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The Ronin of Ishiyama

“They are late,” the young woman said with crossed arms. The middle age man beside her nodded absentmindedly, his full attention given to the fish grilling over a bed of coals. The young woman continued to look out to sea as if she could through sheer force of will call the boat to appear over the horizon. “They should have been here by now,” she thought as she began to tap a foot. A loud sigh brought her attention away from the sea. She shot a glance at the older man bent over the bed of coals. “Aren’t you worried?” she asked clearly annoyed. “The only thing I am worried about is all the noise your armor is making with each tap of your foot. It is distracting and cooking is an art. It requires absolute concentration.” Her brows furrowed but she stilled her foot. “Here Hanamara, eat this,” the middle age man said lifting a speared fish from the fire over his shoulder. The young woman reached for the spear but quickly paused. “That’s still raw…” she said even more annoyed. The older man simply peered over his shoulder with a smile. “Oh…I know that look. Don’t you get philosophical on me, Masao.” The older man’s grin beamed into a wide toothy smile. “Very well. I will spare you this time but be patient. Remember, scattered as we were there is no telling if and when our band will be complete again.” Hanamara took in his words and let out a deep breath. She knew he was right but still… “The letter said today,” She added after a moment. “And I told you ten minutes for dinner but to be honest with all this chatter I fear it will be closer to fifteen,” Masao said while turning the fish over on the coals. “Life happens,” he added as he seasoned the sizzling fish. That was a truth they both knew all too well. “Hai, so da ne” Hanamara answered in their native tongue. They had lived through that truth since their fated meeting when they were jailed beside each other all those years ago. The memory brought a smile to her face. She and Masao had broken out that same night. And since then they traveled together. Town to town, province to province. Everywhere they traveled they helped people like themselves, the downtrodden, the oppressed, and the outsiders. As time went by their duo grew. People from all walks of life came to join them “No tashi Orai,” She said to herself, remembering their mantra of “To make many one.” And born out of their travels and deeds were the Ronin of Ishiyama. Yet their deeds and success were not welcomed by all. Powerful lords in their distant homelands banded together and sought to smother the growing band of Ronins. “No honor…unforgivable,” She said with a sudden flash of anger under breath as the memories came back to her. She could recall the surprise attack, the fire and chaos, and the death of so many of her fellow Ronins. She could still feel the shame of waking up at sea with only Masao looking over her. Before her thoughts could go any further, she felt a hand on her shoulder. “They will come, and in these new lands we will continue what we started. Now, dinner is ready. If you are quite finished brooding…let us eat,” Masao held a cooked fish out to her. She suddenly realized how tense she had become. She let out a deep breath and took the fish from her close friend. “They will come, in this I know you are correct,” she said to Masao as she gave one final glance to the open seas.

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The Ronin of Ishiyama are a band of people from a mysterious and distant land. Whether you are an honorable samurai, a stealthy ninja, or master tea brewer, all people from this distant land are welcome to relocate and join their Ronin brothers and sisters in Britannia. For more information message Hanamara or Picacho on discord or in game. There will be an ongoing guild event, in which players will help rebuild an abandoned castle for the purpose of building a new home for the wayward Ronin!

Important Note: All guild members will be asked to refrain from using artifacts or runic armor. This is to promote a balance playing field among players, keep the combat challenging, and to promote us to work together to overcome challenges. Runic weapons will be allowed. All new members will receive a free suit of armor upon joining the guild.

The server will be going down tonight around 12am CST for anywhere from 10 – 12 hours maybe less maybe more, depends on how long defragging takes

The professor’s family were natives of Fracture, his great-grandfather owning a well-to-do mining business paved the way for the future generations to live financially well lives. His grandfather, Stephen, followed in the same footsteps, however he …

Marcus stood by the window of his office, looking out the window toward the ocean. In moments like this he liked to remember his childhood, to remind him why. In his memories the young Marcus is playing barefoot in the streets of Vesper, shoes were expensive. He remembers being dirty, bathes were a luxury of the wealthy. His clothes were ill-fitting, new clothes were a luxury his father could not afford. His younger sister even getting his hand-me-downs. His father was a blacksmith in the local smithy. He remembers the pang he felt far to often, that pang of hunger when you haven’t eaten in days and you next meal will come after your father gets enough coins to buy more bread. No, he would never live like that again he thought. Looking himself over for the first time today he took in his clothes, richly crafted with elegant embroidery and boots with thick leather and soft padding. Looking over the skin on his hands, they were clean. He had risen so far in life and now he stood on the precipice of greatness. It was not easy getting there, he had adventured for several years and built up a very small nest egg of coins, which he invested in buying a local smithy. That was the birth of Dragonstone Imports and the first day of his new life.

