Twice a Champion

[The Chronicler]

Twice a Champion

The gleam of armour in the intermittent sun. The lazy wind flapping pennants dotting the arena. Snorts and grunts amid the thunder of hooves as two heavy beasts barreled towards one another. A sickening crack. The clanging of armour as one man met tough earth. A deafening roar of approval from the crowd. This was a grand day for a tourney.

...It was not however, a grand venue. The wooden lists were small, seating no more than a hundred (though in reality they were filled by perhaps three quarters that number), with a private box for the local liege lord of meager and scrabbling holdings. Though the venue was sufficient for entertaining the paltry (but enthusiastic!) local population, it was clear that the petty lord had been lax in maintaining even this humble facility, as it was poorly maintained and appeared quite unsafe. Still, the mostly drunk populace seemed to be enjoying themselves, and the smell of cheap mutton, cheaper beer and pungent horseflesh permeated the field.

“Sir Magnus the Chronicler unseats Sir Godwin of the Craglands! What an upset! How embarrassing for our liege’s champion to- uhhh..” This last remark earned the lanky herald boy a smack and a glare from the corpulent bulldog of a man that ran this place, and the boy continued “Ahh! I mean to say that our Lord Llewellyn’s keen eye for talent has only heightened the drama and spectacle for the day’s festivities!” At this, the fat noble raised his arms in magnanimity and the crowd exploded into cheers once again.

The bested knight struggled to return to his feet, but eventually overcame his heavy armour's resistance and righted himself. Bristling with indignation and embarrassed anger, Sir Godwin lifted the visor of his helmet to reveal the bloated tomato of his face hiding behind long mustaches. "I say! This is most irregular!" He made his way to the Lord's booth and puffed himself up even more. "This... Outsider must have cheated! You know my record, why, I've never been beaten on the field!". With a point, he looked over to the mysterious stranger who had bested him, his eyes bulging and scowl scathing. "Clap him in irons, I say! He has no honour!" Both men looked on as the knight circled the arena, performing tricks and generally putting on a show that the peasantry was eating up.

Llewellyn eyed the champion suspiciously. He turned to his bested man and said in a low voice, "He does seem far too concerned with the common folk for my liking. But this is not the time. The fool will get his comeuppance before too long, I assure you." The proud knight did not seem to like this answer, but stepped back with a nod. Picking up his considerable girth with a heavy grunt, Lord Llewellyn addressed the assembled crowd. "Good people of Osterschund, my benevolence has granted you a grand day of games and merriment," the crowd gave another cheer, "culminating in the fine joust we just witnessed. Show your appreciation for our gracious Sir Godwin, who let the newcomer claim victory to show our hospitality!" Godwin bowed graciously as the mob applauded, "Let the challenger approach," a fat hand waved the victor over impatiently. The heavy warrior dismounted and took a knee. "It is with great... Respect that I, Lord Llewellyn of Unwürdig Hall, Steward of the Lesser Boglands and Sentinel of the Leeringwood do declare this day's champion: Sir Magnus the Chronicler! Come, take your prize!" The toad-like man snapped pudgy fingers impatiently as a shy serving girl presented a threadbare velvet pillow. On it sat a rather sad and spindly laurel wreath, with only the slimmest layer of gilding. Any less and it might as well have been bare. Magnus approached respectfully, and held the offering high above his head as if it were the greatest treasure in all the lands. The crowd could not get enough, and he threw an appreciative smile their way. The lord continued unpleasantly, "Now I expect you all to remember this great celebration in the months to come, and whose generosity provided it for you! Show me your love with your labour! Get back out there!" The heralds awkwardly played a trumpeting tune and it was clear that the festivities were over. The crowd began to disperse and head back to their homes and businesses. The lord beckoned the Chronicler closer.

"Congratulations on a most exciting victory! Accompany me back to Unwërding Hall and we shall feast and drink away from all this..." He gestured towards the scattering peasantry, "filth in luxurious comfort!" Sir Godwin also piped in "Yes, perhaps we'll see a true test of your mettle in more... Appropriate surroundings fit for noble combat." Both men looked towards the newcomer impatiently.

