Moral and Actual Bankruptcy

“What do you mean ‘Danté’s dead’?!”

The two old men bristle at each-other, each one blaming the other for the far away failure of a third old man.

“Exactly as it sounds. Our secret deal with the Assassin has ended in abject failure.”

Dunning and Kruger have never particularly liked each-other or had any respect for the other’s opinions. Both men originally sought the Stowanian crown for themselves and then, after Urdurel’s peace offer, both men thought that they’d be the first choice to be his named successor in place of his murdered daughter and disavowed son. 

It’s fifty years later now though, fifty years of weaselly sycophancy and slyly currying favour. Decades of promoting their own self interest, while actively undermining each-other. Despite both men holding positions of great influence and prestige within the country, second only to Lord Urdurel himself, that promise of absolute power is still, frustratingly, beyond either of their reach.

The initial speaker; Dunning, whispers a second question.

“Do they know we were behind the attack at the border?”

Kruger purses his already wrinkled lips.

“No. No, I don’t think so. Danté’s association with the Witches is smokescreen enough.”

Both old men fall silent for a moment before Kruger continues.

“If we don’t find a way to stop Urdurel, he’s going to bankrupt the whole Kingdom. The army is swelling to a size that the realm can ill afford to pay for long and he’s sent those adventurers off to offer full payment for that ridiculous prison tower, plus interest, to the Gnomes of Ambergis!”

Dunning responds with an equally bleak tone.

“Poison’s failed repeatedly and, unless we find another way to… stop him, there’ll soon be nothing left for either of us to inherit, even if those accursed demons are beaten back.”

Not Small - Father Away

Sitting in his oddly perfect but dull chamber, Arowe is startled by a sharp knock from outside. Despite the general condescension he’s received from the Grey Elves, they’ve treated him… cordially… mostly, and he’s felt safe at least. Rather than being a prisoner, the lock on his private chamber door is, reassuringly, on the inside.

Standing up, Arowe walks slowly to the barred entrance and slides back the bolt, before drawing open the door. Outside, he finds himself eye to eye with a thin but handsome Grey Elf, perhaps an inch taller and a century or so older than himself.

“It’s gratifying to see you inherited both my height and your Mother’s beauty.”

Arowe takes a step back further into his room. He’d come all this way, primarily to enlist the Grey Elves into the coming war, but also to discover his true ancestry. He hadn’t expected to meet the man so quickly though and felt somewhat unprepared.

“You’re my real Father?”

Looking the Grey-Elven man up and down, Arowe takes in the slender but athletic frame and well defined jawline. It’s like gazing into an unfunhouse mirror, where the colour and joy had been almost completely drained out of the reflection.

After a long pause, in which both men assess each-other, the Grey Elf claiming to be his Father, speaks.

“Look at us. Look at you. Can there be any doubt? Despite your name and title, your bloodline is as much Grey than High.”

Arowe instinctively moves forward to hug the tall Elf in front of him but stops short, as the other Elf’s response isn’t inviting. Instead, he gestures for his… Father to come in and sit down.

“Why was I not told of this before? Why didn’t you claim me? Why did I have to endure the contempt of my… High Elf… Father…”

Arowe falters.

“I’m sorry. This is quite unsettling. I don’t seem to have the vocabulary needed.”

The slightly older Grey Elf reaches out his fine boned hand and places it reassuringly onto his son’s.

“No, I’m the one who should be sorry. Allow me to fill in a few of the blanks. My name is Tamerlane, and the last time I saw your Mother; Lissomny, was the day you were born.”

Another uncomfortable silence settles over the two men, until Arowe eventually breaks it.

“Why?”

Tamerlane sighs.

“I was an ambassador for my people, looking to recruit the High Elves to our cause, but when I was introduced to your Mother, I was instantly smitten. As you know though, romantic relationships between our species is forbidden. That said, Lissomny and I would have braved the prejudice if the High Elf council hadn’t decided to break ties with the Grey. Not just break off diplomatic relations but to outright condemn us. I was driven out of Glendorne and your Mother, as a High-born Elf of the city, had no choice but to remain.”

Arowe takes in the story with a puzzled look.

“But you said you saw me when I was born?”

Tamerlane continues.

“I secretly stayed in communication with your Mother but she’d already settled on a practical plan moving forward. Despite my objections, she married a grasping minor High Elf noble, to give you a chance of a good life. I think she hoped that your Grey heritage wouldn’t present itself quite so obviously though.”

The handsome Grey Elf falls silent again for a moment.

“I slipped into the city unseen and made it to your Mother’s bedchamber. You were asleep in the cradle next to her. She let me hold you but insisted that her plan was the correct one and she was already married. Was this… Filligren not even a little good to you?”

Arowe twists his mouth, trying to find something kind to say about the cruel and petty man who he’d thought had been his Father. Tamerlane spares him the grief though.

“Lissomny assured me that it was all for the best, but I see now that I should have fought harder for you. Fought harder to be in your life. I’m so sorry… my son.”

