Moments and Heroics, 10/20/17-10/22/17

As the Asgarn warrior charged and swung his war-torn axe, Alistair contemplated how to deal with the threat. Though the sun hung low at his back over the Eastern Pass, the necromancer still had to squint to see the fine detail lines of magically sewn flesh on the advancing barbarian. A dark voice within the black robed figure urged him to reach out, to wrap chains of necromancy around this plaything and use the Asgarn revenant for its highest purpose: the pillage and conquest of those weaker than himself. The necromancer shook himself gently and tamped that voice down with long-practiced restraint. The exercise here was not to win, but to lose in a good fight or Valdim would not move on to the Void. Alistair swept up his poleaxe in a clumsy block - he still wasn’t as skilled as he’d like with the damned thing - and sidestepped the second attack, a brutal chop at his ribs, from an equally reanimate Asgarn. The second warrior, whose name escaped the necromancer, simply wanted to die in combat with his sword in hand, a feat Alistair had thought would be simple but was becoming increasingly more difficult as the third warrior, Hadwin, closed in. All of the greasy men bore signs of being hastily stitched together and were risen for this one purpose - one final shot at glory to impress the godly hosts who stewarded the mead halls of their fathers’ fathers. The sweat-stained guildmaster raised his right hand and cast out chaos energy as he was taught by the Illriggers back at his ancestral home near the ruins of Old Ash Shir. The ball of entropy struck the unnamed Asgarn right in the chest - Torvund, Alistair chided himself, the man’s name was Torvund. The decay worked as intended, drying and cracking the stitched flesh until the Asgarn fighter's torso resembled nothing more than a corpse left out in the desert sun. The reanimated warrior dropped to his knees and wavered for a moment, and, gripping his sword tightly like a shipwrecked sailor clinging to driftwood, keeled over in death. Even as the tradesman turned to deal with the remaining threat, Alistair noted out of the corner of his eye a glimpse of wings and the visage of a hard-faced warrior woman. Torvund had been Chosen. As Alistair turned to face the remaining two Asgarn, he realized he had miscalculated. The precious second spent to send Torvund to his makers cost the necromancer most of his right leg as a bent war hammer, rusted from exposure this past year, slammed into his kneecap with jarring force. As white hot pain immediately informed his brain of his mistake, he threw a spell almost completely by reflex and the the Asgarns found their legs momentarily too weary to move. A seductive voice feigned panic from the depths of the darkness in his spirit where his necromantic powers resided. The voice said he’d fail, and all his work would be undone, but for his ability to control these corpses and force them to hack each other to pieces. Again, he fought the urge… these men needed to die as they lived; to employ necromancy on them would remind the spirits that their life had already been cut short. Alistair, hobbling on one leg, grunting in pain, dragged himself over to Hadwin and unceremoniously slammed his poleaxe into the immobile Asgarn from outside of the brute’s weapon reach. Just because he wouldn’t cheat with necromancy didn’t mean the Karthydian intended to fight fair. As the revenant’s black blood poured out in rivers, Hadwin met Alistair’s eyes with a grisly rictus of a smile and joined Torvund in the Void. The enchantment binding the last Asgarn snapped, and with a fierce battlecry Valdim pounced on Alistair with all the fury the island warriors were renowned for. The hulking brute slammed his war hammer down on Alistair’s poleaxe once, twice, then again. With a sickening snap the haft of the weapon broke, as did several of the necromancer’s ribs, and the head of the weapon sunk home somewhere under the gasping guildmaster’s left lung. The pain was exquisite, a lesson in agony so profound that for a moment, it was all Alistair could do remain conscious. With a roar, the final Asgarn threw himself down on the crippled necromancer, eschewing his axe in favor of throttling the guildsman to death with his bare hands. This blind rage was a mistake, Alistair mused drunkenly as he fought for oxygen, that had probably cost the Asgarn his life at the Battle of the Eastern Pass. With the remaining strength left in the dying necromancer’s body, he drew his boot knife from the ruins of his mangled leg and slashed the blade deep into the warrior’s thigh, drawing a surge of black blood from the revenant’s femoral artery. Valdim, seemingly unaware that a deathblow had been dealt, bore down with his hands and finished his last foe with a horrifying wet snap before slumping, the Asgarn himself defeated. A few minutes later, Alistair regained consciousness, though there was no clamor of pain to meet his waking. His eyes fluttered open to see the last warrior, Valdim, gazing down at him, translucent and young again, the old battle wounds and suture marks gone from his spiritual form. The warrior, still seething, could only muster a nod of respect for his enemy before taking the hand of an unseen guide and turning his head to the sky as he faded away. Alistair tried to speak, and was reminded by the bloody gurgle that he was quite dead. He spluttered and choked as loud as he could, finally managing to signal to his companion, a mouldering corpse with only half of its skull, wrapped in a protective aura of shadow. As the zombie shuffled toward him it proffered its only possession, a potion imbued with vitality by the alchemists of Evermoore. The concoction fused the bones in his neck and repaired his throat even as it slid its way into the dead necromancer’s gullet. Little by little, the life returned to the broken Karthydian’s form, until finally Alistair was able to lever himself up on one arm. He pressed the hidden button in the haft of his broken poleaxe - another miraculous gift granted by the tradesmen of Evermoore - and with a whoosh of suction he registered with his magical senses more than his ears, the weapon mended itself. Using his signature flame-bladed poleaxe as a crutch, he took to his feet once again on the field of the historic battle fought one year ago. Ambling past the nearby burial mound he had begun excavating - a hill piled higher than his head and wider than the Inn at Evermoore - the necromancer bent to retrieve his shovel and continued on. Wearily, the necromancer turned himself to the bleak cliffs of the north and began his trek home. The tattered banners of dead lords still flapped in the breeze as he picked his way up the forgotten spider webbing, weaved thick as cables from the Blood Diamonds’ arachnid mounts. The climb was not arduous; a layer of vines and foliage had covered the webs and made for a much easier ascent than would the sticky substance. As he crested the rise the necromancer saw the remains of Blood Watch North, a hastily assembled but efficiently placed watchpost, now abandoned after the need for its existence was ended. It suited him, in a way, to resurrect this place as he had done for so many months, as he had done for so many souls, to give it meaning again after it was forgotten by the rush of politics and adventure and danger, the vibrant bustle that life at Evermoore entailed. The necromancer cracked open a fresh bottle of Von Doom and sat contentedly in his half-broken chair, gazing out at the valley below. Dozens of mounds like the one he’d worked on today showed signs of toil in the recent months; what might be hundreds more showed the pristine green of grass and wildflowers that belied the turmoil the souls trapped beneath must feel. The necromancer took a swig of his whiskey and sighed, contented. After much effort, The Six were at peace, as were Hadwin, Torvund, and Valdim. It was a good day.