“I certainly appreciate your generous offer of hospitality, but I am afraid that my business here must take priority. If you would be so good as to honour your side of our arrangement?” Sir Godwin looked incensed, but Llewellyn simply spread an insidious smile. “Surely a man of such… noble bearing as yourself does not want to be seen trudging out into the muck over some old stories. Come, you’ll be much more comfortable taking different payment in more priva-” Magnus raised a still gauntleted hand, “Our agreed payment for this diversion was the map into the Leeringwood, and by our honour as noblemen I intend to have it. Your Grace.” The outstretched hand came down to receive his payment. The smile disappeared, and Sir Godwin’s outrage overflowed, his hand reaching for the sword on his hip. “How dare you speak to my lord in such a manner! Swine!” Llewellyn’s smile flashed back in place, but did not reach his cold eyes. “Now, now, my loyal liege, if the cur would choose a perilous fool’s errand over my offered pleasures,” He smacked the backside of a serving girl who squeaked pitifully, “then who are we to stand between him and his end? Take it.” Another servant brought forth a rolled parchment, clearly very old, and placed it in the armoured hand. “I would warn you however, that the woods can be quite dangerous to outsiders, and the place you seek is rumoured to be home to bandits; cannibals or perhaps worse. I imagine you’ll find their hospitality far less accommodating than mine. Regardless, I think it’s time for final farewells. I doubt we shall meet again if you find what you’re looking for.” With that, he rose and turned towards his attending carriage, without waiting for a response. Sir Godwin slowly joined him, his bulging eyes lingering on Sir Magnus the whole way.

Well, I can’t say I shall miss that pair. Any more time with their toxic company and I fear that lout Godwin might have had his wish. On to more pleasant business. Magnus made his way back towards Pertinax, who was more restless than ever, and soothed the horse as he led him back to their inn. “At least I can rely on your civilised company, old friend.” The horse gave out a loud snort. “Well, good company, anyway. Let’s see what our labour has netted us.”

After reviewing the old map, whose historical value could not be discounted, the knight-scholar could barely contain his excitement. The hidden tomes and artifacts within such an ancient structure will be of invaluable insight for the Order, not to mention the boon for historians the world over. What a window to the past this might be. But I can not do it alone. Visions of ancient civilisation dancing through his head, the Chronicler unloaded his inks and began to write and paint.

The next morning, posted on the most visible board in the town square, there appeared a large poster, painted in a most beautiful style:

WANTED!
Adventurers and explorers of exquisite courage and utmost valour needed to pierce the veil of the Leeringwood, if not antiquity itself, to recover untold secrets and restore some lost light upon the world. Danger is likely, action is guaranteed! If interested in retaking or making history, please make your way to the Half Wheel Trail-side Bar and Grill-Inn and seek out the Chronicler. Pay will be provided by the Order of the Forgotten.

[Flamebird]

"I wike it!"

A redhead jumped in place, her weapons bouncing and ponytail flying. Her green eyes screamed eagerness. Bypassers shook their heads in disapproval as they continued their ways down a dirty street. The young woman they seemed to see as foolish took no notice. She was rereading a poster put up on a tree trunk. The teenage girl crossed her arms, "Adventuwe, danga, secwets... wight up my awey!"

The girl adjusted her belt, arming sword dangling. Her black shorts and white leg wrappings were both filthy from treading the dusty road. Her mirror armor didn't look so hot either... it sure looked hot though. The sun was bathing the forest in waves of melting heat.

The half-neanderthal skidded in her sandals, causing even more dirt to kick up. She readjusted "Fewicity Knopsnida is on the case!"

