Ranking within the Guard

The Guard is under the command of the Commander of the Guard, who also holds one of the five administrative seats of the Council. The commander is chosen by the District Captains by majority vote. Current Commander of the Guard is the Halfling Bostras Dreamfall. The Commander, as a Council member, can decide to oversee training, other meetings regarding the city’s safety instead of Council meetings.

Each district has it’s own barracks, in which the Captain of said district can be expected to be found. There’s a total of eleven Captains, fitting the number of Districts.

Fjodor’s Square: Lynnwreick Sonder, Halfling.
Fjodor’s Run: Wolya Windsigil, Half-Elf.
Fjodor’s Hall (the Captain of the Council Guard): Jorben Toestubb, Gnome.
Findl: Perawin Sedachis, Elf.
Geblegard: Nevira Chova, Halfling.
The Marrow: Ulboro Bassars, Half-Elf.
Haddorn Dockyards: Wradhall Clordeaxas, Dragonborn.
Henjahti Theater: Naza Tzeentch, Tiefling.
Fairview Plaza: Iannic Sarquinal, Elf.
Daaze’s Walk: Carli Soohta, Gnome.
Cirrian Gardens: Thordan Hammerforge, Dwarf

Next in line to each Captain are a series of well-trained lieutenants. Lieutenants are trained not only in ranged and melee combat, but also a basic understanding of the different types of magic, as well the use of siege weapons. When a Captain steps down (or for other reasons, resigns), the lieutenants agree on a new Captain between them, if no agreement can be reached, three other Captains will draw from a bowl of names, until a single lieutenant’s name have been drawn out twice.

The daily handling of authority is done by sergeants. Each sergeant is given a patrol (or a siege unit) and are expected to take the line of upholding justice as the City decrees.

The daily salary of a regular, unranked Guardsman is 7 GP. Duties such as wall watch and night watch increases this salary. Guardsmen are offered a bed in a barracks, as well as free dining.

Sergeants earn 12 GP a day, with same increases as a regular Guardsman. Sergeants are offered, for 5 SP a day, a room with a bed.

Siege units receive a 3 GP on top of their regular salary.

Lieutenants receive 25 GP a day, but aren’t offered free room or dining in the barracks.

Captains each earn 75 GP a day. The Commander also earns this.

A Catacrach Guard Missive

To all members of the Catacrach City Guard, Haddorn Dockyards.

As you may have heard, the city have had some trouble with counterfeit wares, namely shipments of jewelry, that turned out to be much lighter or much heavier than they were supposed to, gems made of glass, painted crowns and tiaras. Now, if people were aware of these items being illegitimate, things would not be a problem. However, it seems that someone in the Marrow got their undergarments on wrong, when they found out their “priceless” jewelries were fake. That someone then took it to our colleagues in the Marrow, and eventually it became a mission for all districts handling wares, to stop this.

I personally believe it to be a waste of the guard’s time, especially if the reports out of Daaze’s Walk, about increased Thieves’ Guild activity, are true. But, an order is an order. On a more serious note, guards from Henjathi Theater have reported potential shipments of the highly addictive Liquid Courage. As you know, the Council have deemed the substance illegal, as it damages people’s free will and ability to think for themselves, Mind-wiper Juice, as some have taken to call it. So far, only small amounts have been recovered by the Henjahti Theater guards, but our sources believe a larger shipment may arrive any day now. This is easier to do by barge, as we cannot be expected to check every single crate and barrel coming through.

However, I have reached out to the Commander and to the Council on this matter. To our luck, the Council have emitted a month-long special law. This allows us to search any and all cargo, if there’s reasonable suspicion present. Suspicion includes crates or barrels (or other containers) oddly by themselves, marked containers, individuals guarding or inspecting the crates. We are also permitted to search persons, for the sake of identifying and confiscating shipments or even bottles of Liquid Courage. We are NOT allowed to search individuals for the false jewelry though. Another hitch, is that for any search that turns out empty-handed, the guard have to offer 10 gp as compensation. If the jewelry is found, a patrol is to seize the area, and call for back-up using the signal horns assigned to each patrol.

Good luck, and may Ioun grant you his favor to find the goods swiftly.
Signed by, Wradhall Clordeaxas, Captain of Haddorn Dockyards.
For Justice & Honor!

Thieves’ Guild Missive

Dear newest associate.

Our flock is small, but we take care of one another. If we work together, we will also all profit. That being said, the Thieves’ Guild have standards, these have been had for generations, and it has kept us hidden so far. As Hand-man for the Guild, I see no reason to change these traditions.

