B.T.V. -- Session 04 Prelude: When the Doctor Calls

Renaissance sat comfortably on his bear lined couch, Dwarvish ale in hand, memories occupying his morning.


The sun was newly risen in the sky, casting an amber glow through the house

It struck a corner cabinet and the single object inside. A helmed head.

Renaissance had fought many battles during his lifetime, Decideon the Der Alphmar, the champions of City State, Prince Gaynor, The Baron Meliadus, Exemplars of Set, the final war of the Inundation, Lord Carmine of the Mule, Ceriestrident and many others. But none had compared to the last.

Yrkoon. And Mournblade.


It had been a terrible battle, Ranthurm and its allies, including the Countess Yselda of the Margue, facing the forces of Darkness and its champion the Marshal of Wounds. Renaissance had little recollection of the overall battle, only of that most brutal engagement, and most vivid, its ending. Mournblade had taken his left arm just as his axe took Yrkoon’s head. How Renaissance had survived that cut remained something of a mystery as the twin of Stormbringer vanished at that same moment. Perhaps the death of its wielder had sent it in search of a new one, perhaps it was a world lost to its desire, perhaps another darker reason. But it took no more from him than his arm, allowing Renaissance to survive, and witness the victory they had for so long hoped for.


And yet it had not been without cost. Many had died. Friend and foe alike. Much of the land had been scourged. Life had suffered greatly. But then hope replaced fear. And the healing began.


For himself, while many had tried to make his limb whole, even unto the spirits of the Veightal, in the end he was told that whatever is taken by such a dark blade can never be restored. His friends and allies fashioned new armor and weapon resembling an older set he had once worn, perhaps as a way to deny him the melancholy such a diminishing of body might foster. He assured them otherwise, but accepted the chantried crafting in the manner it was given.


Sreigorn, the Epitome of Rangers, presented to him High Boots, that he would never slip and fall regardless of surface or terrain, no matter how rough or icy, and that his step might be the slightest bit faster than his normal stride. And most importantly, that his feet remain warm and dry, and comfortable despite any length of journey. From his longtime friend Ironmane was fashioned a helm. The once Battering Lion had long been associated with such armoring, and described such as much a mask as a helm, reflective of the wearer. What that meant, Axewing could not say, and Ironmane explained no further, for he was a reticent man at best.

The great axe which he learned to wield by the single hand, was a gift of the Countess of Margue, Yisselda, daughter of Count Brass and widow to the Eternal Champion Dorian Hawkmoon for his aid in securing her land and people.

Forged beneath the temple of Phoenix Ash and gifted to him by the God Anubis, was his cuirass. And in the seeing of it, he understood it had been blessed by the God Ptah, who was now known as the Dragon of Time. And where that Noble Thought had touched, lay a scape of stary void, reminding him of another armor whose heart swallowed the unwary.

From his son Cealathonan and daughter-in-law, he was given a silver vambrace, and told that while wearing it, he would be afforded some protection from charm, illusion and attacks of the mind.

And from Cabillion, an ancient assassin, he was offered an elbow spike. ‘For those close confines when the Axe is big to be of use, and moment when your strength cannot be properly applied, this small thing will show its worth.’

And finally, his curtain link shoulder cape that covered his missing limb in the finery and ancient crafting of the King of Dwarves. A precious gift from his longest and dearest friend, Handfist. It protected him, interposing itself as a shield might. It acted like its maker, of its own accord, without any guidance of its wearer. And like its maker, always there at his side, when he would need, without the asking.

He gave up most of his attachment to the Color Orange. In truth, his association had always been peripheral, not integral. While he retained some small cantrips, most of it faded to a past no longer relevant. Though his Gifts of Light remained at the call, for what reason he knew not. When he asked his friends amongst the Chaerin, he would only receive a stoic silence in reply.


