The First Stone is Cast...

Standing over a large oak table in the War Room, Contapuli Thendars quite literally felt the weight of his command bearing down on his shoulders. Soldiers in the King’s Army wore no less than a head-to-toe suit of mail armor, composed entirely of small links of steel chain woven together. Officers wore a suit of breastplate; but the Commander of a fortress such as Caar Brindik wore banded mail. In the time of a standing conflict the men were required to wear their armor at all times, even while sleeping—and the Commander was no exception to this rule. With very little exception, Commander Thendars had been wearing his entire suit of armor for three days. The Nanfurdeg had been battering the walls of the fortress for all three of those days, and it looked like they would be at it for a fourth. But Nanfurdeg were the least of the Commander’s worries—at least they could be felled by hammer and arrow. The Hultzig, however, were another matter entirely. Fire was the only thing that would destroy them, or perhaps acid--but being an Army installation as they were, there were few alchemists who could cook it up, nor were there mages who could produce it through incantations and gestures from their bare fingertips. While it took some time to drop one of the immense storm giants, there was more certainty in doing so than there was fighting Hultzig trolls, or their larger kin for that matter.

Commander Thendars tried to ignore the weight of the heavy leather and steel pauldrons as they sat heavy on his shoulders, and instead focused on the map in front of him. Caar Brindik was built on the civilized edge of the Hurtz Mountains, meant as both a bulwark against the giants and as a training depot for newly-recruited Army men. And recruitment was what they sorely needed—the days where no casualties were reported were few and far between. The map, and its little wooden markers—each representing a squad of ten soldiers—showed that the garrison was stretched thin across the guard towers and at the fortress’ four main gates. While everything he knew about tactics, all the conventional military wisdom up to this point told him that an even distribution of troops was the most sound course of action, he knew that it wasn’t working—too many good men and women were getting slaughtered by giants.

Contapuli looked up as he heard the doors to the War Room open, and for a brief moment his countenance softened--for in strode his brother, Letisod Thendars, followed by another figure. Letisod was one of Contapuli’s captains—him and their brother, Rakishor, were Rangers in service of the crown, captains of Caar Brindik’s scout corps. The three brothers fought hard to clear out several tribes of giants and trolls that prowled this land, sending out brutal raiding parties to sack outlying villages, travelers and caravans. The King bade the Scouts to assess the area, then report on their findings; King Eor then sent 1000 men and a team of engineers to build a fortress there. Letisod was dressed in a suit of leather that had been bleached and stained a bone white-grey color, which when coupled with white sheep’s wool linens and a cloak made of snow leopard pelts, kept him hidden as he stalked the icy plains at the foot of the Hurtz mountains.

“Brother,” Contapuli exclaimed, albeit somewhat haggardly. “What news of the front? I could use to take this armor off and sleep for a week.” The Commander saw the figure standing in the doorway and was puzzled—it looked to be as tall as a Karrak man but much leaner, with white hair instead of the usual blond, red or brown of Karrak men and women.

“I’m afraid, my brother, that you’ll have to shoulder the burden a while longer,” Letisod said in a low, gravely voice. He stood shorter than most men, and kept his curly mop of brown hair cropped closely to his neck. “Although the Hultzigs have been quiet, the Nanfurdeg have been focusing their efforts on the west wall--launching stones like catapults from a hundred yards afar. They’ll bring down the whole wall by nightfall if we don’t do something.”

“Do we have any idea of their numbers? If it’s only three or four we could send a squad out to meet them--any more than that, and they’d get massacred.” The Commander’s brow furrowed as he spoke, deep lines of worry creasing his forehead.

“If only we were so fortunate,” Letisod said, finally taking steps to enter the War Room. “Last report was eight at the least, that were spotted--if not more. I sent Rakishor out to look with my spyglass on yonder morning—thank St. Unthar that his falcon returned undetected with the count.” The slender figure continued to stand underneath the lintel, out of view of the torches that provided the hall with light.

Contapuli could not help but slam his fist into the oak table that showed all of his battle maps and markers. If he were still wearing his gauntlets—the only piece of his armor he had removed—he would have likely split the table’s surface. He placed his other fist onto the table and used it to support the weight of his upper body, feeling the steel bands digging into his skin. “Brother, who is that man who stands under the lintel, just out of view?”