Breaking his daydreaming, Marcus had work to do. He had to go check on his newest storefront in Narrowhaven. A quick walk found his boots making that tell-tale “Clicking” as they walked across the planks of the docks. A smile formed across his lips as he watched a ship unload goods, a ship with his families sigil a dragon clasping a rose on a field of purple. A sigil he created to build the illusion that he was more than he really was. He mouthed One day as he made his way through the crowd of workers going this way and that way, eventually finding his way to Dragonstone Imports.

Another body fell, in the murky stream. The little dark eyes of a rat, lifeless staring at his own reflection, on the water mirror.
A deep sigh whispered by a man, close to the tiny carcass. He moved the left edge of his cherry-red mantle, behind his shoulder.
“How long will it take?” he hissed, gazing in front of him.
He then slowly proceeded through the unlit corridor, hearing squeaks and grumblings from the dwellers of that place.

Soldiers of Silence

She sat with crossed arms taking in the pitiful sight that stood opposite of her. He was young, too young to have found his way into her tavern. The shine in his eyes, the easy smile across his face, the air of optimism around him…it was enough to make her stomach turn. She forced her breath through her nose and looked back to the maps and missives splayed across her table. “How’d you find me,” she said flaty. His reaction was somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. “How did I find you? Do you jest?” Her one eye lifted from the maps and seemed to instantly stifle the young man’s reaction. “If you’ve heard of me…then you know jesting is not something I do,” she replied in her stone cold tone. “Ma’am, You’re a one eyed half orc nearly a man and half tall, wrought of defined muscle, and cold as night in winter. You’re not exactly difficult to locate,” she nodded, he made a fair point after all. She slid two markers, one to Britain and one to Vesper on her map. She made a note in her mind to send scouts to meet her contacts there. She needed to keep ears and eyes on the streets in search of signs of jobs to found. The young man shifted uncomfortable in the lingering silence. He was about to speak but a quick glare from her good eye gave him pause. She’d let him stew in the moment a bit longer. “Commander,” she said as the pregnant pause neared a tangible level. “Commander?” She sighed at his response. “Another slow one,” she thought. “You called me ‘Ma’am’ before,” he looked at her blankly unsure of how to respond. “Don’t do it again,” The young man nodded slowly. “Fine, you’ve found me…what do you want?” She asked this knowing full well why the young hopeful had sought her out. “I am here to join your band of ruthless mercenaries, so that I can make a name for myself.” It was a good reason as any other, though she took umbrage at his description of her organization. For his reason, she could not fault him. She reminded herself that It was in youthful overzealousness that she lost her left eye. “Can you even swing that?” She questioned nodding toward the mace hanging from the young man’s belt. “Of course I can. I’ve killed a wolf with it even.” he stated with an air of pride. She took in the sight of the young man again. She had met this boy a hundred times before. She had sent him off to fight and die in the name of gold and fame. A younger her would feel pity or try to stir the young man onto a different path…safer path. But no, now she was older and she had learned all too well there was no way to change the mind of a determined young person. “You know the Creed of Three Silences?” That was the true test. If he knew at least then she was obligated to take him in. “I do. We come from silence. We are paid for silence. We create silence.” She had to admit, he did his research. She stood slowly and the young man suddenly felt tiny before her. “We come from silence,” she said moving at a snail’s pace as she made her way in the young man’s direction. “It means we don’t care where we come from, what we believe, who sent us, or how we got here. If you are here, then you are with us.” She corned the table end and continued her path toward him. “We are paid for silence. It means we do not care for the reason we are here. If you are here, then you are here for the job and nothing else is to get in the way of that.” Her good eye locked onto his eyes. “We create silence. It means we do the job when we are here and when we aren’t…here doesn’t exist.” She finished her advance. He looked up with the timid eyes of a green youth. “Does that mean…I’m in?” He asked meekly. “There is no in. Did you not hear what I said?” The young man paused for a moment, straightened his back, and returned her gaze. “I am here, Commander. What’s the job?” He said with confidence. She offered him a hand. Her clasped her forearm with a calp. In that, moment she couldn’t help but to think, “Maybe there is hope for this one yet.”