Felicity turned happily and walked down the road for a moment before stopping dead. "Wait... whewe's the hawf twail wheew whata?"

~~~

After many hours of asking for directions, walking, slicing some undead corpses, and following signs, Felicity found the inn she was looking for. She entered the doors looking like a wreck. She had several cuts on her legs and face, her hair was down and tangled with a fingerbone somewhere in there, her clothes and armor were mucky, and she felt like a beetle was wrapped inside her left arm's wrappings.

Well, within a wrecked but cozy looking in with a strong hearth and throw pillows on benches, she was a sight to behold. The half drunk elves just stared at her for a moment, Felicity staring right back in exhaustion, as a silence fell over the inn. Felicity suddenly smiled, pulling on her happy demeanor, "Oh! The wife of a fighta!" She walked cheerfully up to the desk as the elves went back to their normal business. The blond elf at the counter chuckled as he washed a mug, immediately noticing the redheaded warrior.

"Well, look at you. Tough time in Raiaera?"

The teen chuckled, throwing a coin onto the counter, "Just get me an appa cida pwease, and..." she bent in a little closer, whispering, "Has a 'the Chwonicwa' set up shop, hewe?"

[redford]

“I don’t like it.”

“John, you’ve been saying that all day.”

“Ruins this big, you take a battalion, not three people,” John said, flicking his spent cigar into the forest around him. Night was beginning to fall, and the first sounds of the evening already filled the air. Logan said they were coming up on the inn, but he’d seen no sign of it. “Seems odd is all.”

“Oh relax, John,” Logan said, pushing aside a branch. John would have considered their path a trail, had there been any trail to follow. He continued. “besides, we aren’t even here for the ruins, remember? Vince says there’s an artifact that the Tarot needs to reclaim around here. Best to travel with a couple others anyway, right?”

John grunted, needing to move considerably more branches than Logan to get anywhere in this forest. Slowly though, it began to clear, and the light of a window appeared in the distance. Their pace quickened, as much from the clearing of the forest as the thought of food and drink.

The inn itself was old, but John’s eyes spotted good craftsmanship and carpentry. The thing was two stories, the first of stone and the second of wood, both quite old, though the second story appeared to be an addition. Moss grew out of a few cracks between the stones as they rounded the building, climbing a few steps up to the threshold, the handrail worn smooth by countless hands such as his.

John turned the knob, and ducked his head under the crossbeam. There was barely enough room for him to stand up straight in the building, but that was more than most buildings. The patrons stared blankly at him, mostly elves.

This sort of situation was common for John, and he’d learned to give no heed to the whispers and stares that followed his entry into most rooms. The bar seemed the emptiest, populated by only a small girl. He slid two stools together and sat, the elf behind the bar looking at Logan, John and the girl as if they’d just popped out of his wildest dreams. The bartender opened his mouth to speak, and John’s large hand laid a silvery coin on the bar slowly. Places like this tended to assume the worst, so slow movements were good. The tender lost his voice, and John spoke softly.

“Whiskey, in a pint glass.”

The elf across from him spoke quickly. “I - I really can’t have-”

Logan piped in. “He’s good for it, trust me, and we won’t be causing any trouble, promise. I’ll just have a beer, my good man.”

The elf turned, still shooting sideways glances at John every few seconds. After a few moments, he returned with two drinks. John spoke as they were laid down in front of him.

“Is the Chronicler here?”

[Faustuss]

Faust frowned and readjusted his black robes. He had forgotten how itchy flesh could be.

But, he was going to a very important meeting. He couldn’t go in his usual state of well-kempt undeath. Even the most open-minded of groups tended to react poorly to magically animated corpses with blue fire for eyes. In an effort to avoid witchhunters, paladins, and other interlopers, Faust had spent an hour or so conjuring a disguise. As uncomfortable as he was, even he had to admit that he hadn’t looked this good for centuries.

The man who traveled along the road would have been handsome if it weren’t for the subtle aura of wrongness about him. His hair was a little too dark, his features too sharp, his blue eyes too bright and icy. His frame a little too slender. But then, it didn’t help that Faust had the unnerving habit of forgetting to blink.