“Sorry to not be welcoming me,” the Yelin male said, stepping into the light. He spoke in broken Skorlskaad, the words coming slowly as he translated from ylvani into the Karrak tongue. “Waited for you stopping. Name Laucian Nailo.” He raised his right arm, turning his wrist towards the Commander. “Am lindeloktë. Your King send me to help fight giants. Am sorry Skorlskaad bad. Just learnd I new on trip from King.” Inside, Laucian rolled his eyes--the thick, sonorous tongue belied his true speed of thought, making him sound like a dullard. Contapuli’s eyes widened, however, for while the Skorlskaad tongue did have its subtleties regardless of its simple construction, the gentleman seemed to have grasped the basics as rapidly in the weeks of travel from Torlheim as a bright Karrak boy would learning it in the nursery. His brow furrowed once more, his eyes lidding half-closed as he regarded the ylvani. Most of the elves he had heard of were detached and uninterested, caring little for the matters of the Karrak people save only when it served their goals. That being said, he also heard stories of these lindeloktë—some kind of singing sword-mages they were—who could be handy to have in a fight.

“I must say, you speak Skorlskaad better than some grown men I know; no doubt you’ll pick it up fully soon. In the meantime, we could use an extra sword to help in this mission. Letisod, my brother, I want you to meet with Rakishor where he is keeping watch over this giant force. Gather together twenty of your best skirmishers, scouts, and paladins. We have a Shining Maul with us, so take him as well.” He gestured towards Laucian, “And take him along with you too. That makes twenty-two, plus yourself and our brother makes twenty-four. Arrange a battle plan, and eliminate these giants who are threatening the western wall.”

Letisod nodded as Commander Thendars issued the order, raising his right fist and pounding it against his left shoulder. “As you wish, my brother and my Lord. The Hammer of Unthar shall shatter our foes.”

Contapuli responded in turn by pounding his fist against his shoulder. “The Hammer of Unthar shall shatter our foes.”

With that, Letisod and Laucian left the War Room, and Contapuli returned to reviewing his maps.

The Search for Nightbreeze Begins...

Laucian Nailo took a moment to smooth out the creases that had formed along his tunic and breeches as he stepped off the boarding ramp of the Eludetha Adalamad, disembarking onto the shores of the island of Skaan. It had been his first time setting foot on the island; although he was one of the first Ylvani who was not an Aldarwa to complete Lindeloktë training, and was just about to crest past middle age, his operations had never taken him to human lands before. Skaan shared a similar climate to that of the Tára Orofarnë, so Laucian was by no means discomfited by the cold and sharp winds. He was told that the ship would be making landfall close to a town—what these humans, who called themselves Karrak after a patron hero of theirs, lived in. Yelin scouts, those who had been here before Laucian, said that the Firyar lived not within houses composed of an entire family line, but instead mingled with other families and separate generations of families. It was strange to him, but then again most humans were—their customs were significantly different from that of the Yelin (and most had few customs in common at all from one person to the next). Regardless of his unsettling feelings towards the Firyar as a whole, however, he knew what he must do, and where he had to do it; the honor that came with the adherence to propriety meant he must appear before these humans’ king and ask for his blessing before conducting any activities of Ylvani importance within his lands.

Following the direction of Yelin cartographers who had mapped major Karrak settlements on the isle of Skaan, Laucian followed the Vanden river to the town that lay nestled at its bend, that which the Humans called Vandenheim. Even if he didn’t have the hood of his cloak drawn over his head, he would still stand out from them—most were as tall as him, but some stood as tall as Aldarwa, their shoulders as broad as a sword’s blade was long (if not broader). He made his way to the largest building in the town, hoping that he could find the local lord (or whatever passed for the town’s governance). The complexities of the Ylvani tongue were lost on these simple people, so he was forced to use the pidgin tongue in order to get results—he did not speak the native language. As it turned out, the largest structure in the town would be a place of worship—a temple where this patron hero was revered as was úr-rassë in the Tára Orofarnë. Laucian was able to discover from speaking with one of the priests there that the king of these people reigned from his throne in a town called Torlheim, a town bigger than any other on the island. Laucian would have to travel there by horse or carriage, for it was many days’ journey away from Vandenheim. It would be best to journey this way, he felt, for even though his training in the arcane sciences could carry him faster, he believed it best to maintain a low profile. These Karrak people drew power from their devotion to their patron hero, Unthar Karrak, but few towns had the resources to properly study a wizard’s craft; magic talent would appear through natural ability rather than schooling, but from what he was told about the Karrak people even cases such as those were infrequent. Horses were few in the mountains of Laucian’s home, so rather than ride one without skill he chose to book passage with the first trade caravan headed for the Karrak capital.

