The Thistleridge Tales

Linken gazed out of the window, his ponytail waving slightly in the coming breeze.  Bernin, the innkeeper, bustled behind him, preparing the bar.
"It looks like a storm." said Linken.
The halfing turned away, closing the shutters and casement windows.
"Aye, you better prepare the stable for the travelers that'll be coming." said Bernin from the keg room.
Linken sighed, trudging to the stables as the wind began to blow; horses frightened him worse than thunder.

Rain and darkness poured down on the Farithas town of Thistleridge.  Six travelers in particular, each from his own country and race, fought through the storm, guiding frightened or tired horses to the oasis of the inn's stable.  They entered the warm confines of the Half Silver Inn; each eating a silent supper separately.  When true night fell and the dancing orange lights of the many candles reflected off the deep blue of the night windows; each of the five sojourners paid Linken the appropriate three silvers and he took them, as each had paid, to the communal room they all would happen to share.  The wind howled like a hungry beast in the darkness and the rain battered against the windows of the room.  As the night wore on and none of the six could sleep, they decided to pass the time by sharing stories and tales thet they had experienced or heard.  The first, Erath Arionsson, was a Narenian soldier with dark hair and a map of scars on his face; second was Geril, a gnome from the Marches; third was Narakos Ulekon, a magician and scholar from the Arannis Empire; fourth was Kaasym, a Dran hailing like most of his kin, from Alerond, he was a skilled mapmaker and lover of ruins and history; fifth was Ûsjmir Khazeirth, a dwarf merchant; and sixth, and most intriguing, was a travel-worn ranger, who seemed both elfin in gait but man in voice and build.  Geril, a skilled bard from the halls of the gnomish king, volunteered to go first in the circle of tales.  As he plucked his lyre, he began in the vivid, image-weaving voice of his kind, to tell the elven Epic of Rílaren.         

The Great Scourges

The First Scourges: Imperial Age
Nulcarn, First of the Old Gods rallied the Underborn into the First Scourges.  Number of Scourges unknown.  Underborn come from the Mountains of Dusk and Baragrond, spilling into the south.  Repelled by the Theden Empire; Elvanyan Empire dissipates, Khazad-Ordamarr taken by orcs.  At the end of the First Scourges, Nulcarn was slain by Kallen, Magus Imperator of the Theden Empire.  Kallen wore the Crown of Aldrein, and was able to slay Nulcarn.  These began after Magus Imperator Amurion converted to the Sanctum.  The First Scourges do not count the ancient wars between the Dread Twelve and the Elvanyan, Giants', and dragons' empires.  Peace of Kallen begins.

Second Scourge: Sacred Age
Led by Duman, Underborn poured out of the north and along the Theden-Thrayan border.  Amurion current Magus Imperator.  Duman was imprisoned by Archon Titus Nescus and his lover Silerré the High Elf.  Duman was imprisoned within Mustpavadas.  Titus wielded the Horn of Findelas to combat Duman.  The horde defeated at Manauris by Theden, Thrayan, and dwarven forces.  Other races got involved in repelling the Scourge, but men played the biggest part.  Theden greatly weakened by Scourge.  Peace of Kallen continues.

Third Scourge: Sacred Age
Led by Muldorn, Underborn poured out of the Red Mountains.  Magus Imperatora Ascerea just crowned.  Alderath the Ageless used the Shield of Boleras to weaken Muldorn beforehand at the Battle of Farithas Fields.  Legionnaire Vessarian Cairrus battles Muldorn at Tullius' Peak and imprisons him within the mountain.  Theden forces defeat the Underborn at Farithas Fields.

Fourth Scourge: Magus Age
Led by Lurre, Underborn pour out of Iildheul Mountains, destroying their way out of Dorlúin and attacking Arannis.  Arannis-elven alliance hold back the Fourth Scourge.  Horribly bloody Scourge; elven population ravaged and Arannis spread thin.  Six Kingdoms know little of this eastern Scourge.  A high elf Guardian, Syphíren Ureimel uses the Cape of Morrigan to battle Lurre.  Imprisons her in the Svartthrill, which is then taken to Mustpavadas but then stolen by the dark elves and taken to Ullanis.

Fifth Scourge: Lost Age

Led by Urydrell, Underborn came up from the Giants' Helm Mountains; the Six Kingdoms and Arannis drove back the Scourge, elves withdrew support, damaging human-elf relations.  Urydrell was re-imprisoned by Goodwyn, a halfling Guardian, under the future site of Turssig, Tevanth.  Goodwyn uses the Breastplate of Cunnbeus to defend against Urydrell's attacks.  An entirely human-fought Scourge.  Amarilius' Island sunk, and Lortheas destroyed by the Scourge.  Scourge slaughtered at Tiray.

Sixth Scourge: Shadow Age
Led by Illyth, after Ages of being underground the Sixth Scourge pours up onto the surface from the Khazadi Mountains at the advent of the Shadow Age.  The dwarves had been under constant attack by them for Ages, but no one heard their warnings; and monsters from the Deep had been creeping into the elves' forests, keeping them in a state of constant alert.

Oratory Library: Faldan

Faldan waited patiently under the bridge, sitting on the gravel and rock island.  He heard them, far off and distant, the stomp of hobnailed boots on dirt.  He plucked idly at the string of his spruce bow as the sound of a caravan drew nearer.  Finally, after another minute or so, Faldan swung himself up onto the parapet of the stone bridge.  A vanguard of foot soldiers, twenty strong, marched ahead of the train of horses and mules.  Silidrius tur Tallont, guild-master of Tallont, reclined in his horse-drawn carriage safely in the center of the caravan.  Faldan crouched on one of the support posts rising from the bridge parapets, in plain view of the approaching cavalcade.  The soldiers stopped, so did the merchants.  Faldan nodded at them.

"Good morning, Men of Cinteras, where are you off to on this fine autumn morning?"

