PLAYER BLURBS.
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Contact Scott at ssmmll@excite.com
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Contact Maode Jiao at jays@tcp.co.uk
"WE ARE WEARY!!" The words boomed through the cavernous antechamber, with unmistakeable menace. All conversation stopped; eyes turned to the figure tensed on the ebony throne, fist clenched and red eyes glowing with the intensity of his vehemence. Trenhern paused only for a moment to assess the effect of his words. "We are weary of five hundred years of bloodshed; of ceaseless conflict, tens of thousands of dead and a hundred ravaged cities." An advisor spoke: "And we must avenge them!". Nervous in the sudden silence, the advisor looked around for support. Trenhern stared him down contemptously. "Avenge them? Yes, and they avenge against us, and we against them, and they against us.......pah! What has it gained us? What......PROFIT in this madness? The noble race of elvenkind spit asunder. Our brethren forced into the underworld. Strife upon strife until we are the last of our kind." "There will be a new way." "We will never forget that which makes us great - the passion, the hot blood of our warriors, the driving ambition. But I introduce to you a new word." "That word is HONOUR." Trenhern leaned forward in his chair and reviewed his audience, brushing back silver hair from green eyes with an unconcious gesture. Short at 6'2" for his people, he was broader than the norm: muscled in the stle of a gymnast and known once as an exceptional swordsman, though a lucky opponent had once broken his nose beyond repair with a mace blow barely stopped by his helmet. Now his study of magic left little time for that. If he could see an attacker, he could kill them in an eyeblink. He no longer carried a sword. The nose was aquiline in form and noticeably crooked, beneath piercing eyes and a grim set mouth. He wore the black and silver of mourning, and rarely smiled anymore. The mace wielder had been an assassin, and had first killed his wife. The assassin had not died well. "We have two proclamations for the people. The first is this. Let it be known from this solar unit on that no Dark Elf shall break his or her word given freely to another. No longer are my subjects free to betray and cheat their brethren. Too destructive it has become." "Second: Peace is to reign amongst the great houses. Our strength is needed for claiming the unoccupied shires of the underworld; those we have abandoned as our race has dwindled to a shadow of its former self." Trenhern steeled himself. Already he could see faces taut with anger and incredulous disgust, although the stated intention of recovering dark elf strongholds had registered some interest. "And there is more. This proclamation applies also to the lesser peoples of this world." Trenhern ignored the shocked intakes of breath, and took a deep breath of his own before continuing. "Including even the high elves and the orcs. There are no exceptions". This time there was no containing the fury of his audience. A chorus of shouts arose from the assembled house lords, ladies, priestesses and their retinues. An imposing figure pushed his way to the front; a house general for House Xanreth, a powerful economic and military presence in Barackas, but allied against the faction which had brought Arion to power. "Your majesty is mad!" he snarled. "Surely you have grown tired of your position as emporer. I for one would sooner die than keep my word to high elven scum! They are ours to enslave, and to kill!" Trenhern pitied the elf. He knew too well the destructive emotions controlling the general, the seething hatred, the passions, the lightning quick tempers characteristic of his race which had caused the age long war with his surface dwelling brethren. What he was about to do was necessary, but scarcely enjoyable. He waved his hand. "As you would sooner die, we grant you your wish." A guard to the left of Trenhern's throne levelled his crossbow and shot the general neatly through the head. Two companions of the fallen elf rushed foward and were shot in their turn. One screamed uncontrollably for almost a minute, a bolt protruding from her stomach, before her house matriach slowly, very slowly, moved forward and released her from pain. The silence, and sense of tension, in the room was absolute. "Know this" said Trenhern, "though we offer peace and honourable dealing to every race, do NOT mistake this for weakness. If any man, woman, beast of thing should beak honour with the dark elves they will be our prey until satisfaction has been taken fivefold and until then the proclamations that we have laid down will not apply. To the death if need be. And we will be right to do so." "No longer will we be the pariah of races. No longer will there be excuse given for the surface dwellers to unite against us. And we will take our rightful place amongst the dwellers in Arragoth!"
Contact Greyhawk at ivanmc@xtra.co.nz
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Contact Snowball at scott09_999@excite.com
A lightning flash lifts the sullen skies above Granola Castle. Across the lava plains families shelter in pig skin tents. For this is no ordinary storm. Sure the plains witness a great many storms on which their fertility depends, but they always occur during the rainy season. In their tents the plainsfolk drink and tell stories, but for once their tales of Arragoth don't only scare the children.
By evening the storm has abated just enough for people to venture out without being washed away. The new emperor, a wizard called Obicus, has called a meeting at the town hall. The seat fill slowly with sad looking sodden folk. Once the plainsmen were a noble race, strong in mind and body and always on the lookout for a profitable trade. The years of prosperity, though, have served to dull their adventure, their spirit, their hunger. Well maybe not their hunger for so many round bellies would be hard to find this side of a Chakotan whorehouse. Wet and bedraggled the plainsfolk are a sorry sight, the few remaining hunters amongst their number stand out like sore thumbs and alone would never be able to conquer the might of Arragoth. From the look on Obicus's face he knew this well, or maybe wizards always look that way.