It would take the caravan two weeks to travel from Vandenheim to Torlheim, during which Laucian reviewed his spellbook and appreciated the spartan landscape—the ground, constantly covered in even just a thin dusting of snow, reminded him of home. He got the impression, somehow, that it would be a long time before he saw it again. When the carriages of the caravan pulled up to Torlheim's main gate, laden with postage from Varyag couriers and trade goods from Dayrin merchant vessels, Laucian could clearly see that this was a much larger town than Vandenheim—its walls were stone rather than wood, and most of the buildings were so large that if you were standing at the main gate, you couldn’t see to the other side of the city. Guards at the main gate inspected the carriages and checked the caravan’s trade certificates; since Laucian was a paid passenger, his identity was questioned as well.

Laucian opened his mouth and began to speak Ylvani—speaking it was as autonomic as breathing, but the guards did not understand it. Pausing for a moment he switched to words that made his usually melodic voice sound clipped and stunted:

“Traveler—talk to King—important”, Laucian said, only this time in the pidgin tongue instead. The subtleties of the Ylvani tongue fell by the wayside when it was necessary to use the trade language patched together by the Varyag; all of the eastern nations spoke it, but Laucian firmly believed that all of them reviled it as equally as he did. He tried his best to implore the guards that he could only speak to the King, so they told him he had to “wait”—they felt it was necessary to find a translator, someone who spoke Ylvani so that they could better understand the man. A sage who spoke Ylvani was fetched from one of the city libraries and he greeted Laucian, bidding him to speak his mother tongue.

“I am simply a traveler wishing to speak with the King on a matter of personal importance,” Laucian said, “I will only reveal details of this matter directly to him, or to one of his personal advisors.” Laucian spoke to the man in whispers, for fear that more conversational tones would give away more information about his identity—propriety indicated that as a foreigner, he reveal himself openly only to the governor of the land before any other see him, so that if the governor grants his blessing, then he may walk openly amongst the people of the foreign group. His inability to get his message across in the trade language already established his identity as an Ylvani, so he did his best to keep other details for the King’s eyes only.

Given this response, Laucian was detained until one of the King’s ministers could be summoned. Laucian’s identity (including his Lindeloktë mark) was revealed to this man when lord Pietr von Gasselgow, King Eor von Heimeran’s minister of state, produced the proper credentials. Lord Gasselgow came with a retinue of his own guards, who escorted both Laucian and the minister to Caar Karrak, the King’s fortress and the building where the governance of the Karrak Kingdom was conducted. Laucian was told that he would have to wait further, in quarters that would be prepared for him, until the King was ready to receive him—given the number of people ahead of Laucian in line, wishing to petition the King ahead of him, this would mean waiting the better part of two days. Laucian was patient, however, taking the time to review his arcane manuals and explore the more public parts of the city, in particular the chief temple that served the devout followers of Unthar Karrak. Laucian was beginning to see the Karrak people as kindred spirits, for the rigorous lifestyle they’ve maintained in order to survive in such an inhospitable environment such as Skaan’s is reflected in the diligence of their defenders and their faithful; while he did not draw his power from his faith in úr-rassë, he still revered it as the revelation of Kemí to the Yelin people.

The time came when Laucian Nailo was summoned to appear before King Eor, and when word came the Lindeloktë made haste for his appointment. Passing through several layers of guards, these being soldiers in the King’s Army within Caar Karrak’s walls, Laucian was brought into King Eor’s throne room. The immense hearth-room, the keep’s central hall, had little adornment that was not functional—animal pelts to keep warm, weapons bearing trophies of troll and storm giant scalps, and shields emblazoned with the insignias of each noble family. Although not as aesthetically pleasing, visually, as Ral-gath-lid’s throne room, Laucian allowed himself a brief smile at the similarity while he still remained hooded. These children, he thought, might show their worth even when their brothers and sisters do not.

