Rivermoot Saga

[Mikayla]

Velya Alfarsdottir sat in a chair in the back of the Rivermoot Inn, nervously fidgeting with her long red hair. “Is this going to be hard?” She asked the woman seated across from her.

“What do you mean?” The woman asked.

“I’ve never done this before. Sent a letter that is. I don’t . . . I don’t . . .” Her worlds trailed off into an unintelligible stammer and she began blushing.

“You don’t know how to read and write?” The woman asked kindly.

Velya shook her head. “I never cared before here. I . . . it was never anything I needed to know. But here, everyone knows how. I feel stupid.”

The other woman nodded gently. “Don’t worry, this won’t be hard. Just tell me what you want to say, and I’ll write it down.”

Velya wiped her eyes before the tears of shame began to run. “Alright.” She swallowed and thought about where to begin . . .

**********


Dear Mother,

I have run away as I am sure you have guessed. I will not be married off to that pig of a boy, traded away like an animal. I know you would stop it if you could, but I also know you can’t stop it. So I ran away. I am going to be a shield-maiden, not a goodwife. I would rather die bravely on the battlefield than grow old serving mead in the king’s hall.

I am sorry though. I know you love me. I know my running away is hard on you. But my being there is hard on you too. I know I was a constant reminder to everyone about your tryst with my father. And its why you can’t find a husband now. I am sorry.

I am doing well though. I am in a village called Rivermoot. It has a hall a lot like the king’s hall, only without a king. They call it a tavern, or some call it an Inn. Right now, I call it home. It is ridiculously expensive – it costs me five pieces of gold to sleep there every night! But there is much gold to be had here. They had a festival here, and before the festival the town’s marshall, who is their war-chief I guess, was paying anyone with sword or axe to go drive off these goblins, some of which they call kobolds. One looks like a small orc, the other looks like a cross between a lizard and a small orc. They are both very stinky.

I have been in battle though! You would be proud of me I hope. I was afraid, but I fought. I have killed several of the goblin-kobold things, and goblins and yesterday, even orcs! Me, with grand-dad’s axe, fighting bull-orcs! And I won. It was hard and I was so scared but I was not alone. I had friends with me. One of them fell, his name was Karlan or something like that, and I saved him!

There were others I could not save though. There was this mean man, named Garath, but he was a good tracker. Too good. He found the kobold camp all alone and they killed him. I and some others found his body. Then I made a friend of this man called Little-Hawk. He is very little, like a child. They call his people “hin” but I am not sure what that means. But he was no bigger than a child of 6 or 7 and that is as big as he gets! Still, he was brave. But he died. He went out alone and the monsters killed him. I am very sad.

I made other friends though too. There is Karl, who is very wise and is a man of Tempus, like some of the elders. He is very brave and strong and he stands at my side when we fight. There is also Nevae, who is a half-breed like me, though his skin is very brown. He is quiet, but good with a bow. And there is Seth, who fights hard but has a mean streak. He wanted to kill a bear just to kill it, not even to eat it or take its hide. Oh, and I met a city-woman, named Sylvaine. She speaks funny, but it is because she is from a big city, the one called Waterdeep, that the pirates talk about. She is so beautiful and she wears such beautiful clothes. All the men look at her, and listen to her. She makes me feel ugly, but she is my friend now. She helped me get city clothes! I look so funny in them, but they are pretty. All these friends have fought by side.

Mom, I think I know now why our men-folk fight so hard and so bravely. Its not for us at home, even though they say it is. Its not even for Tempus or Tyr or the Lone Wolf or Valkur. Its for each other. They fight for each other. When I saw my friends in danger, I fought harder. When I saw one go down, I rushed forward to help him even though there was a bull-orc still standing over him. I don’t know why, I just knew I had to do it. A moment later we killed the orc and the others and we lived. I felt close to those who fought with me like I have never felt close to anyone before, except for you of course. I love you mother.

Please forgive me for running away. I just could not take the long death of serving as a wife in the king’s hall. I want glory of my own, mother, like grand-dad, and maybe even like my father though I don’t know him. I don’t want to die an old-woman with fingers bent from the loom; I want to go the halls of the gods with a sword in my hand, with honor. I don’t know why. I am sorry. But know that I pray to the Lone Wolf now, because he is the god of the outcasts and those who are on their own.

I love you mother, and I will return when I am such a great warrior that none will think they can own me and sell me and possess me like an animal. Until then, I will think of you. If I do not make it back, do not think ill of me. I did my best.

Love,

Velya,

[JaydeMoon]

Selfish brat! Bring meh mead!!!

[Vendrin]

Nice to see another side of writing from you Mik.

[Mikayla]

Rain poured out of the night-sky on the tiny village-camp of Rivermoot. In the center of the circular village, Velya stood warming her hands by a brightly burning brazier under the village gazebo. Though protected from the rain by the wood roof of the gazebo, she still wore her hood for warmth. She rubbed her hands and thought about her conversation with Karl.

Karl was a warrior and man of Tempus. He was strong and brave and taciturn like many of the men she grew up with. Slow to anger, but a bull when provoked. He was loyal, self-sacrificing and true, and dedicated to battle. He was one of the only people she felt comfortable with here. But he was not going to stay. She didn’t know why but that made her sad. She wanted him to stay. Not as a lover, he was much older than she was and she did not see him that way, but, as a friend perhaps. No, friend was not quite right. She wasn't sure what Karl was to her, but she felt connected to him, and she wanted him to stay.

The sound of footsteps in mud told her someone was entering the village. She looked over her shoulder and saw a wondrous sight. Three elves, slipping into Rivermoot in the rain and the dark. Elves like her real father. They spoke in the beautiful tongue of the fey peoples. “This is what passes for a village? Mud and hovels?” The voice was silky and smooth but the scorn was all too apparent. Velya blinked. Rivermoot was small but it was, in many ways, nicer than the village she came from. The inn, for example, had half-a-dozen fires and fires places going while the Jarl’s hall she had lived in only held two fire pits. And there were beds! No one but the Jarl had a bed in her village. People slept on furs any where they could around the hall. No real beds. Not like here.

