HH Productions

Getting inspiration from a few players who have been providing detailed backstory to their characters, I have been thinking about the deeds and events of the world before the characters' involvement in it. This has led me to come up with a number of different stories surrounding important characters from the time of the Akorian Empire. It is here I will post these tales as they might be told by bards at a roadside inn or from a storyteller in a rural community. All present would have heard these tales, or read of them, although some of the finer details might be skewed depending on the race and views of the chronicler and when it was so recorded. What I present is the most unbiased version possible and let you, the reader, decide if it is the one true telling.

I will post these as often as I am able to write them. I hope they add more flavor to this campaign world and that all enjoy reading them as much as I do writing them.

It was the end times for the dragons. Soon the Akorian dominance over the beasts would be complete. A mighty army raised under the banner of the High Priest-King Thaergos the Highborn had marched north from the Shining Coast to root out the remaining bastions of the dragons. Having crushed the last of the Whites in the arctic mountains far to the north of the dwarven stronghold Stormfist, the war host was drunk off of bloodlust and their victories. The High Priest-King himself was leading the host and they now stood in strange lands. They were further north than any humans had ever been, facing mountains so majestic it was dizzying to even gaze upon them. Above the far-reaching cold, the mountain peaks were unfathomably lush and alive. Before the army of nearly thirty thousand, the largest ever raised, lay the stronghold lairs of the Silvers. Several of those great dragons could be seen circling far overhead in the pre-dawn light. It would be here that Thaergos would find immortality in deeds done this day.

With him stood his advisors. There were no personal guard, for the High Priest-King needed no such protection. Only two stood with him that morning. The first was the dwarven priest, Trundy Stonehollow. He hailed from a minor clan, but the Stonehollows were legendary for traveling beneath and through the mountains, finding paths where there should be none. It was for this reason alone that Thaergos tolerated the dwarf, though it was widely known he would discard of him once the campaign was complete. The second was the Knight-Champion of the Greyson Isles, Baravos Greyson. No knight was more loved than Baravos, even among the mainlanders. There was none better on horse or foot and so Thaergos dismissed his own generals from his native lands and required Baravos to be with him on this campaign. The three painted a majestic picture overlooking the encampment of the assembled army, countless banners whipping in the arctic winds above the tent city that had been constructed overnight.

“Today we crush the last of these dragons, killing their seed for all time,” Thaergos proclaimed. He was nearly blinding to look at. His long curly locks of the deepest brown hugged his shoulders, held firmly in place by his majestic crown of platinum studded with the seven Diamonds of Fealty. He wore electrum half-plate forged by the finest smiths and artisans and engraved with runes of power from the northern rune priests. His cape was made of platinum dragon scales from the youngest of their breed so that it may be fluid like one of cloth. His war mace was tempered from the hottest flames of Stormfist forges and it was said lightning was pulled from the sky to seal its enchantments. His staff was two feet higher than his own impressive six foot frame and was carved from the stoutest of trees within the Deep Wood. It was crested with an intricate carved wing and within the bend of the wing was a massive star sapphire. Thaergos was not merely a Priest-King, but also a war mage as well, one of only three such talented combinations within the Akorian’s long reign.

“This is not Anu’s will,” Trundy said. He was hardly as imposing with his simple robes of a ritual priest tied in place by a thick woven cord of his own hair. A heavy bear pelt draped his shoulders and trailed down his back and his own staff was more function than flair. A stout six feet of iron and wood with only a few runes etched into its surface. He stroked his dense, bushy black beard with his free hand of thick knuckles and rough skin. He was not having a pleasant morning.

“You dare instruct me on the will of my own god?” Thaergos challenged. “I speak directly to the Lord of the Skies and know his will better than any. It will be soon I shall sit at his table in the heavens and receive my gift of immortality for being his hand on this mortal plane.”

Trundy knew better than to persist and so remained quiet. The lines of worry had etched deeper into his craggy face daily since joining this errand.

“I do not believe this cause to be just,” Baravos spoke instead. “I have seen the decimation of the Whites and while they were deserving to be rid of given their evil nature, the Silvers are not in the same league.” Baravos was no less striking, his surcoat of grey and blue flapping violently about, it’s helm and hound, the standard of the Greyson Isles, emblazoned properly. His full plate polished to a fine brilliance and his knight’s shield of solid blue trimmed with platinum worn secured upon his left arm. The visor of his great helm was up so that he may have full vision of the scene before him. His features seemed chiseled from flawless stone and his moustache neatly trimmed from the top of his lip until where it stopped at the line of his jaw. A heavy longsword with an ornate pommel ending in a hound’s head, a gift from the king of the Greyson Isles, his own great-uncle, was secured in its baldric. It was forged from the finest of steel and had a vein of electrum running the length of its blood groove. There was no faster blade anywhere in the empire; its enchantment was unrivalled.