Twenty spears were pointed at leather-clad Faldan.  He eyed them thoughtfully.
The captain of the escort pushed his way forward, a rich blue tabard strapped to his breastplate and armor-pieces clanking.
"What do you want, woodman?" the question was brisk.
"I simply wanted to tell you good morning, seeing as you are fellow Cinters and this is my patrol region." Faldan looked busisness-like and honest, something he was good at.
"Very well." the captain inclined his head to the Wildwalker, "you may continue on your patrol, soldier." he said as he turned back to the caravan.
"Ah, yes, captain, a great danger lurks on the other side of this bridge, as you know this is the river Swift and that is the Forest of Eagles, a rural and rough place.  A band of brigands is currently hiding in there.  I was able to slay a few-why, pray are you even taking the guildmaster through here?" Faldan scratched his beard, brow creased as he asked the question.
The captain turned, hand reactively on the formed hilt of his sword.
"The eastern highway from Rianost was blocked off at the Rianost Fords.  Apparently the bridge was damaged and under repair."
Faldan knew that ruse would work; the Giant's Helm Mountains often send small floods through the rivers of Cinteras, making their story believable.
"Oh really, and what is your name, Wildwalker?" a voice, drawling and loud, called out from the center of the escort.  Faldan cursed silently.
A Fox, easily distinguished by his scarlet cape and ornate rapier swinging at his hip, strode through the guards, who parted for him.
"I asked a question, woodman, what is your name and home town?" the Fox tapped his fingers impatiently on the bell guard of his sword.
"Faldan tur Racen' Peak, sir."
"Ah, I have heard of you then and some of your... exploits." the fingers stopped suddenly in their tapping.  "you wouldn't happen to be the same Faldan who raided the caravan of Guildmaster Ruunis tur Rianost, would you?"
Faldan knew the Fox was fully aware who he was.
"I don't know what you mean?" Faldan cocked his head in faked confusion.
"Yes you do, you are responsible for the thievery of one hundred pounds of the Merchants' Guild of Dairn's gold.  I think that puts you under arrest." the Fox smiled his hand grasping the smooth black leather of his sword.
"And you are held responsible for the deaths of ten innocent Dairni men, the ruin of the village of Thernsford and looting of six tons of silver from the people of Dairn," Faldan called out to the woods across the river, a line of green-clad archers, fellow Wildwalkers, appeared; arrows nocked.  They rushed across the bridge, to stand in the middle away from the escort's pikes.  The Fox glared at Faldan, whipping out his rapier.  An arrow through his eye dissuaded him from further action.  Sytheal tur Rianost poked his round head out of the carriage window.
"Captain!  Captain!  Why have we stopped so long, captain!" he yowled to the escort captain.
"Sytheal tur Rianost, guildmaster of all of Rianost, you are hailed to stop by the men of the king of Dairn.  Order your men to stand down so we may take you to our king." Faldan called out to the guildmaster.
Sytheal jumped in his carriage, and started balling to his captain,
"Captain!  Captain!  Stop him!  Form rank, do something!" the shinning, ample head disappeared into the safety of his coach.  The captain, sword in hand, ordered his men to line up in front of the carriage, pikes out.  Faldan leapt from the parapet, joining his men as they stood some yards from the caravan, and signaled his men.
"Sytheal tur Rianost, you have now resisted judgement for your crimes!" he bellowed over the ensuing cries of soldiers as they were felled by arrows, "you shall now be taken captive by the Wildwalkers of Dairn and your possessions taken," the remaining pikemen charged towards the archers, who switched bows for swords, "Sytheal, for your crimes of unjust taxation, looting of royal property, and treachery to the crown, you are under arrest!" the Wildwalkers, having slain the last of the escort, surrounded the carriage.  Berden yanked the door open and pulled out the whimpering merchant-lord.
"Long live the King of Dairn!" Faldan bellowed.         

Oratory Library: Saneth

The guard, eyes meandering about taking a gander up at the night sky and the stone walls of the houses his feet took him past, followed his usual patrol route.  A lantern hung in one hand, dancing merrily in his fingers with every step, and a spear, a simple thing of local hardwood and steel head, sat in his other propped against his shoulder.  His feet, tucked in hobnailed leather boots, took him past the junction of the main road and a side street; and down the usual alley.  As he was just reaching the middle of the alley when a small noise, a hint of a rustle or breeze, reached his ear.  He disregarded it;  sniffing his nose at the crisp night air.  A sharp pain sprang into life on his forehead where he hit the cobblestones as his legs were knocked out from under him by a blow to the inside of his knees; had a hand on his mouth and knife at his throat before he could even blink.
"Excellent night for a walk isn't it, friend?  Crisp, keeps you moving and motivated.  I do love these cold nights as the leaves begin to change for winter.  But, do pardon my manners I do love to talk, where, dear friend, is the house of one Fragor Tharok?  Merchant, dwarven, ornate graying blond beard, terrible temper?  Come on, speak, I asked you a question."
The hand that slid off the guard's mouth was small no larger than a child's.  But the voice was that of an adult man, if a bit high.
"Fragor doesn't live in Ilian anymore." the guard stayed loyal to his city.
"Friend, dear friend," the voice inches from his ear chuckled, a merry, light sound making one want to dance, "dearest friend, I will cut you open like a village pig, feed your entrails to dogs, and sell your skin to tanners without a second thought.  And then track down your family devising most horrible ways to slowly end their lives as well.  Impalement.  I think I shall acquire spikes, dull spikes, and throw your most grievously ill wed wife out a window onto them.  And then I shall watch; inch by inch her body will go.  Or you could simply tell me where the bastard dwarf is cowering and you shall return to your bed with a living wife sleeping soundly beside you."
"Fragor is staying at an estate on the outskirts of town, by the river.  It has two willow trees over the main gate.  Can't miss it." the guard gulped back sheer panic, sweat springing up on his brow.
"See where we have gotten without violence?  Excellent." the guard was released from the knife, able to breath free at last.  "Oh, I'd suggest not raising your voice for help or anything like that.  These knifes are tempered Arann steel and I happen to be very good with them."
The guard turned around, slowly so as not to receive the said knife in his back.  What he saw almost made him fall down again.  A halfing, a mere pech, stood beneath him, the top of it's small head just above his belt buckle.  The halfing was garbed in a thin covering of dark leather armor.  The guard almost laughed.  This must have shown on his face, for the halfing frowned disapprovingly.
"What is your name, friend?"
"Um, Simon... sir." Simon threw the "sir" in at the last moment after much thought.
"And how do you feel about your fingers, Simon?  As a thief, I make ample use of all ten fingers of my hands, as small as they may be.  But you, town guard, I down't think you need your ring fingers."  the pech unsheathed a second knife from his bandolier.  This one was more of a small saw with a hook at the tip.  Simon stumbled backwards from the knife as if it were death embodied.  The halfling was on top of him in a heartbeat.
"That's right, just stay here and keep quiet."
Simon heard the halfling speak, then a sharp blow to the head later, and all was black.