He had kept his title as Protector, but the Kingdom of Ranthurn had passed to son Cealathonan and daughter-in-law Yseth, now King and Queen. His ancient allies had settled into their new lives. The Cadavviva Hadreone he had bargained with were true to their word. They had defeated the Emperor of B’ritagne, and held that land for their own, bothering none beyond their borders. The Countess of Castle Brass held the other tip of Logresse. And the central remained for the most part as it had been, less the influence of the agents of Darkness. All had seemed final, and a great weariness had settled on the shoulders of Renaissance. It was a good tired, however. But not one without dreams. Or at least a single dream that took him both during sleep and the wakeful hours.


The visit of the Doctor, and the offer he had rejected. It seemed a certainty to him that the visit had occurred only a moment ago, and yet he knew it must be otherwise. He could make little sense of it.

A knock, or rather a bang struck the door.

“Come,” said Renaissance.

Into the cottage stepped a Wayfarer. He hadn’t seen this one before, but recognized the telltale look.

“Protector,” bowed the visitor, holding out a satchel.

“What’s this?”

“Reports. I was told you had not been to the Freehold for many weeks, and that you should see these.”

Renaissance took the satchel, opened it to spill its contents onto a small table. “I don’t know you.”

“Parvanell, Protector. Only 6 months made. Most of the Order is out investigating.”

“Investigating what?”

The Wayfarer simply nodded at the scattering of letters and scrolls.

“Help yourself to the mead. And there should be bread and cheese in the back with what’s left of a roasted chicken. From the look of this, I may be a while.” “Thank you, Protector,” said Parvanell, heading into the back kitchen.

Renaissance spent most of the morning, and some of the afternoon reading, and in some cases re-reading the documents before him. They spoke much the same thing. Murders. Missing people. Caddaviva. There had been inquiries of course of their war allies; Hadreone denied in the reports these were his, at the same time suggesting the Cadavivva were like their racial counterparts, meaning they were not uniform in their motives or desires. Not all from the same brush stroke. But in saying that, he implied something most dire.

That there were others.


It was dark when Renaissance finished, writing a small noted to give to the Wayfarer to return to the Freehold. He would leave in the morning for the Koss of Lore to seek guidance.

He dreamed again that night of the visit by the Doctor, realizing that the Doctor was wearing the mask-now-helm he had ripped from Ceriestrident. Renaissance had found no answers at the Koss of Lore, only more questions. On his return to the mainland, he encountered a grouping of Cadavivva, finding difficulty with their dispatching, but glad for the encounter. It filled him with an energy long absent, and a resolve that only the violence of battle can instill. His second encounter with them was easier. And the third he called his gifts of Light. However, it did not end. They did not end. Finally, he was forced to withdraw, seek ways around or between them. What was happening? Where had these come from? And in such number?

It was after days of such perilous trek that he found himself free and alone. He had lost his mount in one of the many encounters, and the forest cover dulled his sense of direction. However, the signs of ruin became a trail that led him to what he recalled was the Koss Arburh.

Renaissance had never visited the ancient keep of royal lineage, now deeply in ruin and succumbed to the reclamation of the Forest. He found a moss-covered block of Koss stone to sit his battle weary bones down. And catch his breath.

Renaissance breathed deeply of the place. His limbs were sore from renewed use, but it was a good pain. While his mind swam with the thought of the Cadavivva, he also possessed a strange calm—without doubt a result of the verdant life around him.

He opened his eyes, surprised they had shut. While the ruin was as he remembered, it was also changed. There was a living energy pulsing from the forest life, tendrils of wispy seeds floating like raindrops in the air. And there came to him a voice that sounded as a gallery, and he saw it. The Cadavivva. He saw them in the sky, saw them across the canopy of stars, saw worlds fall, and the Mainstays vanish. Logresse was there, a stain upon its green map, spreading, consuming it.

And he knew from looking at it, that It was not a war that could be won.

He thought of his son, his grandchildren, his friends and loyal retainers. He thought of living things become dead. And he wept.

