Oratory Library: Tordric

The group of soldiers spread out, swords and shields still held at guard, their breath still haggard and their brows slick with sweat.  Another raiding band of Underborn had come out of the Hareldrens; another village of defenseless freemen had been slaughtered; and another contingent of warriors had to dispatch them.  The corpses of the orcs and gorrlocs lay strewn on the ground, their black blood pooling on the ground, mingling with the noble blood of good, dead, Fellaran men.  Herric, the veteran captain of the soldiers, and Godin, their magician, peered through the dimness as they stood at the front of the men; Herric in his full suit of plated armor and Godin in his simple jerkin.
"They're all dead." said Godin, the muttering of the soldiers around him, "It was a blessing there was no kurloc leading them."
"A blessing we'll try to keep.  Gather the dead and what ever supplies you can salvage!  Double time!" ordered Herric.
The soldiers hurried into the rough camp, lifting their dead fellows from the ground and scouring the dark tents and piles for supplies.  The sun descended lower in the sky.  Soldiers came back with some extra provisions they had salvaged among the ruins of the orcish camp and others loaded the dead in a wagon, to be taken back to their byrnors and given proper burials.  A soldier suddenly ran up to Godin, a bandage on his matted head.
"Ser, you should come see this." he said, then lead Godin between the piles of filth and broken tents; to where another warrior was standing, his sword pointed down at a bundle by his feet.
"I thought you should see this, Ser." the warrior, Thelden, said to Godin.
The bundle of filthy rags squirmed.
"Thelden, what's in the blankets?" asked Godin, puzzled by the soldier's odd behavior.  Herric and the other soldiers came clattering up next to Godin.
Thelden shoved the pile over with his boot, sword point never leaving it.  A sound like a cry and a growl came from the thing under the pile of rags.  It was a creature Godin had never seen before; it was the size of a very young child, but had mottled brown and black skin, wisps of long, filthy hairs on its rounded head, and two, jagged, yellow teth protruded from its mouth, but was the shape and form of a human child.  Herric looked down in disgust at it, then up at Thelden.
"Is that a–?"
"An orcish infant." Godin breathed.
"Nasty, ain't it?" said Thelden, eyeing the ugly creature.
"These Underborn must be from Thund; no Deep orc has ever brought their whelps with them... in fact, no one has ever known they had whelps." Godin said.
"Thelden, get rid of the brat immediately." said Herric.
Thelden raised his sword for the kill, when Godin strode forward, peering down at the grotesque orc infant.  He looked at the shape and size of its head, the thickness of its limbs.
"This is no orc whelp," he said aloud so the Fellaran soldiers could hear, "but a kurloc child.  Look at the size of it, yet it is only old enough to wiggle and cry."
A murmur ran through the gathered warriors.  Herric and his captains strode up next to Godin, all looking down and examining the creature, who lay squirming and crying.  Kurlocs were born to orcs only rarely, they were natural tribe leaders and warriors, standing eight or more feet tall, with the strength of more than ten strong men, kurlocs were known simply to tear their enemies in half, and they had the endurance of a bull, able to run or fight for an entire day without tiring.  It took an entire company of soldiers sustaining moderate casualties to kill a single, full-grown, kurloc.  
"Thelden, kill it at once.  An orc, much less a kurloc, has no right to live in our world." ordered Herric.
A thought, an idea unlike any he had heard or experienced came to Godin's mind then, just as Thelden's sword was about to come down on the kurloc infant.
"Wait!  Stay your hand!  Captain Herric, do you not see what a unique situation we are in?  Never before has man seen an orcish child, and now here, on this night, we find an abandoned kurloc child.  Could we not carry him to Narrin Hold and raise him as a soldier, an immensely powerful warrior to fight for us?" Godin said to Herric and the assembled captains.
"Godin," Herric said, "I see your plan, but he would only have to grow a little to be a threat and a nuisance; he'd be at our throats in only a couple years.  And how would we raise him?  It, that thing, is an orc, a kurloc much less, one of the Underborn, the sworn enemies of our race.  How would we take to being raised by humans?  What would we feed it?  Entire pastures would be emptied to fill its appetite.  And then what about its savage lust for battle and blood?  It would quarrel with everyone, no matter if a noble lord or common freeman, and then what about its lust when it grows older?  It would frighten the women.  No, Godin, we must kill it now."
"But we must at least try, Herric, what harm will that bring?  I will raise him, in secret.  I can use my magic to help me in the process.  As for his appetite, we shall deal with that when the time comes.  But please, let me try."
Herric looked down at the crying beast, then up at Godin.
"Fine, if you want to raise the monster and burden your kingdom thus, it is not on my head.  Take it, if the high king approves, raise the thing as your own if you have such love for it, but I doubt any honest maid in Narrin will nurse that thing.  And when it runs wild and brings ruin on you and Fellaran, just remember I warned against it and had no part in this." Herric turned and strode off to the waiting horses, followed by his captains and the other soldiers.
Godin scooped the grotesque child up, wrapping it in an extra cloak he had.  Godin could see his thin face and light brown hair reflected in the tiny monster's black eyes.  The growling crying stopped and the creature lay there in Godin's arms, silent and heavy as a stone.  Godin hurried to join the others and mounted his horse.  The company rode through the night across the fells and moors of Fellaran, reaching Narrin Hold in the hour just before dawn.

The kurloc child lived with Godin at Narrin, the seat of the Fellaran high kings, where he lived in secret, known only to the king, Godin, Herric, and the highest ranking byrns.  The king, Ethelic, provided Godin with nurse maids and caretakers to help raise the kurloc as a weapon, a weapon to fight for the kingdom of Fellaran in its losing war to more and more Underborn.  Godin named the kurloc Tordric, after the unlikely Fellaran hero of legend.  Tordric fought and squirmed when he was fed or held, his natural instincts crying out at being raised by humans; but eventually he grew to like the milk of humans and grew to see Godin as his father.  Godin, who had simply wanted to save his kingdom when he rescued Tordric, did grow to love the kurloc child.  Tordric grew at an incredible rate, able to throw small boulders at five, and nearly as tall as Godin at ten, Tordric was given sword masters and trainers from across all the human realms to teach him swordplay.  Tordric grew in might and talent, taking quickly to the arts of war.  He was also taught strategy and all the trappings of war and military campaigns.  Godin, in his spare time, taught the child court manners, reading, writing, poetry, and music.  When Tordric was twenty, he was finally allowed to go and fight, everyone was wary how he would react to seeing and fighting his own kind for the first time; Godin had prepared him and told him about the Underborn and their savage behavior.  Tordric, weened on the milk of women, was taller than normal and driven, and because of the love of his father, was civilized, strong, and loyal to his adopted race.  All the byrns and teiyans protested and were outraged that old King Ethelic had secretly raised one of the enemy within the walls of Narrin Hold itself, but all that rage turned to grudging respect as Tordric, raised to be a super-soldier, led daring assault after daring assault; always victorious, and his men always returned home.  Tordric was given a new title, "Thane of All Fellaran", meaning the entire kingdom of Fellaran was his to protect.  Tordric led a small cadre of men and retook the city of Ætheling nearly single-handedly, and massacred a host of orcs and trolls that had arisen in the Hareldren Mountains.  Tordric is known as the Wolf of the North and is the envy of the other human realms who desire such a loyal super-warrior to fight for them.            

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?"