bladder back over and pulled his blade from the ground.

''Two, maybe three thousand?'' Wensel said looking out over the field. ''Lord Garris and Lord Fembley have lost all their men, and Fembley is missing.''

''And the gang?''

Wensel shook his head. He'd seen Bisle take an axe, and there'd been no sign of Arathor or Fend.

''All of this for some pride,'' Galen spat as he wiped his blade down with a cloth. Wensel couldn't disagree, they'd lost a good third of their compatriots. ''How do they expect us to make it into the Greymont? On horses, no less? It's madness. Even out in the open the mudlingan slaughter the men in droves, why are we even fighting?''

[The Lundish]

The War of the Mountains

Grebor Valley, Greymont Frontier
38th of Aldamer (Autumn), 1061

Lord Ganiver pushed through the flap of the tent and stood before Aelfric and the other nobles that had gathered. They had all huddled around a table overlooking reports of Caldrahan movement in the area. For a season now, they had slowly pushed their way into the Greymont, known as the Gregor in Lundish. A season of warfare, and Aelfric's army was battered.

''Three hundred more have deserted since last week, and we still haven't heard word from Lord Anglesas' position at the ford,'' Lord Beckow stated. There were some glances exchanged among the nobles as Aelfric rested in his chair and stroked his beard.

''We have trenchfoot and fever already sweeping the ranks,'' another lord added.

At last, Ganiver spoke, resting his hand on the pommel of his sword, ''My King, we started this campaign with nearly twelve banners worth of men and freemen. We barely have the numbers for five. We've no word from Anglesas, we lost Lords Fembley and Nirf to these barbarians. Eastlanders sat upon the Caligor forcing Tefelas to withdraw his men and march back east to protect his lands. We're struck with desertions and disease—''

''And Galamer is fast approaching,'' Beckow interjected, looking at Ganiver.

''Our supplies are dwindling, sire. Mudlingan skirmishers hit the caravans every week from the ford, and what grain we have now must last us through the frost. The realms cannot continue to supply us with grain lest they have none for themselves, and already the Priestess is saying this frost will be early and harsh,'' Ganiver's voice rose in tone, and at last, drew the look of Aelfric.

''What would you have me do, Lord Ganiver?'' Aelfric mocked, ''Turn tail and run? I'm doing them a favour. They didn't have the irons to throw their bastards to the wolves. They chose to continue to exist as a pox in the Gregor. What have you?'' Aelfric rose from his chair, he had always been a large man, but as a member of the Lundedain, he was generally taller.

It was not Ganiver that spoke, but Beckow this time, his voice was calm but his tone was clear, ''My King, if we continue at this rate, you'll be lucky if we get eaten by wolves by the time we reach the Greymont.'' The tent fell silent. Aelfric chewed on his lip and looked down at the table which was scattered with scrolls and papers.

''We're already too far north, we'll be lucky if we can beat the frost before we reach Eodrahas. If Sunderbor is snowed in, we'll be stuck up here with little provision,'' Ganiver spoke.

''We can't feed men and horses,'' Beckow said, his voice low.

A cool breeze shifted the tent as the men stood quietly. There was commotion outside and the sound of running that finally drew their attention. Then came the sound, Caldrahan horns.

''By Elune,'' Ganiver spoke harshly as he pulled his sword. The men quickly rushed out of the tent to a scene of chaos. Freemen tripped over their firepits and belongings as they rushed to armour and arm themselves. In the confusion, horses had been set free and were running wild in the camp knocking men over. One sped past Ganiver and kicked over a pot of pitch, sparking a fire along the grass. Then came the arrows.

''Cover!''

A black rain of Caldrahan arrows fell into the camp. Some were alight and ignited tents and others fell men to the ground. The elves had rushed in from the direction of the ford, and had brought with them horses. This mock cavalry swept along the flanks of the camp and continued to rain arrows into the confused Lundish. Ganiver pulled himself onto his horse alongside the other lords and they dispersed along the camp in an attempt to rally their men.


