The World of Teréth End

"... When you reach Kelamir you will find a tower of iron like a needle with three spheres of glass at its base. Each sphere is a cell hosting living fires. Each must agitated in its own manner for only in their most volatile states will the tower provide the required essence for the High Lady's ship. Arrange the ship in the square at the tower's base and affix the hoses and cables before releasing the essence. Once the ship takes shape, all voyagers must be in place and all cargo secured beneath the gondola. The captain will know when to drop the tower's anchor and will guide you across the mountains to the great north city. Seek there the monarch of that land and deliver our Lady's message to him. All haste be with you, for an Ortori attack is imminent. Amra bless and deliver you safely.

"Surrezin, Chamberlain to the High Lady Elesea of Taldàna"

Ruins of War
3 Flald 653 - 10 Flald 653

The evil witch dead, Adjeryx makes potions to heal the ailing adventurers. Expedition into the countryside near Darzon. A dead man at the base of a tree. Group stays at the farm of Rekjur and protects his home from Gru in the night. A night in Pydor. Crossing the Iridir Rin. The capital city of Boronon. Valus is given instructions.

The crumbling stone tower stood on a hill's top, peering through the forest leaves that hid it from the surrounding countryside. Once a manor keep, the tower had looked down and across rolling fields now overgrown with forest and weedy meadows, their piled stone fences scattered and buried beneath centuries of fallen leaves. Where horses once were stabled now stands an herb garden surrounded by branching trellises and wind chimes ring. Before the Uren came to this place, the tower was an outpost for Dwürden soldiers. They stood atop its rounded walls looking south toward the unseen shore, waiting for the Uren to come.

Adjeryx takes a deep breath and opens the door. The sunlight is not kind to her haggard form and she walks with a great imagined weight on her bones. The days of spellcasting and brewing are over. This morning, the group will be leaving her for points unknown. Peace and quiet will return to the hidden hilltop and she will finally be able to study the treasures brought from the lair of Waranyx. Poor Waranyx. Was she really dead after all this time? She had been too busy with the potions to think much on the old bitch. It didn't seem possible that the hag was really gone. She bid farewell and fair travels to the adventurers and watched them leave her circle. Despite their stay they were tired and weary from walking, and moved with the steady numbed pace of people with a long road yet to travel. She had often wondered about such people, about what forces or ambitions could drive a person to wander into the world, a stranger to all they would meet. Looking at her ancient walls, she felt pleased with the choices she'd made. Rubbing her bony and wrinkled hands together, she returned inside to look through her new treasures.

There is a fork in the southern woods with an old and weathered wooden sign. The top arrow points to the south and west, and reads in the Davran script, "Boronon". The lower arrow (dangling from a loose nail) points south down the other fork and reads "Eromir".

Footsteps along the road were not uncommon. Not as common as the gentle strong beat of hooves or the creaking of wooden wheels, but not uncommon. Uncommon were the closing sounds of approach. The breaking of sticks the swish of leaves and branches as someone neared. Came very close. Two arrived, looking and searching through his things. Violating his remains. He stared at them. They looked at him and wandered away. O, the humiliation of death. How long had it been? One year. Two? How many snows had there been since the Ortor took his wife screaming from his side while the other two dragged him to this tree. How many hammer strikes had he counted as they drove stakes into his shoulders, pinning him against the bole? How long had he heard her screams, so clearly, until she was silent. He wanted to tell someone where they'd taken her, but no one crossed the road for days. Not that he could have told them his tale. The next to find him had only wanted the stake. Leaving his corpse to collapse among the weeds and the roots.

The travelers rested along a country roadside under the heavy branches of an old tree. They unrolled their beds, chewed on traveling tack and warmed their hands and tired feet by a small fire. Not soon after making their camp they heard hoofbeats and the wheels of a wagon nearing along the road. Up a rise in the road came the glow of a lantern, swinging from a hook. The wagon stopped and a local man called out. Tressta approached the man and they spoke of the coming night and the cold. Rekjur invited the group to his home, back the street a bit. It would be better than sleeping on the roots of a tree. After they gathered their belongings they followed behind the wagon back along the road they'd come. In a few minutes they turned down a steep path and around some trees. Behind the hillside they found a walled farm of three buildings. Rekjur knocked on the large wood gate. A boy opened the latches and welcomed everyone inside.