The halfling shifted his weight, so as to not make any noise as the willow branch he was perched on shifted in the calm night breeze.  A guard, not a local militia but one of the baron's private soldiery, lay  carelessly against one of the gate columns as if in rest; a knife wound the size of a piece of string concealed under his shaggy beard.  Other guards, unaware of their slain fellow, patrolled the grounds inside on their regular routines.  The halfling, green eyes flicking this way and that, studied their patterns, where they were when they stopped and turned around, and where they were looking.  Fragor obviously asked for more security this night.  The fat dwarf must know he was being hunted.  The thief saw two dwarves, clad in that heavy, blocky armor they proudly march around in, planted by the doors to the manor house itself.  Halberds were held at a constant alert in their hands.  Casting about for an alternate route into the manor, the thief caught sight of a small, grated-off tunnel; a mere drainage pipe in the stone walls leading into a pond.  A stretch of shadow could take him right up to the culvert, he could then crawl up the drainage pipe and into the house proper.  Then the hard part would begin.  The thief crawled out of the tree, swaying as it waved in the wind, scaled the wall with ease, and slipped through the shadowy corners of the courtyard.  The guards were none the wiser of his presence.  While the halfling's size might be a disadvantage in certain situations or professions, thievery was not one of them.  The watchmen were looking for a human thief or assassin, not a child-sized burglar.  He squeezed between the algae-covered iron bars of the culvert; he placed his steps carefully and moved as if stuck in mortar so as not to splash the ankle-high water.  The thief had brought rope, but the twenty feet or so of the pipe were rough and old with plenty of handholds.  A quick climb later and he was inside a servant's cleaning room.  He closed the hatch of the pipe and tiptoed to the door of the room, crouching to one side in case some one opened the door, and peered through the keyhole.  The richly decorated corridor lit by chandeliers was empty of people.  The thief silently cracked the door open enough, closing it just as quietly behind him, ever alert for footfalls or the sounds of other doors.  Nothing, not a sound.  He stole across the hallway, past a flight of stairs to the foyer, hiding behind a suit of Blade Age armor.  A servant, head forward and feet busily crossing the hall, passed by the hiding spot.  The servant was alone.  The thief had him on the ground and hand covering his mouth, just like the city guard.
"Good servant, where is Master Fragor's lodgings?" the halfling asked curteously.
"U-up those stairs at the end of the hall, and go to the north tower."
"Thank you, dear servant." the halfling knocked the man unconscious, disposing him in a side room.  A quick jaunt, with a brief detour into a sleeping woman's quarters to avoid detection by some servants; the woman will find, in the morning, that her purse is much relieved of it's weight, and the thief was at the foot of the north tower.  He scanned the ground, looking for the telltale signs of traps.  And yes, there it was, hidden under the rug in front of the polished door.  With his foot, he slid the rug to the side; a single rune lay inscribed on the pine boards of the floor.  Kneeling, the thief took a closer look.
"A detection rune.  A mage must be present." the halfling muttered with distaste.
Detection runes were quite volatile, a single misplaced scratch and it explodes in noise.  The thief had a special blade on his bandolier for this: a firm, but small precision knife, good for scratching and fine cutting.  An arm of the rune disappeared under the knife, then after a pause, another.  five minutes later, the rune was disarmed.  The thief walked cautiously over it, planting his foot tentatively on the other side.  Nothing.  He hurried up the stairs, all the way to the top.  A shining mahogany door waited for him, like the one at the bottom.  He opened it, eager to finish this.  Though, he was ready for the crossbow bolt that flew past his ear.  Fragor dropped the crossbow, snatching up something from the desk he hid behind.  With a single bound, the thief was on top of the desk.  He flicked his knife, gouging Fragor's grasping wrist.  The dwarf, howling in pain, toppling to the floor, smashing the desk chair under his solid bulk.  The thief looked down at him.
"Saneth!  You-you found me, krazil!" the dwarf swore.
Saneth appraised his victim, fiddling with his knife threateningly as he did so.
"Tell me where it is, Fragor.  And you better stop that thrashing, or gods help me I'll finish what I started." Saneth looked meaningfully at Fragor's bloody hand.
"I sold it, Saneth.  It's gone by now.  It could be halfway around the world." Fragor crawled away from the halfling, trying furiously to think of some escape plan.  Saneth froze, eyes blank, face pale.
"You SOLD it!?" Saneth roared, the dwarf flinched and jumped backwards.  The halfling's face turned bright red, "You didn't even have the wits to put it away!?  You idiot!  I-I..." the words caught in Saneth's throat, sheer rage  and disbelief clouding his mind.  Saneth lashed out, destroying the contents of the desk in his fury.  He tore down a tapestry, shredding the fine thread-work to tatters.  Finally, Saneth stopped, breathing hard.
"I believe you know what this means, friend Fragor." he spoke, advancing on the prone dwarf, knife in hand.
Fragor backed against the wall, "No, no, no!"
Saneth leapt on him, knife flashing in sanguine expectation.                          

The Planes

 Anruvalir is the Celestial Garden and home of the Sanctum.  Anruvalir was sung into existence by the anruvali at the beginning of of the world as a beautiful abode for themselves and their divine creators, and as a base to continue the rest of creation.  Anruvalir contains verdant meadows and rolling hillsides, lush forests and bubbling creeks, and elegant cities and dwellings of the blessed and anruvali.
 Dunruvalir is the shadowed realm of the Twelve Gods of Chaos and dunruvali.  It was in this cursed world that the Old Gods decreed they would go into Mundus to enslave the creations of the Sanctum.  The dunruvali still dwell in this tortured realm, taking flesh and entering Mundus.  It is also here that the spirit of tainted Nulcarn, most dreaded of the Gods of Sorrow.
 The Varafell a mysterious world of magic; and supposedly where sleepers go when they dream, hence the name.  What is known of the Varafell is that it is ruled by seven Dreamers, lording over and shaping the dreamscape via their dreams.  The Thoughtless, primordial fragments fallen from more powerful beings, serve as the Dreamers as servants.  The etiangor are overseers preoccupied by their own affairs.  The rest; vramaer, wila, etc, make up the main population of the Varafell.
 Tumult is the elemental world of fire and ice, forming the foundation of Mundus.  Elementals, the inhabitants of this primordial realm, are common servants for magicians, next to Varafell spirits.  Tumult is purportedly ruled by elemental titan lords called the Protogenon.