“Remove your hood and show yourself before the King,” a seneschal called out. Laucian agreed, and it was then that he drew the hood back, revealing his white hair, slender frame, and elegant features—including his pointed ears. There were gasps of surprise from many of the King’s ministers and several of his soldiers as well; while Yelin had been encountered before by both the King and his retinue, it was rare for one to petition the King in this fashion (most observed from a distance, not wishing to get involved in human affairs).

“I greet, King Eor. I Laucian Nailo, warrior of Three—”

King Eor raised a hand, gesturing to one of his aides. “Arbagast, one of my men, speaks Ylvani, so you may proceed as you would speak normally.”

Laucian cleared his throat and nodded, settling back into the familiarity of his language. “I greet you, lord King Eor von Heimeran of the Firyar called Karrak,” he said in response, “my name is Laucian Nailo, and my mark makes me Lindeloktë in the service of the Nossë Neldë of the Ylvani.” It still took him some effort to say those words without a clear tone of indignation in his voice, for there was a time when he refused, as his brethren did, to accept the Erumë as kin. “None other than the Lindeloktë bear this mark, or else they bear it in deceit. I approach you openly, and ask that you accept me openly.”

“I accept you openly,” King Eor said in reply, waiting for Arbagast to finish translating before commenting. The King was gentle in his older years, having grown much more understanding of the manners of other humans and humanoids with time. “But you must understand that for you to come before me in petition is a surprise. I usually receive petitions through my ambassador to the Dayrin League; he has often welcomed those of your order to his table in discussion of matters that concern both of our peoples. Why do you come to me in person?”

“As I told your minister of state, your highness,” Laucian continued, showing deference to the governor of the foreign land as was part of his training, “It is a matter of personal importance—not only to myself, but to the Ylvani people. We have reason to believe that a relic from our history, an artifact of some significance has wound up on your island, and I have come to request your approval so that I may conduct a search for it.”

Lord Eor looked puzzled as he waited for the translation to finish, the gray whiskers above his left eyebrow shifting as he arched it. “An artifact? What sort of Ylvani artifact would wind up on our shores?”

Laucian folded his arms behind his back, taking a stance of ease as he spoke of historical events. “During our wars with the giants in years past, there was a climactic battle between Benedulamin Rennos, a highly skilled Yelin warrior, and Hagorak, a giant of the glaciers—who ultimately slew him.”

“I have heard of this Hagorak,” Eor said, nodding in reply, “A Kynar, a cousin of their current king called Karazok. Vile creatures, the giants who live on the glacier…they eat the flesh of humans and humanoids as food, rather than that of animals. Coupled with their size and their raiding culture mentality, they are an intimidating force of creatures.”

“Yes indeed, your highness.” Laucian acknowledged Eor’s comment with a nod, and then continued. “Hagorak bid his minions to claim Rennos’ body, his belongings, and his armor. Over the generations, however, one piece of his arsenal has resurfaced—the hilt of his sword, Huest Adulïn (“the night breeze”). Every generation it has resurfaced, every generation it has been given a new blade, and every generation it has been sundered, cast back into the sea of time. What circumstances or forces have kept reeling it out of the temporal waters I do not know, but we believe that it is ready to be pulled ashore once more.”

“I see,” Eor said softly, scratching his jaw briefly with his fingertips. “Well, I am more than willing to grant my approval upon your quest to uncover this artifact. You do us an honor in keeping your customs, and such an honor cannot pass without reward. However, there is one thing I do ask of you in return, lord Nailo.”

“What is that, your highness—” Laucian asked, still maintaining a posture of deference to the Karrak King.

“You may call me King Eor,” the King said, interjecting. Although there was a time in which Eor would accept no less than ‘your highness’, in his elder years he was much more forgiving.

Laucian cleared his throat. “What is your request then, King Eor?”

“We have a fortress north of here, just shy of a mountain range called the Hurtz. Caar Brindik is its name—it is a training facility for new soldiers in the King’s Army. Lately, reports have been coming in that it has been an exceptionally strong choice for attacks from the Nanfurdeg, and the soldiers there repel attacks on a weekly basis. I have every confidence that someone with your great intellect, knowledge of war and combat, and fighting skill could advise the soldiers there in methods involving fighting giants, as well as to lend a hand should the Nanfurdeg come knocking on Caar Brindik’s door. You may search for your artifact upon this island wherever you choose; I only ask that you gift us with your expertise in return.”