Jorn threw open the heavy kitchen door and ushered the strangers into the house. They were rough looking people, all looking weary from travel. Kalanda was not comfortable with her new guests but knew she must attend hospitably to the visitors. She set her daughters to making beds and preparing the plates for dinner. Jorn seemed excited by the people he saw, bristling with weapons. These were not decent folk. They were barbarians, probably mountain people bred fighting Ortor and worse. How could Rekjur be so careless inviting these people into their home? He was a good man, and she knew he meant well, but... Then the woman among them, a beauty among them, spoke the most wonderful Taládan. She felt charmed, elated and fearful at the sound. She'd heard a priestess in Pydor speak like that once. It was fancy speak and while she had always wished she would one day learn to speak so eloquently, it was also the speak of the oppressors. She threw herself into her work, hoping Rekjur would finish in the barn and come inside.

Kalanda served them all warm dinners with plenty to spare. There was never a shortage of food here. She eyed Tressta carefully. Would she report their good fortunes to her people. Would the collectors come in the autumn? Tressta spoke mostly with Rekjur who was better with strangers than herself. He enjoyed the company of travelers; people that could tell him of places he would never go, could never go. All family men dreamed of unfettered lives, Rekjur was no different. He wanted to hear eveything. It was a while before she realized that the children were listening too. Their eyes were wide with wonder, trying to imagine the high mountain passes and the Ortor warriors laying slaughtered in the snow. Kalanda ushered them to bed. All but Ellisa would go. She didn't want to go to sleep. She cradled the frightened young girl and led her upstairs to her bed. The poor girl had been having terrible dreams and didn't want to sleep. As they went up the old steps she could hear Rekjur explain to the travelers about Delra, a friend of Ellisa's who'd been dragged off in the night. She knew that Ellisa heard it too, but the young girl gave no hint of notice.

Later, after Rekjur had his fill of stories and "dice-and-chips", the weary travelers were shown to the empty bedrooms. Only guests, usually Rekjur's Darzon cousins, used those rooms. When the family had been larger... No, she promised herself she would not dwell on those things. One son of four children did not make her a bad wife. Kalanda sat near the fire stitching. On the table near her rested a wooden trinket that the one named Dammon had carved as the others had talked. It was a perfectly wasted effort; a small ball of wood bound within a triangle. He said that it would help with Ellisa's dreaming, but she knew he was no witch. Kalanda could smell hexes, and there were none about him. She smiled thanks when he went to bed but had no intention of using the object. After brushing the wood shavings into the fire she noticed that one of the warriors had come downstairs and sat across the fireplace from her. His named was Jak. He had told the most tales of all of them and seemed overly exuberant in their telling. Men who spoke loudly worried her. They were hiding something. Jak had learned some Taládan words from Tressta in their travels, but Ezmiran was not Taládan. He tried to talk some to her, but mostly sat with the chair leaned against the wall listening and watching the fire's flames, his spear in quick reach.

A strong strong smell. A smell that fills the nostrils with promise; the promise of feasting. Racing and racing faster and faster. Aching muscles pull heavy bone harder and harder through the small plants. The groung stretches out beneath. Stop. Smell. Another approaches. Another smells the feast. Again moving faster and faster. The smell of burning and of food, food and burning; not burning food. Never burning food. It sees me. Stop. Smell slow and long. Only the food sees me. Only the food. The other is closing faster and faster. It is not cautious. It will perish. Again moving, faster and faster than before. It is near. The smell is very near. What is this? A wall? Forward, slam! It moves but not much. Claws rend and tear the wall to shreds. Splinters of plant and noise. The noise that this makes. But still only the feast sees me. Through the wall a light. Curious light. The glow of fire and determined yell of others. How do they know? How can they know if they do not see? They race around the corner with their crafted claws and they cut and they carve into me. Their weapons are strong and their cuts deep, but nothing eases the hunger and the aching. What is this? The smell is fading. My blood, everywhere. It is fine. All will be well. These things repair themselves in time. I am only delayed in my hunt. But wait. A flame. A fire is brought toward me. Why? Why do they stop me? Why do they do this to me? They must not understand. They must not concieve the... A new pain shoots through my flesh and my muscle and my bones. It is a pain I have never known. It is the last pain I will ever feel. They have ended me. I will never see the City again.

Tressta stood over the Gru heaped before her; her slender blade bathed in the monster's stinking ichor. She feels her shoulder and the holes and the blood where the monster's mouth had closed upon her. She had stood up to the monster, and prevailed. Jak stood across from her and smiled. What was that? Was this the reason he did it; this wave of exhiliration that was shaking her. She looked further inside and found her composure. They may be more about. She looked around but could see only the pitch blackness of night over the compound walls. Dammon exits the house with a burning log from the kitchen fire. They work together to build a bonfire away from the buildings. Saldus and Jak drag the Gru bodies to the fire and watch as the putrid green smoke issues forth. Both Rekjur and Saldus become ill from the stench.