Soldiers of Silence is a mercenary network guild that welcomes people from all walks of life. Maybe you are an honorable paladin whose sect has hired the Soldiers and requested that you oversee the divine justice that must be brought to a group of demons. Perhaps you are a nimble thief who decided to join the Soldiers on a job to help a local noble vie for power and make some quick gold. Or are you a dark necromancer in search of souls and came to the Soldiers to capitalize on anonymity of an assassination mission? Whatever your reason, goals, or past you are welcome in the Soldiers of Silence so long as you are here for the job.

The Hex Scribe

She sat, cloak raised, in the dusty hovel of an inn. The food was barely edible and the drink might as well have been warm piss. She never wasted a thought wondering how the illiterate peons lived in such a way. The answer was obvious to her. It would be like asking why does one breath or why is water wet. Completely disinterested in her so called dinner, the cloaked woman sat cross legged with book in hand. Her free hand leisurely traced the grooves in the wood table as she read ignoring the hard looks from the inn’s patrons. Did she notice the suspicious eyes and lower muttering all around her? Perhaps, but in the same way a lion notices the passing of ants.
Her brows furrowed as she turned a page. Her finger unconsciously returned to its previous position and went back to tracing the table. This book was a frustrating undertaking. One of the thousands she combed through in hopes that it held the secrets for which she searched…for which she needed. However, it seemed that this tome would be much like the rest, disappointing. She was about to turn another page when a sudden and violent thud came upon her table. She not jump nor did she gasp. She simple lowered the book enough so that she could see who or what had made gravest error of their existence.
Standing in the table, almost in defiance of her, was a gleaming dagger. Her eyes, bright and red, studied the three men who had come to her tabe. One, who was dressed in mail and had arms like the trunk of an oak, grabbed a stool and took a seat before the dagger. “You ain’t from around here.” The man said in a gruff voice giving a nod toward the weapon. “We ain’t keen havin’ yer kind stinkin’ up our tavern.” She lifted her free hand, turned the page, and allowed her finger to return to the table. Her eyes returned to her reading. “You deaf, witch?” the second man called from behind his larger friend. “You and this table are about to have somethin’ in common if you don’t get yerself out of our tavern.” The third added with a tone that was hungry for confrontation. However, the cloaked woman was not one for confrontation. The drama was lost on her and she had no interest or time for the wagging tongues of men.
“Damn ink skins are worse than tieflings,” the second man muttered to the third while eying the woman with disdain. By this point she came to the realization that these men were not going to allow her to finish her reading. The drow woman sighed and clapped her book shut. “That’s right…now get,” the first man spat while throwing a pointed finger toward the tavern door. Yet, the woman did not move. “You deaf, witch?” the second man repeated. The third man’s smile withdrew as he noticed something. “Hey, look fellas. She’s nervous,” he said pointing to her fidgeting finger on the table. “You sacred, ink skin? Just go and no one has to get hurt.” The first man said firmly. Her tracing finger suddenly stopped. She spread her fingers and rested an open palm where she had been tracing. Here eyes flashed, a symbol shone on the table, and in the next moment everyone in tavern fell…writing in pain. Tears ran down choking hands as men clawed at the invisible bindings around their necks.
She stood and tucked the book under her arm. She stepped over the dying men paying them no attention. She was about to exit when she heard something that actually peaked her interest. “You…ink…skin…whore…” the labored words gurgled out by the first man paused her advance. She turned and observed that he was not choking to death like others, not just yet at least. She could see the pain melded with hate stirring in the dying man’s eyes. Now that was worth her valuable time. She strolled casually back toward the table all the while watching the man and his writhing hatred. “I see,” the cloaked woman clucked to herself with satisfaction. She liberated the dagger from the table and gave it a look look over. It would do. She made her way back to the man and knelt down. She placed her book on the floor and lifted the man’s chin to get a better look at his eyes. Yes, it was there, she concluded. “What…what…the…hell…are…you…” she knew the man’s words were not a question. They were more of a demand of the universe to explain how such a fate could fall upon him. “That is a difficult question to answer,” she mused mostly to herself. “To you, however, what I am is simple,” she could sense it, the twisting agony and hate of the man was nearly tangible. “To you I am Naylura, the Hex Scribe…and you will make fine ink,” The dagger slowly dragged across the man’s throat spilling fresh wet blood across the inn’ wooden floor.

