|
|
Biryn Longmarch
Recent InfoBiryn
meets Greely Streve. Biryn
tracks Greely down at his 'office' on Besn Chop. "Watch
the harbour this night." At
this point Streve leans forward and coughs politely.
The
pieces of the puzzle have been laid out before me, all I need do is bring
the disparate elements together." For once, Biryn is speechless. A more thoroughly researched case is find hard to imagine, and all questions of Sira's integrity are put from your mind. This was too orchestrated, too planned...too fated! ----- Original Message ----- Well, not exactly gimmes. This person certainly
appears to be able to > GMJ, heres some questions I've cobbled together from
some of my previous Humar & Guthrin have regular rows about the
allocation of spending but they A monk has been seen on and off over the last year with
Humar, mainly during
Guthrin has been called "The Harpy" by fellow council members and the name Nusmoy and Guthrin don't seem to get on well at all,
constantly battling for Nusmoy's Council Chairman position is an interesting
one, with little Nusmoy is the exception rather than the rule. She is the
first Cleric of Dunna Revin hopes to increase the role that magic plays
in the governing of For over fifty years, Mazba Olinher has served the city
in his capacity as BackgroundA member of the Arnak Order, his High Priest is the Yarthraak, the ultimate power and the reflection of Eissa on Kulthea. Also strong in the church is Lord Vult, a godlike servant of Eissa, who scours the land and ‘cleanses’ the undead. Sworn
in at birth, Biryn was trained first as a priest, but then, showing
aptitude for weapons, as a Holy Warrior of the Order.
This rigorous and at times bafflingly harsh training lead to
strength of character and an unshakeable belief in the majesty of the
Church, as well as a passionate hatred for the undead. He
has finished his martial training and is now embarking on the magic arts
aspect of the Order. He
still has some way to go. HistoryAs you leave the café to head back to the temple, you reflect on this afternoon’s events. You
walk down the familiar street, smiling as the temple comes into view.
The bright aqua dragon traced on the doors of the temple, always
began to glow softly as night fell, illuminating the street before it.
Tonight the doors are closed early and you frown, puzzled as to
the reason. The two young acolytes at the door stand a little straighter as
you approach. Ah, it was
Fenir and Brook, good lads who you had handed out commendations to
during martial practice yesterday. “At
ease, lads.” They visibly
relax. “Why are the doors
closed tonight?” you ask. “Sir,
the priests are in conclave tonight, temple is closed to the public as
usual, sir.” states Brook. “Aye
sir, conclave, sir.” Adds Fenir unnecessarily. You
privately wonder why there was no warning of such a meeting this
morning, but no matter, you can hardly expect the priests to consult him
with everything. You
nod, as if you had known all this all along.
“Right then. Goodnight
to you both and I’ll see you in the yard again tomorrow.” “G’night
sir.” You
open the side door by an iron handle worn smooth with use, and step
inside the temple. The
temple was normally full of city-folk, stopping by to pay their respects
to the Lady Goddess Eissa. While
not fearful of her as some nations were, the Lyshaki were comforted by
her constant presence. Tonight
however the large antechamber is deserted, lit only by the glow of
candles and the enormous mosaic of the curled dragon of Yarthraak which
glows powerfully. There was
power in the temple tonight. You
stride down the steps, coming to a stop before the huge dragon.
Kneeling, you give thanks to the High Priest, to the Lord Vult
and the Lady Goddess Eissa. A wave of calm washes over you, all of your minor sins and
transgressions of the day are cleansed, your worries eased and questions
gently pushed aside. You
find a spot of inner calm and centre yourself.
This
moment of pure harmony is broken by a sharp popping sound, which causes
a tiny tremor though the floor. Your
eyes snap open, senses straining. The mosaic before you swirls
disconcertingly and as you watch, blurs and shimmers, two images
fighting for the same space. You catch a glimpse of a cold and rocky landscape, blustery
snow whipping across it. Suddenly,
there are two figures standing before you.
Both are dressed in long travelling cloaks and as they shake the
snow and ice from their shoulders, you catch a glimpse of white hair
inside the taller man’s hood. “Good
evening my son, I have travelled far with grave news for the priests,
will you tell them that I am here?”