Eternally Ancient

Lord Urdurel’s hand trembles as he gulps down his morning goblet of the magical Fey water and he feels it literally wash away the weight of the previous day. As an added bonus, the water is so pure and so clear, any attempt at poisoning it have, so far, proved impossible.

At almost a hundred years old, his eyes aren’t what they were and he has to stretch out his arms to focus on the crepey, liver-spotted skin of his boney hands.

To live endlessly as a feeble and arthritic old man? To exist eternally but in constant pain? To endure day after day, week after week, month after month, without any hope of finding love again or fathering more children?

Eternal youth is a blessing, but eternal old-age?

Placing the clear, crystal goblet down on his bedside dresser, Lord Urdurel stiffly clambers out of his bed with just one resolve.

“This doesn’t have to be forever. I just have to survive long enough to protect my kingdom, my legacy and my people.”

(S)Elf Respect

Standing in the austere stone hall, waiting to be received by the Elder Lord’s of Falutin, Arowe fusses with the now frayed cuffs and collar of his (long passed its best) pink shirt. Despite his extremely long lifespan, he’s never been the most patient of Elves.

He’d only arrived at the Grey Elven fortress a day ago but he’s already been surprised by what he’s seen and experienced.

After spending his youth physically looking down on all his Elven peers and then, as he grew older and taller, his elders, Arowe is amazed to find himself of a ‘normal’ height in this Elven stronghold. Even the women are only a few inches shorter by average. Their style and manner however are decidedly different from his own upbringing. His flamboyant pink shirt, despite being dulled by months of hard travelling, is still garish compared to the, well-tailored but deadly dull, design of their clothes. In fairness though, the Grey Elves’ pale skin, silver hair and flat personalities match their dress sense seamlessly.

He’d also worked out that the sniggering cry of ‘Hey-boy’ wasn’t a call to attention, but actually an insult term aimed at his mixed Elven heritage; Half High and half Grey. For whatever reason, Elven species interbreeding with other Elven species was viewed with more than a certain level of measured scorn. What was the phrase he’d heard repeatedly in older childhood, when members of the other Elven races visited Glendorne?

‘Keep your hands to yourselves, when you’re with the other types of Elves.’

Eventually, the overly large, double doors swing open and a silent underling ushers him into the hall of the Grey Elders.

Walking in, Arowe senses their judging eyes boring down upon him and he feels, every inch, the half-breed his ‘adoptive’ Father despised so much.

Arowe finds himself standing alone, centre stage in some sort of brightly lit court, with a circle of five austere Grey Elves seated high above, literally and metaphorically looking down on him.

After the servant backs out and closes the large doors behind him, a steady voice rings down from one of them.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

Squinting up through the spotlights, Arowe attempts to identify the speaker of that odd opening statement and braves an answer.

“I was sent by Estrid of the Fey. She told me that my Father… My real Father might be here. She also said that your help will be vital in the coming demonic invasion.”

Another voice barks out from above. A woman this time.

“You are young, but perhaps old enough to remember the Great Dragon’s reign. As a member of the High Elves, you’ll probably have a strong opinion on the choice the Grey made in supporting Theranthor.”

Arowe nods. His Father… Adoptive Father; Filigren had hated the Grey Elves, ‘Blood traitors’  he’d called them. They’d actually petitioned the High Elves to join the ancient Dragon; Theranthor in battle against the Demon; Zartak. While all the other Elven races were fighting both enemies on two fronts, the Grey went out of their way to protect the Blue tyrant and in turn, they were protected by her.

Yet another voice joins the conversation.

“Yes, we aided the great and evil Blue Dragon. I think it wouldn’t be too arrogant to say that we actively and effectively turned the tide of the war in her favour.

Arowe has heard the argument before. The Grey had apparently sent emissaries to all the Elven races, asking them to side with the Great Blue Dragon, but all of them, from the Wood to the High, even to the shadowy Drow, refused. A choice between two monstrous tyrants, wasn’t a choice they could stomach. True Elves could never be willing slaves!

A forth voice calls out.

“It wasn’t just the other races of Elves we approached. We petitioned the Dwarves and Gnomes too. All the long lived races. You see, as long lived as we are, we could afford to be patient, to outlive and outlast our opponents, and as phenomenally long lived as a Dragon is, they are still, ultimately, mortal. We could just wait, the already ancient; Theranthor out. Zartak on the other claw was… is an everlasting, immortal Demon…”

Calling up from his small stage, Arowe sneers.

“So you just chose the lesser of two evils?”

Finally the fifth voice rings out, but this one sounds slightly different. Male but with a hint of emotion… Pride?

“Exactly. We chose the pragmatic path, we chose to stand with the evil that could… that would die. A tyrant that we, as a people, as the long lived Grey, could survive!”

Countdown to Sundown

We finished the last session in the mountains of Agentia. Specifically, the almost entirely empty and abandoned mining town of Grott-Warren, but you suspect that whatever killed the townsfolk, will return come nightfall.