“I can do nothing but accept your request, King Eor,” Laucian said in reply, stepping his feet together in order to stand straight up, lifting his right hand straight up into a stiff salute. “The threat of the Nanfurdeg is a threat to the Nossë Neldë as well, and I am bound by oath to defend them. I entreat Kemí to speed the hilt of Huest Adulïn to my hand, so that I might give it a new blade and swing it in defense of Firyar and Ylvani alike.”

“And may both Saint Karrak and his shield-squire, Arensahl, shine down their countenance upon you, and bless you in your efforts,” King Eor spoke in reply, sealing his approval with an entreaty to the patron of his people.

Laucian left Torlheim with the hood of his cloak pulled back, no longer concerned about hiding his appearance from Karrak citizens. He would travel by carriage once again, only this time it would be a military convoy that would take him from Torlheim to Caar Brindik.

Chapter 6 - The March Harrier

In spite of the Secretary's statements, I had to cool my heels for nearly three months, waiting for the March Harrier to return, hidden in Dahlon and moving about every few days. The time spent was arduous and tedious. I was unable to leave my bolt holes to visit family or friends for fear of running afoul of the Polinoy clan in the first month of my stay in Dahlon. After that, my few visits with the people of my life before I sailed with the Wavestrider were somewhat strained, and I found myself unable to really connect with the people I had known before I went on my long journey. Thus it was with a certain amount of relief that I found out that the March Harrier had come into port.

In addition to relieving the ennui of life ashore, the arrival of the Harrier meant that I could finally get to work. Time and tide wait for no man, and they sure as Saint Esta's bronze breastplate wouldn't wait for me! I grabbed a last cup of vressa from Damal's bakery and headed to the port. The sight that greeted me was everything that I expected and more.

The March Harrier was a beauty, a masterpiece of nautical design and an examplar of the graceful architecture that made Merlani and Dayrin ships second only to the Varyag among Human nations. The ship was large, a good sized caravelle, with gracefully sweeping masts festooned with the gleaming ivory color of furled sails. The grayish elven ropes of the rigging played a sharp contrast to the white of the sails and the dark, almost black, stain of the wood. She looked lean and hungry, a kind of sea-going predator that ships like the Wavestriderfeared to cross. She was like a sheepdog sitting amidst the flock, a hunter guarding the sheep.

The deck bustled with activity and I got no closer than a half-score of paces when I was stopped by a rather odd man with weathered skin, salt and pepper hair, and a somewhat distracted look about him. He was dressed well, and seemed to be looking for me when I caught sight of him. He was obviously a member of the crew, and equally obviously was there to greet me.

"Arissa Uleira?" he asked cautiously.

"Yes, sir," I replied almost automatically, and he smiled.

"My name is Galldi, Alain Galldi, and I am the second... actually, now I guess I am the first mate on the Harrier."

He looked rather sheepish as he made the correction, and I wondered what exactly he meant by it. Perhaps the former first mate had been released or retired, I mused as he guided me up the gangplank and onto the caravelle's deck. I almost missed the explanation as Galldi started rambling on.

"...they never liked each other from the start. The skipper thought that Iblis was too soft and Iblis thought the captain was too strict. It was going to come to a head eventually, but I never thought that they would actually duel on the deck at sea. They fought pretty hard, so you see, the old first mate and the capatin killed each other in the duel and well... Baron Moravese couldn't save them, and we were too far from shore, and... there you have it. Our new Captain arrived just before you did. He seems... different..." the first mate's narrative trailed off with a sort of non-committal shrug, but by now I was too busy taking in the faces of my new companions to care that much.

Galldi walked me around the deck and showed me the ship himself, introducing the officers as he went. The first officer started with the cargomaster and shipwright, a stout red-headed Dwarf who went by the odd name of Tex, which was short for Tekeshak "Oarbreaker" craghs'Eruksel ghorfs'Thrumsul. I figured Tex was a heck of a lot easier to remember, so I stuck with that. The dour dwarf seemed to consider the idea of socializing with others distateful, and began muttering about the lack of proper diet, too few dishes featuring beans, and the stupid quartermaster who couldn't brew proper ale or stew a proper plate of beans. Tex was obviously a master at what he did, but equally obviously was far too obsessed with beans.