Araleene, The Dragon Knight
Main Character: Araleene
Supporting Characters: Quaree the Blind, Mara the Silent and Seliden

Araleene was born into odd circumstances for a drow. She was found in cave, alone, as an infant by a human. The human Seliden took in the abandoned baby and gave her the name Araleene. Seliden was a scholar and researcher by trade. He was a kind and gentle father to Araleene but she often found him completely engrossed and captivated in his work. He would often jest that he was married to his tomes when asked why he did not take a wife. He always followed his joke by saying, “A man does not require a wife to have a family.” In her formative years, Araleene found the only true way to spend meaningful time with her father and get his approval was to take part in his research. Thus, she learned to read, write and draw in the field at Seliden’s side. Being the adopted daughter of nature scholar not only gave her a strong affinity for animals but also afforded her the experience of traveling the world. With each journey ventured Araleene became more the scholar. However, one event would dramatically alter the course of her life. On an excursion to a mountain range west of Trinsic, Araleene would fall victim to her own curiosity. That day she learned the sad truth that the fate of scholars unprepared is one of remorse and possible death. Her actions that day left her adopted father torn and vitally injured. Seliden recovered but with a limp and at the loss of one of his arms. Seliden told Araleene that the catastrophe was his fault. He explained that he should have never taken a child to a dragon’s den, no matter how much that child was interested in her father’s work. It was on that day she finalized her thinking. She vowed she would never allow a tragedy like what happened that day to happen again. It was on that day she decided to retire her quill for a spear and her robes for a suit of mail.
Time continued on as did Seliden and Araleene’s life together. She spent most of her teenage years taking in the different arts of combat. She, of course, made time to study with her father occasionally because it was the only way she knew how to spend time with him. However, the event that left her adopted father crippled continued to weigh heavily on her mind. It drove her determination to one day be a slayer of dragons, the same type of beast that injured Seliden. With each passing year her ability grew but so did her disdain for draconic beings. Her adopted father took note and in his own way attempted to curb the contempt taking root in her. His gentle guidance fell on ears deafened by the arrogant pride of youth. She slew lizardmen with cruelty. Her slaughter of wyverns was vindictive. Her hunting of drakes and the destruction of their nests was without pause or pity. Seliden did not need to worry who would keep him safe during his field research. Araleene became a warrior in her own right and through her progress his safety was ensured. Yet, his old fear was replaced by a new one. Araleene would protect him but who would guard her from herself?
The answer to his question came from a very unlikely source. On a research excursion Seliden found himself in the sudden company of a clan orcs. The orcs, after beating and robbing him, decided to take him back to their fort. He was meant to offer the orcish band a night of entertainment but instead his presence brought them ruin. Araleene panicked and overcome by the idea that she may have lost her adopted father furiously tracked the trail of footprints leaving from his research outpost. Evening had fallen by the time she found her way to the fort and the dread filled day had widened the scope of her scornfulness. She beset upon the fort with fury and an unyielding rage. She would never allow that horrible event from her youth happen again. The orcs were ill prepared for the storm that swept over their fort that night. Her eyes were hard as stone and her heart beat frost into her veins. There was no mercy to be had that night, or so one would have thought upon watching her cut her way through the orcish settlement. Painted in the blood of her fallen enemies, Araleene was a visage of terror. She pressed forward paying no heed to who or what she was killing. The only thought that drove her forward was “never again.” Then, as if she was suddenly woken by being thrown into lake in winter, she was back. Her blade rested shakingly in her hand, poised to strike. She heard it again, the thing that brought her back. It saw Seliden. It was his voice, high and urgent. She blinked, only then feeling the heat of the raging fires that surrounded her. The fires she had set. Her gaze refocused and she then saw why Seliden was yelling. Before her, in a huddled mass, rested two orc children. Neither could have been over two years of age. Was she about to slaughter children? Had she already murdered more like them? In a quick wash of sensation her muscles ached from the massacre that had ensued. The smell of blood sharpened with each breath she drew. The glow of fire became something real before eyes. She dropped her stained blade and mudderded the only words that could escape her mind, “What have I done…” By morning’s light the fires had died and an eerie silence had settled over the remains of the fort. She had spent the last hours of the night, with Seliden’s help, collecting herself. She could not change what she had done. She knew this. However, she could do something. She looked upon the faces of the orcish sisters. She would be their salvation from the horrors she brought upon them. In an odd way, they were actually her salvation from horrors she brought upon herself. Following in the footsteps of her adopted father, she decided she would, for the sake of the sleeping sisters, take in the orcish twins as Seliden had done for her. She promised she would provide them with a good life and that she did.