The voice echoes directly inside your head, your alarm at their appearance fades away, to be replaced by a certainty that
this is the High Priest of Yarthraak.
You
touch your head to the floor, your feelings racing.
What chance this meeting?! “Aye
your worship, I will fetch them directly.” You rise and keeping your
eyes averted you move towards the stairs at the far end of the temple. As soon as the High Priest is out of sight, you take the
stairs downward two at a time, running along the corridors to the Dragon
Room. As
your heart stops racing you catch your breath at the double doors. From inside you can hear voices raised in anger.
Brother Ynth was shouting something about troops, while another
voice – you recognise it as Brother Tung – attempts to calm him. You
reach forward and knock twice. The
voices fall silent within and the door is opened by Brother Tung.
“Yes, Biryn what is it? You
know we are at conclave, this had best be important or it will be the
worse for you.” Well
do you remember Brother Tung’s history lessons in your youth, and
having no desire to repeat them, you calmly inform him that the High
Priest of Yarthraak waits on them in the Antechamber.
A strange look in Brother Tung’s eyes betray his depth of
feeling, that is certainly more emotion than you have ever seen from him
in the past. He gathers
himself and turns to the other priests in the room. “Biryn
informs us that our prayers for help and guidance in this matter have
been answered – the High Priest awaits us.” From
your vantage point in the doorway you can see that all seven of the
priests are gathered here, which is odd because you had heard that
Brother Faemar & Brother Richard had gone to Cynar, to oversee the
building of the new temple and to offer advice on the disappearance of
Prince Keir. The
looks that pass among them are mixed, but you can sense fear from many
of them. Tung turns to you. “Thankyou Biryn, you may go.
We will attend to the High Priest.” “Yes,
Lord. He is in the
antechamber.” Notes & RumoursThe
Nore by and large run the city, although they only make up about 30% of
the people in Norek.
Legend has it, hundreds of years ago a corrupt king was
endangering the fate of the city and one morning the entire city woke to
find that several hundred Nore soldiers now occupied the city.
They were not seen entering the city by the night guards.
They tried the King for being an agent of the Unlife and formed
the Council to govern in his stead.
There
are nineteen bridges in Norek, each one with it's own name and history.
Three
years ago a hunting accident took the life of Prince Halek of Helyssa
and his heir, Prince Kier, has disappeared and has not been seen since.
Political turmoil dominates Helyssa and the surrounding regions.
The temple is aiding the search for the prince also.
Three Paladins who came through the training with you have been
sent to Cynar to bolster the temple's presence there.
To
keep stability in the region, the Priests of Yarthraak have taken over
regency in the city, mediating the the squabbles amongst the lesser
nobles.
Particularly from Lord Boshkar from Vorn, who has always claimed
that Vorn should be the ruling power in U-Lyshak.
His standing army is ready to back his claim, but as yet he still
moves through diplomatic channels, hoping to garner enough support for
an official title grab. Many
adventurers and thrill-seekers try and brave the dangers of the Remirath
in search of the valuable Miran wood. Yesterday
your confirmation as a Knight of the Order was marred by a protest from
three monks from the shrine of Shaal who enter the temple with five
Sentinels. They point to Brother Kan. "
That's him!
We saw him leaving the Council Hall the night before last." Brother
Kan leaves with the Sentinels and the ceremony continues.
Later you find that Brother Kan could not have been the one that
they saw as he was manning the poor cart in Dag's Edge on the evening in
question.
Still, the monks seemed pretty convinced, Yarthraakian cloth is
imported from Northern Jamain and is not easy to come by. Last
week you overheard one of the priests discussing Cay and his position in
the Pantheon.
The shrine on Besn Chop has recently fallen into disrepair after
the death of Renir Markman, the old priest who tended and an auction was
held recently by his daughter.
The library purchased most of the scrolls and books.