Oratory Library: Darran

Darran twisted his hands on the fading leather hilt, the groves of the fingers of boys set deep in the leather.  Elanna, his twin sister, Thraeca, and Fyrien, his other younger sisters, and Fyrion and Harrad, his two older brothers, stood next to him; their very presence was soothing to him.  Fyrion was already seventeen, learning their father's trade, and betrothed to a young woman near where the Tharradsson's city house; and Harrad was already married with a baby son.  Harrad had pursued a different craft and was one of the city watchmen.  Harrad and Fyrion both gave him advice and Harrad kept giving him reassuring pats on the back.  For today was the Tournament.  A day when young boys from the noble families competed with each other, under the gaze of all the assembled eorls and thessas, in such things as stamina, wit, and sword fighting prowess.  The reward: a place in the palace, Vareiath Citadel, and training with the best swordsmen in the kingdom.
Darran cast another furtive glance at the royal box; many of the lords of the realm were already assembled, but it was rumored the king himself would make an appearance.  A herald came striding across the green arena, wearing a white doublet and black trousers.  He looked down at the group of noble boys gathered some feet from Darran and his siblings.  The herald looked down at a scroll in his hands.  He called all the boys by their name and house, then sent them away toward the dueling pen.  The herald cast a glance at Darran.
"There is a high fee for entering the Tournament, I doubt you can pay it." he said, looking down back at his scroll.
Harrad took a purse of money from his belt and tossed it to the herald.  The man looked mildly surprised an obviously poor family had two hundred crowns on them.  Enaro, Darran's swordsmanship tutor, had given them the money.
"Very well.  Name?"
"Da-Darran, son of Tharrad, s-sir." Darran muttered.
The herald looked down at him, then sighed. "Come with me." and he spun around and marched back across the field.  They were near the fenced in arena, the other boys wee clustered around it, and hundreds of eyes were watching.  Darran would either succeed and live in wealth at the castle, or he would lose; but he could not let that happen.
"Wait!" a voce cried.
Darran looked around and saw Enaro striding across the green, sword at his hip and dressed in his typical baggy sleeved shirt and hose.  The Cinter looked flustered.  He reached Darran, putting a hand on his shoulder.
"Darran, what a day, eh?  Remember what I taught you: keep a deep stance; keep your sword out in front, not close to your body; be ready to defend yourself, these spoiled boys have been taking lessons far longer than you; but always remember, look them in the eyes, study them, and do not forget to be yourself."  Enaro gave him that fatherly smile with the sadness in his eyes.  Enaro had lost his only son during a Wilder raid.
"Don't worry, master, you have been teaching me for years, and your the best swordsman in Narenior." Enaro smiled at the compliment, "I won't forgot my training."
Enaro stood, and shooed Darran off to the waiting throng of boys.  The herald led two of the boys dressed as they were in leather jerkins over their rich tunics and pants.  Darran hastily slipped on his own jerkin over his old brown tunic and yanked the side straps tight.  The herald announced to the audience the names and houses of the two boys, waved back the starting flag, and the fight began.  Darran couldn't see it well over the heads of the other boys, but he could hear the vicious strikes of wood on wood and occasionally wood on leather.
Several duels followed after the first, with the herald recording each boys victories and defeats on a great rostra at the head of the half-square of stands around the dueling pen.  Darran jumped, heart racing as the herald, with a commanding wave of his hand, ushered Darran and a boy with red hair and a purple and gold-lined tunic under his jerkin.
"Roren of the House of Turfen." he said gesturing grandly to the red-haired boy. "And Darran, son of Tharrad."
A small cheer rose up from where his siblings stood; Thraeca was jumping up and down cheer her older brother, a huge grin splitting her tiny face.  A blush of deep red crept up Darran's jaw and up his cheeks.  His heart hammered and it felt like a small creature was writhing in his stomach.  All the eyes of the audience noble or otherwise—most of the population of Aurdethal—were on him; and his heart skipped a beat and his knees shook as he saw, seated in the white draped, stonework, box was King Ereneor IX, seated in his purple cape and shining helm on a carved, wooden chair.  Darran swalloed hard, then set into his guard position, readying his sword.
The herald withdrew the flag and stepped back.  Suddenly all his shyness and embarrassment was gone, replaced by the cool focus that was the product of Enaro's training.  Roren charged toward him, quickly closing the ground in between them; but he stopped short just out of arm's reach of Darran.  Darran feinted toward Roren's hip, then flicked his sword up, toward the exposed wrist.  Roren cried out, leaping backwards just in time; the blunt tip of the sword flying past his nose.  Darran pressed forward, redoubling and thrusting, but being parried just in time.  Roren lunged forward, sword outstretched.  Darran saw his opening on his lower flank; Darran side-stepped the lunge and drove the point of his sword into Roren's side, winding the other boy.  With a simple swipe, Darran unarmed Roren and lifted his sword point up to his pale throat.  The herald called an end to the match.  All eyes were on Darran
Darran was allowed a rest as other matches went, but eventually his name was called again.  Weritharaun III, son of the renowned markfein, Weritharaun II Shield-breaker.  The flag was waved and the fight began.  Weritharaun began at first by keeping his distance, then slowly darting in and stabbing at Darran's side or neck, which Darran parried with relative ease.  Weritharaun, after minutes of fruitless thrusts and parries, lunged forward, feinting and then circling down to Darran's low line.  Darran leaped back, knocking the blade aside, then struck out with lightning speed and nearly jabbed Weritharaun in his stomach, but the boy side stepped and counter-attacked; driving Darran back.  They fought like this, sweat streaming down their faces, for several more minutes, until Darran noted a loose chunk of sod behind Weritharaun; he drove the broad boy toward it with three quick strokes and an advancing lunge.  When Weritharaun was in place, Darran did a mighty overhead blow, bringing his sword crashing down on the other boy's raised sword.  Weritharaun slid backwards just a step, stumbling on the piece of sod and momentarily losing his balance.  That was all Darran needed.  With a quick leap and swipe, Darran whacked the his opponent on the sword arm, making Weritharaun yelp and nearly lose his sword.  Darran then feinted toward the low line, but at the last second angled the tip up, into the jerkin-covered belly.  Weritharaun took a step back, then fell to one knee.  Darran disarmed him and pointed his sword at his throat.  The arena was silent except for the two boys' ragged breathing.
Darran fought and unarmed six other boys, from increasingly more noble houses—like one was the son of an eorl, when his final match was called.
"Threodran son of Arim, Archeorl of Lydar!"
Darran tightened his grip on his notched wooden sword; he was unaware that an archeorl's son was participating.  Threodran stood half a head taller than Darran, wore a custom fitted jerkin and rich trousers, and wore an actual metal cap on his head.  His face was shrewd and already showed signs of coming manhood; the look in his brown eyes showed his confidence and disapproval for Darran.  The flag was raised and Threodran fell on Darran like a wolf.  Darran parried and ducked furiously, sweat quickly covering his face, as he was forced to defend himself from the onslaught.  Every time Darran tried to make a thrust or stab, Threodran's blade was there to parry it then its tip would shoot toward Darran.  They circled round and round the arena; Darran realized that, as good as he was, Threodran couldn't get through his guard and was thus trying to tire him out.  Darran tried a complex feint and disengage, trying desperately to get his sword past Threodran's.  The noble boy smacked Darran's sword to the side and struck toward his exposed chest.  Darran was forced to throw himself to the side, scrambling hurriedly back and away from Threodran's sword.  Threodran advanced, sword out and ready, wanting to finish this match.  Darran saw the opening and took it, and fell into Threodran's trap.  Threodran parried down, smacking Darran's blade down into the dirt, then he slashed at Darran's hip.  Darran, never letting go of his sword for that would have signaled defeat, ducked swung around, coming up behind Threodran; who spun around, sword flying through the air in an arc.  With a jarring crack, Darran blocked the downcut, then swung his arm to the side bringing Threodran's sword with him.  Threodran snatched away his sword from Darran's control, snarling, and thrust it forward.  Darran caught the wooden blade, but Threodran again pulled it back.  Darran shot his tip forward, his aim true, and slid his blade under Threodran's cross guard and against his fist.  Threodran struggled to free himself of Darran once again, but by twisting and manipulating his blade like Enaro had taught him, Darran kept his blade locked under Threodran's.  Finally, when his opponent paused for only a second, Darran twisted his blade; the blunt edge banging against Threodran's fingers and knuckles, bruising them.  Threodran snarled, but released his sword as his hand spasmed in pain.  Darran caught the sword in his left hand and held the two sword points to his opponent's throat.  Threodran sank to his knees in submission.      