The next member of the crew was a portly Merlani, who Galldi claimed was Baron Maximus Moravese de Fornice of the city-state of Tunde, and a member of one of the ranking Patrician families there. Baron Moravese provided the air of cool competence that one would expect of a ship's surgeon, and it seemed obvious that in addition to his mundane skills as a healer he was a skilled shaman as well. Convivial and friendly, I chatted openly with him about life in Tunde, and the differences between our cities until Galldi maneuvered me away. The Baron seemed like a good solid sort, and was obviously an assett well worth having around.

After moving away from Baron Moravese, Galldi escorted me over to a hulking figure up near the tiller. Another non-human, the ship's helmsman and navigator was a raffish Tulosh named G'vaud'zshen. Nearly seven feet tall, the jackal-like humanoid looked graceful and deadly, even standing still on the poop deck reviewing charts. Friendly but terse, G'vaud'zshen indicated that his responsibilities for the ship precluded a lengthy discussion at present, however he would be happy to chat later, once Arissa was settled in and the new patrol routes were plotted in. With a flowing bow, the Tulosh resumed his arithmetical calculations.

As Galldi prepared to resume the rounds of introductions the Quartermaster appeared on deck with rations for all those currently working. The man was introduced as Otahr Taylin, and he sized Arissa up without skipping a beat. Pleasantly cheerful with the crew, Otahr began asking quick and pointed questions the moment the crowd of hungry sailors dispersed. It did not take me long to realize that this was no simple cook, and though his food was excellent it would be a mistake to underestimate this man. His thick brogue took some of the sting out of the questions, but it became clear all too quickly that this man was a trained investigator. The two saparas strapped to the Atvaran's back also put paid the idea that this cook was only dangerous to cold meats. For a purser or quartermaster to be so well armed indicated certain other tasks were also within his sphere of influence.

Moving on from Otahr Taylin we came to the ship's mage, a slim Ylvani Yelin sorcerer named Uliel Akatri. Quiet and reserved, Uliel did not speak much until I asked him about the smallish ballista he had been working on. At that point Galldi grimaced and it became almost impossible to shut the mage up. Apparently the devise was a magical apparatus that used something Uliel called "sympathetic magic" to increase the potency of... alright, I got completely lost in the abstruse theoretical amblings of the Yelin spellcaster. Mumbling my acceptance of the theory, I gratefully allowed Galldi to guide me away from the sorcerer before he could get his second wind.

Next was the Sailing master, a whip thin Gnome named Haska Running Stag, who grunted non-committally and barked abrupt orders at the men and women in the rigging as the re-tied and adjusted the rigging for port. Though she didn't say much, I got the feeling that we would get on just fine so long as I did not gainsay her or try to tell her how to do her job.

Last on the tour of introductions was the Captain, Byrne Haut. Captain Haut, Galldi explained, had been a merchant and a privateer for years, and really wanted nothing more than to retire. He had made it clear to Galldi that Arissa and Galldi would be running the ship, he was not going to do more than be a glorified passenger. The man barely looked up from the book he was reading to wave his first and second officers out of his office. Bedraggled and unkempt, it was a wonder he was allowed to command a ship at sea, let alone one of the stature of the March Harrier.

Galldi finished the rounds and the tour, and I looked back at the odd assortment of men and women and thought to myself: This was going to be one hell of an interesting cruise.

A nightmarish vision

You see a cavern of immense size, seeming to be deep beneath the earth. It's well nigh impossible to make out detail in this scene, for it is bathed in a dim, ambient light radiating in varying shades of black, indigo and purple. The cavern is slightly oblong, a sort of imperfect quadrilateral shape with a ceiling stretching what very well could be one hundred feet high, or maybe even taller. At one end of the cavern hall stands a dais that seems to be carved directly out of the rock face, a worked black stone that consists of two staggered tiers. At each corner of this dais stands a brazier supported by a metal tripod, within which is burning a strong flame which radiates the purple and indigo that delineates details of substance and shadow. The dais seems to be raised above the cavern's floor, but no floor is visible--only the futile grasping of the arms of a multitude of pitiful demons, devils and other fiends, all scraping to climb above each other and onto the dais that seems to be their objective.