Obviously, we do not steal from family. Jealousy leads to greed, greed leads to violence. These are things a family shouldn’t face. On behalf of the Guild, I ask that you think about your targets, stealing from those with few coins makes no sense. It is also risky as people on the verge have nothing to lose.

For you initiation, the Guild have a special task that you can carry out as a team, or as a single person.
An assortment of wares are stranded, however, they are set in full 5 by 5 ft crates, it would take the strength of a Giant and more luck than Avandra have ever bestowed upon someone, to move the boxes to safety. Instead you will need to mark down the crates that we seek, there are three in total. The mark you are to place, is a three fingered hand; the mark of the Guild. Our people will know to pick it up later. The type of crate is pretty common, so you’ll probably have to look through multiple crates. I shouldn’t need to say this, but searching through crates is going to cast suspicion on you. In case someone should make you out, get out as fast as you can, the Guild have provided you with some standard gas-bombs.

If you are caught, you can consider yourself as leaving the family, the Thieves’ Guild DOES NOT do jailbreaks.

With that, may fortune favor you and the Guild.

How the Elven races came to be

When the Giants swarmed the world of Fellmir in ancient times, the races living in there had little means of defending themselves against the might of the Giants, most creatures either chose a nomadic life, constantly on the run from Giants, typically, Orcs and Hobgoblins, or they chose subjugation.

In southern Fellmir, the Elves, then only a single, united race, sat council, trying to find a solution for the Elves. Most of the Elven leaders were in agreement that fighting the Giants would lead to nothing but ruin (a few even suggested a full surrender, to allow the Elven race to survive). The debate seemed unending, until a group of the Elves highest ranking mages and scholars came up with a solution. If the mages were allowed to concentrate their magic, it would be possible to move every creature to “another place” as the mages explained it. However, the mages also warned that they couldn’t control the destination.

Meanwhile, as the Elves argued, the Giants marched ever closer. Scouting parties never returned and eventually, as things started to look dire, the mages were told to start the spell. In a matter of days, the Elves willing were wrapped in a slight glowing cloud. A few Elves had decided to fight until the very end for their forest-homes, however much persuasion was tried, these Elves couldn’t be moved.

This was the first time the Elves were split, the Wood Elves, the ones staying behind, have only been seen or heard from on rare occasions. It seems that though they took to helping fighting the Giants, but only when these were threatening their forests.

Any other Elves were teleported away, however, as the spell was rushed, large parts of the Elven society was split up. Most, later High Elves, ended in the Feywild, a land of wonders, but also one of savage creatures seeking to submit any and all minor races to their whim.

Two parts of the Elves ended on the Astral planes of the Beastlands and Arborea. The wild nature of the Beastland shaped the Elves into wanderers, loners, hermits in pact with nature and creatures, the Sun Elves for this reason are rare and finding two Sun Elves in the same place, is considered a myth. In Arborea, the Elves found themselves deep in thought, their feelings and emotions becoming more powerful and intense. As such Moon Elves tend to stick together in small, very tightly-woven groups, as they don’t feel understood by other Elves and even less so by other non-elves.

Finally there was the unfortunate ones, those few that was sent to the horrible place known as the Underdark. The harsh, unforgiving environment, filled with all manners of unspeakable horrors, turned the freedom-loving Elves, into the slave-hungry Drow, seeking to get work-slaves from the overworld, to build temples, shrines and statues in the dark mistress, Lolth’s image. Those that aren’t worked to exhaustion, are given as sacrifice to Lolth. A horrible and slow death, filled with the despair and knowledge, that no hope remains for them.

Gentle Drift

Sun cracks dawn through pink skies

Deep amongst the forest’s dew-covered roots

Sleeping creatures wakes

He is the lord of the wind

She is the mistress of the clouds

Under the sun, they rule

They look below, to cities and mountains

Their wings so strong and steady

Somewhere up over our heads

When skies darken

Raise your swords

For Lord Hawk

For Lady Eagle

Dusk City

A written assignment from 2009

It was the third of November, rain had poured from the sky the whole day, and water covered the streets in ponds. The rain had not stopped it’s grip on the city, until ten in the evening, and shortly afterwards a thick fog spread throughout the city, laying like a carpet. Now and then street lamps could be seen as vague yellow spots floating in the air, and as they were turned off at midnight, to save power, only the tallest buildings peaked up through the fog. At night the grey carpet, turned into a dark, damp mass of cloud that made the streets feel decaying and old. Here and there the people of the night, prepared to do their bidding throughout the city, thugs and scoundrels looking for easy money, hobos trying to find shelter, and adult dancers heading for the shady clubs.