“I suppose this is what passes for a shop here.” Said one of the elves disdainfully. There were two males and a female in the group, as far as Velya could discern. The lead male was mostly silent. The second male, the one with dark hair, was doing all the talking. The female said nothing that Velya noticed. The three passed into the smithy. Velya just watched and waited. A few minutes later, the elves emerged. They talked amongst themselves and decided they wanted to get a drink before moving on to Silverymoon. One noted that the village had a “smoke filled box” where they could get a drink. It took Velya a minute to realize he was speaking about the inn. They scorned even that! The one place in all the world right now where Velya found warmth, and they scorned it. Of course it was smoky – one cannot have a fire without smoke – and without a fire, one cannot have warmth. Did the elves expect the humans here to freeze so that they would not have to smell the smoke when they drank?

She watched the three enter the inn from under her hood. She waited. Should she go in? She wanted to. She wanted to talk to them. To see if they knew of her father. To learn about that half of her ancestry. That half of her.

She stepped off the gazebo platform and walked to the inn. Just as she was entering, she heard one of the elves suggest that they drink outside. Quickly she backed away from the door and walked to the gazebo fire again, as if she had never left. She was certain the elves had seen her, but there was nothing to be done for it. The trio took seats by a table just outside the inn door. Almost immediately they began complaining about the drinks, be it the ale or the wine. Velya could sympathize this time; the ale here was weak, the wine was sour, and the mead, well, the mead was not as good as it was back home.

A fourth elf suddenly emerged from the inn, one she had not seen before. He walked passed the trio seated by the door and exchanged a few words with them, then walked over to Velya. He spoke to her in Elven. She understood him perfectly, but pretended not to. She didn’t want the three elves at the table knowing she could understand them. Eventually, the elf talking to her grew bored or annoyed at her feigned lack of understanding and he went back to his kin. A man had approached the trio, and one of the three elves had addressed him in common. The first male, the one that seemed the leader, had said in Elven that he did not even understand common. The fourth elf, who had tried talking to Velya, said that he understood common as well as any human. He told the first elf that to learn common, he should go to Silverymoon, to an expensive brothel, and stay there for a few weeks. Then he would learn all the common he needed. The first elf did not like the suggestion. “Near the rutting of the roundears?” He exclaimed with disgust.

The fourth elf nodded enthusiastically. “The point is to be doing the rutting. Then you’ll learn all the common you need.”

One elf laughed, the female winced, but the leader just looked confused. “I cannot imagine finding one of those fleshy beasts pretty.” He said.

Rage and shame swept across Velya; her mother had been one of those “fleshy beasts” to an elf once, and Velya was born of that lust. Her hand tightened around her axe and she longed to cleave the spry little fey from head to balls, but she didn’t. She regained control and turned back to the fire and listened on. The fourth elf continued his ramblings about rutting with humans. He apparently found it a joyful past-time. The other elves were skeptical and declined to take his advice. They were scornful of all things human, and that included human females.

In their conversation the trio let it slip that they were from the Sacred Isle. Velya knew enough to know that was where her father had been from, or headed to, when he was shipwrecked on Ruathym. Were these the kind of elves her father was? Was he as scornful of humans as they? Had he once enjoyed the warm hospitality of the village and the Jarl’s hall, all the while disparaging it in a tongue the humans could not understand. She flushed with shame and fear. Could that have been what her father was like? Had she been born of such arrogant, mean men?

The trio finished their drinks and made ready to depart. Suddenly Velya’s heart started pounding. She wanted to talk to them. She might never again encounter elves from the Sacred Isle. This might be her only chance to find her father, or learn of him and his people and her other half. She turned suddenly and walked half-way down the gazebo steps. The trio of elves were saying good-bye to the fourth elf, and still disparaging Rivermoot. There was nothing about it, or humans, they could stand. Velya froze. She knew, she just knew, that if she approached them she would learn nothing but humiliation from them. They would not care. They would scorn her as a half-breed, as more human than elf. She clenched her teeth and watched them walk out of the gates.

After they had passed through, she walked to the gate and watched the trio saunter down the road. There was hate in her eyes, and tears also. The fourth elf suddenly appeared next her. He said something but she did not really here it.

“Do all elves hate humans so much?” She asked.

“I don’t.” The fourth elf said cheerfully, but warily. He made excuses for the trio. They were fresh from the Sacred Isle and did not know any better he said. In time, they would learn the value of humans.

Sheldan, her friend from her first day in Rivermoot walked up. She said hello, but continued to focus on the distant trio of elves walking to the east.

Velya was unconvinced by the fourth elf’s excuses. The fourth elf, however, was growing curious as to why she cared. She pulled her hood back and revealed her pointed ears, a legacy of her father. “My mother was one of those ‘fleshy beasts’ that some elf deigned to ‘rut’ with.”

“Ah, I see.” He said nodding. “Its probably best you kept your hood up then.”

The words stung, but Velya knew they were true. Nothing good would have come from revealing herself to ones such as those. She looked over the fourth elf for a moment. He was short, and slender, the way elves were. His hair was dark, and his fair skin was beautiful and perfect. He looked much like she had heard her father looked.

“I like humans.” The elf went on. “I find them very attractive. Who knows how many children I might have by them?”

His prattle meant little to Velya. He was nice, in his own way, unlike the other three, but he did not even realize how mean and cruel his actions were. “Don’t you care about your children?” She asked.

He seemed to shrug. “After sixty years, you stop caring so much.”

Sixty years? That was as long as the elders had lived! “How old are you?” She asked in wonder.

“About two-hundred years old.” He replied matter-of-factly. “Still young.”

Velya stared at him in wide-eyed silence for a moment. Two-hundred years. No elder had ever lived that long, and she had only heard a rumor that one old crone had lived half that time. The wonder quickly passed into anger though.

“You should take care.” She said solemnly. “Your actions can cause a life-time of pain and confusion.” She looked into his eyes. “A short life-time, compared to yours I suppose.” She held his gaze for a moment, then turned and walked back into the village. He called after her, saying something about living for the future, not the past.