Obicus had come to lead the plainsfolk as part of his wizard's training - unofficially of course, Obicus could never stand the bureaucracy of the academy. Had he read more than the first paragraph of the files though he may have discovered the plainsmen are not the strong and powerful folk he'd spent the journey writing a speech for.
"Friends, traders, plainsmen, lend me your ears" the Wizard improvised recalling the words of a famous orator on his homeworld. "The threat before us is a grave one indeed, one in which to meet we must change every aspect of our lifestyles. We must shape up our defenses, both our soldiers and our fortifications, we must form an army and equip it with the best weaponry, but most of all we must go out and explore, find allies to share our hopes, our fears, our ultimate success. I have heard of other races on these isles, some will share our need to defeat Arragoth and will hopefully ally with us in this aim but we must be ready for those, who instead, are the agents of Arragoth; for sure there will also be those. Either way we must prepare now - God speed plainsmen."
A few of the younger men rushed from the hall, the call to explore and battle invigorated them and made their day to day existence seem as dull as in fact it was. Most sat passive, their day to day worries now seemed as piddling and insignificant as they always were. But now they had something bigger to worry about. It didn't made them any happier. Slowly the chatter in the hall grew, a few fists were thrown, cushioned in the soft bellies of their opponents. The crowd got angrier and rushed out of the hall.
The storm had now totally cleared, the evening Sun shown down on Granola Castle. It hadn't seen a battle in years and was now in such a perilous state of disrepair that most felt it safest to live outside its walls. The crowds attention, however, was not on the castle but the far more impressive buildings to the East - the Bank of Granola and the commodity exchange. Inside the traders and bankers had grown the richest of all during the good times. Now they were to take the blame for the unpreparedness of the masses. By morning I'd like to say the plainsmen were renewed and approached their destiny with vigour, if maybe the odd sore head. Sadly I cannot.
Contact Obicus at tony@eidras.freeserve.co.uk
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Contact Cronosin at 453rd@msn.com
In the calm and peaceful woods of Starlight Forest lies the city of Starlight, capital and heart of the high elves' culture for milleniums. So old is this city that even the huge elvenwood trees can't remember the time when Starlight has not been there. The city seems to melt into the forest as if it were a natural part of it, and legend has it that the fate of Starlight Forest is linked to the fate of the city of Starlight. The peace-loving high elves of Starlight Forest never had much contact with their neighbours, seeing kingdoms rise and fall as time passed, while Starlight Forest remained unchanged for ages. Only very few travellers are allowed to enter Starlight Forest, and everybody who dares to enter without permission is killed almost immediately by elven longbowmen, most of them dying without seeing the marksmen behind the trees. Recently, some of the few travellers told that the leader of the Elves, their Speaker of the Stars, has changed. The new Speaker, named Lecostarius, is a magic-user as most of his kind, but the travellers report that this elf is much less hostile against the other races, and even favors cooperation with some of them. They say that the Council of the Elders elected Lecostarius partly of his diplomatic skills, fearing that the High Elves may be doomed if forced to encounter Arragoth alone. But this is only part of the truth. As the High Elves have not lead a real war in the past centuries, military commanders are inexperienced. More, the permanent state of peace and seclusion has lured the High Elves into the trap of pacifism. The new Speakers first, and most critical, battle will be the one against the laziness and passive mood of his own citizens. Lecostarius' speech in front of the Council of Elders convinced them that this man has the rhetorical power and the inherent leadership that is required to get the High Elves out of their lethargy and into the battle against Arragoth. Yet, there is little time for this formidable task, and pessimistic voices say, that this age might very well see the doom of the proud and ancient race of the High Elves. Lecostarius himself however, who is described as a medium-sized man with brown hair, a round face and a dark tan which loves to dress in dark blue and purple robes, seemingly does not care about the rumours. He has taken immediate action.