What followed were pleasant years for the odd family. It was an odd sight for most people but they got by just fine. Araleene had initially been very worried as one of orcish sister was blind and the other mute, both circumstances possibly because of her. Yet, the girls proved their adopted mother’s worries to be unfounded. At first, Araleene had the girls work for local mining groups. She assumed the girls needed to be readied for a life of hard physical labor. It was Mara the Silent who first showed signs that perhaps the life of simple miner was not for the sisters. A collapse in a mine lead to the lead miner becoming injured. It was Mara who saved the man by forming a salve of ginseng. Upon hearing the news, Araleene decided to hire the girl a mentor for their travels. She could only guess that the girl was daughter to a shaman or perhaps a bomber of the orcish clan. Araleene fostered Mara’s interest in other trades as well and in time Mara became a highly skilled worker. Mara’s sister, Queree the Blind, took a different path. Unlike her sister, Queree could speak and to Araleene’s surprise did so often. The younger of the two girls, Queree didn’t seem take on any skills from her prior family. However, in her youth she grew close to Seliden and from him she learned to love learning. Her cognitive abilities were a rarity for her kind. On Seliden’s suggestion Araleene allowed the girl to be mentored in craft skills. “If she can not learn with her eyes then let her learn with hands,” Seliden had said. Queree excelled in any field she was allowed to study. Her greatest love came when she took to blacksmithing study. She told Araleene that she could “hear” the metal, that it spoke to her. Each place Araleene and her family moved allowed for the girls to take on new mentors and learn new skills. And with each place Araleene’s rage and vitrial softened.
However, the calm between storms is easily forgotten once storm winds come upon a person. Over the years sleep became elusive for her. She lost her ability to focus and with that she lost she ability to keep her edge in combat. With each passing year she spiraled deeper. Something at the core of her was ill. She questioned herself constantly. Had she not done enough to atone for the sins of her past? Had she not reached, and reflected, and changed enough? Araleene found herself slowly being driven toward the brink of madness. It was late one evening when she found herself saddling up her horse. She questioned herself at every turn yet still she acted. She was about to ride into the night when a stern voice called to her, “You’re leaving us,” Quaree stated flatly but Araleene could feel the tinge of disdain that was always present in the girl’s voice when she addressed her. “I am.” Araleene could Quare but somehow she could feel that the response expected but not well received. “Fifteen years I have listened and did as you bid me,” Araleene reminded herself that the girl was at an age of defiance, as she had been at one time in her life. “I have never kept you against your will, you have always been free to do as you will,” The orc girl snorted at Araleene’s words. “Allow me finish before you berate me with your parental grandstanding.” They sat in a long moment of silence. “You have been…sick. I am unsure of where you will go or what you must do but know that I will care for Seliden in your stead. Do what you must and return us. He needs you…as do Mara and I.” And with that Quaree left without another word.
Araleene rode hard and far that night. She carried on for days with no plan or rationale. She only knew she had to ride…to move. She continued in this until one day her horse reared. She could feel the animals sudden fear and its uneasiness seemed to bleed out into the air. It was then she realized where she was…where her aimless wandering had lead her. She was at a cave mouth…to the west of Trinsic. She slowly lowered herself from the saddle. Her thoughts were finally taking shape. It was all starting to make sense. Everything had changed on that day. It was if that event was a wound that had festered her entire life. She had tried to treat it but never seemed to find the proper cure. And there she stood before the gaping maw of the mountain that housed the defining moment of her existence. She did not notice as her horse ran off nor how her spear had found its way into her hand. Almost as if summoned by her racing thoughts, two glimmering yellow slits opened within the darkness of the cave mouth. The great beast stalked from the cave with grace of a panther and the confidence of a lion. She watched as the dragon came forth and towered over her. Her grip tightened. Her breath quickened. She was ready to face herself.
Fiery breath raced in waves across the open field as the battle began. She dipped in an evasive twirl to safety and pressed forward. Her spear twisted with her a flick of her wrist and fell into a striking position as she neared her target. The beast sent claws crashing down into the earth but they had missed their target. Araleene had shifted, evading the blow and leaving her in a perfect position to strike. Spear met scales sending sparks to light the night. Her blow was deflected but she had felt scales giving way under the pressure of the strike. She pirouetted away as the beast spit another burst of burning fire at her. Giving the creature no quarter she pressed forward again. This time the dragon sent its tail with the intent to crush the warrior. And again the attack met nothing but solid ground. Araleene’s counterattack shot forth like lighting and shattered the beast’s plated scales. The spear sank deep into the dragon’s heart, sending it rearing in agony. Slain, the mighty creature fell before Araleene. She stood in the silence of her victory. The thoughts in her mind shifted and jumped. Yet, as she stood before the slain dragon, her thought finally became clear. Dragons…she finally understood it in that moment. It was dragons the whole time. It was her study of dragons that brought her close to father. It was also dragons that had scarred her all those years ago on the day she almost lost him. It was the thought of dragons that drove her to train and become a storied soldier. Yet, it was dragons that grew her rage and malice. Without her training brought by the thought of dragons she would have never been able to save her father and find the girls. However, it was the the very rage built by her experience with dragons that allowed her to fall into the frenzy that destroyed the girls’ home and family. It all came down to dragons. She was made, forged, and defined by the great beasts. The good and the bad all came from that experience. She slowly freed her spear from the chest of the mighty beast. She let a deep breath out through her nose. Before she reflect further she heard a high cry from inside the cave. The cry sounded again and again. Araleene made her way to the source of the cries to find a dragon hatchling fighting to free itself from its egg. Her expression softened at the sight. “You too, little one.” She mused kneeling upon the cave floor. “And just as your mother aided me…I shall aid you,”