The night was quiet, a dog barked as someone came to close, only to be silenced as the person left again. The shops all barricaded for the night, no windows to light up street level. On the corner of Cannon and Friday, a shady looking figure was leaning against a street lamp. A closer look revealed the man wearing a black trench-coat, down past his knees and well up over his neck. A small orange glow was seen as the man lit a cigarette, and inhaled shortly. Suddenly a horrifying scream got the man’s attention, it sounded like it was pretty close. Without warning, the man began running in the direction of the scream. The fog quickly took his breath away, his cigarette was left in a puddle. His path took him down Friday, across Queen Victoria and towards the river by Huggin Hill. He stopped, to regain his breath, on the corner of Little Trinity and Skinners, scouting for signs of life, he looked over his shoulder, but even if someone was following, there was no way he could see them, the fog didn’t allow much in terms of visibility. The mist was even thicker the closer he got to the river, and it didn’t exactly help making Skinners Lane more inviting. Known for it’s fish shops and butcher stalls, Skinners Lane wasn’t a place many people would want stay during the night. The man quickly crossed the empty street, his pace slower and more cautious, pressing himself up against a ply wood fence, that shielded the street from a construction site. It was slightly safer here, at least there were no small alleys that people could jump out from. Skinners Lane turned into College Lane, but despite leaving the butcher stalls behind, the man stayed by fence.

Up ahead, on Downgate Hill, the sound of a car engine scattered through the gloomy night. As the man crossed College Lane, another car roared closely by him at high speed. For a few seconds, the man could see another person as the headlights made way through the fog. A young woman, it was almost impossible to tell the age more accurately, she was wearing a hoodie. She didn’t see the man, as she started moving up Downgate Hill. Suddenly she stopped to look down, she picked something up from the street, but the man was too far away to see what it was. The woman threw the item away on the sidewalk and continued up the street. The man found the item, a mostly eaten burger in a wrapper, a nearly dry blood-splatter was on the wrapper. The noticed what the woman was following, a blood trail on the ground, it was just barely visible in the fog. The man looked up again, the woman was heading towards Cannon Street Tube Station. At this time, Cannon Street Station, along with many others, was closed off with a set of heavy iron bars. The man could see the woman carrying something in the front pocket of her, but with her back to him at all time, he couldn’t tell what the object was. By a tight alleyway, the woman stopped to look behind her, the man quickly pressed himself against the wall of a building. She didn’t see him, and so she turned and went into the alley.

She was following the blood trail, mostly out of curiosity. It lead into a ventilation shaft by the ground, the grate had been beaten off and was bent badly. The vent was big enough for her to crawl through, but it was pitch black inside. The blood trail smeared against her leggings, as she couldn’t go around it within the vent. A flickering light ahead, the vent ended in a room with some metal boxes in it; a maintenance room to the Tube. She dropped down, her sneakers making a soft thud as they made contact with the concrete. The blood trail ended here, by the body of a man, a construction worker judging by his florescent vest. He was laying in a large pool of blood, and his head had been cut off. The cut was uneven, several deep chopping wounds were in the man’s shoulders. Trying not to look at the man’s still bleeding neck, she started searching the man’s pockets, a simple silver ring was placed on his finger, swiftly, she slipped it off of him and into her own pocket. The man didn’t have any other treasures on him, so she left him there, making sure not to step too much in the blood. A trail of bloody foot prints lead out from the room, and into a part of the tube used for repairing and cleaning. The lights here weren’t working, and as she had just been in a bright room, everything was suddenly even darker.

Back in the alley, the first man took out a clipboard and used his lighter to read on it. He couldn’t enter the vent just yet, as that would surely be heard. The description of the criminal gave him chills down his spine, how could anyone do things like that? If that was the guy on the loose, the woman would be in serious danger, but if he went in too quickly, she might scatter off and the criminal would get away. After having read what he felt was enough, he crawled into the vent, he was bigger than the woman and could only barely squeeze through. He almost landed on the corpse, the sight making him gag. He had seen corpses before, but the way that this one had been desecrated, made his stomach turn and clench. He reached into his jacket, and planted a small tracing device on the corpse. Holding a gloved hand in front of his mouth, he continued, happy to get out of the room. The man reached in under his jacket for something, grabbing a hold of it, without drawing it out.