Those were fine words for someone who lived two-hundred years and did not care about his children because those children would live and die too fast for him to care. Was that what her father was like? Was he like the trio? A scornful, mean, arrogant man disdaining all humanity? Or was he like the fourth elf, a cavalier, unfeeling rake using humans for his own pleasure without regard to their feelings or lives?

Either way the answer was bad. It seemed Velya had been given a glimpse into the Elven soul this night, and everything she saw was ugly. This was not how she had pictured her father. She had never once thought him to be an arrogant ass, or a cavalier playboy. In her mind, he had always been an exotic hero, sailing across the treacherous seas between magical places, on important quests to fight terrible evil. His love affair with her mother was the stuff of a great skald’s tragedy – true love, torn apart by the world’s realities. But now she had seen into the reality of elves; now she had seen that it was not true love, or great tragedy. It was just simple ‘rutting’ to them.

She started to cry but wiped away the tears. She burst into the tavern and looked around for Karl. She wanted to talk to him. She wanted to listen to him. She wanted . . . she wanted him to be her father. A man she could be proud of. Not those arrogant, mean elves. She wanted a good father; a true man, loyal to friends and family, honoring the gods, brave in battle and devoted to his comrades. What she did not want as a father was one of those slender, simpering asses outside, disdainfully scorning all humanity while simultaneously enjoying humanity’s hospitality, and even humanity’s women. She bought a mug of mead at the bar, and walked to the fire-place. Silently, she began to cry, and while she cried, she prayed to the Lone Wolf to erase the stain of elf-blood on her - and to make Karl stay with her and be her father.

[Mikayla]

Leader.

Velya mulled over the word again and again as she drank her ale. She sat just outside Rivermoot’s inn, leaning her chair back against a stack of empty kegs, her feet up on the rough-hewn, round table. Her axe lay across her lap. It was clean, but nicked from recent fighting. Her new sword also lay across her lap, in its beautiful black scabbard. She had never owned such a fine weapon. Swords were rare in her village; a sword took a lot of metal and big forge, and a lot of skill and patience. Where she came from, they were expensive. The Jarl and his ring-men could afford them, but few others could.

Across the table, the beautiful blond elf Vaya sat, watching a dragon-fly buzz around the table. He was smiling, as he usually did. Absently enjoying nature’s beauty all around him. He was one of the most serene, peaceful people Velya had ever met. His calm extended around him like an aura. It put her at ease, or at least more at ease than she usually was these days. She liked having him around for that. And because … well … She forced the thought out of her head.

Leader.

She focused on that. It was word people were using to describe her, of all people. When she first came to Rivermoot, a priest, Barid, had posted a scroll upon the gates calling for warriors to rid the crypts of the walking dead. Velya could not read the scroll of course but others told her of the expedition. She was happy to join. But others were not so happy. Rathalan, a priest of Helm, began to organize his own expedition. He said that the village could not afford to let the Bane-worshippers take the lead, or something to that effect. She was not really sure. She knew neither Bane nor Helm. Both were the gods of foreigners. Land-people. City-people.

Arguments had erupted. Velya thought it would come to blows. A few days earlier, the followers of Bane had argued with a large, ugly man others called a half-orc. The half-orc had wanted to fight Conrad, one of the Bane-worshippers, but the priest Barid challenged the half-orc instead. The half-orc wanted nothing of Barid, so far as Velya could tell, as she sat by the gate. But nothing went as anyone wanted. The half-orc attacked Conrad, who fell back under the assault. Barid moved in, and so did all the other followers of Bane. In a moment, it was five on one, or thereabouts. Things happened so fast it was hard to see who did what. But one thing was for certain – the half-orc had fallen. Barid, the Bane-priest, healed the half-orc, but the half-orc’s honor would not let him rest. The half-orc struck again and was quickly put down by the Bane-worshippers surrounding him. Velya helped bury him that evening.

Then in the circular Rivermoot yard, the followers of Bane argued with the man of Helm and his friends about the crypts. Finally, Velya had had enough. She stood and began to talk and shout herself, and when it was all over, she had taken charge of the expedition. How had that happened? Why did she do it? She shook her head now just thinking about it. She had seen but seventeen winters and sixteen summers and here she was taking charge of full-grown men.

But it had worked. She had led a dozen-and-half sell-swords into the crypts and returned victorious. Even the priest Barid later acknowledged her skill. And that was no idle chatter – Velya had seen Barid in action. She knew little of his god but she knew that Barid was a warrior, with courage, strength, and skill. His people were disciplined and organized, even if they were mean and pushy. She was proud to earn his respect, and the respect of Rathalan and others at the same time. But now, she found herself saddled with that word.

Leader.

Since then many had looked up to her as the village’s leader, at least, of its sell-swords and ad hoc militia. She had lost count of the number of expeditions she had led against the undead, orcs, goblins and bugbears of the area. So far, she had always returned with all her men alive. Even thinking that thought caused her to reach out and knock on the wooden table for luck. If she fell, if she failed, it would not be for hubris. She would know her place in things.

There was a pattern now; Karl was often by her side, as her advisor, as her friend, as her battle-companion – and as a father. She had confessed to him her feelings. And, though fearful of failing her, it seemed he thought of her as a daughter. That thought warmed her. Others fought too; the mad moon-elf Dessai, the blood-thirstiest man in the village, was often with them. He killed anything he could see, so far as she could tell. He made rude jokes, and talked of sexual things, and constantly made Velya feel confused. But he fought well. And there was Ama’asha, Vaya’s close friend, whom he called brother and cousin. Ama’asha was the opposite of Dessai in many ways, and Velya felt much more comfortable with Ama’asha than Dessai. There was also the pretty blond priestess of Tymora, Alyssa, who Velya was happy to bring along – good luck never hurt anyone - and there was the beautiful, intelligent, brave white-haired elf Sevaera. There was the elf Tathar too, whose mind and tongue were as sharp as any sword - she liked him, and the more she knew of Tathar, the more she resepected him. And there was Shard, a bard she was told, who hunted with Dessai. There were hin’s too; Gunny and Lucky and Arlander. She liked them all. And there were the new men, fresh sell-swords from, well, somewhere else. Bondo and Beren.