“You are not here to debate the justness of causes, Knight,” Thaergos retorted. “Your only purpose is to lead the men until only dragon corpses remain on the field of battle.”

“Then it would seem you have an unsettling revelation before you,” Baravos said calmly. “Who will do it if I will not?”

“So I take this to be your betrayal?” Thaergos asked uncaringly, as if somehow knowing this was coming all along.

“If that is how you choose to construct it in your mind, then yes. I and my retinue retire from this field,” Baravos proclaimed, and with that turned and began walking towards his pavilion.

“Prepare yourself and your islands,” Thaergos bellowed. “For upon finishing here, a thousand battle barges of the Shining Coast will lay siege to your insignificant hovels.”

“We shall be waiting. I pray you lead that host as you do this one. I wish to look upon your face one last time,” Baravos replied calmly before disappearing from sight around the mountainous trail.

When all was said and done, the near-five thousand Greyson crossbowmen and vassal knights departed, leaving their brothers-in-arms for the last year behind to face the might of the Silvers. It would not be immediately known to Baravos the victory of Thaergos that day. The day that would be heralded as the extinction of the dragons. He would also not learn how the eggs of the Silvers had been ferreted out and feasted upon in excess that very night. Nor would Baravos ever see those thousand ships blockading the shores of his beloved isles, for a different fate awaited instead for the Akorian empire. One that neither it, nor it’s High Priest-King, would ever recover from.

Despite the cold, or maybe because of it, Sir Roeberthe was sweating. He had successfully tracked a summoner of devils to the cliff-side altar. His steadfast companion and, widely-believed amor, Aeriyanna secured passage along the underwater chasms to arrive undetected in the mountain range north of even the dwarf holdings. She was an aquatic elf with long flowing sea green hair, eyes the color of polished emeralds and possessed a long, lithe body. He was a striking man from the Shining Coast, easily more than six feet in height with well-kept, braided hair and beard of the purest black. His hazel eyes could pierce a man’s soul and his words spoke with conviction and power, for he was a paladin of Anu. More than that, he was the Lore Keeper, possessor of the sacred canon, and it was his task to cleanse a very young Akorian empire of all evil and malicious beings who were poised to strike down such a collective power in its infancy. Thus it was here Sir Roeberthe had to go, and it was here fate would be decided.

Waves crashed against the cliffs and the altar carved straight from its rocks shook with each pounding. The spray could choke a man for as thick as it was, and so cold it could freeze one’s lungs if too much was inhaled. That was of little concern to the paladin and the mage. The summoner, a swarthy man also from the Shinning Coast, with wild eyes and equally wild hair and beard had been successful. He had summoned a sea devil, sickly green and white in color with pupil-less eyes. Pointy head, long narrow ears and a flicking tail did little to draw one’s eyes away from the dangerous claws possessed on both hands and feet.

The altar was stained with the blood of countless victims over an indeterminable span of years. Symbols carved into it ages past were all but faded now with the wear of time and water, but it still held tremendous power. Power enough for this and, Sir Roeberthe feared, much worse things. It was far past time to end it all and bring the entire cliff face into the churning waters if need be.

“I will deal with this devil!” the paladin roared to be heard over the crashing waves. “You occupy the summoner’s attentions.”

Aeriyanna nodded. She knew what he needed of her even before he spoke the words. She moved gracefully, barefoot among the slick stone but not in any way in danger of loosing her balance. Sir Roeberthe however had to tread much more carefully. His full plate armor allowed for little in the way of mistakes in the treacherous environment he found himself in. One misstep and he would plummet and smash onto the rocks below and be pulled out to sea, lost forever, in the blink of an eye.

Magic flared as the aquatic elf conjured a magical translucent globe about herself just a mere breath before coming under assault of the summoner’s foul magic. It was none of the paladin’s concern anymore. She would live or die without him, but he was more than confident it would be the former. His metal-encased fist closed around the massive canon hooked to his belt and connected to his person by a stout chain. His thumb activated the oversized stud made for such massive armor to easily use. His voice rang clear and true, no falter in the words, for to do so meant a more gruesome death than a fall from that spot ever could.

“Foul devil, hear these words for they bring only doom to you this day!” he began. “I am Sir Roeberthe, Lore Keeper of Anu, Voice of the Skies and Guardian of the West. By the holy scripture I hold in my hands you shall find death to not be a pleasant release for you this day.”

The devil hissed, a horrible sound that nearly brought blood from the paladin’s eardrums. It stomped towards him, foot claws punching holes into the stone as if it was nothing more than soft earth. In its wake, the ground was covered in a thin sheen of ice. It stuck inhumanly fast, but it screamed in rage as its claw touched the paladin’s divine shield. There was nothing it could bring to bear that would penetrate it.