As a boy, Damir Highblood worked as a squire to Sir Ausric in the hopes of one day becoming knighted. After one particularly long day at Varo’thens Holdfast, Damir began the long journey back to his small village of Balfour.

As he began the ascent to the top of the hill that separated him and the village, he began to see smoke in the air. He charged up the remaining climb, egged on by the faint sound of screams and war drums in the distance and as he reached the crest he saw the village that had been his home being overran by a horde of men.

He sprinted down the hill and barely escaped a fall into a pond trying to reach the home he had grown up in. He charged into the village passing his friends and neighbors who were fighting a losing battle with only the faces of his dear parents in his mind. Pounding down the street passing body after body his only hope was to see his parents again which would come true but not in the way he wanted.

Praying to Lasko that they would be OK, he rounded a corner and saw his parents lying on the ground with a hideous bandit standing over his mother’s body. In a rage Damir grabbed a battle axe from the body of a village guard, ran up behind the bandit, and slashed at the bandit striking a mighty blow. As the man fell to his side, Damir knelt over his mother, tears falling slowly from his face knowing he would never again be with his parents in this life. After some time he got up and examined the bleeding bandit.

Adorning his chest was crude platemail with the head of a one horned dragon drawn onto it with charcoal. In his hand was a large mace that Damir had no real interest in, he turned his attention to the sack on the ground. Spilling out of it were swords and armour of the men than the man had killed. Damir went through the armour looking for something that would fit with no luck.

Looking at the bodies of his parents he knew he must give their bodies back to the earth. He grabbed a shovel from the back porch of a house, a couple small blankets to transport their bodies, and made his way to the top of the hill. The holes he dug were not very deep but it exhausted him. From some nearby rocks he built small graves for his parents and said a few words his church had taught him for such occasion. Once Damir had made peace with the fact his parents were with Lasko now, he slowly made his way to his old home, tired and weak, praying for guidance.

Once home, Damir lit a candle over the ritual plate watching as the wax slowly fell and reflected on his younger days in the church. As a devout follower of Lasko, he frequently visited the church rarely missing a day. He gave offerings of food and coin, held ritual burnings, and spread the word of Lasko to those who met who haven’t yet seen the light. “I was a stupid child” he thought watching as the first of the droplets of wax fall. He reached into his shirt pulling out the holy amulet he had earned when he became a full member of the church only two years ago. The amulet was only about the size of a gold piece but it was worth more to him than his life. On the front was the tiny depiction of a gauntlet with an ankh pained in the palm, the holy symbol of Lasko. He flipped the amulet over and looked upon the foreign words inscribed there.