He held the rolled up scrap of parchment in his slender fingers and examined the building in front of him. The Half Wheel Trail-side Bar and Grill-inn. This was the place. Faust heard the boom of laughter and saw an inviting plume of smoke curling out of the chimney. The place reeked of life. Faust’s features wrinkled in disgust.

But then, the lich had come for eldritch artifacts and tomes of forbidden lore. He wasn’t going to turn back now. Faust braced himself, pushed open the door and walked into the inn. The place was deserted minus the slender elvish innkeeper, a ginger youngling, and a hulking mountain of sinew and muscle.

Lifting his robes, he pulled up a stained barstool and beckoned over the innkeeper. The man seemed relieved to get away from the ruffian who’d invaded his bar.

“Wine please,” Faust ordered. “Anything will do.” He ordered more out of habit than the actual need to drink and flashed the innkeeper his sincerest smile. Faust was doing his best to be social, but the grin came out as more of a tight grimace. The poor elf flinched and glanced at his guest’s robes. He had escaped an armed ruffian only to come face to face with a deranged sorcerer. “One more thing, my good man,” Faust attempted another smile and gave up. “I’m looking for a man named the Chronicler. Has he come this way?”

[The Chronicler]

Interesting, the common belief is that the Order of Unyielding Light died out from years of dwindling numbers and natural entropy. However, this account makes mention of a great foe called the ‘Eternal Shade’. This bears some further research. Magnus scribbled furiously in his Tome, transcribing the ancient and delicate scroll into his sturdier book and carefully placing the artefact in its tube. As he started making personal notes on his discoveries, completely lost in thought, there was a hurried knocking at the door. Magnus instinctively reached for his oversized sword leaning against the desk.

“Yes?” The door opened a crack, and a nervous looking elf peered in. “Uh, sir? You wanted to know if anyone came asking for you? Well, there’s some… rugged? customers downstairs. I think you might want to come have a look…” Looking to the poor innkeep, Magnus started to wonder if he’d burned through the last of the goodwill he’d banked with the joust.

“Very good, Arofel. Please send them up. I appreciate your understanding in this matter, and your fee will of course reflect this.” The perturbed elf nodded sheepishly and headed back downstairs. Magnus cleared the table and laid out the map he’d won.

As the disparate members of the new group filtered in, they were greeted by the sight of a large man, towering over a small desk and surrounded by paintings. They were of varied subject matter, histories and legends from half a dozen civilisations. Worn iron armour was hanging on a stand behind him.

He took note as the strange group assembled, none seeming quite human. He made a note to himself to add them to the chronicle individually as the journey went underway. A gaunt, overly still man whose awkward smile was more of a stiff rictus. A young girl of a curiously cro-magnon bent whose excitement seemed to compensate for her fellow’s dourness. A veteran with arresting icy eyes; and a hulking figure who even Magnus had to look up to. Even with the largest room at the inn, it was getting uncomfortably cramped.

“Welcome, friends. I am Sir Magnus, the Chronicler. I can only assume you have all seen my notice and have come seeking adventure. If that is indeed your aim, I am certain you will find no shortage of it here. Please, attempt to make yourselves as comfortable as you can while I outline what we have in store.” People shuffled awkwardly, sitting where they could.
Magnus pointed to the map. “Now, as you have no doubt noticed, we sit on the outskirts of the Leeringwood, a very dense and disorienting forest of legendary antiquity. This will be our first obstacle, but with this map, we should be able to find our way through.” He gestured further on the map, “Speaking with the locals and from what I’ve heard along the road, it would appear that some squatters have taken up residence at our destination; the great elven ruin at Fel’Thalad. It is an interesting site, from the long dead Fel dynasty of the Second Thaladian Empire, whose downfall was recorded by the famous schola-” Reading the room, Magnus cut himself off with an embarrassed cough.

“Right, well regardless it is safe to say that it contains untold wonders of a lost age. Aside from some bandits, who according to reports are cannibals, we should have no great trouble. In any case,” He looked to the fearsome assemblage arrayed across the room, “I imagine we can handle it. As for stakes, speaking for the Order I represent and myself personally, I am really only interested in the long forgotten knowledge that must lay within, and would request that any items found are logged and transcribed (as the case may be). Any valuables or treasures we find are of little consequence to me after they have been recorded or copied, and can be split as deemed fair by consensus. Are these terms agreeable to everyone? Any questions?”