Galen had been asleep when Wensel shook him awake. ''We're under attack!'' Wensel shouted, pulling Galen from his bedding. An arrow swept through the tent barely missing them both. ''C'mon! We're under attack, Galen!''

Galen grabbed his sword and quickly sortied out behind Wensel as the two rushed to find their horses, but they had been cut loose. Lord Ganiver charged by on his, holding his sword high and shouting for a rally. Most of the freemen were still in their nightgowns but quickly began to move in a wave.

The mounted skirmishers of the Caldrahan broke from their attack as footmen rushed the camp. Combat was now close as elves and men clashed around their tents and firepits. The fighting had become fierce and barbaric with men and elf alike beating each other with whatever they could find: rocks, wood, even severed limbs. Galen and Wensel had pressed towards the line that was now quickly collapsing on the northside of the camp. A volley of arrows rained near the south as elvish archers moved in behind the vanguard rushing the Lundish position.

Wensel was struck by an arrow in the neck and gasped as he collapsed. Galen attempted to get to him but was stopped by elvish footmen. He thrust his sword forward and drove it into the belly of one but then was struck from behind by another. He let out a shout as the world became a daze before falling to the ground. He laid there sword still in hand, still buried into the elf he had stabbed, and stared.

He could see Lord Beckow being thrown from his horse as it reared. Several footmen descended on him and hacked him apart with swords and axes in a frenzy and then attacked the horse. Lundish freemen fell around him as he slowly rolled over on his back and watched the carnage unfold. He could feel the blood running along his nightgown and staining the earth beneath him. The world slowly faded.


By nightfall, the battle had already ended. The Lundish camp laid in ruin with burnt out tents and scattered bodies by the thousands. Lord and freemen alike laid among the dead. Arathor quietly stepped over a body when he felt a hand grab his ankle. He drew his sword and was ready to plunge it into the would-be assailant when he saw Galen's pale face.

''Galen? Galen!'' Arathor said and knelt down quickly. ''Are you hurt?'' he asked, raising Galen's head into his hand and felt the the warmth flow over his fingers. ''C'mon, son. By Elune's grace, c'mon.''

Arathor stood and pulled Galen up and over his shoulder with a grunt. He stepped over Wensel's body and Beckow, or what was left of it, and carefully slid Galen unto his horse. He climbed unto the animal and slid his boots into the stirrups and directed his horse forward with a quiet, but commanding tone. They were going north.

[The Lundish]

The Greymont, near the Grey Mountains
42nd of Aldamer (Autumn), 1061

A chilly but light breeze flowed in across the trees from the north-west. The sky above was clear with only a few tufts of white cloud in the blue sky. Arathor was knelt down by a fire, feeding it some kindling and wood. A small pot hung above from a stick and boiled something savoury.

Galen slowly opened his eyes and stared at the brush above him that formed the ceiling of his lean-to. He had been wrapped up in furs and felt warm. His throat was dry, however. He tried to swallow but it became difficult, though his awakening had not gone unnoticed. Arathor moved to his side with a bladder and carefully helped Galen's head up so he could drink. After a few hearty swigs of the cold water he rested back into the bedding.

''I thought you had died,'' Galen said, his voice raspy and weak.

''For you, as well,'' Arathor replied, ''It's been three days. Your fever has broken,'' he remarked, feeling Galen's forehead for a moment. ''Muddleroot is good for that, though it was difficult to get you to eat it at first.''

''Where are we?'' Galen tried to sit up but was stopped by Arathor's hand.

''You still need rest, Galen,'' the ranger said, ''We're in the Greymont.''

Galen's eyes widened as his face paled, ''Gregor? Why in Elune are we here?'' he asked.

''It is the last place the Caldrahan will look for survivors, it was too dangerous to go south towards Eodrahas, the roads will surely be watched,'' Arathor said, pulling the pot from over the fire. He stirred it carefully with a wooden spoon.

''Did anyone else...?''