But the people Velya connected with the most were the followers of the Red Knight. There was a woman, Diane Della Santi. She was a city-woman, from some place called Tether or Teth-ear, or something. Velya had never heard of it. But Diane was brave, and skilled and smart and a warrior. She was what Velya wanted to be. And Diane spoke to Velya of a warrior-goddess, the Red Knight, who Velya had never heard of before. The Red Knight was the daughter of Tempus himself, Diane said. She was a warrior, and the patron of those who employ strategy and tactics like Velya had done in the crypts. Velya did not know this goddess of course, so she went to Karl. Karl was a man of Tempus – Barid, the priest of Bane, called Karl “Battlemaster” and it was an apt title – Karl told Velya that what Diane said was true. And so Velya offered her first prayers to the Red Knight. In her mind, she saw Karl as a mortal Tempus, and Velya, his adopted daughter, as a mortal Red Knight. She knew of course, that she was no goddess and Karl was no god, but it just seemed right. It fit. And so every evening, she took prayer with Diane, who she learned was a paladin, and Lucas, who was a priest of the Red Knight.

Eventually, Diane returned from traveling with a present for Velya; a sword. She used it to knight Velya. Velya did not really know what it meant, but she had been knighted. She was “Lady” Velya Alfarsdottir now, Knight of the Order of the Red Falcon. Since then Velya had focused on practicing with the fabulous new sword she had been given. It was a faster and more versatile weapon, but it did not hit as hard as the battle-axe. To make it deadly took skill, not just raw strength. As she practiced, Velya began to see the wisdom of the choice of weapon.

But things were not good in the village. Diane and Lucas and Karl and many others were her friends now, and she was not alone, but the Bane-worshippers caused so much trouble. They did not break the law, or drink and fight; they just made everyone scared. Many in the village feared them and feared that they would try to take over the village in the name of Bane. Velya did not know what to make of it. Barid and his men, like Conrad, had fought well against the enemies of the village – but she had also caught them trying to bully the wizard Sheldan into giving up the tome she had taken from the crypts. In the crypts, the expedition had come to an halt where a huge rock had blocked their path. In front of the rock had been an altar, and on the altar was a great book. Velya, in command of the expedition, took the book and carried it out of the tombs. Many thought the book might hold the key to the rock or to the problem with the walking dead in general, so she turned over the book to the smartest, nicest wizard she had met – Sheldan Kenthur.

Barid had wanted to destroy the book. She did not know why really, but he made his feelings clear. Still, when she said she was going to take it, he relented because she was in command. He was disciplined. But last night she had returned from fighting the lizard folk near High Hold to find a number of Bane-worshippers surrounding Sheldan. Barid was among them. They were pressing Sheldan for the book. Sheldan, to his credit, did not give it up. He was thin, and not at all a warrior, and he wore a woman’s robe (or so Velya thought) but he stood brave against the assembled Bane-worshippers and would not give up the tome. Velya realized she may have stumbled across the scene in the nick of time – maybe Barid would not have forced the issue, maybe he would have. She just did not know. As the argument heated up, she pulled Sheldan aside and spoke with him. She asked if he might relent and let the Bane-worshippers translate the book while he watched, but Sheldan was very smart and very wise. He explained his thinking and his reasoning, and Velya had to respect his decision. She had taken the book from the crypt – that made it hers – and she had given the book freely to Sheldan – that made it his. So, it was his to do with as he wanted, and she would defend that right of his.

But things were not so simple. The tome remained the object of the Bane-worshipper’s desire and it put the Bane-worshippers even more at odds with the rest of the village’s people and its sell-swords. Tensions were high and growing worse every day. Velya could smell the blood in the air. She wanted no part of it; she was here to slay the monsters and to reap the glory and honor of defending the village against the darkness. She was not here to fight amongst her own like a pack of orcs. But … there did not seem to be any escaping it.

The tiny village was like a star – a pin-point of light in a field of black. Outside the wooden-palisade were all manner of creatures. Orcs, kobolds, goblins, bugbears, and now, in the caves and dark-places of the world, the walking-dead. All that darkness crowded around Rivermoot, threatening to extinguish its light – and now inside a darkness grew as well. Velya was but one person. She was, in fact, just a stupid, illiterate girl from a land no one here had heard of or cared about. She was no one of import, despite her recent knighting. She was no great hero from the sagas and no great mounted warrior from the main-land. Who was she in all of this? Who was she to take a side and make a stand? What difference could she make?

The word came back to her, haunting her like a restless spirit, droning through the moors seeking release.

Leader.

Leader.

Leader.

She drank the rest of her ale in a single long draught, and set the mug down on the table. Across from her, Vaya looked away quickly, back to the dragon-fly. She knew he watched her when she was not looking at him. From some people, like Dessai, that would send an ill-tingle down her spine, but from Vaya it was comforting. Alyssa was at the table too, chatting, and Karl was walking through the yard in his robes, off to meditate by the river. Down the wooden steps came new men, new faces, fresh off the boat. New swords come to seek their fortune. New sparks come to fight the dark. But all of these people would be lost if the light was engulfed by the black from within. The whole village could fall, no matter how tall its wall or how sharp its swords. The village needed more than a stout palisade or sharp blades. It needed more than sell-swords or wizards or priests.

It needed a leader.

She closed her eyes and silently she began to pray. What in the nine-hells was she doing here? Why did the people look to her to lead? Why had she ever stepped forward? She was just a girl! All this talk of being a shield-maiden – she had never fought a single fight until she came to Rivermoot! And she had certainly never led a fight. Yes, she had listened to every story of battle from every skald, and she had listened close and listened again and again and again. But who was she to lead these full grown men? These warriors? Or this village? She was not fit for this. The people followed her, it was true, but she had no idea where to lead them. Where should she lead? What should she –

Her eyes opened.

She had an idea. Suddenly, from out of nowhere, she had an idea. An idea that might just save Rivermoot from blood-shed. An idea that might just salvage this situation and keep the people from killing each other. It might not work; others might not have faith in her idea and if the right people did not have faith in it, it would fail, but … it was a chance! It was a real chance! She looked up into the sky. “Thank you Red Knight.” She whispered. “Thank you.” For the idea had surely been planted there directly by the goddess herself – it was too smart for Velya. She stood from the table at once. She gave a nod to Alyssa and Vaya and Karl and the others and then walked away.