Further into the tube, the only light was from the commercials dotting the walls of the station. The flickering light from behind the panels had once been white, but a bulb had not been switched, and was now in a dim creamy-yellow colour instead. Her shadow was cast against the white painted concrete walls, her step almost silent. A sudden sound caught her attention, a low, almost inaudible sniffling. It was impossible, with the echo from the round tube tunnels, to tell where the sound was coming from. The girl stopped, making sure to make as little sound as she possibly could. Realising that her shadow could give away her position, she pressed herself up against the concrete. she climbed up on the platform next to the track. The white marbled walkways were more open and more comfortable, now that her eyes had gotten used to the darkness. A steel door into a cleaning cupboard was ajar, and from the small crack between door and frame, a light beamed out. Steadily, she inched herself closer to the door, but stopped as she thought she heard a sound coming from behind her, in the tube where she was a few minutes ago. A different sound caught her attention back to the door again, the low sniffling she had heard earlier. It sounded to come from inside the room behind the steel door. The crack wasn’t big enough an opening to allow her view into the room, but it was large enough for her fingers to slide in. She began to pull, and though it took some strength, eventually the door began to sing out towards her. It was now open enough for her to peek in, she made sure that the door didn’t open further, so that she wouldn’t compromise herself. She felt something sticky on her hand as she retracted it from the door, in the light she could see the crimson, almost black smudge on her hand, there was no doubt; it was blood. Wiping her hand off in her pants, she slowly titled her head in through the door opening.

The sight was gruesome, in the middle of the room, was an odd figure kneeling over something, which wasn’t to be seen from the girl’s angle, all that she could see was the figure, a blood trail and orange hard hat laying upside-down. But it was clear that the figure was eating something, the slobbering and crunching noises weren’t mistakable from this range. Finally it dawned on her, the figure was eating a head, that was the part that was missing from the body in the maintenance room. The realiasation caused her to let out a slight squeak, and to her horror, the figure turned his head towards her. His chin and cheeks were covered in blood, his brown eyes had lost all signs of reason, instead the madness shined back at the girl. The figure snarled and surprisingly quick got up, grabbing a bloody hatchet, lunging himself towards her. She only just reached to slam the door, as he reached it, but the door couldn’t be closed completely, as the lock had been busted. The girl began to run, stumbling to gain her footing. Behind her the door slammed open, the obstacle had only worked to madden the man even further. Snarling angrily and hungrily, the man quickly gained on her, the thought of double the prey seemed to fuel him. Closer and closer, he could almost taste her succulent flesh already. She was on the track now, a little further. A final leap, he plunged through the silent air in the tube, landing himself in full force on her back, knocking her over, quickly he were on top of her, licking around his mouth as he held her pinned. Why did they always have to wiggle and twirl? Raising his axe above her, his next meal was right here… And it was fresh and warm too. But just as he was about to strike the girl’s throat, a bright orange and white flash exploded in the tunnel, it was as if his arms wouldn’t move, his entire body felt heavy. He felt blood in his mouth, tasting it proved to be his own. With a gurgle, he looked down at himself, and perhaps the red splotch in his chest was the last thing he saw, as the madness drained from his eyes, and his limp body slumped off of the girl.

(Underneath) Wings of Destruction

As paths collide, out mental whiskers connect

We both fled the angels and the doom in their wake

With nowhere to hide, nowhere to run

Our differences aside, we can’t help moving forward

Slowly we drift towards each other, we share our fears

We face the other, eyes locked in their equal

Meanwhile the angels leave trails of ash

Closing in, ever circling, they’ll reach us

With wings of our own, we could escape

The forests engulfed by the fire from above

No storm ends their searching flight

But we both decided, to peel our wings off

There are those who guide the angels

Those who dare not take the skies themselves

And in the moment, the heavens are open

We have only ourselves and the little path we stand

As the crowds cheer for more angels to fly

The flames by our feet cannot match the heat in our hearts

Character backstory and stats: Khodrin Emberhelm

Khodrin Emberhelm is a Mountain Dwarf fighter, that I’ve created for a DnD e5 campaign. In a group of mostly mages and rogues, as a fighter, Khodrin’s job is to withstand damage in close combat, and hopefully deal some damage out himself.

Outfitted in a full chainmail, and donning a shield and a warhammer, Khodrin’s a force to be reckoned with, once he gets close. He keeps a light crossbow for ranged combat.