As for the next online game, I’ll only offer up two possible dates for August, so as to maintain my monthly ‘mental health’ gap between sessions. After that we have September to try. Are all of you free for the morning of any of these weekend dates?

August 

Saturday the 29th

Sunday 30th

September 

Saturday the 5th

Sunday the 6th

Saturday the 12th

Sunday the 13th

Saturday the 19th

Sunday the 20th

Saturday the 26th

Sunday the 27th

My preference is August, but as I’m only offering up one possible weekend, I’ll understand if we fall into September. 

Edit: Already down to just three weekends.

Second Edit: Thanks for all of you responding so quickly. Long (7 week) wait until our next session. I’ll see you all on Sunday morning of the 27th of September!

Meditations on Evil

It’s been several weeks since they parted ways with the adventurers but Henshaw can still feel the influence that the Bard; Rifkin and the others had on him. Seeking out Barbella one evening, he asks his friend’s help in understanding his recent confusion.

“Are we defined by our actions or our impulses? Do you think we are born with our natures set and that they’re beyond our control?”

Barbella is a clever man but not so taken to angst-ridden introspection as his friend.

“You’re asking ‘if you were born evil; if it was your fate like, and you ‘ad no control over it, would you actually be evil or just an innocent puppet of the gods and demons what made you’?” 

Henshaw tugs at his blond thatch.

“I guess so. The Human gladiator; Fortu was a lot like us. Driven by his more beastial urges, but he seemed to be the master of them… more often than not. Could we not decide to do the ‘right thing’ as easily as taking the easier, more self-gratifying… more profitable path?”

Barbella scowls.

“I don’t like your intellectual flights of fancy. If our actions are set according to predetermined nature and the gods, then they cannot be evil. I’m just a man who enjoys killing, but I didn’t choose my preferences, so surely, rationally, I shouldn’t be punished for them?”

The newly promoted Captain Henshaw breathes heavily.

“Imagine if Doberman chanced upon a buxom servant girl, wedged front half in and plump bottom out of a low, ground floor window. She can’t get no traction with her legs and her arms are too puny to push or pull herself free. She’s completely trapped and calling out for help but there’s no one around but ‘im. We both know what he’d do, but is it right just because ‘it’s his nature’?”

Sergeant Barbella grins at the thought, a couple of his gold teeth flashing briefly in the remains of the daylight.

“Nice image but yeah. Doberman would be just acting on his base animalistic instincts. He’s too dumb to consider the victim. He’d just see it as an opportunity too temptin’ to pass up.”

Henshaw straightens up in his chair.

“See, that’s exactly the problem. You and I are smart enough to empathise and understand the consequences of our actions against that poor, beautiful, fictitious girl. A dangerous imbecile like Doberman must be controlled and held to account… held in check by men like us.”

Barbella stops grinning.

“You’ve always been more concerned with rules and laws than me but I’ll always be your friend. We’ve both done bad things in our lives, terrible things, but it’s always been about surviving in this brutal, dog-eat-dog world. I don’t share in your ‘crisis of faith’ though. I’ve done what I’ve done to get by and I’m not sorry. Killing’s what I’m good at and I won’t apologise for it.”

Henshaw places a hand on the back of Barbella’s neck and pulls him forward until their foreheads are pressing together.

“Doberman’s just a dumb brute but, you and I, we’re not just products of our pasts. We’re clever enough to see what we’ve done, what we do, is wrong. Surely, we can change… If we wanted to? Become better men?”

Unkempt Contempt

Liga Bur had encountered several Orcs on his travels since being driven from his Dark-Star clan in the Broken lands, beyond the boarders of so called ‘civilisation’. Young Orcs selling themselves out as mercenaries or guards. In the Human lands, they’d been a surprising number of Half-Orcs, rejected by their tribes or raised by their Human Mothers. None of them were fully accepted by the Humans though. They’d always felt a certain level of fear and distrust.

Understandable, considering the general Orcish reputation, but unfair never-the-less. As a Halfling, raised by Orcs, Liga Bur understood their mindset. He understood their specific morality and the pride they had in their race, their tribe and their emblems.

The seven ‘Orcs’ he’d encountered today though, shook him to his core. He’d always assumed that the silent Red-Eyes that drove his Father’s Dark-Star tribe further and further into the inhospitable Dead-Lands were just one, unwaveringly evil tribe. They all wore the same dark colours with a red circle on their chests. These ones though, they looked and acted so similarly; Silent, fearless and with eyes showing no iris or pupil, just blood-red sclera, but their tribal colours and emblems didn’t match. 

Although he hadn’t recognised any of them, he’d counted at least four different tribal symbols and rather than seeming proud of them, these Orcs seemed less than indifferent to them. Contemptuous even! 

No Orc, not even ones from the lesser tribes, would behave that way.

He’d instructed his friends to dismember the, somehow not-quite-dead-or-alive bodies. Hopefully that’ll be enough to stop them rising again, like the ones who’d attacked his adoptive family so relentlessly all those many months ago.