''King Aelfric, Lord Ganiver, and a few others of the nobles fled about halfway through the battle. They left with their retinues, but the freemen,'' Arathor's words drifted off as he looked down at the pot. He poured some of its contents into a small wooden bowl and handed it to Galen. ''You must eat, it's rabbit and wiseman's tuber,'' Arathor spoke.

Galen hesitantly took a sip of the stew, then took a bite of the potato and rabbit. After a moment, he was quickly stuffing himself as Arathor fetched his own bowl. ''So what now?'' Galen asked, food still in his mouth.

''The frost will hit in a few weeks, and then eventually the snow. We'll have to wait out Galamer until the melt. As long as we keep moving in the Greymont, we'll be fine,'' Arathor answered.


Rivenkeep, Westerlands
38th of Aldamer (Autumn), 1061

Lord Riven had accepted the King and his vassals when they had arrived at his walls. Rivenkeep hadn't answered the call to arms of Aelfric, and the King knew they wouldn't. As one of the High Lords, Riven wasn't privy to the King's expeditions and escapades, nor seeing his own men be killed for another's pride. He didn't forbid his own vassals to take up arms for the King, but now he was hearing news that one of them, Lord Beckow, had been slain.

The entourage had met during supper and shared what food Riven could spare. The lords had rode for days since their defeat at Grebor. A tension wafted along in the air like a stench.

''Beckow was a good man,'' Riven spoke. His seeming candour hid a distaste that was ever present on his face as he watched the King dine at his table. There was agreement among the lords, though more silent than Riven would have preferred.

''I shall cover the cost, as promised,'' Aelfric spoke, pulling a piece of chicken from a platter and quickly devouring it.

''And of the freemen?'' Riven asked, his gaze settling on the King like he was a boiled pig.

''That will have to wait until after my campaign,'' Aelfric spoke. Riven slammed his hand down on the table and a silence struck the room.

''Riven...'' Ganiver spoke, shaking his head.

''It is customary, Lord Ganiver. That a geld be paid to the families,'' Riven sneered.

''You mean to you, since I imagine you'll raise your taxes right after to collect,'' Aelfric said, as he tore a piece of chicken and slid it into his mouth. ''I am well aware of the customs, Lord Riven.''

''Then you will grant what is owed,'' Riven pressed.

''After the campaign,'' Aelfric stared back at the lord. Riven was having none of it now, and rose from his chair. Guards in the hall stepped forward and brandished their swords. ''What is the meaning of this?'' Aelfric asked, setting his food down and sliding the plate from him.

''Riven, you best think this through,'' Ganiver spoke up, but the guards seized them. Ganiver attempted to wrestle himself free but it was no use. His face was pressed into the table as the guards restrained him.

''I am the High King!'' Aelfric shouted, ''Elune damn you, Riven!''

''You will pay the geld, or you will stay here until the Londrass meets,'' Riven said.

[The Lundish]

The Greymont, near the Grey Mountains
67th of Galamer (Winter), 1061

The crunch of snow was the only sound Galen could hear as he and Arathor navigated the otherwise silent and still woods of the Greymont. These lands were alien to the southerner, and the terrain was unforgiving. Elevated and rocky, full of pitted ground and mossy undergrowth, every step in the snowfall was precarious and required Arathor's expert navigation, for he had long lived in this region.

''Are you doing alright, Master Galen?'' Arathor asked, now several bounds ahead as they navigated a steep slope.

Galen had to climb on all fours at times, as he was still learning to get his footing. He had fallen many times, saturating his clothing with snow and mud. His hands stung at every touch and it took everything he had to keep them warm and to keep up with the ranger. ''I'm doing just fine,'' he lied.

Arathor stopped as he came across a small spring settled in an overhang of rock, there was an area in the shallow cave to lie down and rest. He turned and helped Galen up and then quickly began to examine the walls of the cave. ''Last we want is to stumble into a place where a bear or a dire wolf sleeps,'' Arathor stated.