King Ereneor, hand under his chin, sat watching the fight between the peasant boy and Arim's son.  The peasant boy disarmed and won the match in a spectacular move; the king joined in in the applause that followed.
"Aréthios," he called to his chief advisor, "what is that boy's name?"
"The peasant boy, Your Majesty?"
"Yes, Aréthios."
"Darran, Your Grace, a son of a tanner, Tharrad."
"So it shall be Darran that will come to the palace."
Aréthios cocked his head. "But, Your Majesty, he is a peasant, the son of a tanner—"
"Yes, I know, you said that already.  That boy is prodigious in his talent: eight bouts, Aréthios, against the finest young swordsmen in my realm, and he disarms them all.  He deserves a place in the palace.  Who knows, perhaps he might stay and rise through the ranks; we shall have to find out, won't we?"                                         

Oratory Library: Founding of Narenior

"By the gracious order of immortal Magus Imperator Nais VI, may his empire last forever, the lands of Theden are to be protected by five kings, all answering to the Magus Imperator.  The provincial governors of the four ancient provinces of Avria, White Reach, the Algond, and Middland are to be elevated to kingship by His Eternal Majesty.  Naren Vale, the Southernlands, Arnas, and Lortheora shall remain under direct control by His Majesty, the Magus Imperator in his new, glorious capital of Lortheoren.  The eastern provinces shall be ruled by the Adeptus Imperator of the East, Artheus tur Thalyen.  Aurdeth tur Fara-Daruein, due to his excellence in battle and just politics and loyalty to the Imperator, is crowned protector of Avria, which was taken from the Beastmen in the name of the Empire.  May Freyjis grant you and your people fertility, Tyron; protection, and may Aldrein guide you."
The envoy from Lortheoren rolled up his scroll, his gaze on enthroned Aurdeth.
"Nais, our glorious Imperator, gives you and your line full control of the army and internal affairs of Avria.  But he reminds you, as you rule your land, to remember who gave it to you."
"You may assure the Eternal Imperator that I shall.  Is that all, envoy?"
"Yes, your Majesty.  Will you allow me to return to Lortheoren now?"
"Go, and the Sanctum watch over you and the Empire."
The imperial courier bowed, somewhat shallowly, then left along with his companions.
Bannar, Aurdeth's chief general, stepped closer to the throne.
"So, we have two imperators now; one in the south and one in the east.  I told you that Artheus would be elevated.  Too many connections in Lortheoren."
"His Immortal Highness in Lortheoren is no worry to me.  But I don't like Artheus... too ambitious with too many resources at his disposal.  He will want a foothold in the west."
"The Algond and Middland buffer us from the Eastern Empire.  For now, we are at peace, my king."
Aurdeth nodded, shoulders relaxing.  Avria was at peace; White Reach was it's close ally; the Algond and MIddland were preoccupied with Wilders, giants, and Artheus, Aleronia was going through internal troubles, and Theden was weak from the recent splitting of the empire and constant decaying of the Imperator's power.  And Nulcarn and the Scourges were gone.  The Breach of Baragrond had happened two generations ago when Nais VI's ancestor, Magus Imperator Kallen I reigned in Amoniroth.  Even a band of orcs hadn't been seen since.  Aurdeth looked up again at his favorite general.
"Are the people gathered for the ceremony?  Is the priest ready for the coronation?"
"Aye, they're all gathered and ready, your Majesty."  Bannar nodded.
Aurdeth rose, maroon robe rustling as he did.  He strode across the stone hall, booted footfalls echoing off the high gray stones.  It did not take long for him to cross the squat hall; he flung open the doors that led to a balcony overlooking the simple stone city of Avara.  A great crowd, most of the inhabitants of the city, were gathered at the foot of Aurdeth's keep, along with a number of Aurdeth's soldiers.  At the sight of their new king, a great cheer and hundreds of shouts, prompted by the soldiers, thundered up to Aurdeth.  Bannar came up behind Aurdeth on his left side and Thesces, his head judge, on his right.  Honath, the chief priest of the city, came last of all.  Aurdeth knelt before the cleric.
"By the will of the Sanctum and Magus Imperator Nais VI, I give you the purple mantle of rulership," here the priest laid a purple and gold-laced cape upon Aurdeth's shoulders, "the oil and ulein crown of kingship," Honath anointed the dark hair of Aurdeth with fine oil and crowned him in a circlet of white ulein leaves, "and I, by the will of the Sanctum that flows through me, place the scepter of Law in your right hand and the sword of Protection in your left hand.  May you use them both wisely and justly.  I anoint you with a new name to mark your entry into Theden kingship.  Rise, King Aurdeth Ascerean, and rule your people."
Aurdeth Ascerean rose to tumultuous applause.  The soldiers, armed with spears and horns, blew a mighty fanfare and banged their spear hafts on the cobbled ground.  Bannar stepped forward and bellowed over the applause and horns.
"People of Avria, will you bow to your new king?"
Suddenly everyone was silent as, first the soldiers, then the civilians knelt on the ground, heads bowed in acceptance.  Aurdeth put his hands on the cool marble banister of the balcony.
"Rise."  he called out in his commanding tone, filling the silent air of the city square.  Everyone did so.
"Today, after six years of labor and blood, sweat and tears, this land is starting in a new direction; one of growth and peace.  Six years ago, this fertile land was lost from the light of Theden.  Ruled by minotaurs and Wilders it was; roaming free and unchallenged, they raided and slaughtered, no legion or cohort able to follow them through the Numinean Wilds.  Six years ago, I led many of you brave people through those same Wilds.  Six years ago, we began a war that seemed endless, even hopeless.  But we kept on fighting, we held on, you kept on fighting, you held on.  Many of you lost family and friends to that war, the blood of good and noble Theden men was spilt for this land.  But as some of us fell into despair, what happened?  Because of our determination, because of our spirit, we slew the minotaurs, the centaurs, the ogres, and we killed Menaderik and his hordes!"  the stones of the castle shook as the people cheered at this last statement.  "And now this land is at peace, free of war and strife.  We conquered this land not just for Eternal Theden and ourselves, but in the name of Naren Vale and the ancient kingdoms of Men!  Like our ancestral homeland, our kingdom shall serve as a beacon of light and strength for Ages to come!  And for this reason I rename my kingdom to honor our old home: Narenior shall be our home now.  Together we shall make a kingdom, a legacy that our children will inherit and carry themselves!  Long live the People of Narenior!"                   