Starting stats (level 3):
Strength: 16
Dexterity: 8
Constitution: 17
Intelligence: 10
Wisdom: 13
Charisma: 12
Hit points: 28
Armor class: 18
Initiative: -1
Speed: 25
Allignment: Lawful good

Life in a Dwarven stronghold isn’t particular flashy for a young Dwarf, you work, you eat, you work some more, and then you likely eat again. But to most Dwarves this is just fine. Ask a Dwarf if his work is dull, and you’ll find a Dwarf considering you as the lazy and unproductive type.
Born into a clan of mine-workers and prospectors, Khodrin’s upbringing was pretty common. It wasn’t glorious as it would be for higher class Dwarves, but with the Dwarven communities through work, no-one was ever truly “low-class”.
At the age of 50, Dwarves are “mature”, this is normally marked with a feast for the entire stronghold. Roast pig, mead and ale in un-measurable amounts. Of course, Dwarven tradition and laws are rather strict, so it’s not exactly unusual that fines or other punishments are handed down after such a feast. Despite Dwarves normally being keen on keeping rules, alcohol (and especially Dwarven ale in large quantities) can alter that in a Dwarf. Alcohol also lifts the filters that keep you from calling someone something that you normally wouldn’t utter out loud.
Unfortunately, Khodrin’s boss, a wealthy prospector from a high-ranking family within the stronghold, was quite the tyrant. Miners having their pay withheld for vague reasons, work-hours being beyond reason (even for the hardy and strong Dwarves). Many of Khodrin’s workmates used the boss’ name as means of swearing, under their breath of course. During a toast, Khodrin proclaimed that “He was proud, despite working for a dirt-digging sleaze-bag.” Considering the miners normal work of picking through stone and minerals for ore and gemstones, dirt was one of the most degrading terms, as it served no purpose to a mountain Dwarf. Even worse, of course his boss eventually caught wind of Khodrin’s mishap.
One fateful day, Khodrin, now aged 72, was called to see his boss, his own clan-leaders were there as well. No words where spoken, the clan-leaders just shook their heads and pointed towards the door. Khodrin had to leave the stronghold behind, having brought shame onto his clan. Bitter he quickly packed his belongings. As if the news had spread through every single tunnel, every holding, every home of the stronghold, no-one uttered a goodbye, even tried to get eye-contact.
As the large iron gate shut behind him, Khodrin had his first encounter with the outside world. The light of the sun was harsh the first couple of days, day and night cyclus, something not at all present within the mountains. Following the simple and mostly unnused trade road leading out of the mountains, through winding passes and down into steep gorges, Khodrin made flat land within a couple of days of marching. The soft soil of the hillsides, wet and muddy, made him uneasy. Here the path up into the mountains molded with a larger trade road. With no idea where to go, Khodrin decided on waiting. And so he did for several days in fact. Until a trade caravan came through, stopping and asking Khodrin, if he wanted hire as a guard, despite not really having any combat experience, he shrugged, nodded and hopped on the back of a wagon.
For several years, Khodrin was known as “The Silent Dwarf”, as he hardly ever spoke. A nod here, a grunt there, that was the extent of conversation the merchants and the other guards had with him. Even compared to other Dwarves that the caravan occasionally met, Khodrin remained as silent as the mountain he was born under. Khodrin worked double, guard while the caravan was moving (and when needed in towns and villages) and smith while in a town. While the tools were lacking, to a Dwarf’s standards, his ancestral skill of metal and stone had him level with most town smithies.
One night, on route for Athlin, the wagons were ambushed, on the outskirts of the Silver Oak Forest. Three guards and two of the merchants were taken out by arrows, before anyone could even react. In the darkness, Khodrin’s Dwarven eyes allowed him to see a sight of horrors; the Undead, several zombies and a few skeleton archers was closing in on the remaining wagons. In the distant, under the moonlit shades of the trees, a hooded figure with an eerie looking staff. With a crooked finger the figure directed the corpses. Something within Khodrin told him to stay still, and to say nothing. A coward’s choice perhaps, but neither the zombies nor skeletons seemed to notice. To Khodrin’s luck, the hooded figure didn’t really seem to care, or it thought everyone to be dead.
In order to ensure no-one was near, Khodrin waited until the first glimpse of sunlight broke through the trees. While none of the merchants or any of the guards where particular close, it was still some kind of family. And Khodrin had done nothing to even attempt to save the others, he just froze, which, in hindsight, probably saved his life. Leaving the wagons behind, Khodrin walked the road towards Athlin, where he arrived three days later, carrying only his clothes, rations and his smithing gear. Through grunts and sign-language, Khodrin managed to secure himself a job at Amduhr’s Armory. Silently, of course, he woved to never freeze up like that again, to protect those around him, if at all possible.