“Rakshak, Maraham Lagaane Vaala, Badala Lene Vaala”

He had asked the priest about the words and he responded that he did not know what the words meant. Legend said that Lasko’s chosen warriors would one day look at the amulet and see the words and know their meaning. Damir shook his head and placed the medallion on the table face up.

Damir looked at the candle and saw the flame had gone out. “How strange” he thought as there was not even a slight draft in the room. As he reached for the flint he noticed the wax on the plate had taken the shape of a dragon with only one horn. He was astonished! It was the symbol on the bandit’s chest! On the right side of the ox was the crude shape of a battle axe and on the left side a drop of wax about the size of a gold piece. He looked closely at the circular drop and noticed an indentation in the center that almost looked like an ankh. Damir quickly backed up and grabbed his amulet spinning it so he could read the words.

“Protector, Healer, Avenger”

Damir grabbed his pack and quickly filled it with anything he thought would be useful on his journey ahead. He snatched a cloak off the wall and left the house for what he believed would be the last time. He only had one goal now, uphold the values of Lasko and bring justice onto the bandits that had ravaged his village.

The Willowleafs were a noble family of Elvish lords with landholdings in the forest near a small village. When trolls attacked the town, their Elvish neighbors came to their aid, but were too late to save most of the townspeople. Those who survived had lost their homes and everything they owned, so the once-indifferent Elvish Lord benevolently offered a place in his home for them. The elves employed many of the humans as servants in their homes, and treated them quite well. In time, the eldest son of the Elvish lord became enamored with his human servant. As the lord had decreed that no romantic relations between elf and man would be tolerated in his realm, the son’s relationship with his servant would be kindled in secret. Eventually, the woman became pregnant with a half-elf child, whom she would name Viessa. She would be given her mother’s surname, as she would never disclose the identity of the elven father, lest the lord bring judgment upon her beloved. Even so, the Elvish lord commanded that she would no longer be employed in his home, and that she must take her son with her to work elsewhere in their community. Like many of mixed heritage, Viessa was shunned by her Elvish relatives. She was bullied and picked on for much of her childhood, and spent much of her time tending to livestock in the stables and fields. At the age of thirteen, Viessa’s mother became very sick with an unknown disease, and eventually passed away. By this time, the Elvish lord had heard many rumors of Viessa’s lineage, and rather than keep the girl as a reminder of his own son’s disobedience, the Elvish lord saw fit to send Viessa to serve in the army of a nearby human king.

The Elf lord had his scribe pen a letter to Commander of the Kings army stating Viessa’s predicament, and requesting that she be put into the service of the king. Commander Nerval of the King’s Army, Leader of His Majesty’s First File, was a kindly, dark-haired man of sixty-eight years. He had served in the royal army for nearly all of his life, rising to the highest rank from his beginnings in the infantry as a man-at-arms. As such, he was well-renowned throughout the realm for his bravery and dedication to the King. Upon receiving the Elvish lord’s letter, Commander Nerval asked that the half-elf youth be brought immediately to his chambers. He questioned Viessa at length about her home, her mother, and her upbringing in a way that must have seemed rather odd to an orphaned child that had been overlooked for much of her life. On that same day, Nerval swore Viessa into the service of the King. At first, the Commander would keep the half-elf girl as his personal servant. Viessa was tall and strong compared to full-blooded humans her same age, and became a great asset to Nerval in his advancing age, carrying his weapons and armor, and when needed, helping the Commander to scale the many of steps that led to up to his chambers. Commander Nerval favored the girl so much that he afforded her every opportunity to learn at his side, whether during audiences with the Royal Court or at strategic military meetings. Over two years passed for Viessa in the personal service of the Commander, and she was finally old enough to officially enter the royal army. On the morning that the half-elf was to become a soldier instead of a servant, Nerval called her into his chambers. The old man proceeded to thank Viessa for her years of unquestionable loyalty, and stated that he had been keeping a secret since the day he had received Viessa into his home.