A cold wind caused him to open his eyes. He was standing in a mountain pass, one that led to the eyrie of Defiant. He heard his name, not Renaissance but an older perhaps truer name, Axewing. And Doctor Fate stood not far away as if awaiting an answer.





It was time — time to step where the doctor told him to, into Shadow and on to Axidusk. Doctor Fate made this sound like a natural course to take. Axewing knew it was only that he’d become used to the oddness that ordinary men would not understand. It had become clear to him that remaining was pointless and that hope demanded he stride forward to this other world. He took the doctor’s guidance to heart and let Shadow take him. His last sight of Logresse was of the tree of life, Arburh — scorched and battered but still resilient enough to stand, in that moment. There was no certainty of its future. Axewing took that last glimpse with him, hoping he would not be the last to look on it.





Axewing will stand upon Axildusk. The skies will welcome Defiant, his gryphon. 

Like Axewing, Defiant has lost everyone who mattered to him. The gryphon knew fury and cold violence for the undying hordes. His spite was not measured. He lashed out at others as well. Axewing had managed to reach Defiant’s mind and made him see a more reasoned approach. Consideration returned to the gryphon, or as much reason as he had once shown. The Gryphon King had never been stoic nor careful. He was a creature of passions and saw all men and worlds in simple terms.


The sky of Axildusk is muted. Black overcast is the norm. Red-lace clouds filter their meandering way about the sky. These clouds are the remains of the latest disaster to befall the world and its leading race, the Draegerans. Their use of magic resulted in a catastrophic incursion of Chaos. The red and black 'Enclouding' was merely a side effect, but it meant that crop yields had been reduced. Plants' growth had changed, some had perished. Extinctions extended beyond plants to the creatures that relied on these.


Axewing and Defiant will satisfy themselves that the sky will permit their travels and that it holds no unsavoury diminishments for them. At the start, they will make their way randomly across the land they have come to. The land is called, Banners.


Banners will prove it has seven masters. Each is loosely associated with the other six. All can claim a common ancestor — the founder of the House e’N’varr. Each holds as a place to call home, a sky-freed parcel of land. These seven 'aerial earths' travel where the Axildusk winds push them. There are smaller parcels of land, flying islands too. These sometimes gather ‘round the larger islands in the sky. Other small pieces float along on their own.


Axewing will show the land below his true colours first. He will view the strange hues of the land and sky without concern. He knows whatever trees’ colourations, they at least are able to survive and that means a great deal to him. He will learn from a Terrar, that there are some on Axildusk called, druids. Axewing hopes the druids will be similar to those he’s known. The Terrar he will meet is named, Scamble. He calls himself a tribesman and will strike Axewing as similar to a descendant of Roofdrak, Lored Dogg.


Then Axewing will cross paths with his first draegerans. A band of roving men seeking to stop travellers and remove anything of value from them. Death won’t be a required part of the one-sided transaction until Axewing refuses to be parted with any of his belongings. The leader will call himself a Tsalmoth and name himself, Zamorre. Axewing will ask this as he knows this one will be the first to die if he will not be convinced to stand down. The Tsalmoth is not convinced. He and his three men will be dealt with by the two newcomers. Defiant will remark that their blood is warm and red and somehow this is comforting to him to know.


Further meetings of others will occur. Humans will be encountered. They won’t be virtuous or helpless or kind or miserable. They are only men who do what they do and act as they wish. They are confined by the Draegerans, not in a jail of stone and steel but held by the wisps of society and the structures of the laws of the land. Axewing is at ease telling those he meets, human and draegeran alike, his name. He says little about Defiant, allowing those that see the gryphon to make up their own story. The men of Banners spread the word of an unusual human easterner and his decanted creature.


There will come a moment when Axewing will see one of the seven skylands. It will be called, Scythe. Defiant will take him upward to it. They will head through the Anceer Gate of Scythe and meet Asher Zi.

Their future awaits. It will be.

Transcribed by A.Fraser