Contact Lecostarius at kemp@ira.uka.de
Ah, Trader's Point! It is aptly named. The local commerce commences with a buzz before even the houseflies stir, and the successful day is not over until the cows return to the barns long after sundown. The man with a ware to sell ends up with twice its worth in foods, and the farmers gain any supply they need. Commerce has always been here. And here is where the commerce is, so why would anyone want to leave? Some traders come and go, but never very far. Not even the most learned bard knows much geography outside of Trader's Point. Then there was the day of Wreak's arrival. A great crash was heard as the ground in the center of the market opened up, and out from that hole came a blighted plot of land, fenced in, with a nasty looking altar and creature grinning. "Blood. Flowing blood. Enough for me forever." Whispered the thing, softly to itself. The hawkers with their wares and the farmers with their grain and the orchard-attendants with their fruits… all stop in their path. For a moment. And then, realizing the scene is at its end, they continue with their business. "Hark!" Shouts the figure in the fence. "Quiet thyselves and hear my words, for I am Wreak, and I am the Order here." "Hark, I say!" Shouts the figure even louder. "I shall rule and you shall serve. I have placed my first commandments onto these parchments. Do all now!" He tosses a couple of scrolls out of the fence. A few men stop to consider his words. These men have never seen anything like this apparition before, and do not like the sight of it. They gather together many iron poles, and reinforce the fence, adding a ceiling and barring the gate. They board up the fence so no one can see in or out. They bury the prison. After a couple of weeks, one trader named Garnornomor enters Trader's Point. This man spends a day trading away his exotic wares for the common commodities of the region. This Garnornomor climbs the mound in the market at the end of the day, and is the last to see the sunset. And then he begins his tale. "I, Garnornomor, have traveled to the east. I, Garnornomor have traveled to the west. I have seen the largest city in the world, and I have walked among those who have never seen a village more than three families. I have traded with the merchant-masters of Igialian and I have bartered with the aborigines of Ku'Ta. But nowhere have I gotten a better deal than the trades I've made today. "For this reason, I wish to make Trader's Point my home. "But alas, I am a stranger, and you certainly cannot trust me yet as a neighbor. So I have donations and offerings to make to everyone here. No, not commodities, but advice. This is not the greatest city in the world, we all accept that, but I believe it could become so. Our trades are 'individually successful,' but yield profits that could be heightened. I have a plan, a spark of an idea, that I will share with you all if you accept me as your neighbor." And the people thought on this, and knew it was good. Quickly, Garnornomor's wisdom became apparent. Buildings were erected according to his advice, and a few militia were trained as the town began to bustle with prosperity and population. Garnornomor's constant pondering and introspection was able to solve every problem Trader's Point could make for itself. This man, who is affectionately referred to as "Garny," has become a grandfather figure in the town, a care-taker. And thus begins Trader's Point's ascent to majority in Arragoth.
Contact Garnornomor at khumfeld@andrew.cmu.edu
It is said that when Arragoth first came to these lands, the gods of the desert created the city of Nazair to stand against him. Nine magical beings arose from the sands to rule the city and defeat Arragoth. These Nine beings have come to be known as The Conclave. No living creature has ever seen a member of The Conclave, although there are plenty who have claimed to. Most of the rumors describe them as extremely tall, cloaked figures who speak a strange, beautiful language. Some say that they are high elves, some say dark elves, some have even ventured that they are demi-gods like Arragoth. Most are content to let The Conclave stay shrouded in mystery, for Nazair has florished under their rule. A complex irrigation system has been built which brings running water to every home and norishes the desert crops. A strong garrison has been formed which is preparing to set forth from Nazair, find Arragoth's lair and destroy him before he awakens. It is a time of great excitement for the people of the sands. Soon we will be safe from the constant threat of Arragoth's return. For now we shall bring the water of life to quench his fire and bring peace to these islands. May each one of you find the water with which to drown Arragoth, wherever he may lie. May we live in peace one day. - The Speaker of Nazair
Contact The Conclave at seiferte@carleton.edu
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Contact Svadulad at kw_osterman@hotmail.com
'Twas a wet and windy day in the refugee camp of Jollymount, and all was quiet. Quiet, that is, until the wanderer arrived.Dressed all in black he was - tunic, breeches and cloak of good plains wool, almost shiny leather boots and a wide-brimmed hat of rough suede he wore, and in his hand was a polished quarterstaff of black oak. 'Tis said that the dwarves of the camp gathered round him in interest, and asked for news of the outside world...
A grim tale he told - The tale of Arragoth, and how he was to break free. Of course the dwarves knew of the horrible Fire God, and they even knew he was fated to break free of his millenia long imprisonment, they just didn't realise how soon it would be... According to the stranger (who revealed his name to be Bladimus), the time was nigh...
The camp was in uproar, and the locals rushed Bladimus to the sad and sorry Castle Jollymount - a pitiful hunk of stone rising from the misty swamp. He told his tale to the dwarven council, and finished by revealing himself to be a wizard of some repute. He offered his services in training and preperation for the day when they must face the Fire God. After scant weeks, a militia had been trained, and defenses planned. The council soon realised that they're only hope of survival lay in this enigmatic black-dressed figure, and elected him proxy leader of the dwarven people until the crisis had ended.
It is said that he accepted almost immediatly, and set to work building and preparing within the week, issuing orders like he was born to it... All too soon, the hill dwarves of Jollymount started to expand their territory and train an army. What happened next, as they say, is another story...
Contact Bladimus at stardog2@hotmail.com
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Contact Nameless Wizard at walach@riconnect.com
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