The Story of Fellmir

Back when Fellmir was young, when the mighty mountains were flat, it was nothing but a wasteland. The bitter winds blew in from the north, and with them came titanic Frost Giants. As the Giants slowly stomped across the land, their weight started pushing some land up, and some down. These migratory huge Frost Giants seemed to wander back and forth, as if they where searching for something. As the Giants waited around, the wind blew parasites and mites off their skin. And while the land was shaping, these creatures were transformed into primitive forms of life that now inhabit the land known as Fellmir. No one knows what the ancient Giants where searching for, of if they found it, but they seemed to vanished… For now.

With much of of Fellmir still being wild and unruly, regular Giants, closely resembling their enourmous creators, were amongst the first to emerge and populate the world. Infighting, battles for power and natural disasters, caused the population of Giants to dwindle drastically. Seeing that living amongst others caused a lot of them to die, the Giants spread out. Most of them went back to the northern realms, where the harsh lands and climate, made them focus more on surviving, than fighting one another. Most of the Giant settlements are now long gone, but the oldest known structure in Fellmir, the Pillars of Sesok, is still seat for a moot of Frost Giants.

The Hill Giants where still the most numerous, and their warbands roamed the central parts of Fellmir many hundred years. Amongst the most notorious Hill Giants, were one named Cromm, later nicknamed “the Red”, for his insatiable blood-lust and carnivorous habits. His grave lays within a huge burial mound, where many Hill Giants usually are around. With Cromm’s fall, smaller races began to take control over areas, settle down and begin peaceful lives, free from the Giants’ tyranny.

Many years later, and no race or nation have ever been able to unite Fellmir. While relavtively peaceful, apart from the Forsaken Riders incident, a mounted horde of Demonic creatures, that swept through large parts of southern Fellmir, and the occasional Orcish uprising from time to time. One of the first (and so far only) groups, that were able to conqour or unite large parts of Fellmir, was a group of mages and wizards, let by the extremely skilled Abboran Knodd, a human with an understanding of magic, that haven’t since been seen. The mages quickly cleared out bandit holds, fighting strange monsters and clearing out tombs. It seemed that actual peace had come to Fellmir. Abboran didn’t live to see the reach of his success, as his age caught up with him, before the glorious capital had been finished in central Fellmir. The capital, named Abhelm, served as seat to a magogarchy. The peace did the world well, and trade between races began to prosper. The Abborgardian Empire, built on money and magic, kept on expanding through the decades. Time passed, and Abhelm grew larger and larger. The mages mostly did good for all creatures and races, and were considered as benevolent by most. But not all good things lasts forever.

No-one is really sure what or how it happened, there were no encroaching armies, no threat of a Demonic plan, no natural disaster. It seems more likely that the power of those on top in Abhelm, got their heads. Those who survived the Fall of Abhelm, spoke of magical golems running amok throughout the city. Almost at the same time, golems elsewhere started to malfunction as well. The lucky ones, where the golem just stopped working, were few and far between. In a matter of days, the entire empire crumpled into anarchy. That was 52 years ago. Abhelm’s fate was ruin, the city abandoned as monsters and raiders began moving in unhindered. Other settlements had a less destructive fate, but rebuilding was slow.

Four years later, at a location known as Catacrach, a group of survivors and travellers began to start an empire anew. Catacrach was home to archives for Abhelm, and the amount of magical golems was rather low. This meant that the town was largely intact. It was quickly decided that the governing body should limit itself within various parts of running a city, that way, even if someone wanted more power in the council, they’d have to make bargains, which would limit the effects. And thus, 48 years ago, a new empire was founded. Sending out guardsmen and adventurers to far ends of Fellmir, the Council of Catacrach made sure to do the things that the Abborgardian Empire did right. But not all creatures and people like the idea of Catacrach, their shadowy businesses threatened by the imposing justice. Some would rather the world returned to anarchy.

The year is 48 AA (After Abborgard), Hill Giants are on the rise again in the north, Orcish camps seems larger and more active than ever, and from the Nine Hells, the hordes of Demons await a chance to strike the peaceful heart of Fellmir. How the future will be, no-one can tell for sure…

The Journal of “The Ripper”

A surprisingly clean and neatly written journal, apparantly it was written by the former inhabitant of the Torture Chamber below Hraldon Refuge. Thumbing through the pages speak of horrific means of torture and executions, carried out by the journal’s owner. A few entries stand out in particular.

Entry #1

Abborgardian Year (AgY) 604, 5th of the Claw of Winter:
Arrived at this place, called “Hraldon Refuge”, or so they said in Cyndarr, this looks more like a prison. Which is why they got me here, I reckon. Had my first day of work today; an old Half-Orc, apparently the one who had this job before me. Someone upstairs caught, from what I know, he spoke a little more than he should about some high ranking mage. Good to know, I’ll keep quiet like a wall.