''Dire wolves are a myth, aren't they?'' Galen asked unsure, stepping back from Arathor as if the answer itself could strike him.

Arathor grinned, ''You've much to learn about the North then, Master Galen. Dire wolves and dire badgers, spriggans, and all other sorts of creatures that frequent these old forests. Some may be myth to you, but they are very real to us. We are, after all, in the domain of Glanobor.''

''Glanobor?'' Galen asked, watching Arathor grab some sticks and brush and dumping them into the space.

''The god of the hunt, of the wood, of the North. Glanobor is celebrated by the Caldrahan,'' Arathor spoke as he assembled a fire.

''There's just Elune, is there not?''

Arathor smiled at this question as he sat down and began to produce kindling and make a thatch bundle to start their fire, he did not speak at first as Galen sat his bedroll aside and joined him.

''I've heard of the Old Gods, those of the High Men, the Lundedain, but they are stories we were told — are they not? You don't actually worship such things?'' Galen asked.

Arathor had managed to catch a bundle finally and carefully slid it under the wood he had assembled and quietly worked to get the fire going. As the wood began to slowly dry out and catch, the warmth could be felt in the hands. ''Glanobor is Lundish. Bor as you know, is a Lundish word for a forest,'' Arathor explained.

''Yes, and Glan means white—''

''Wrong,'' Arathor interrupted, ''It does in Low Lundish, which is what you know, but in High Lundish, it has another meaning. An older meaning. It means King.''

''King of the Forest?'' Galen realised, to which Arathor sagely nodded as he fed the fire some more wood. ''But that would mean the Caldrahan worship an Old God of the Lundish, how does that even work?''

''Because they worship a god that we named, but they call him something else. 'Oh traveller of the rivers and melt, of the frost where old things dwelt, do not fear the shadows in the trees, for if a great stag walks across your path, you are under his protection.''' Arathor spoke quietly, his eyes watching the flames burn and flicker with the fire's light.

''Why are people so afraid of the Greymont?'' Galen asked after a pause. He curled up next to the fire and rummaged through a pouch he had slung around him for some berries they had gathered a few nights before.

Arathor looked up at the farmer, his eyes alight and wise, and his face now illuminated by the flames that crackled between them, ''There are old things in the Greymont that even the Caldrahan dare not disturb, Master Galen. It is said that you never travel these woods alone, and never at night,'' he uttered.

Rivenkeep, Westerlands
67th of Galamer (Winter), 1061

A cold fog had swept the land as Aelfric stared out from his cell. His attention was taken away by the sound of footsteps. He had expected a guard but instead it was the last person he could ever have expected, Beren.

''My King,'' Beren said with a light bow. The Kaldorei was wearing fur and far cleaner than King Aelfric was, who had naught but a gown and a blanket. ''How have you found yourself in such a place?'' Beren asked, it was not a question he expected an answer for, for he knew the answer already.

''Beren!'' Aelfric bellowed, ''My old friend, you must send word to the lords, summon the banners—''

''They are already here, My King,'' Beren interjected, his tone slow and methodical. ''They have met with High Lord Riven, and the others of the Triarch are here as well.''

''What are you saying?'' Aelfric asked.

''The Londrass is meeting, and they have dispatched me with their terms,'' Beren said.

''Are you mad!?'' Aelfric rushed to the bars in anger, ''I am the High King, for two centuries my family has ruled over these lands!''

''It would seem the winds have changed, at least according to the Londrass,'' Beren spoke, taking a seat beside the bars. ''They are debating accords they want you to agree to, come the melt, they will present this agreement to you and expect you to sign it. If you do not, they will elect a new High King, ending the Alessan Dynasty's rule over these lands. Riven is expected to be their selection. I am sorry, old friend.''

''They can't do this! Beren! Assemble the bannermen, send out riders to the subjects! I am High King by the grace of Elune! Beren!'' Aelfric shouted, as the elf rose and began to walk away.

''There is nothing that can be done, I have successfully negotiated with Riven to find you better quarters,'' Beren said.