She had to find Marshall Kadallion. This town needed a leader. And that’s what she was going to give it.

[darrenhfx]

Very nice! I guess I better stay tuned...

[Mikayla]

Velya walked out into Rivermoot’s circular yard from the dark of the Town Hall, squinting against the light. Her head hung low and she kicked a rock as she walked passed the gazebo. The Marshall had not liked her plan. He had his own plans. Of course he had his own plans. How could she have been so stupid? The village didn’t need her plan. The village didn’t need her. She was just a stupid girl, far from home.

She walked out of the village-gate and made her way to the bridge. She looked first towards the river. The water was beautiful; calm, deep, blue and dotted here and there with moss and lily-pads. It calmed her. A turtle surfaced. She smiled. Vaya would want to see that, she thought. He really loved the turtles of Rivermoot.

Raising her gaze she looked far down the road. She wondered if the Marshall’s plan would work. She wondered what the coming changes would mean; not just for the Banites, but for everyone.

When the Marshall had rejected her plan, shame had flushed her cheeks red. She felt so stupid, presuming to come with a plan for the whole village. Who was she? The shame was fading now, a bit. Her plan was discarded, before ever seeing the light of day; she had been put in her place; the real leaders were acting. As her pulse slowed and the color of shame drained from her face, she felt something else. Something odd. Something she had not expected to feel; something she had never thought of feeling, and something that she had, perhaps, no right to feel.

She felt relief.

The village was not her problem now. The burden, the responsibility, had been lifted. Another had taken it. Whatever the people wanted from her, whatever role she had as a leader, it was not in this. And though she felt shame for even thinking it, part of her was very, very relieved.

[indio]

Damnation...I'm missing this because of a timezone? Damnable round earth.

[Swift]

Damnation...I'm missing this because of a timezone? Damnable round earth.

Indeed, i have done much rushing and a few early mornings to see some of it myself.

Wonderful Mik. Wonderful.

[Mikayla]

Near the bridge just south of High Hold, Karl Huss and Velya prepared to walk to Rivermoot. Karl was checking his pack, while Velya was trying to clean her blade. It was stained with the blood of lizardmen. The blood was thick and sticky and in some places, altogether dry. The fight was long over.

They had left Rivermoot in the dead of night, slipping out unseen like thieves making away with their spoils. The mission was simple; get Sheldan, Sylvaine, Madeline, Karl Amt, the hin Attal, and Kormac Darkscar to Silverymoon safely. The danger was high; Sheldan had the tome the Banites desired and was fearful they would try to stop him and take it. He had been hiding outside of town, near the plantation, for two days waiting for the journey’s preparations to be completed. When they were, the small group slipped out of town, and met with Sheldan at the plantation. From there they headed east.

But as usual, nothing went according to plan. Right from the start things took a turn for the odd. A local woman, Ambrosia or Amber or something like that, had approached the party and begged them to take her baby to the music school in Silverymoon. The party balked at first. The road at night was no place to take a child, and no child should be separated from its mother. But the mother would not relent – Rivermoot was growing ever more dangerous and was no place for a child either. In Silverymoon, the child would have a chance. The school would raise the baby, give it a home, and give it a life. In Rivermoot, well, who knew what the fate would be? The woman turned to Velya, imploring her to take the baby, calling upon the bond of sister-hood all women shared. But Velya could not take the child; how could she hold a baby and still perform her duty as a warrior? And if she was not to perform as a warrior, what was she doing on this quest? She had no other skills. Fortunately, the black-clad and mysterious woman called Madeline stepped up to take the child. Velya had seen Madeline around, here and there, but knew little of her. She half suspected that Madeline was a Bane-worshipper, but seeing her here with Sheldan and Sylvaine convinced her otherwise. But all she really knew of Madeline was that she was willing to carry the child. And honestly, that was enough. Velya would protect them.

The first hours of the trip had been uneventful, but at dawn, the appointed leader of the trek, Kormac Darkscar, took the party off the road and headed north through the hills. There were lizard-men up there he said. Waiting to ambush travelers on the road. The others complained that they should not go into battle carrying a child in their midst, but Kormac did not relent. They went far north, through the rolling, green hills. Again and again others complained, but still they searched the wilds for the lizard-men. Finally, a cave was found.

“No.” Sheldan said finally. They would not enter the gave. This was where he drew the line. It was not the answer Kormac wanted; he feared the next mother and child to walk the road alone would fall victim to the lizard-men. Velya feared he might be right, but that did not justify them charging into an unknown cave with a baby in their arms.

“If you are going to reign him in, you’d best do it now, before blood spills.” Velya said. She was not in command of this expedition, she was just along as a warrior and protector. But the leadership was weak. No one was really in charge. And that, she knew, could prove fatal.

She did not have long to wait before things turned worse and put the party to the test. As the party walked down out of the hills to the road running along the river, they spotted half-a-dozen lizard men waiting on the road to the west. The lizard-men, however, were looking the wrong direction – they had not expected the party to detour around the road as it had.

“Move,” Velya said. “I and the fighters will form a wall. Everyone else, get down to the road.” She was not in command, not officially, but as things got dangerous her instincts took over. Social niceties faded as steel was drawn. This was no time for arguments about who was appointed what – the party lacked clear leadership, so she simply started providing it. She donned her helmet and dropped the visor. This would be an ugly fight if it came to it. In moments, the party was down on the road and moving and Velya began to back away. Just as she was beginning to breathe easy, everything went wrong.

There was another bunch of lizard-men on the road, this group to the east, effectively trapping Velya's party. It was an ambush. “Get back to the high-ground!” She shouted, but it was too late. A lizard-man tore through the tall reeds by the river and into the party. Melee was joined quickly and soon there were two monsters in their midst. Velya stumbled running down the hill, leaving Sylvaine, Karl Amt and the hin to fight the beast in the reeds. Sylvaine fought bravely, but suddenly there was a flash and flames everywhere. The beast went down but Sylvaine was on fire for a moment, or so Velya thought. Things were so chaotic – everyone was shouting. The lizard men down the road were beginning to move, and all was going straight to the hells.