On the lower tier sits thirteen vaguely human-looking individuals--all the same height, all the same weight, all the same stature. Each one is wearing a mask, also made of a flat black material, that in two segmented pieces covers the wearer's entire face and a portion of the wearer's head as well. The upper tier is occupied by three ornately-carved backless chairs, also carved directly out of the rock face for they connected to the dais that they sit upon. Sitting on these chairs are three additional human-like figures, each one of an approximate size, shape and carriage of a human female standing an even 6 feet tall, with slender, curved figures. Their skin is best described as the absence of color, and neither hair nor clothing covers their forms. Their faces are featureless--no eyes, ears, noses or mouths can be discerned, as if they were walking silhouettes. The only part of their forms that are visible are the devices they carry: one is wrapped in chains, one carries a large greatsword, and the third carries a small, slender knife. All of these figures appear still--motionless--as if frozen in time, a blasé demeanor as they sit unaffected by the pleading and scraping of the fiends at their feet.

All of a sudden, at the opposite end of the cavern, a new figure emerged out of the darkness--a tall, gaunt bipedal creature, his limbs long and drawn out to hands and feet with spindly fingers and toes. It appears vaguely serpentine, its skin a patchwork of fine scales in a mottled array of colors that are difficult to make out in the light (or lack thereof), its spherical eyes large, featureless pools of black. Each of its digits are capped with long, sharp nails, equally as black as its eyes. Its ambiguous appearance makes it difficult to tell whether or not it is male or female, or whether or not this is the figure's true form or not.

"Greetings, and good evening, Lady Choral. Does the Great Fiend bid me permission to approach?" the emerging figure asked, a deep voice identifying the figure as male. Its hands reached out and steepled fingers together as it bowed, the tips of its talons clicking quietly against each other. "Do we have business today?"

"Have you prepared it?" The lady wrapped in chains asked of the emerging figure. Her voice was hard and callous, words striking stone like the cold iron bars of a dungeon cell, and as forceful as a hammer-blow.

"You ask as if you actually believed I wouldn't," the figure retorted, his tongue dripping with the promises of the miraculous healing power of snake oil and powdered bull's horn.

From the opening words of their conversation it sounded as though there was a rapport between the figure and the three ladies, an unspoken understanding that would have left lesser men as a pile of cinders at the ladies' feet. The figure approached the dais, a weak and pathetic fiend serving as the stepstones underneath his feet. From the folds of the robes he wore he pulled forth a voluminous scroll, a thickly-wrapped sheaf of thin parchment along its surface was inscribed a litany of paragraphs, clauses and line items, each character preciesly crafted. The glyphs that covered every inch of the parchment's surface glowed with a deep, crimson hue--the only difference in color throughout the entire scene.

"Here is the contract, just as you asked for. Its terms are ironclad--The Great Fiend is to be lord undisputed of all the fiends who bow to him, whether they be infernal or abyssal, and none may harm another even though they war unceasing against each other. This does not keep them from plotting and influencing mortals, mind you--but hostile actions will breach the accord. It's all there in the document, you have my word. The name of every demon and every devil is listed, and the pact will take effect when the entirety of the contract is read to the horde. Those who do not accept the terms will be destroyed. It will obtain until the fertile seed is sown, at which point open war may continue. It is as you requested, yes?"

"This is exactly as our Lord has requested," the lady with the slender knife spoke. Her voice was calm and soothing, but while her words sounded pleasent the edges of their tones were barbed. "Until the fertile seed is sown," she replied, repeating his words with a smile that was invisible to the figure.

"Then our business is done. I expect my payment as soon as possible--"

"You will get exactly what you deserve!" The third lady, the one with the sword that stood almost as large as she did, shouted out in interjection, a simmering kettle of rage screaming forth heated words.

The figure turned on heel and stepped out of the chamber, leaving in the same fashion as he entered.

The vision fades.

Fear my Wrath!!!

Kaaaaaaaaahn! OK, now that was just silly. There are people whose wrath one should fear more than Kirk feared the wrath of Kahn. When you have a supremely lawful society with a strict set of codified laws which were handed down by the society's founder who was, for all intents and purposes, a Saint, you should probably be worried about their enforcers. Amongst the people of the Kingdom of Karrak are a group of people known as the Wrath of Karrak, and they are some darned scary folks.