Still Sir Roeberthe was diligent. He would not give in to the lure of an easy victory. Should this beast turn its attentions on his companion, he would not be able to save her. So with that he spoke further, directly but without haste.

“By the will of Anu I bring down wrath upon you!” he began. “I smite you! By His words, His will, His law I utterly destroy you! You shall not, will not, return to your den of sin to plot and plan. There will be nothing left to recognize you by. The only memory of you will exist in my head as a deed completed. Nothing more! Oh no, foulest of devils, this day heralds your last for all eternity.”

Sensing its end horribly near, the devil lashed out, not at the paladin, but at the cliff itself. It was no minor devil so easy cowed and defeated. It had been bidding its time to be released from its ancient prison and it would see the day of its scheming and plans reach their conclusion. With a raking of claws and a slapping of its tail, it brought the cliff down upon all present.

In that moment, Sir Roeberthe knew defeat. His protection was nothing against the wall of stone shards raining down on him and it tore through paper and plate as if one in the same. The canon fell to the unforgiving ground at the same time as his body, the binding shattering as did his spine. The Lore Keeper of Anu would rise no more, but save one last final deed that could not be stolen from his lips.

“Oh great Anu, I freely give up this life to remove this devil from all existence,” he said in a whisper that somehow carried further than any fiercer tone ever could have. “I will neither fight nor cling to the hopes of reprieve from your gathering up of my soul. I pray thee as you collect your son now to join you that you allow my passing to not go without meaning.”

At so it was that the body of Sir Roeberthe shown like the sun and shattered the devil as if it had been made merely of glass. Shards of its body mixed with the broken rock all about it, and where those shards came to rest, they began to steam and melt like snow thrown on a newly-forged blade. With a long sigh and the thinnest of smiles on his lips, the paladin passed from the mortal world.

“No!” screamed Aeriyanna. “No! You can not have him yet!”

She ran, uncaring of the severity of her own wounds, to his broken body and cradled him. Tears streamed down her face as pages of the canon were caught in the wind.
“He can not be yours yet!" she pleaded to the sky. "Not when we had yet to…” She could speak no longer, her words lodged in her throat, threatening to choke her.

Aeriyanna sat there and held him. She held him long after her tears no longer flowed. She held him long after her wounds no longer openly wept blood. She held him long past when the unceasing waves had finally quieted.



GM Notes: There is an addition to this tale that says it was because of Aeriyanna that the finest of all paladins had been laid low and lost to all the empire that day. It is said because of her love for him that he was distracted in the most critical of times and lost the valuable second he needed to defeat the devil before it could slay him. This rendition is quite popular among the bards of Immater, and show as proof that the demi-humans can not be trusted and that such unions can only end tragically. However, beyond the Shining Coast this addition is not woven in, or even known at all, and so was not included in this telling for the truth of it can not be ascertained.

When the Akorians were still dreaming of a glorious empire, the High Elves had seized a moment of apparent weakness of the Grey Elves in their rule and were able to insert their own kings for a time. In truth, the Grey Elves simply believed it was time for their brethren to understand the burdens of leadership that they had borne for so many generations. The High Elves of course believed differently. Still, to their credit, the High Elves produced many fine kings, until the reign of Maedes Sunhart.

The Sunharts were a strong and noble bloodline and in the first decades of Maedes’ rule, the elf kingdom prospered. However, when the king lost his favorite sun and heir to the throne, Aergus, during the Shambler Wars waged in the Lightning Marshes, he snapped. Finding no spell within his enormous repertoire as a legendary mage, King Maedes turned to his priests to raise his son from the dead. They refused him.

“His body is lost to the Shamblers,” High Priest Gaeis Bearshae attempted to explain while his King paced the large throne room. “Even if we could extract it, there will have been too much damage done. He would be unrecognizable at best.”

“His spirit has gone to join the Generations,” Priestess Aevar Snowbloom insisted. “It is not our place to rip him from there to return here. His will to live would not be present and he would fade within a decade at best.”

“And how exactly would you know this?” King Sunhart boomed. “My son is to inherit the kingdom. His will to live is strong. Magic can repair the body just as magic can bring him back. It is out of my realm but not yours,” he emphasized with an accusatory finger.

“We are your advisors in all priestly matters,” Gaeis reminded him, “and we advise against this course of action and will not partake in it.” With that, the High Priest collected his associate and together they left the chamber.

“Then I shall do it myself,” Maedes said seething.

King Sunhart delved into forbidden tomes and spent three cycles of the moon studying the dark arts of Necromancy. His youngest son, Kayjen, who was to inherit the kingdom and desired to attend his father was largely ignored. The Queen left on a sojourn into the Deep Wood but had yet to return. The kingdom was quite capable of running itself for a time, but talk was beginning to spread.