[The Lundish]

The Greymont, near the Grey Mountains
68th of Galamer (Winter), 1061

The fire was still burning when Galen awoke. There had been a sound, unlike anything he had ever heard. He rubbed his eyes and looked out over the small cave. Arathor was still soundly sleeping on the other side of the crackling fire. There was the gentle bubbling of the spring beside them. Galen climbed out from under his furs and stepped along the cold rock to the entrance and listened.

A light snow was falling but the moon was still shining brightly above. The forest was quiet and still. So still that it was almost deafening. Not even a crow could be heard. And there was no wind. Galen stepped out into the snow, still barefoot as he looked around. Then came the sound again. It sounded almost human, like someone calling out.

Galen ventured further, attempting to follow its source as he walked between the trees. He stopped again and listened. ''Help me!'' the voice called out. It was then that Galen felt a hand on his mouth and another quickly wrap around him. He threw his hands up to the arm and tried to scream and break free.

''You mustn't answer it,'' Arathor spoke in his ear, before carefully letting Galen go.

''What is it?'' Galen asked.

Arathor looked down at him, his face serious and expressionless, ''They call it the tree man. It is something old that haunts these woods, just one of many things, Master Galen.'' Arathor looked out and over the rocky terrain, his eyes slowly scanning the area around them. ''We mustn't stay out too far from the fire, do not dwell on the shadows,'' he spoke.

They headed back now, and once they had arrived at the cave again, Galen curled up under his furs and stuck his feet by the fire. ''What happens?'' he questioned, as Arathor sat beside the fire and searched his belongings for a knife.

''You will forever be lost in these woods,'' Arathor said in a solemn tone, ''it is said that the tree man lures out people alone, and waits until they answer. Once they do, they are forever marked and it will come for them. They will be swallowed by it, and it will steal their voice, and use it to lure others. Some stories say that those that become victims of the tree man still walk the woods at night as decaying husks in search of others.''

Galen furrowed his brow, ''In search of others to do what?''

Arathor looked at Galen for a moment, ''To lure them in so they too can join them.''

Galen looked out towards the entrance of the cave and listened, though he did not hear a sound. ''They say it can mimic voices,'' Arathor added, taking a moment to cut into an apple with his knife and take a bite.

''Could it sound like you?''

Arathor nodded, ''If it was close enough, and heard me speak, it could then use my voice to lure you. You shouldn't travel alone, and never at night.''

[The Lundish]

Rivenkeep, Westerlands
77th of Galamer (Winter), 1061

King Aelfric was escorted into the Great Hall. He had been given fine robes and his crown rested on his head as he walked towards the small table that had been set up for the three High Lords. Riven was among them. Nobles from across the realm lined the sides of the room, standing silently. Aelfric stopped in the middle of the room, he had lost weight in these many months, his robes more like a curtain on a frame.

''Hail the King!'' Riven spoke up. The nobles knelt down around Aelfric as he spun about on his feet to watch. When he had come back around, he settled his gaze on Riven, in disgust.

''What sort of theatre is this?'' Aelfric said, his arms outstretched. ''Do you wish to make a mockery of me, Lord Riven? Is that it?''

Riven smirked and slid the document on the table forward. He pulled his hand back and rested in his chair, watching Aelfric content. Beren emerged from the nobles and stood beside the table, a surprise to the King.

''Beren, what is this?'' Aelfric spat, stepping forward as the elf remained still. The King could now see the title on the document, written in common, it read 'Great Accords'. It was then that Beren finally stepped forward, and gestured for Aelfric to come closer.

''This Londrass has been assembled for the benefit of the realm by the three High Lords. On the table is an accord, the lords of the realm have agreed to recognise High King Aelfric of the Great House of Alessa as King of the Realm and of the Lundish. If he would agree to these accords,'' Beren announced.

Aelfric grimaced, ''And if I don't?'' he asked, looking at the parchment.

''Then we shall elect a new High King,'' Riven said.