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lstormhammer

The Darakan Chronicles: Ice and Madness

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Hello all!

 

Firstly, let's get the boring stuff out of the way:

 

This game is being run using the d20 system, wholy owned by Wizards of the Coast. Reaper Miniatures takes no responcibility for this thread, and urges us to moderate ourselves, lest we ruin it for others.

 

The game books used will be the PLayer's Handbook, the Dungeon Master's Guide, and the Monster Manual. All intellectual properties of Wizards of the Coast, and the small writing minions they attached brain-sucking devises to so they can activate their money machine.

 

There. Boring, but needed.

 

Now: To the fun stuff! Enjoy!

 

--Begin--

 

The Darakan Chronicles: Ice and Madness.

 

The Chariot has already completed its travel over the heavens, the final rays of light visable only on the highest spires and minarets of Searoad. Lady Night's cloak already begins to cover the lands to the east.

 

The last of Grandfather Frost's temper has been spent for this season. The trees, heralds of nature have already begun to open their verdant hands and awaken to a new year. In the early dusk, the streets are quiet in Searoad, families gathered for the evening meal. The air thick with hearthfires and the thousand other scents of a Human city.

 

In a tavern that has seen better days, a bear of a man sits down with a heavy sigh. The years of his time have taken a harsh told on him. His brow heavy with the memories of a lifetime. Of seeing great things happen in his presence, of watching history unfold around him. Few things stir his soul more than those few memories of Man, Elf, and Dwarf united into a just cause.

 

The tavern keep lifts his own mug, drinking deeply of his still-fine brew, licking his furry lip a moment before watching the orange fire of the Chariot dip further into the distance. The man's eyes, still sharp for his years sees the green and blue bunting being placed down the street from his tavern, and a sudden wash of pride grips him once again. His whiskered features wrinkle into a wide grin. Has it been so long? Have ten long years past since the King's life was saved even before he knew it? A rumbling chuckle escapes the man.

 

Ten long, good, safe years have passed since the Madness of Fedlak. When brother slew brother and only a group hastily gathered had saved the kingdom from obliteration. Nine-Finger Nick remembers those days well, when even his own hands rose up to defend. His eyes glance down to the long, jagged scars on his beefy arms, tracing one with his free hand. A close fight, too close he rarely admits to himself. But by the Gods it was worth it!

 

And ten years tomorrow, the infant king takes his own crown for himself, and the boy becomes a man. What a sight that shall be. And what a day for Nine-Finger Nick, as well! Coins will be spent, and that's no mistake. The King's health will be toasted many times that night, and celebrations will last throughout the night. Oh! Such a sight it shall be.

 

“Gods bless ye, Yer Majesty.” Nine-Finger Nick raises his half-empty mug to the east, to Searoad Castle.

 

But others in this prosperous city are not so please over these events. Quill scratches lightly over parchment. Neat, even wording issuing forth requests to the corners of the kingdom. Behind the calm, arrogant features a beast paces around its cage, willing itself free. The quill pauses to dip into the well, and a cool wind crosses the room.

 

“You're not supposed to be here.” the writer says, eyes still on his parchment. Commerce does not stop for anyone.

 

“Our strength has gathered once more.” he response is simple, his Common rough-hewn, an strange dialect ill-suited to his tongue. “We will completed that which we set out--”

 

The quill hesitates a moment, the writer deigns to look upon the visitor as an insect. “I know your plans, fool. Complete your task. That is all you are required to do. I care not for grand announcements or proclimations. Completed your task. That is all.” the writer's Common is perfect, lilted in the manner of the upper class, his elven accent only adding gravitas to his statement.

 

The visitor grunts, fist over chest. “The Ten Thousand Shall Be Spoken.”

 

The quill stops once more. “Yes, yes. Your what-ever will be done, and such.” the quill waves dismissively to the creature. Such simple creatures do not understand the invisible threads of power, especially in a city such as Searoad.

 

--End--

 

That's the first one. We'll get more in later, I promise.

 

--LSH

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