Nusmoy, the High Cleric of Eissa has been chosen by the Goddess to stand as Council Chairman. Although she is not directly attached to the the Temple of Yarthraak, she has had much to do with it's introduction to the peoples of U-Lyshak. Recently she has been seen at the temple a great deal less, preferring the sanctuary of her own small temple and presumably the presence of her female acolytes who reside there. |
Personal History |
|
Even this early in the autumn small flakes of snow drifted down from the dark grey clouds above the valley. Swirling around in the chill breeze blowing down from the higher slopes, whistling through the scattered patches of tall scythe grass. Biryn
pulled his cloak tighter around him as he crested the entrance to the
lonely high pass and looked around him. The thin and weedy trail that
had taken him this far continued on, down onto the snaking floor of the
stone vale. From either
side rose a slow rolling slope, barren greying and yellow grass broken
up by scattered rocks and granite boulders. The thick grey clouds that
swirled above, heavy with early snow, draped themselves over the tops of
the hills, dragging out curling streamers of mist behind. The valley
was some six miles long. Through the thin sheets of sleet passing across
the vale Biryn could faintly see the far side, the trail disappearing up
into the clouds and higher mountain peaks. He was glad he did not have
to venture further up the trail, the Cold Passes were no place for a man
at this time of year, especially this lonely trail far from the usual
trade routes. What Biryn
had come for lay in this small dell. There, halfway along the path, he
could see it. A small stone and wood bridge crossing a rivulet, and just
beyond it a small cairn of rocks. Trudging down into the valley the wind
became stronger, swirling around the empty basin and trailing his cloak
out behind him like a flag. The bridge
had been built many decades earlier, in the last great drought. A rich
land holder had decided he would try his hand at summering the flocks in
the high valleys where some water was still said to flow. The food for
the flock here was too scarce though, and after only a few months he
ordered the flock back down to the plains. The bridge had been made wide
enough to allow cattle and sheep to move freely across, but was built
economically, rising only about 3 feet above the creek, with sturdy
stone footings. As Biryn
approached he could see it was now in a sad state of disrepair. The
stonework was a testament to the land holders workers, standing up well
against the weather and floods, the wood of course though, had split and
rot, collapsing into the frigid stream in a mess of logs. Too heavy to
jump across in his chain armour, Biryn braced himself as he waded into
the icy clear water, making his way past the tangled logs and up the
side of the far embankment. The path continued on for about 100 feet
until reaching the cairn. Biryn
looked closely at the marker. It was made of piled flat stones held
together with a simple mortar. As he moved closer he noticed that a sign
had obviously once sat at its top but was long gone, a depression in
mound of the mortar the only evidence that it had once been there. “Blast
this freezing weather, and blast my cold wet legs… dammed folly.”
Biryn cursed to himself. “Why do I even have to be up here?” … ~~~~
The
regent of the High Priest himself had in fact ordered him on this small
pilgrimage. He had called Biryn into his small austere study . “Biryn,
you are a fine fighter, your training reports bear this out,” he had
said, “but you must practice composure. A Holy Warrior such as
yourself should not be so fiery headed. And a Holy Warrior of Eissa
would most certainly not use language the likes of which I have heard
you utter.” Biryn
had only nodded, shifting uncomfortably in his seat… He had tried to
become more at peace with himself, more attuned with Eissa his god, but
it seemed so hard to maintain that composure ALL the time… This was
probably why he had fallen so far behind in his spell studies. He could
feel the divine presence of Eissa, and occasionally channel the great
power held therein, but more often than not, he became impatient and
frustrated, losing his connection to the deity. “I
think,” the regent stated slowly, “that you need a break from the
temple, from your training. “ Biryn had begun to protest but rested
himself back down in his chair as the regent continued. “Ah! Let me
finish! I think you have spent enough time learning the ways Eissa,
perhaps it is time you began see for yourself what evil it is that you
have sworn to help Eissa banish from this world.” Biryn’s
ears had picked up at that. A chance to adventure for a time perhaps,
maybe even a chance to take on some of the unlife foes he had learned so
much about in his training and readings of the work of Lord Vult. “I
think you need some time alone Biryn. Some time to meditate and calm
your soul. You will make a fine fighter one day, but to fight the undead,
to fight any corruption against life, a true warrior of Eissa needs more
than just a good sword, he needs the power of his god flowing through
him.” Biryn nodded in quiet approval. “Perhaps
some time in the high valleys would be beneficial, a test of character
as it were.” The regent had stood up and begun rummaging through a
sheaf of old velum papers in a case behind his desk, he pulled out a
small piece or parchment from the pile and handed it to Biryn. " I
know of a quiet valley where you might spend some time alone, away from
the everyday distractions of the temple, this map, a little scant I’ll
admit, will guide you there.” “Many
thanks good regent, “Biryn stood to leave, “I am sure some time away
on my own will do my contemplations good…” Bah! He had though as he left the room. Spending time in a barren high valley with no one but the clouds for company! What use is that? And what chances of a fight at last in that quiet part of the world?