“MOVE!” Velya shouted. “Break-out to the east, now!” Sword drawn she jogged down the road towards the on-coming lizard-men. As they neared she picked up speed, raised her sword and let out a piercing battle-cry. “To the GODSHALL!” She screamed and then they collided. Talons tore at armor, swords slashed at scales. Bolts whistled through the air and sank into thick, green flesh. It was over in seconds, but the battle was not yet won. There was a second rank of lizard-men. Velya did not pause; “To WARRIORS REST!” She screamed and charged a second time, Karl Huss beside her. Again it was talon and sword, bolt and spell in a desperate struggle. In moments, the second rank was broken and the party broke out of the ambush. They ran down the road at jog, the fighters trailing behind, waiting for the pursuit.

But the pursuit had never come. The lizard-men preferred easier meals she guessed. All of the party had survived, though many were wounded. The healers did their best and the party kept marching. Velya led now, walking out in front, in the middle of the road. Kormac Darkscar walked off the trail, in the trees to the left flank, followed by the hin, and on the right flank, between road and river, Vaya skulked, bow in hand. But nothing more challenged them. At the High Hold bridge they said their good-byes. The road between High Hold and Silverymoon was well patrolled and very safe. As safe as a road out here could get, anyway. They gave each other their blessings and the blessings of their gods - and Velya gave her best blessing to the child in her native Illuskan, a language it seemed that was also native to Madeline. Then the two groups parted, with Karl and Velya staying to return to Rivermoot, and the rest headed east to Silverymoon.

“Ready?” Karl asked, shouldering his pack.

His voice snapped Velya out of her reverie. She nodded, and Karl set out down the road, headed west towards home. Velya turned to follow him, but then paused and gave a last look at the figures now crossing the bridge to the east. They had made it. Despite the Bane-worshippers, despite the reckless hunt, despite the lizard-men, they had made it. Today was a success. A victory. And no matter what happened tomorrow, at least Velya could claim that in her short life, she had at least one real victory. Sheldan and Sylvaine, and the tome, would make it to the safety of Silverymoon, and so too would the baby. Even if Velya was called to the Warriors Rest tomorrow, her life had now meant something. Other people were safe because of her. Not just because of her, of course. Others had helped in the fight, and they would never have gotten this far at all had Sheldan and Sylvaine not showed incredible bravery in the face of grave evil. But Velya had helped. She had helped win the battle and had helped save lives. She had accomplished something. No matter what happened tomorrow, she had won at least once. She had known victory, and victory for a worthy cause. She had earned honor. Her own honor. Not the honor of family or clan or people, but the honor of her own courage, skill and morality.

She smiled and started down the road after Karl. It was a good day, and she would savor it as long as she could.

[Mikayla]

When Velya awoke she found she was naked, except for her boots, and wrapped in the outer blankets of her bed. There was pounding in her head that would not go away. She tried to slip back into sleep, but the relentless, hot, painful, pounding would not let her. She kicked off the blankets and rolled around uncomfortably. Finally she sat up and swung her booted-feet off the bed. She had been drunk. Really drunk. That’s what had caused this. She dimly remembered the Priest Barid yelling at her. And then, of all things, saying ‘my lady’ at the end. He was an odd one. And Vaya had been there. And did she go into the river? She remembered something about walking into the river and then getting naked. Or did she get naked and then walk into the river? It did not really matter she supposed.

She rose from the bed and washed her face in the basin sitting atop the chest of drawers. She was famished. Had she thrown up? No, she did not recall throwing up. But she did not recall eating either. No wonder she got so drunk. Well, that and she was trying to keep up ales with that new Northman, Grymbjorn. She could not let him out drink her, not without a fight. Of course, he was much bigger than she was. And then there was all the politics. Everyone was mad about the book Sheldan took. Everyone wanted it, or wanted it traded. And it seemed almost everyone was mad at Velya for defending Sheldan’s right to keep the book. But, what did they say last night? Karl said something about not acting on other’s expectations, but on acting on one’s own desires. Or something like that. And Vaya had said something too, but she had no idea what. He probably told her not to drink so much. He was really very sweet and kind for an arrogant elf. Maybe he was not so arrogant? She frowned. She was constantly having to re-assess Vaya. He was a mystery, but a calm, peaceful mystery unlike the crypt, which was a nasty, bloody, dark mystery.

As she looked around for her shift the bed caught her attention. Why? Something about the bed was calling to her. Something about beds in general. Something about …

Then she remembered. It came to her all of a sudden, in a horrible flash. She had told Vaya her secret. Her darkest secret. Her secret secret. The secret even her mother did not know, nor almost anyone else.

Suddenly she felt weak in the knees and she fell backwards against the drawers, knocking over the basin and spilling the water. What was she going to do? What if he talked? What if he told others?

Her heart started to race and her cheeks began to flush. But then she took a deep breath. And then another. She would have to trust him. She would have trust him to keep the secret. Or she would simply have to face it, like she faced every other evil – head on, as bravely and forthrightly as she could. There was no other path. No other honorable path anyway.

She stood straight and cleaned up her mess. She found her shift and got herself dressed. She needed food. And despite letting her secret out, she found she wanted very much to see Vaya again. Soon. And not to make him keep the secret; not to force him into silence. But just to see him. To be near him.

She wondered for a moment what in the nine-hells was wrong with her, but she pushed the question out of her head. She was hungry. It was time for food.

[Mikayla]

Velya skipped through the inner-gate of Rivermoot, an unusual smile upon her face. She felt happy. Actually, she felt more than happy. Giddy perhaps? She did not really know. She had never felt this way before. Vaya had kissed her. And not just a friendly kiss on the cheek like some city-bred foreigners did, but a real kiss. She would have been mad, but Vaya had told her that here, unlike Ruathym, women did not have to give up the sword if they lay with a man. Here, a woman could be with a man, and even have a family, and still be a warrior. She was not entirely sure she believed him, but she had to give him the benefit of the doubt. That was the rule. He accepted her doubt of his sincerity once, but now she had to give him the benefit of the doubt. So she would. And doing so made her uncontrollably happy. Could she really be with a man and be a warrior? She would have to make sure; she would have to ask Karl, but, well, she believed Vaya (even if she was going to double-check).