Oratory Library: Olgrim

The Longbeard sat on his granite seat of judgment, glaring down his broad nose at Olgrim, who stood at foot of the Longbeard's tall podium.  Olgrim tried to rub his swore wrists; the iron shackles had long ago worn away at the skin.  The Longbeard turned the thick parchment page of his great tome.
"Olgrim Kjorzam Ulv-Durikhson, you have brought heavy shame upon thine own clan by your rebellious and treasonous behavior!  By the laws set down by Dorûn Khazad-Dinün and the sons of Dorûn, your punishment is Khnalr-Burzuli*, and the Breaking."
The dwarves sitting in the hall gasped, Olgrim's mother sobbed into her handkerchief.
The Breaking was a severe physical punishment devised by Dorûn the Conquerer to subdue resistant clan chiefs; it involved beating the dwarf in public, breaking the dwarf's fingers, tying his hands to a sword hilt, and forcing him to fight against wild beasts until he dropped dead.
Olgrim's father, a respected Iron Helm**, Ulv-Durikh stood up, armor rattling, and called out in his booming voice,
"Honored Uldîn Khazad-Dinün, Longbeard, mine son has dishonored his family, his clan, Kjorzam, and it's chief, Hrothdi the Dark-browed.  Khnalr-Burzuli is to be expected; but please, Wise Longbeard, I could not bear to watch mine only son be beaten and slaughtered like a goat before mine own eyes!"
Uldîn furrowed his imposing, white brow.
"You may be a respected member of your own clan, Thurngson, but the law of Dorûn is final: either your son perishes in the Breaking, or he may always choose to become Nameless."
Olgrim looked at his father, the elder dwarf tugged on his peppered beard, eyes downcast.  Olgrim turned his sullen gaze to his weeping mother, his sister, aunts, uncles, grandmothers and grandfathers.  If he stayed he would bring burzuli on his family and entire clan; being a high-ranking member of a clan came with heavy responsibilities.  He furrowed his dwarven eyebrows, biting his lip.  He couldn't stay, he would die and bring shame on everyone he knew and loved.  But, maybe... no, no one had survived the Breaking; except the legendary Thurdrinn Orzandir, but he was legend, make-believe.  Although, to be made Nameless in this Age was very dangerous, what with the resurgence of the Underborn and other creatures of the Deep creeping up into the dwarves' highways.  Olgrim, face set, exhaled, chest falling, and looked bleakly up at the Longbeard.
"I shall be declared Nameless, Longbeard."  Olgrim muttered.  Glaring back, Uldîn banged his iron gavel against his granite podium.
"Summon Chief Hrothdi Ardjornson!"  boomed the Longbeard.  A guard rushed out the great doors of the judgement room to fetch the clan chief.  A few silent minutes later the stone doors burst open; Hrothdi Dark-browed, famed for killing a Thurrloc chieftain with his bare hands, and his retinue of servants and guards strode into the hall.  Hrothdi looked Olgrim up and down with his deep, brown eyes, then, armor clanking together, he ascended the the seat next to the Longbeard's.
"So, you choose the Rite of Anonymity?  You do know what it will be like, being Nameless?"  Hrothdi asked from atop his stone chair, in his quiet baritone voice.
"I do know, Honored Chief, I shall except Clanlessness as a punishment for my actions and to prevent burzuli from coming upon Clan Kjorzam."  Olgrim said loudly, standing straighter in his chains.  If he was to be exiled from dwarven society, he would still walk away with his dignity.
"You are brave, Olgrim Ulv-Durikhson, and I honor your decision.  Therefore: I cast you from mine clan, Kjorzam, you are no longer mine kinsman, mine servant, nor mine clansman.  The ring, Olgrim!"  Hrothdi said for all to hear.  Olgrim, still shackled, plucked the clan-ring off his right hand and gave it to a guard, who passed it solemnly to Hrothdi.  The clan chief drew his hammer off his belt, setting the soft golden ring down on the rough granite of the podium.  Hrothdi raised the hammer above his head and with an echoing boom, the ring was no more.
"Proceed, Longbeard."  was all Hrothdi said.
"For your crimes which you committed are stated here: murder of a soldier of Khazad-Dinün, stealing from a Khazad-Dinün vault," here Uldîn looked up from his parchment down at Olgrim, "and threatening and abandoning a noble of the Khazad-Dinün clan."  Longbeard Uldîn closed his great book and once again held his iron hammer.
"I pronounce you Nameless," he brought his hammer down on the granite, "Clanless," boom went the hammer, "devoid of inheritance," boom, "privileges of dwarven society," boom, "honor or shame," boom, "and are henceforth exiled from all the territory of Khazad-Dinün and the Eleven Clans, and no longer hold the protection of dwarven law.  From this day on, Olgrim Kjorzam Ulv-Durikhson shall never again exist in Dorûn's Law.  Clan Kjorzam and Olgrim's family are free from khnalr-burzuli.  May the Ældrarir watch over you, wherever you go." boom went the hammer for the final time.  Olgrim's shackles were undone and he was escorted with little ceremony past his weeping family; the family he would never see again.  His father gazed sadly upon his son for the last time; his mother, Surlif, wept into her handkerchief, leaning against her elderly father for support.  Olgrim was led to the outskirts of Kjorzam-Khnazlagn, given a suit of chain mail armor, an empty knapsack, and a sword.  Hrothdi and Ulv-Durikh watched as the great gates of the city of Clan Kjorzam, solid rock bound with iron and adamant, slowly screeched open.  Ulv-Durikh embraced his son wordlessly.
"Farewell."  Hrothdi said.
Ulv-Durikh stept back from his son, a tear in his wrinkled, gray eyes as he gazed into the red-lit dimness beyond the gates of the gleaming dwarf metropolis.
"We shall meet again, mine son."  Ulv-Durikh whispered.
With one last look at his father, Olgrim, now wiped from all dwarven archives, could bear his own shame silently in the darkness of the Deep.  He shouldered the pack, sword at his hip, and, slowly at first, walked off into the darkness.                          