Part circuit judge, part jury, part executioner, part civil defense force, the Wrath of Karrak takes the precepts of the 5 laws of Saint Unthar as his reason for being and his sole focus for existence. Each day, the Wrath re-affirms his dedication to the laws through acts and deeds, and by destroying those who transgress against the weak or helpless. In return they gain the ability to crush evil in ways no simple Paladin could.

Using a special ancestral weapon, Wraths of Karrak gain augments and abilities that enhance their Smite Unlawful ability. Unlike a Paladin's Smite Evil ability, the Smith Unlawful ability allows the Karrak to judge and determine when it is appropriate to use the smite. If they encounter a neutral rogue stealing from an old beggar, then the Wrath will attack and smite the lawbreaker.

The only problem with this stern adherence to their ancestral laws is that Karrak Law and Karrak Justice is not practicable outside of the Kingdom. Wraths of Karrak are often confused by legal proceedings of other countries that do not have their practical black and white morality. The idea of a jury of one's peers is ridiculous in the eyes of the Wrath of Karrak, and the thought that people could be executed by legal mandate is just plain absurd to them. Show trials and tribunals like those used in Dayrin and Tyrennhian law are a source of consternation, and the fact that most of these proceedings rely on magical compulsions rather than honesty is an odd concept.

The Karrak believe in shunning and exile (which always has a limited duration) since all people are inherently capable of reforming and conforming to the laws. When a Wrath of Karrak kills it is always in the heat of battle. All people have the ability to change and do good, so killing is a last resort.

Well, this ends Prestige Class Week, but I have the feeling I will be doing this again sometime soon. Stay tuned tomorrow for the next installment of the serial story.

Herald... OF DOOOOOOOM!

The Raeluth are some pretty tough customers, partly because their populace is made up almost entirely of undead. Of the living members of the Raeluth society, a number have determined to strike back at their ancient enemies, the Yenxhai, by leading brutal raids and leaving evidence that implicates different nobles in order to foster animosity amongst the Dominion's Houses Major and Minor. These men and women are known as Mazatahcatl (pronounced mah-ZAH-tah-cattle), or Heralds of Doom.

In spite of the rather cumbersome Aztec name, the concept of the Herald is a warrior spellcaster who specializes in sonic attacks. Though their casting progression is stunted, they receive a number of powers and abilities that more than make up for the lack of new spells and spell levels. Shrouding themselves from sight by manipulating shadows and darkness, the Mazatahcatl strikes with their terrifying Doomtide wail, knocking opponents off with waves of pure sonic fury. In addition, the Mazatahcatl has a few defensive features that force opponents to make concentration checks to cast spells over the sounds produced by the Herald.

Accompanied by Nezahual and Apanaxyotl undead warriors, the Mazatacatl is a force to be reckoned with in any situation. Of course: the Anti-Magic field is his worst enemy:)

Firahl Fighters

OK, so it has been a couple of weeks since I last posted. I will not bore you with the drama of my life (if you want to chat about my life, please feel free to ask), but rest assured nothing will deter me from posting my stuff this week... unless I quit my job. Anyway, on to the main event: Firahl.

Firahl is an Orcish prestige class that takes the concept of wild battlefield barbarian to its most insane extreme. The Firahl specializes in hunting down and destroying war wizards and sorcerers, and most of his power comes from the idea that he will goad the enemy into using spells and powers against him. This is classified as a Bad Idea (note the capital letters).

The Firahl starts off as a Barbarian or other Rage-type build, however the candidate must swear an oath never to use magic or voluntarily accept magical aid from allies or items. Firahls are required to save against any magic that would effect them, and even helpful spells will need to overcome the Firahl's SR and saves. In exchange the Firahl gets a number of abilities that make spells have less and less of an effect. Also, the Firahl gains an ability called Heightened Rage. During their Heightened rage, the Firahl is able to perform a number of different combat maneuvers including spring attack, pounce, jump attacks, and whirlwind attack. At early levels the Firahl can only use one of these abilities at a time, but at tenth level they are able to combine two into one attack action.

With their great base attack bonus, good fortitude save, and excellent hit points, the Firahl is the berserker that everyone loves to fear.