She floated through the tavern and up the steps, smiling and almost laughing. Vaya had kissed her! And she had kissed him back. She did not know why Vaya liked her, but he did. When they were sitting in the huge field of flowers, she had asked him why he was attracted to her. He did not answer directly. He said that just as in a field of flowers, each person will pick one flower they think is the prettiest, so too it went for people. And to Vaya, Velya was the prettiest flower in the field. She did not know why, but she was starting not to care. And she definitely thought Vaya was the prettiest flower in the field to her. With his blond hair, perfect skin, enchanting eyes, lovely voice and calm, peaceful aura, he was like the embodiment of a beautiful, warm summer’s day.

Up in her room, Velya threw her pack on her bed, then laid her breast-plate out for cleaning. She pulled back the window’s curtains to let some light in. Outside, in the distance, she could see the small grave-yard and the entrance to the crypt. Her smile faded. There was darkness in there. Not the darkness of night, or the darkness of shade, but the darkness of real evil. True evil. Dangerous evil. The kind of evil that caused the dead to walk again, and hunger for the flesh of the living. And that evil had to be fought.

She sat back on the bed and set to cleaning her armor. Vaya had kissed her. That was wonderful. This town, this culture, would let her be a warrior and be with a man, and that was wonderful too. But there was still dark, dangerous work to be done. And that was not so wonderful. Also, the Banites were on trial, or at least Barid was. And while he was on trial, Sheldan was on the run, hiding from the Banites lest he get killed by them for that stupid book.

Pushing the happy thoughts out of her mind, she tried to focus on her work. She could not afford to be distracted. Kisses in the flowers were nice, but the warm memories of good times would not stop a walking-dead from rending her flesh, or keep the darkness at bay when it came for the village. They would not cut the growing tension between the Banites and the village, and they would not translate that damned tome from the crypt. No, she had to keep her mind serious. She had to focus on the challenges ahead. She had to grimly keep at her work, lest the darkness overwhelm her and the village.

Suddenly, in the midst of her forced gloom, she smiled and laughed. No, kisses in the flowers would not save her from a ghoul, but they were sure were nice to think about. She decided that after working on her armor and weapons, she would take a bath. And then she would think about the flowers, and the kisses and Vaya. With her plans now laid, she went back to work on her armor, and this time, she was happy again.

[Mikayla]

A rhythm developed to Velya’s days; in the morning, she would rise to find Vaya bringing her breakfast, usually fruits and nuts. After eating, they would pack up their camp and gather with the others near the camp-site just outside of High Hold. The group fluctuated, but was generally comprised of some combination of Battlemaster Karl, the Helmite Priest Rathalan, Lemuel the warrior, Knight-Captain Diane Dela Santi, and Priest-Captain Lucas. Others made appearances as well, including the elves Hyacinthe and Tathar, the half-elves Nevae and Sevaera, and Vaya’s close friend Ama’asha. The hin Attal (and Borr and Curry) occasionally joined the group and both Hawk and Seth made an appearance. After gathering, the group would decide where it would take its patrol. Sometimes the patrol was dull and tedious, like their march through the Evermoors, scouting the swamp. Other times the patrol took a turn for the dangerous, like their assault on the so-called “Unholy Alliance.” That attack had been well planned, and the group had been particularly strong that day; all three chiefs of the Unholy Alliance and their followers had fallen to the blades of Velya and her companions. Another patrol took them through the eerie ghoul-fens to the south, until they found a mine-entrance. They could go no further, however, as the mine had been collapsed just beyond the doors. They also journeyed north, exploring the hills near Quervarr. Velya remembered with a shudder the confused running night-battle they had fought against the orcs there. The party had gotten separated, and it seemed the forest was teeming with clusters of orcs. In the darkness, amidst the trees, they pushed through the foliage and fought one bloody encounter after another until finally they found a cave-lair. They had pushed into the lair, fighting chamber to chamber, but had to withdraw before clearing the entire complex.

After their patrol, the group would return to High Hold, settle down by a campfire and share a meal together. Some would go off on their own of course, but usually at least three or four would sit down around the fire. Once, the skald Grymbjorn joined them and told a tale of the old country, much to Velya’s delight. It had been ages since she heard a skald telling tales. Usually Vaya would pick up a reed, or pull out his pan-flute, and he would play the strangest, most beautiful music. It was ethereal, and like nothing Velya had ever heard before. Those gathered around the campfire would talk and laugh about whatever they felt like; the hin’s love of food, the orc-war brewing in Rivermoot, religion, or whatever struck their fancy. Velya and Vaya would be there for some of the night, and then they would sneak away to their own little corner of High Hold where they would pitch their tent and spend the night together. Or, they would do it in reverse – they would return from patrol, pitch their tent, rest and be together, then meet up with the others around the camp-fire for an early morning breakfast.

Day after day passed like this. Velya found herself happier than ever before. The days could be terrifying; during the exploration of the ghoul-fens some walking-dead creature put a spell on her that put her in a daze for several seconds. If the others had not been there, the walking-dead might have had her. But her companions were there – Knight-Captain Diane had intercepted the undead before they could reach Velya.

Velya’s relationship with Vaya was now common knowledge. Reactions varied wildly; Diane wished Velya good-luck and told her to enjoy it – she found Vaya very handsome. Others, mostly elves, were not so pleased. Their affair had put a serious strain on the brotherly love between Vaya and Ama’asha. Ama’asha, it seemed, bore Velya no specific grudge, but Velya was a half-blood, a “half-person” to the elves, and she was a commoner. Ama’asha did not think she was good enough for Vaya. Velya half-thought he was right; Vaya was a beautiful, noble-born elf of great talent. Who was Velya? Nothing but a half-breed commoner, raised in a provincial sea-village by Ruathym reavers. A barbarian by the elves’ standards.