*"Clan-shame", this includes loss of rank, social respect, and military service.  The dwarf who caused Khnalr-Burzuli must shave his beard.
**Iron Helms are elite dwarven warriors, heavily armored and armed, who guard clan chiefs.

Oratory Library: Kharad-Thavarik

The ornate, adamant-bound stone gate buckled once again.  The dwarven cohort readied themselves for the slaughter.  The crossbowmen reloaded their repeating crossbows, others tied bandages around wounds, and still others prayed to Dathlus for courage.  The remaining Deepguard put back on their masked helmets and re-braided their beards.  The last two golems towered at the front of the ruined hall, their shadows elongated in the light from the flickering torches mounted on the carven pillars; facing their coming demise with emotionless calm.  The great doors shuddered as a numberless amount of those cursed Underborn threw themselves at it.  A ferocious, deep, roar was heard by the dwarves.  The Cursed Ones had a troll.  The arch above the gates read in the dwarven runes: Kharad-Thavarik, great and noble stronghold of Paragon Thavarad and Kjorzam clan.
Newly instated Commander Haløndrid Kjorzam wiped the black ichor of the Underborn from his red beard.  He stumped over to a group of dwarf warriors who were binding wounds and broken limbs, and sharpening their blades for the final assault.
"Hostir," Haløndrid said in his deep bass voice, "how much longer do you believe we can hold?"
Hostir stood up, ikvarûr (a hammer pole-arm) in hand, and saluted his commander.
"Commander, they are so many, and we to few.  We will not survive another breach of the gates; there is no where to flee.  If we were to abandon our posts the monsters will sweep through and slaughter all the bôlaigs.  This kharad is the only wise place to hold off the Spawn of Filth.  Mine only advice is to done your helm of war, Commander."
Haløndrid nodded, "That I shall, captain.  Make your prayers, Hostir, ask Dathlus to watch your wife and son; be glad Fortune gave you a son."  he turned to the rest of the cohort, "Dwarves, ready yourselves!  The final battle falls upon our shoulders.  Make thine selves ready!"
The dwarven company rushed to their positions behind the barricades of metal spikes, crates, and the corpses of the fallen.  Haløndrid, clad in his heavy, geometric, plate armor, donned his masked helm; his face becoming that of a stern, adamantine, composure.  He walked to the front of the chamber where the two golems stood like two eternal statues.
"Golems, tell me how many Underborn did you count in the last charge?"  Haløndrid ordered, thumping one on the adamantine flank with his hammer.
"I saw four hundred and thirty-seven Cursed Ones retreat from their last assault.  They have a troll with them.  Our numbers are fifty-four plus us golems.  Any further engagement with the Underborn will result in our demise.  Awaiting orders, Commander."  the golem spoke in a deep, metallic monotone.  Haløndrid marched back behind the barricades; he turned to his men, raising his voice and crying out:
"Prepare thine selves, O Sons of Kjorzam, the hour draws nigh!  Pray to the wise Ældrarir, braid your beards, put on the clan-rings and clan-medallions!  The bastard spawn of heathen gods are crashing against our gates like the waves of a dark sea, wishing to overwhelm us and drag us all into depth and darkness!  But ye shall say 'No!  I am a son of great fathers, one of the Khazadi of the Deep and follower of the Wise Crafters!  I will stand like a man, like the Paragons of old! I will make a stand here like the very stone of the mountains!  My cry shall be Victory and Death!'  So come!  Let the hall of Thavarad Basilisks' Bane flow with Underborn blood once again!"
The hall shook as the dwarves roared and shouted, banging the shafts of their ikvarûr against the filthy stone floor.  The great doors to the chamber were hit by a mighty blow, they buckled, and gave in; falling to earth with a thunderous crash.  The horde of twisted orcs and gorrlocs swarmed in through the broken gateway.  The dwarves shouted, charging into the sea of monsters.

Morgrill picked his way through the dark chamber, carefully stepping over the multitude of corpses that littered the floor of the once great hall.  Other Nameless moved about nearby, searching the bodies of the slain dwarves.  Urikk slipped up beside Morgrill.
"It appears the civilians had been evacuated before the attack.  They also had with them near fifty Runed Golems.  The original size of the Underborn force, counting the ones we slaughtered, looks near seven hundred."
"Thank you, Urikk.  Of what clan were they of?"  Morgrill asked.  Urikk stooped over, his scratched armor clanking as he did so.  Taking a clan-ring from the mutilated hand of a dwarf, Urikk straightened, squinting at the runes on the adamant band.
"Kjorzam clan, sire, this one looks to be a high ranking commander and Deepguard."
Morgrill stood in the gloom, brooding.
"Kjorzam is failing, they have forsaken most of their kharads and bôlaigs.  Now," he turned to his companion, "gather the men.  We are moving on; the Cursed Ones cut their way deeper into Khazad-Dinün territory with every passing day."
The Nameless outcasts regrouped and marched silently from the hall, into shadow and war.      

