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.