The girl looked at him confusedly as the Commander informed her that he had been born in the same village as Viessa’s mother before he moved to the serve the Crown. In fact, Nerval said, he guessed that Viessa might be his great niece by marriage. This hypothesis would be nearly impossible to prove as their village records had been destroyed along with the rest of the town; but this did not matter to Nerval. From that day forward (and many days before), the Commander would think of Viessa as his niece, and treated her as such. At sixteen years of age, Viessa Willowleaf- Wysajor joined the Royal Infantry. In very little time, she became a skilled and shrewd fighter, in part due to years of bearing the brunt of Elvish beatings. Serving under her great-uncle had made her a quick study of tactics and formations, and her experience in the stables of the Elvish lord helped her to become one of the best mounted soldier-trainees. It wasn’t long before Viessa was promoted, and then promoted again, eventually becoming lieutenant over her own unit. She was well loved by her fellow soldiers, but looked upon derisively by those in command, who feared that one day she would rise to take over as the Commander as her uncle had. During Viessa’s service the realm was blessed with several years of peace. Much of his time was spent training with her fellow soldiers and studying combat arts and theories of war under her uncle. The Commander’s advisers took notice of the special attention she appeared to be receiving, and began to plot against her, often sending Viessa’s unit to deal with undesirable tasks, such as providing relief to flood victims, tracking goblin raiders, or rebuilding outdated outposts. lieutenant Wysajor was unfazed, however, and became skilled in maintaining the morale of her men. She could always be found working side-by-side with her soldiers, without complaint. During a peasant uprising in the farther reaches of the realm, Viessa’s unit was called upon to return order to the area. Martial law was imposed in the region, and while her soldiers began the occupation of several communities, Viessa called a meeting with the leaders of the rebellion. In doing so, she discovered that the Sub-commanders’ had been using their rank to unlawfully tax and abuse the common folk under their protection. Upon her return to the city capitol, Viessa confronted her superior officers regarding their misuse of power, and wound up in the infirmary after they overpowered her and beat her mercilessly.

While recovering from her wounds, the group of officers sent a representative to her bedside, informing her that her aging great-uncle, the Commander of the First File, would be assassinated if Viessa tried to expose their machinations. Rather than serving under a corrupt regime, Viessa fled from the infirmary barracks under the cover of night, while still recovering from her injuries. She knew that her comrades would know her as a traitor to the crown and an oathbreaker, but would not put her beloved Uncle Nerval in danger. Viessa swore that one day she would return to the city capital to bring justice to the sub-commanders. Pursued by assassins, Viessa would flee to a neighboring country, taking refuge in a temple. The priests provided her sanctuary and healed her wounds, and Viessa found herself drawn to the priestly life. She devoured holy writings zealously, applying the devotion she once held for justice and combat to the study of religion and morality. The priests were glad to offer all of the instruction she could retain, and in-turn, asked that he use his knowledge of combat to protect the nearby hamlet from predators. After a year and a half, the sub-commander’s spies finally located Viessa, and a first file squadron was sent to collect her for court martial. When they arrived, Viessa was assisting the townsfolk by hunting down a rabid wolf that had been terrorizing their flocks. The First File questioned the temple priests, who refused to provide any information regarding Viessa’s whereabouts. The temple was destroyed, and all the priests massacred for their silence. The soldiers plundered the pantry and cellar before riding on to the village to continue their search. Once again, the First File left no survivors. Seeing the smoke rising from the village from several miles away, she returned home to find the soldiers drinking sacramental wine and wiping the villagers’ blood from their weapons. Her battle instincts immediately returned to her as she breathlessly spoke a prayer to the temple god and unsheathed her sword. Viessa’s blade sliced through her former brothers in arms with ease until the entire squadron lay at her feet. Her adopted home destroyed and the temple brethren slain, Viessa retrieved a single scorched holy book from the remains of the chapel, gathered her belongings, and mounted her horse, riding southward into the woods. Viessa spent the next two years in solitude, only venturing into society when absolutely necessary, and always under cover of night. She pored over the religious text and kept her sword sharp and armor polished, while training incessantly for the impending justice she would bring upon the sub-commanders.

Viessa currently resides at the manor of Lord Darius uth Wistan as a member of his house guard as a Knight-Errant. Lord Darius knows one day she will leave his service to finish the battle fate set before her.