Brought my own hood and mask, the one he left smelled of something foul, no need to keep it around. The man was already weak when I got to him, no fight left, for a savage like him, that’s impressive. By the sight of his ribs, the mages had probably starved him for at least a weak. Others would have passed out by now, but Half-Orcs are tough fuckers. The message from the mages, a puffy robed Gnome, but certainly one with a strong grasp on magic, said that the Half-Orc must die. But slow, and without being discovered by other mages. Apparently, the Gnome was hoping to find out, who the Half-Orc had gotten information from. i looked at him through the hood, chained up, his hands and legs limp already. In his state, I wouldn’t be able to get much out of him, he wouldn’t last long, a few days at most.

I started with his thumbs, a large mallet for his right hand thumb, a sharpened bone-scissor for the other. He barely even flinched, what I wouldn’t have given to get to him, while he was at his primal strength. He tried to get eye-contact, though he should know, that to be impossible. There were no pleas for mercy, no sign of him telling anything. Oh well, I was just told to kill him slowly, I wasn’t directly told to obtain anything from him. I got up in the middle of the night. He was sleeping, or unconscious, I slit his throat slowly. He woke for a second, gurgled, and finally joined ranks with his ancestors. Or something. He bled quite a lot, I should consider getting a tray with some tight-sitting grating installed here, make it easier to clean from time to time.

Entry #2

AgY 604, 7th of the Claw of Winter:
Spoke with the Gnome again, showed him the body. I had sealed up the throat-wound so it didn’t look fatal. Seing a Gnome angry is rather hilarious, a flame erupted shortly from his hand, was he trying to threaten me? Mistake on him if he were. I was told to get rid of the body, but the mages had had a recent attempt at poisoning. With their pantry being down here as well, there’s a lot of them coming and going. Can’t move a body out like that.

I’ll chop the body up, burn the flesh and blood off, and put the bones in the large cabinet. There should be plenty of room. I hope the smell of burning flesh won’t attract any of the mages or the guards they have hired in the barracks above. Should I have a taste? It’s cooked after all. Maybe just a little bite. Kept the tongue and sealed it in a jar.

Entry #30

AgY 604, 30th of the Drawing Down:
I was tasked with a public execution. Not something I normally do, I work best without eyes gawking at my work. A prisoner, apparently a rogue mage from the east, had been captured. I had to prepare the female Half-Elf for the pyre, a common punishment for witches. Two heavy-armoured hirelings with halberds, poked her forward, her tattered robe was clotted up with blood from the stab wounds, not enough to kill, but just piercing the skin, the guards kept their distance. Straight behind them, one of those hulking golems, that the mages enjoy to make. It could barely fit in the barracks, having troubles with getting through the door.

The Half-Elf woman was pretty, her green eyes had a wild shimmer to them, oft hidden behind the locks of her raven-coloured hair. The guards left, as I took over. Free to do my bidding. They had gagged her with a tightly locked leather strap, that was starting to gnaw into her cheeks. Her eyes followed me as I circled her, even here, in my lair, she had rage, anger, contempt in her eyes, I knew she would try and attack me, where I to release her shackles, or her gag. As I pulled forth my curved dagger, she began squirming, trying to wiggle out of my reach. I could feel her pulse racing as I grabbed her by the throat, it was enticing. I told her to hold still, unless she wanted to get cut in the face. It took some gasping moments for her to understand that I was planning to cut her gag off. I released her throat, my fingers left red marks on her pale skin, and reached into a bag. I slided the dagger very slowly, and slower than I needed to, up along her throat, letting her feel the cold steel on her skin. She gasped, but managed to hold her composure. The point of my dagger made contact with the leather strap of the gag, slowly I began to cut the leather, it was sturdier than expected, which only made it so much better for me. She was shaking, scared, feeling the blunt side of my dagger against her cheek. She didn’t notice that I placed my other hand, now fitted with a Sea-stone ring, on her one arm.

A short, dry snap, as the leather strap was cut over. And as expected, she spat the gag out at me, and began to shout and yell incantations at me. It took her a while before she realised; her spells had no effect. Oh the hopeless struggle of the people I am given. I didn’t explain what I had done to her magic. She didn’t ask. I had been studying her closely, too closely… With my dagger at her throat, I took her body for my pleasure, I had not had such a rush since I took the old Half-Orc’s life almost a year ago. This finally broke her, she didn’t even scream anymore, just a blank, soul-less stare. Cutting her tongue out was almost too easy, but the effect of the Sea-stone was fading. I branded each of her cheeks, as was requested; the mark of treason. She might physically have died on that pyre, but she was dead inside before any flame struck her.