The
cairn was a marker for a thin beaten path that rose away from the main
road, up towards the southern side of the vale. Biryn found a small
stone on the nearby ground and placed it on the side of the cairn as a
mark of respect to its builders and then began his ascent up the small
path. Further up
the barren slope large granite boulders jutted from the ground like huge
stone fingers, the wind whistling between them. Biyrn hunkered down
behind one to take shelter from the wind, the light that filtered down
through the heavy cloud overhead began to fail as night closed in. “Well,
no point in going any further.” Biryn thought to himself.
In the dim late afternoon light he could see the path continued
up the rocky slope. He assumed it made its way over the hills to another
old pasture valley, but could not quite see. “I should rest here for
the night.” The
wind called a low moaning sound as it moved through the rocks around
him, and darkness slowly crept
across the vale. “I would rather be reflecting on divinity in my own
room with a good fire…” Biryn thought to himself Out of the
wind, behind one of the great stone fingers, the chill was not too bad
though, and Biryn was soon comfortable in his bed roll, his cold metal
armour set to one side to allow him to sleep better.
In
dreams Biryn strode into the vale once more. His cape billowing out
proudly behind him in a strong breeze. Sun streaked down from a blazing
sky and the air shimmered with the heat of summer. The tall weedy grass
he remembered had withered from the heat, turning a pale yellow and
crunching underfoot as he walked with every step, the parching wind
whistling and crying as it sung through its dead fingers. He
scanned the valley below him. It looked much the same as when he had
first walked in he thought. The stream was dry and hot spinning yellow
red dust devils skittered across the dry earth. The heat was over
powering, sweat and dust mixing on Biryn’s brow as he squinted into
the sun. Across
the dry hollow vale, baking dry in the summer sun one small detail
dragged Biryn’s attention toward it, like a speck of sand in his eye,
irritating and out of place. A dark
shadow seemed to be floating over the cairn of stones, flapping ... A
ragged black flag dancing in the wind, out of place in this land of the
dry red and bleached yellow. A chill
ran down Biryn spine. The heat of the day leeching out of him. His sweat
turning chill as it ran down his spine. This
black flag, this black pennant, twisting and turning in the hot summer
dry air. He began to pick up his pace, making his way toward the bridge
and the pile of stones. ‘This
is not right. This should not be here.” The hair
on the back of his neck beginning to rise as a clearer picture of what
really sits there above the cairn forms. Standing below the black form
looking up at it now. Hanging
from a beam set into the cairn. Turning and creaking, swinging back and
forth like a clock passing time, passing its shadow back and forth
across Biryn’s face the sun casting a hole around the black shroud as
he looks up at it. A
shepherd. His face blank and white, drained of life. Dried blood and
spittle at the corners of his mouth, eyes open, mouth agape at the
surprise of death. Dried blood running down his bare neck where the
noose has cut into the folds of his skin. The wind howling in a hot
blast, spinning him like a top, a child’s toy. A game. ‘Who
would do this to a person? Who would leave them out here in the sun,
with no rest in death? Why has someone not cut them down.’ Biryn
glanced around furiously, looking for some explanation. There is only
the rocks and dry grass, the dust and the wind… “I
shall honour you death friend. Your body will rest soon.” Biryn talks
up to the swinging body as he unsheathes his sword to cut it down. The
howling wind through the rocks and dead grass stops, giving pause to
Biryn, his sword half drawn as he looks up again at the corpse. It has
stopped spinning and faces him now, its dead downcast eyes seeming to
look at him. The brown dried blood flecks from its mouth like dust, as a
rictus grin passes across its face, thick half clotted blood and plasma
spilling across its brown teeth and down its chin… “No friend…” rasps a voice that echoes with all things dead and unspoken that lie beyond this world, Biryn is frozen with fear… “you
have done enough simply by coming”. |