[Flamebird]

The paintings behind their fearless leader had caught some interest when she came in, but the halfling was uninterested in history... she had a mission to accomplish! The child had been picking the bone from her hair and finding that beetle wrapped in her clothes almost the entire time she was here, even when she was unintentionally shoved into the corner as everyone tried to get comfortable, she was paying good attention. Felicity thought everything checked out. Really, exploring the ruins sounded fun! Still, she did have a question about the bandits.

"Yeah, what's the chance of meeting those bandits? It doesn't huwt to be pwepaiwed, you know - not that we wouwn't beat them up eitha way."

She was at the edge of the room, feeling kind of squeezed in. She knew she was the smallest and most likely youngest here, not that it was so terrible. She noted the tall man with gauntlets, as well as the too skinny non blinking guy, were a bit strange. It made her nervous, but she knew not to judge a book by its cover. She herself was a pretty weird person, not to mention her lisp. Inside was what mattered, what the heart held was key. A lifetime of being judged based on her forehead and heritage itself taught her this.

Cooped up in the corner (which had a spider web hanging over it) she listened to the group's conversation and the Chronicler's response.

[redford]

John sat on the bed, which was the only good place for him to sit, considering that all the chairs were taken and he wouldn’t have fit into any of them anyways. There were maps and parchments strewn about the room, the largest and most prominent tacked up behind him. John’s interest in history was passing, but it was an interest nonetheless, and he was quite impressed with the man’s knowledge, though he did not show it. Logan sat closest to the small desk, studying the map of the ruins with a keen eye. The other two sat in the chair in the corner and the one beside Logan. The one beside Logan was tall and gangly, it hardly seemed healthy for someone to be that tall and thin. The other girl, who’d just piped up, was short and wore a sword and shield.

The ‘Chronicler’ responded quickly. “We can assume that the bandits have been there quite a while, and will be quite unwilling to give up their land to anyone, whether they are there to simply research the history of the place or otherwise. Hence, the reason I have hired you all.”

Though the prospect certainly seemed good, there was no guarantee that the relic would even be here, much less that they would be able to find it. He pulled a small wooden box from his pocket and opened it, revealing two cigars. There were five slots and John frowned. He’d need to get a few more before they set off. He spoke with the cigar in his teeth, looking around for a light. He silently cursed the fact that he had to rely on candles as he stood, making his way to the desk where a flame was.

“How do we know the bandits haven’t sold all the valuables?” he asked, dragging on his cigar until it was lit. The Chronicler began to speak, but as John turned, his elbow caught the edge of the candle, tipping it over onto the desk covered in dusty, dry parchment.

[Faustuss]

Faust perked up at the mention of the promised tomes and artifacts. The gold caught his interest as well, as it would be useful to finance his studies. But any treasure paled in comparison to a relic from the Corpse Wars that had ravaged these lands in ages past. When it came to necromancy, Xem’Zund hadn’t been a pushover. Faust could only hope he’d left an artifact or a heavy grimoire behind.

The lich surveyed the room and its occupants. He had the air of a man assessing a cut of meat at the butcher. As far as the living went, this group didn’t seem so bad. The Chronicler was a fellow scholar, the youngling seemed handy with a blade and eager to use it, and the mountain of muscle and his companion had fantastic potential for bloodshed and mayhem. If Faust had still been capable of experiencing pity, he would have felt it for any bandit who stood in their way.

Faust’s angular human nose twitched in irritation, and it took him a moment to realize why. He had caught the acidic smell of burning parchment. He spun on his heel, and saw the papers on the desk smoldering.