Mundus religions

Men and Halflings: All of the human nations and halflings worship the entire Sanctum.  Though Narenior has Tyron as it's patron, Cinteras has Laverna, Tevanth has Toren, and Alerond has Aldrein; most human kingdoms hold special reverence for Aldrein alone, Fellaran, though, has Hurenus as it's chief and mightiest deity.  The Theden Empire of early antiquity worshiped twelve, heathen Old Gods, who might have been real or merely make-believe deities, or a group of gods that post-Theden Ilendor has forgotten.  Later Theden was converted to the veneration of the Sanctum by Magus Imperator Amurion.  The only human kingdoms that are different or non-polytheistic are Thray, who have a system of fire-worship, and the Wilders worship the Twelve Gods of Chaos.  Halfings most often take up the religion of their neighbors.
    
Elves and fey: have their own, enigmatic, Elven Sanctum, the Aon Eadryl Court, with Morrigan as it's chief goddess; which gave birth to the elven tradition of priestesses.  Not much is known of elven rites, all that is known is very different from the practices of men.  Elves, especially the Alarish, view their gods as pantheistic; the Elven gods are present everywhere in nature, everything in nature is present in the Elven gods, so the elves say. Dark elves still have pantheism as a belief, but they worship Lurre and other selected Old Gods.  Sorrow elves are atheistic, and have been since their founding.
      
Dwarves: Dathlus is the creator of dwarves and the chief of the Dwarven Sanctum, the Ældrarir.  Dwarves have their own myths and stories of the gods, and give them Khazadi names and hold them in different respect.  The two most important being previously mentioned Dathlus and his brother Vrojmjr, Cunnbeus, who gave runes to the dwarves.  Dwarves have a special hatred for followers of the Old Gods, due to conflicts with the early Theden Empire and ongoing losses to the Underborn.  Because of this, the Darzu clan, or grey dwarves, who went to Ullanis to worship the Gods of Sorrow, are loathed and hunted down by the Khazad Clans.  Dwarves, grey dwarves included, pray to their ancestors for guidance and protection of their homes.  Dwarf families have a shelf, cupboard, or alcove where in they keep remembrance runes, and statues of their ancestors, where they call on the spirits of their forefathers every morning and evening.  One reason for the dwarves veneration of their predecessors is to link to which clan and family they are part of, and to show their descent from a Paragon, if any.        

Dur and Vadarin: Due to their common origins, Dur and Vadarin worship powerful spirits from the Varafell and possibly Tumult.  A Dur caravan pledges itself to a specific spirit, which are probably Dreamers, and ask guidance and protection from the spirit and it's underling spirits.  Dur make decorative carvings and charms of symbols pertaining to the patron spirit.  Each spirit will have two major holidays: Midsummer, when the Varafell and Mundus are closest; and a day in the year important to the specific spirit.  Dur believe that if a caravan is loyal to it's spirit, the god-spirit will send a Thoughtless to the clan and take it's wisest spiritsayer on an otherworldly journey; called the"Voyage of the Mists".  Dur are common soothsayers, or spiritsayers, because they believe calling on spirits to tell the future and make predictions and weave charms will quicken when a Thoughtless will come.  Vadarin worship one of the powerful spirits, possibly a Dreamer, Izraphemon: The God of Science.  Izraphemon is cold and harsh, a god of mathematics, logic, and advancement; moving the Vadarin forward in an unknown scheme.  While Vadarin aren't hostile, especially to Thrayans, and have trade relations with most of the Five Kingdoms of the West, Vadarin are secretive about their works and the rites of their religion.  Izraphemon is feared and studied by most men, elves seem to hate Izraphemon and distrust Vadarin.

Dragons and Dran: The dragons of Dahkrim of the Elder Age practiced a mysterious religion called Dahklir, a belief-system of elaborate rituals and enormous temples.  The few expeditions that have returned to Thedea from Dahkrim and old Theden texts have reported ancient clearings surrounded by grotesquely carved fang-shaped pillars and columns, and the ruins of massive temples seen on some far-off mountain top or cliffside.  It is postulated that some of these temples were also fortresses used in the prehistoric wars against the Old Gods, similar to the ancient ruins of Elvanyan.  According to legend, tribes of humans lived on Dahkrim, worshiping the dragons as gods.  The dragons shapeshifted into men and women and mated with the humans.  Their offspring were the first Dran, men-dragons, mighty warriors of strength, endurance, and magic.  Some rustic Dran still hold onto the beliefs of their ancestors, the dragons, and practice a modern form of Dahklir, while most Dran worship the Sanctum.

Underborn and Beastmen: In the Elder Age, before men arrived in Naren Vale, while the dwarves were building city-states and crafting ancient marvels and impossibilities, and while the elves were building their continent-spanning empire, Nulcarn, Dark Lord of the Old Gods, made the Underborn from slime and earth, the blood of elves, dwarves, men, and giants, and from his own dark essence.  The Underborn, twisted versions of the surface races, worship and follow the Ancient Ones without question.  The Underborn are, besides dunruvali of the ancient world, the servants of the Old Gods and are unleashed in great hordes during a Scourge.  Underborn don't necessarily worship the Old Gods so to speak, but just do their biding.  Underborn who are chosen by the Gods of Sorrow, mostly kurlocs and thurrlocs, are called Emissaries; Emissaries are the only mages of the Underborn and derive their power from the Blighted Gods themselves.  Beastmen worship the Dread Twelve out of their lust for power and conquest.  It could also be that beastmen are creations of the Twelve Gods of Chaos.  Emissaries are found among the beastmen as well as among Underborn.  

The Shattered Lands; a place of mystery and peril; a place few have entered and even fewer have returned from.  But it is into this land that Othus must venture into to save his kin and kingdom.  He is only armed with his sword, a few days rations, and his wits.  Othus is on a desperate race against time; if he does not return soon, the Archon will cast Judgement on the Middle Kingdoms, unleashing the Ancient Ones upon the world once more.  Othus must seek the aid of the enigmatic Queen of Mists and her legions of Eldar to help him in his desperate plight against the capricious Archon and the ancient forces he claims to control.