The morning. Another sleepless night. Ellisa now knew that the monsters were real. They had come for her and these strangers, these wounded strangers, had fought them off. Jorn had seen their blackened corpses on the fire early this morning when he went to tend the cow. He said they were larger than a man and more grotesque than anything she had ever seen. She listened to his words but said nothing. She knew what the monsters looked like. She'd seen them many times before. Before breakfast she prayed that Ottar would take her dreams away. Every morning she prayed this. Today though, for the first time, Ellisa thought it might just come true.

It was summer and it was raining, hard. Korjand stood with his mates grumbling over the bean stew that was their breakfast again. They were weak from marching, all of them. Eromir was far behind them. There was talk that they'd never see their farms and their families ever again. That was nonsense Korjand thought. How many soldiers had he met that told him that they called young men to march around the countryside and then sent them home again. They generals had taken the game further this time. They had armed them with pikes and short swords and given them a few hours to train. The only casualty would be Garex, who'd tried to spear a boar. When he missed, the boar gored him. A dozen men descended on the animal with their swords. Garex had fumbled for his sword but it was strapped to his backsack; like everyone else's. From that day forward, everyone wore their sword on their belts, in easy reach.

So it rained and the men grumbled. They had a right to be upset. The Ortor didn't come into the lowlands in the summer. There was no reason at all to be here, but here they stood. Then came the sounds of horses from north. Marching orders. The men who gave the orders rode on horses. The man who arrived through the trees wasn't Uljan. He was another man with a metal chest and a fine spear in his hands. He introduced himself briefly as Thr. Culjux of Boronon and barked that the Taládan were moving east. Here? He told us to grab our pikes and swords and to follow him quickly. An army from Kelamir would be attacking from the north, we would be charging from the south. As we were moving he explained some more rules. We were not to kill thards and nobles. They would be taken by our own officers. I listened, but I did not agree. Thard or not, if someone came at me I would run them through with seven feet of wood and iron. For the first time, Korjand wondered if he'd ever see Eromir again.

When they broke through the trees and looked out across the rainy field he saw a line of soldiers standing to the west. They held poles with banners of all colors, snapping in the wind. Before them armored thards rode back and forth along their ranks, shouting commands or encouragement; the words were lost in the wind and rain. This was war. Korjand looked around his mates. They too were looking each at themselves and the others around them, sizing-up the Ezmiran force against the enemy. If the army from Kelamir arrived the Taládan soldiers would be outnumbered, but even that did not sit well with Korjand. There was something he was missing. An hour later a horseman arrived from the east to talk with Thr. Culjux. Culjux thanked him and sent him back the way he'd come. After a moment's silence, the thard rode before the militia and grinned. The Kelamir army stood in the trees across the field. Their numbers, he explained, were twice ours. At that many of my mates cheered. But I did not. Twice our number, I thought. How could that be? Eromir was larger than Kelamir. But it must be true. Why would the thard lie? He explained that we would march onto the field in formation. He explained that they would attack with archers and then calvary followed by the main charge. This was the way of battle. Everyone grew grim at the thought of this, but no man stayed behind when we marched onto the field. A hundred strong we lined ourselves in two rows across the field's breadth; and not until the first volley of arrows buzzed toward us through the gray sky did some look to the sides and wonder, 'where was the army from Kelamir?'. As many of mates cried out and sank to their knees and backs under the arrow onslaught I was not bothered by the lies and the fact that the army of Kelamir did not arrive. There was something more that was wrong on this day. Something else.

That is when we heard the humming sound and could see the lines of weeds being crushed toward us, and the plants and shrubs between them being mowed to the ground, leaves and branches spinning up into the air above. Uren is a curious animal and does not always recognize evil when faced with it. Those with their wits dropped their pikes and fled the formation. I and the others stood and faced the invisible menace, wondering dumbly what it was that could reap the field so cleanly, and not connecting that thought with the wonder of what it might do to a man, or line of men. The humming and mowing grew closer and louder and louder. As it met the first line of men blood and limbs spiralled about in a wave of blood and bone and screaming. In the next instant, it was my turn. But then it stopped; it's blades and gears visible in the bath of blood and flesh, but choked into immovability. Somewhere across the field a distant horn sounded and the Taládan broke into two lines charging across the field and around the machine. Culjux hurriedly assembled the remaining soldiers into two lines of pikes perpendicular to the machine's face as the archers with their hunting bows fired into the charging army. Nothing would stop them. How could one hope to stop the creators of weapons like these?