But Vaya saw things differently. In Velya he found a muse; she inspired his music, his art, and that justified their relationship, at least to some degree, in the eyes of the elves who valued art so highly. And Velya was starting to think more of herself as the days went by. Time and time again she was chosen to lead, and time and time again her leadership was successful. Even Ama’asha respected Velya’s skill in battle and leadership, and had asked her to lead his expedition up into the humanoid caves.

Velya found that she had worth. More than what she had thought when first she arrived. Still, it hurt when the pure-blood elves looked down upon her, and thought of her as a half-person. She told Vaya she was used to it, and after a life time of being called a half-breed back home, she should have been. But it still hurt. It was a wound that might not ever heal. But, she put on a brave face and shrugged off the elven disdain. It distressed her that neither the elves or the humans would accept her, but she could do nothing about it. Instead, she decided to earn their respect the way she had earned Ama’asha’s respect – by being good in battle. By leading, and by winning fights. By returning home with all her people. This was what she did well – and that would be how she would win the respect of others.

She stared up from the nightly campfire at the stars. This was not like how she thought it would be. When she dreamed of being a shield-maiden, she thought the wars would be great battles. Hundreds or thousands of warriors meeting on a battle-field in a glorious fight that would last but a day. Instead, what she found was a never-ending, little war. Every day there were fights – a half-dozen gnolls here, a dozen orcs there, a handful of undead slipping out of the crypt. There was no single battle-field. There were no great armies. There was no decisive battle. There was just day after bloody day of patrols and ambushes and indecisive fighting. It did not seem like the path to glory she had heard about – no saga ever told of such a war. Sure, there were some sagas that involved two or three or even four battles between hero and monsters, but none told a tale of a war that dragged on month after month.

On the other hand, she found she enjoyed the fighting, even if it scared her. And she very much enjoyed the camaraderie after the fighting. Her favorite times were the evenings, when they would all gather round the fire and talk and eat and tell tales. And then, with their bellies full, and their spirits uplifted, she would sneak off to be alone with Vaya.

As bloody and fearful as they were, these were good times. She wondered how long they could last.

[Mikayla]

I have renamed the thread "Rivermoot Saga" as Velya is a Ruathym Northman...northwoman? Whatever. Anyway, "saga" seems more appropriate even if the story is not quite so grand.

[Mikayla]

“Is the Warrior’s Rest like this Karl?” Velya asked. Warrior's Rest, of course, was the fabled home of Tempus and the Red Knight, where the bravest of warriors would live forever. Velya was sitting on the green grass amidst the rocks near the bridge west of High Hold. Karl Huss, the Battlemaster of Tempus, sat nearby. Behind them, the town sculptor was working on carving faces into the giant grey boulders. Vaya sat down at the edge of the small green space, his feet dangling over the embankment towards the river.

“A little, yes.” Karl answered, in his typical curt fashion.

“Good.” Velya replied.

Vaya turned his head to face them, somewhat incredulous. “Is your idea of heaven really a place a where you fight all day, then get up and do it in the morning again, forever?”

It was an interesting question. No one had ever quite put it like that before. Velya had to think about it for a moment. She thought about their most recent expedition into the caves.


Hyacinthe walked cautiously towards the heavy, iron-bound door set in the stone wall ahead, moving left around the statue in the center of the chamber. Velya moved to the right. She knew Hyacinthe would open the door, then step back. Velya, would then take the brunt of whatever came out. Sweat trickled down her forehead into her eyes and she tried to blink it away. Hyacinthe put a hand on the door’s handle and then looked to Velya. Velya took a deep breath, then nodded. Hyacinthe braced her feet, and pulled the door open. The door creaked loudly as it opened wide. The first thing Velya saw was two pairs of yellow eyes glinting in the darkness. Gnolls.

They snarled and rushed out of the doorway, weapons rising. Velya rushed forward, raising her shield to deflect the blows. She closed in tight, so the gnoll’s longer arm-span would not disadvantage her. In so close, her sword’s long blade was not very useful. She kept her shield high as the taller gnolls battered down upon her, and she swung up into the side of the creature’s legs with her sword. With each swing she shifted to her right, trying to get up, around and behind the creature. Blow after blow fell upon her shield, and in return she struck blow after blow against the creature’s thigh and body. The gnoll’s armor dented in. Blood flowed and she gained angle on it. She punched with her fist, driving her gauntleted hand and sword hilt into the creatures lower side; a kidney punch. The creature howled and turned away from the pain, but could go no where as its fellow was on the other side. This was all the advantage Velya needed. Quickly she threw another punch into the creatures side, then a third and a fourth. The creature buckled and she threw a punch into the back of its head. The gnoll staggered and fell to one knee. Velya took a half-step back, reversed her grip on her sword, and drove her blade point-first down into the gnoll’s back and through its lung. The doomed creature coughed pink, frothy blood and fell to the stones. Velya put a foot on the creature, and kicked the dying beast off of her sword. Quickly, she swung again on the other beast, slicing into its shoulder. Distracted, the beast tried to turn, but Karl’s axe caught it full in the chest and the beast went down, gasping atop its brother. Karl’s axe came down again, and ended its suffering in a spray of hot, red blood that splattered across Velya’s armor.

They moved through the next chamber and again, Hyacinthe opened the door. More gnolls. The fight was joined again. Axe and sword cleaved through the darkness, striking armor and biting flesh. Blood flowed. Velya lost herself in the moment and began screaming as she swung. Blood was everywhere. Her blade was everywhere. A gnoll fell. Then another and another. None stood before her, but she could see one at the far end of the chamber. Consumed in blood lust, she charged. Over her shoulder whistled the arrows of Vaya, Hyacinthe and Ama’asha. By the time Velya had covered the distance to the remaining gnoll, it was breathing its last breath, its heart and lungs pierced by elven arrows. Velya was not elated; she was disappointed. She wanted more. More fighting. More blood.

“Is your idea of heaven really a place a where you fight all day, then get up and do it in the morning again, forever?” She heard Vaya ask.

With a small smile and slight nod, she looked at her beautiful, talented, golden-haired elf and nodded. “Yes.” She said.