One lazy autumn afternoon, King Sunhart threw open his private chamber doors and strode with purpose, calling for his horse. He ignored all attempts made for a personal guard to accompany wherever he planned to go that day. Just before reaching his horse, Kayjen reached him.

“I know what you go to do, Father,” he said, blocking the path. “You must not do this.”

“How dare you give me orders!” Maedes challenged. “Out of my way before I have you locked in the dungeon!”

Kayjen’s honor as a cavalier would not let him strike or restrain his father despite knowing he was heading to his doom. He stepped aside and lowered his head, refusing to look upon him, father and king. Without another word, Maedes mounted up and rode from the lofty castle, heading deep into the wood.

At midnight on the moonless night, King Sunhart stopped. He took his enchanted dagger and laid out a circle of his own blood. It flared with power once it was closed, and the whole wood shuddered. Every beast fell silent. Even the wind dared not breathe. The powers Maedes summoned that night and the pact formed created a blight from which nothing in a hundred yards in every direction would grow anew.

On the 13th night following the dark bargain, the castle guards shouted an alarm that an intruder had breached the castle.

“It is no intruder,” King Sunhart explained. “It is my son returned home.”

Cavalier Aergus had indeed returned, wearing the armor he wore on his final day, blackened with his own blood and infested with spores and rot. His long hair no longer lustrous hid much of hideous appearance. His blade was coated with vile toxins and vines connected the pommel to his own flesh. There was no way the guards were going to let such an abomination stroll through their magnificent castle and so they ignored their king and met a cruel fate at the blade of the fallen cavalier.

Striding slowly over cooling elven corpses, Aergus reached Maedes as he stood locked in complete disbelief. “Hello father,” the raspy voice said, giving a smile from beyond the grave.

“No, this isn’t right,” Maedes said, his voice shaking. “The pact was sealed. It was done properly. You, you’re not my son!”

“Oh but I am,” came the haunting reply. “I am just what you asked for, and you were quite right. My desire to live is strong indeed.”

“Abomination!” High Priest Bearshae bellowed upon entering the site of carnage. His fingers immediately began to work magic.

“None of that,” Aergus said and moved with impossible speed, driving the fouled blade of his bastard sword deep into the priest’s chest. The blade was free before the last breath had escaped the elf’s lungs.

“What? No!” Aevar cried out, but it was to be her last words, her head tumbling end over end until landing at the feet of King Sunhart.

“I have a task to finish, Father,” Aergus stated. “If you’ll excuse me.”

Maedes didn’t hear by that point, his eyes fixed on the death stare of Aevar’s head as it slowly wobbled to a stop. He still stood there hours later when Kayjen returned from his hunt.

“Father? Father!” the young cavalier cried out, but there was not one coherent thought or simple word the king could say by that point. His sanity had fled with the coming of dawn’s light.

Kayjen strode purposely through the vast halls, finally finding his older brother in the castle smithy. The undead cavalier was blackening his shield and speaking words of power he could not know upon it. The sound of steel flying free of its scabbard gave the abomination pause to regard his younger brother who faced him with a naked bastard sword of his own.

“What do you think you shall do with that?” he inquired.

“Send you back to the pit of the hells that spawned you,” Kayjen replied.

Aergus laughed and it was a horrible sound. With a flick of his wrist, the smithy door closed in Kayjen’s face and became magically barred. After a lengthy time, the pounding on the door ceased and Aergus finished his unholy task.

Kayjen retrieved his own shield and headed to the chapel. He spoke with the remaining priests there and they agreed to his wishes. They bathed his shield in the holiest of waters and cast blessings upon it. By sunset of that day, the shield blazed the purest white. With it, Kayjen made way to confront his brother one last time.

He had found that Aergus had already departed. The few surviving guards said he rode a beast of blackest night that left a trail of fire in its wake. They pointed to the east, although Kayjen could see the trail as clear as anything. Mounting his own white charger, he gave pursuit.

Kayjen caught his brother upon a series of rocks made flat and smooth by the sheet river’s constant ebb and flow. He called out a challenge and Aergus slowed then finally stopped. Kayjen dismounted and drew his sword, closing the distance quickly.

“This ends now,” Kayjen proclaimed.

“So it does,” Aergus agreed and also dismounted. He drew his horrible blade and blackened shield.

The two cavaliers faced each other, one with a shield of purest white, the other the foulest black. Both emblazoned with the hart that was their namesake. Kayjen offered his brother a salute, which was returned in kind. Then steel clashed with steel and the wood around them fell silent in an expectant hush. The “War of the Harts” raged for nearly a full day before a tranquil quiet returned. Neither elf nor abomination was ever seen again.