A horse yell crawled out of his throat, and he made a mad dash for the desk, beating out the flames. The fire seemed to sputter and choke in his cold presence, and it died within seconds. He was fast, but not nearly fast enough. Faust was unfamiliar with the papers, and so it was difficult to assess the extent of the damage.

Faust shot the big man a venomous glance and gingerly lifted a charred scrap of parchment. “What’s the damage?” he asked the Chronicler.

[Logan]

The psion and his giant friend were sent by the ultra-secretive yet always at the tip of everyone's tongue, Tarot Hierarchy, to assess and assist the small, randomly gathered group in their ruinous adventure. The assignment was straightforward and simple enough, which of course meant something invariably would go wrong, and it did.

In normal circumstances, Logan might have leaped into action to assist in the prevention of the flames spreading, but something tugged at the back of his mind to let the whole thing play out. If he could get a baseline of what, if any, powers the others gathered possessed he might just be able to prevent something far more catastrophic. Much to his delight, a chilled air seemed to envelope one of the individuals, and as the man moved the chill followed suit.

Not long before, Logan and the Tarot's newest recruit, Rehtul Orlouge, met in private for a time of training and testing, and both men came away with a greater understanding of not just their own abilities, but also of the other's. The chill was nothing like the ice magic the ice mage possessed, and it felt colder than what would be possible through natural sources. There was no doubt of the magical emanation, but was it something more?

The only thing the psion could think of colder than ice was death, but the thought felt unfounded in reality. Necromancers weren't exactly uncommon, but since the time of Xem'Zund there had not been any truly capable of harnessing the full powers of life beyond final breath. Many tried, but most were consumed wholly in their magic never to be seen or heard from again. The individual in Logan's presence felt far less inept, and deep down it left the psion in unease.

Logan examined the tips of the documents where the flames touched, but nothing seemed past repair. Mostly, the portions ruined were well outside the areas of the ruins, and the few parchments subject to total loss held little importance, at least in the eyes of the psion. He lifted a piece of one such parchment, crumpled it and tossed it aside.

"If we're lucky, which I'm going to presume we are thanks to the fast-thinking and quick actions of our friend here, little to nothing."

The psion turned his gaze to John and smirked.

"Next time, dear friend, just ask for a light. I'm sure someone here is more than capable of assisting."

John grunted, but Logan couldn't tell if he was hurt or humored by the thought of one of these pipsqueaks actually helping him. The psion shrugged and looked over to the one who offered to hire the group.

"What exactly is our course of action? It is great you have all of this information from second-hand sources, but I rarely trust in second-hand. You can't be too careful. Also to the point, who exactly have you managed to scrounge up to assist us in our little endeavor, and more so to the point, whom exactly has gathered here to spearhead this little shindig?"

Logan rested both hands on the desk.

"I suppose I shall start the introductions. I am Logan, and my friend over there is John. We are here to help, and the terms are agreeable for us both. We are never too shy to turn away an opportunity for small fortunes to be made. Now, which of you fine folks would like to clue the rest of us in on what brings you to this quaint little bar?"

The psion glanced from one to the next, but his eyes rested upon the girl who spoke with words not quite formed.

"How about you, Miss," he queried of the redhead, hoping to draw out a name or at least some tidbit of information.

[The Chronicler]

Magnus winced as the parchment caught flame, though it was out before he could react. With a sigh, the Chronicler moved what remained to the corner of the table furthest from the destructive giant. “Luckily, I made sure to transcribe these materials before expecting guests. The map itself is a well made copy, the greedy lord who gave it to me kept the original for himself. All the same, I would hope that more care is forthcoming on our potentially dangerous expedition.” He gave the man a pointed look and continued, “As to your question, I believe whatever treasures lie within should be undisturbed, as the inaccessibility of the site would make offloading goods difficult, and after checking locally I have found that no such wealth has made it to the community at large. Perhaps they wait until season’s end… Regardless of their reasoning, it would seem that they are content to sit upon their earnings for now.”