Two hours from the home of Rekjur the group came upon the rusted ruins of a weapon of war, not dissimilar to one they'd found buried seasons ago in the Telabran Plain north of Oth. Rekjur spoke about visiting the rusting item many times as a child and always wondering what it was once for. Though measured some forty feet in length it was noted by the hinges on each end that more may have been chained together.

Kalanda served them another meal when they returned. She was thankful to these people for saving her family but could not escape the thought they'd brought this evil with them. These things did not happen to decent folk. Decent folk should share the company of decent folk, not adventurers. Despite her feelings she was gracious and did all the chores she could find to keep herself occupied for the remainder of their stay. The next morning, something wonderful happened. She went into the girls' room and found Ellisa sleeping soundly, smiling. Quietly she ushered the other children from the room and closed the door. After breakfast Rekjur bid the visitors goodbye, they would travel through Darzon and on to Pydor. Long from here, she thought. Finally, all can return to peace.

Salryx rubbed his back. Oh it was sore. He watched the people crossing the bridge at Pydor. Most paid no attention to the old man with his fishing pole. As he stood watching his tongue darted in out through the gaps of his missing teeth. He smiled at those that smiled at him. He even tipped his straw hat at the ladies that glanced his direction. No one looked at him for long. When they became aware of who or what their eyes had found, they would quickly look away. That was okay with Salryx. He knew he was ugly, and knew he could learn a lot about people by the way they reacted to him. This morning however, something new happened; a new group of people walked over the fine stone bridge. Among them was a beautiful woman, perhaps the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He looked at her, and secretly prayed that she would see him. That he could meet her eyes, if only for a second. But as they approached he felt suddenly ashamed of himself, and turned away from the group to stare sadly down into the river far below. He listened to them walk past behind him, and thought for sure he'd heard her voice, just a word or two. But when he had steeled himself for a closer look and turned, they had passed and well on their way away. Salryx stood there, rubbing his back. Watching the beweaponed group marching toward Boronon; wondering what her eyes would have looked like. Wondering if she'd have even looked his direction, before looking away.

Following a night at a travelers' wayside, the group reach the City of Boronon in the afternoon. Tired from a day and some walking through rolling countryside, even the foggy port city seemed to promise warm beds, hot meals and cold drinks. By early evening they found a suitable inn in the port district. Saldus excused himself for a bit and took his son into the streets for some unusual and sudden business. Dammon's curiosity sent his familiar into the streets behind the two warriors, to discover their business in this foreign place. Ezikus meanwhile stayed at the inn, greedily ingesting as much stew as he could be served to warm his old frail bones. Ezikus knew he was not strong enough to return to Oth, but hoped that his faith and duty would one day carry him home. When Saldus returned to the inn, he ate quietly and went to bed. Valus arrived a bit later and sat and sang and played and drank with the others. The more he drank the more he shared of the evening's activities. He explained that his father was sending him home from here. He vented his frustration that he would not be able to see the great city of Taldàna even though he traveled so far and hard. He sulked that he alone would be going home when everyone else in the fellowship would be continuing forward. He had proved himself a man but was still being treated like a boy. When pressed further he explained also that Saldus had commanded him to return with word of the High Lord's men, who had perished in his name, and to carry back the tale of their heroism and their fates to their friends and families. On this point, he was unable to argue and so had agreed to do as his father bid. Seldom had there been a man so aggrieved at the promise of returning home after so hard a journey.

07 Dec 2001

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Navigation

Episode 54
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People

Adjeryx (Clr3/Sor5)
Thr. Culjux (Ftr6)
Delra (Com1)
Ellisa (Com1)
Garex (Com1)
Jorn (Com1)
Kalanda (Com2)
Korjand (War1)
Tamran Ottar (Exp14)
Rekjur (Com3)
Salryx (Com2)
Cr. Ezikus Valzard (Exp4)
Valus (Com1/Ftr2)

Introducing

Boronon: The capital and largest city of Ezmir, Boronon has remained the seat of Ezmiran Kings since the fall of the Tarmar Ort in 964 HK. The central tower of Kzar Boron (Kryborr) is all that remains of the Dwürden lands of Borr (rf. Nurumwar Gurm), the rulers of this region before the Ortor.