Entry #65

AgY 605, 22nd of Highsun
The guards are confused, they speak about that the Abborgardian Empire have crumpled. Some mages had apparently tried to take power of Abhelm, with some magic conduits overcharging or something along those lines. And this happened about a week ago, given the distance from Abhelm to Cyndarr. I am not sure what this means, the guards talk about deserting, some of them already have. There are voices I can no longer hear, and the guards haven’t had their scheduled shift today.

As I went up to investigate, I heard the voice of the puffy Gnome. I hurried back to my chamber, and pretended to be cleaning some of my tools, when a sharp single knock, presumeably by the Gnome’s staff, was followed by the door being opened. It was never locked, no-one would leave unless they were meant to. The Gnome started a tiring tirade about loyalty, employment, my silence and such. I pretended to not know, which seemed to calm him significantly. The last thing he said before leaving was “Be ready, you may have a lot of work in the coming time…”

Entry #77

AgY 605, 6th of the Fading
The Gnome was right, of course. I had several mages that needed the treason branding, a couple of fingers were clipped, some toes as well, but I refrained from taking tongues, tempting as it was. The Gnome seems pleased that I’m following orders.

At least half of the guards are now gone, whether they ran, or were killed, I don’t know. And I don’t really care either. But I know that the time where I am the master of this place, with all the prisoners in the cells at my disposal, is coming soon.

Entry #82

AgY 605, 13th of the Fading
His paranoia finally snapped, his hair and beard and robe had scorch marks, when he entered my chamber. The calm, cold arrogance that had been in the Gnome’s eyes earlier, was exchanged for a cold, blank madness. He was stuttering, spitting at almost every word, I could make out something along the lines of backstabbing bastard and so on, but most of it was a mixture of Gnomish, common and Dragonic.

Using a new supply of Sea-stones, I calmly walked over and gently grabbed his one shoulder with a Sea-stone ring on my finger. At first he was furious, ready to attempt to hurl spells at me, but it seemed his madness was also tied to magic, as he started to calm down, and just as he was trying to reason, I knocked him out with the branding iron. It was a surprising hassle to tie him up, his limbs being much short than I was used to. I cut out his tongue, the blood in his throat woke him up. If he was incoherent before, it was even worse now.

I drove a nail through one of his hands, the blood dripping down in the grating I had made. And then I went for some food in the pantry, I didn’t see any of the guards. The meal tasted extra sweet that evening.

Entry #83

AgY 605, 14th of the Fading
I added a nail to the Gnome’s other hand, he is barely conscious now. So I brought him some ice-cold water from the creek up on the surface, keeping him alive till the very last point is going to be a lot of work. But I have time. Plenty of time.

Entry #84

AgY 605, 16th of the Fading
The Gnome hasn’t got far to live now, he have lost too much blood, he is constantly slipping in and out of consciousness. I had to sew his eyelids open, I needed to see the moment that life left his worthless body.

Entry #85

AgY 605, 17th of the Fading
He died shortly after midnight. As he did, the entire walls shook, and I heard a massive crash coming from the barracks above. Upon investigating, the cieling in the barracks had collapsed, cutting of access to the surface.

Entry #90

AgY 605, 24th of the Fading
The pantry is empty, the food I didn’t manage to eat have gone bad. There is still some wine left. The Gnome will do as food source now.

I’ve discovered a weakness in the barracks wall, I saw clayish water seep through a crack. If I can weigh out my strength and the rations the Gnome will provide, I think I can get through.

Entry #101

(no date have been entered for this entry)
I’ve made it, I’ve dug a tunnel up to the surface. I pushed the Gnome’s cleanly gnawed bones into the cabinet, where the bones of my first victim were still stashed.

I have found some books and have begun to study basic magic, if I had known the possibilities one could use magic to hurt… and regenerate and then hurt again. Endless torture, the thought warms my heart even now.

I’ve installed a sawblade to hurt anyone not observant enough, the wiring was difficult, but it should now be hooked up to the slab, just around the corner.

Entry #102

(no date, the text is barely readable, written by a visibly shaken hand)
Well, this is it, it is over. My freedom was short. I ate some roots and mushrooms from the forest. I am dying, I’ve hurled blood three times today already. Well, this will be the first, and only time, I end a life quickly.