After many weeks of travel through the Highland mountains and farmlands of Dale Oceans made his way through the East Pass to arrive on the outskirts of Evermoore. Initially he attempted to scout Evermoore and the Guildsmen, but in actuality it was he that was already being tracked and observed by the Elvish rangers that served Guildhall. After a few hours the rangers made themselves known and escorted Oceans to the Inn so he could meet with the local leadership and discern his intentions. Oceans spoke with the Registrar and Innkeeper, explaining that he came from his tribe to seeking to learn the ways of forging iron weapons and armor. He recounted the losses his tribe has endured over the years when fighting forces that have adopted weapons of iron and how he struggles with the tribal elders to break from tradition and also use iron. The Guild Council agreed to start the testing process and see if Oceans was worthy of becoming a Guildsmen. Oceans applied himself arduously, determined to prove his intentions were true and that he was capable of serving Guildhall. During his testing Oceans surprised to see Asgarns and other Ancients studying and training together, his own prejudices quickly started to fade as he saw his fellow trainees come together for a greater good that goes beyond petty tribal squabbles. After several weeks Oceans had finally been brought before the Guild Council and with sponsorship from the Artisan Guild Leader Hugo he receive approval to begin his apprenticeship. Hugo was not disappointed, in the following months Oceans kept up his tireless studies and work-effort to learn the ways of the Artisan, he would take up any task no matter how small, any opportunity to practice the craft was seized. It wasn't long before Oceans was promoted to Initiate and the timing was fortunate as the Junis Market Days were threatened by evil spirits, elder trees and followers of Numia bent on the destruction of all. Even the Inn came under siege from Chaos and it's agents, but the Guildsmen came together to protect the commoners and gather the information needed to put a stop to the attacks permanently. The Guild Council quickly determined that the Elder Trees were being possessed by six spirits that had been corrupted, stuck in limbo and unable to progress to the void. The decision was made to raise Mudamir and learn how he was able to defeat the elder trees in the past. Unfortunately, the Guildsmen were not the only ones seeking to use this strategy, followers of Numia were also seeking the guidance of Mudamir for their own devices and we're not opposed to using violence against the Guildsmen to accomplish their goals. Throughout the market days there were many quests and tasks that needed to be completed. All the Guildsmen and commoners came together to accomplish what was necessary, showing time and time again that they were willing to sacrifice themselves to save Guildhall. Ultimately the Guild Council decided that the Elder Tree and spirits would have to wait until the next month as we continued to gather the resources and information necessary to lay these spirits to rest. By the end of the Market Days Oceans felt like he truly understood the meaning of Guildhall and was honored to have served along his fellow Guildsmen. What started as a quest to learn the ways of blacksmithing has become much more and Oceans hopes he will some day be able to share this with his people.

I would like to have off site events between market days. Not many about three a year. With most of the players in South Jersey and myself being in Trenton, I am curious as to how many of you would come all the way up here for a day event if I could find a suitable locale? It might actually be better to hold events down near you guys, So I was thinking about the Burlington area and renting out a hall. Give me some feedback, please.