Lance

The BodyGuard

In the dark times, when the lands of Freiya were rent asunder by war and brother fought brother, the need for victory drove the peoples of the world to plunder the depths of the most forbidden arts, and to find reinforcements for their armies when they ran out of people that could be called upon. From the embrace of Rillifane Rallathi, Skerrit and Mielikki, and with the help of Moradin, Gond, Mystra and Tempus, a conclave of magicians created the Warforged – Neither living or dead, but alive and forged to do battle in the name of their owners.
With such varied needs, there were many and varied Warforged. The most common were ‘merely’ infantry, carrying a sword and a shield and thrown into the fray, to beat the enemy, and be beaten. To pick themselves up and return to the fray, or be pieced back together by the artisans and artificers, and throw themselves back into war. Others manned the Artillery, carrying the guns and the ammunition, and loading shells that no human or dwarf could have carried. Still others were given duties in other areas, from moving cargo and rations to archery and even scouting.
Some of the finest examples of their craft were engineered and constructed so finely their movements were silent and flowing, and they could see in the dark like an Elf, able to run back without being noticed to report on the enemies movements, or even, it was rumoured, to slit throats and crush skulls of enemy officers and sabotage attacks into routs.
The very finest of these were engineered and prepared like works of art, and assigned to the scions of their nations, to protect the rulers and their heirs from the potential for attack or assassination. One such Warforged was known as 0BW1-KNB. Assigned to the Crown Prince of Kyrila, he was wrought from the finest steel from Dwarven forges with golden runes, and fine, white porcelain inlays to make him stand out as one of the finest examples of his kind, worthy of his owner. His core was hewn from the heartwood of a mighty redwood that had once sat at the heart of an Iyathlian town, lending strength and toughness and representing the eternal righteousness of the Kyrilian cause.
For 3 long years, the young prince grew, and wherever he went, his protector travelled with him, always within arms’ reach, even as the prince developed a reputation for the bawdiest and tawdriest of entertainments. ‘Obie’ was not truly alive, and knew no better, so he saw much, said little, and when necessary placed himself between his liege and danger – Sometimes from spurned suitors, sometimes from abandoned lovers, sometimes even from debt collectors, for the Prince loved to gamble. The bodyguard was cleaned and polished by staff from the household and the armoury every night as the Prince had his bath, and he remained as stunningly well-wrought after 3 years as the day he left the forge and first saw the sun.
On the last fateful day of his life, the Prince was dispatched to see the reality of war. His sheltered and protected youth had ruined him, and he no concept of the true difficulties he would face when he assumed the reign of his country. Running alongside his horse, ‘Obie’ followed and looked to protect his charge as the approach the battle. Cresting a hill, the young prince saw the thousands of dead strewn about the field, the storms of magical lightning and flame, and smelt the burning flesh. Before he knew it, the Prince had thrown up on his bodyguard, horse and his own armour and soiled himself at the thought of going any closer and actually risking combat.
The General and other troops about him tried to hide their disgust. ‘Obie’ barely noticed. There were so many possible sources of threat and danger, he was having trouble coping, his limited life experience to date not really suitable for dealing with the tens of thousands of people fighting below, and hundreds of wizards, sorcerers and other magic users and creatures flaying them. He didn’t know how to assess the most urgent threat to the Prince, and so all he wanted to do was to get away from it, and take the Prince with him.
Without drawing his weapons, he took the bridle of the Prince’s horse and forced his way through the formation of solders towards safety. A Colonel stepped in front of him and ordered him to stop. Obie backhanded him and his pulped skull hit a nearby tree with his body trailing it. The red smear stained the red porcelain, and a fine crack showed, but the bodyguard led the horse, and the delirious prince, out of the group of soldiers that had been his Bodyguard and back towards the palace.
Unfortunately for him and the prince, an assassin had been stalking the prince, foiled only by the soldiers about him and his armour. As the prince came around and realised that he was moving, he pulled off his helmet, that stank of vomit. The Warforged saw movement, and his arm moved fast enough to catch the first arrow, and the second, but the third went into the prince’s left eye socket, and killed him instantly. The Warforged, realising its failure, fell to the ground, the light dimming in its eyes.
The dead prince and the broken Warforged were found less than an hour later. The Prince was conveyed for burial, his brother assuming the role of Crown Prince and proving to be a far better soldier and person than his older brother. The bodyguard couldn’t be roused. Artificers, Magicians, Sorcerors and others tried, but he was unresponsive. After months of effort, the King ordered him interred in disgrace in the cellar of a family home that had been promised to hi owner, but never taken up. The Workmen cleaned him, draped him in cloth and then bricked up the room he was in, to ensure he would not be found… The World Turns
As the Warforged sat, draped in a slowly yellowing and rotting cloth, the war he had been created for reached its climax at the Portal of Aberath, and the forces of the combines armies of Freiya were cowed by the Druid Sal-Durah Jin. The lands his resting place were situated in were ceded to the mercenary free company of Captain Belmoor, and became an abandoned, slowly rotting and collapsing outlier to the territory of the Order of the Mourning Star. He sat, without awareness of time passing, his porcelain slowly yellowing, and fine cracks developing.
His steel remained burnished for decades, but dust blew under the sheet, and crusted in his joints and about his inlaid runes. The house slowly decayed, and the earth settled and changed, causing walls to crack and crumble, and floors to collapse. Plants and trees overgrew the estate – First the outbuildings, then the house itself. Parts of the roof collapsed as damp rotted the beams, mortar crumbled, and walls collapsed outwards came loose as a mighty oak took root in the main entrance hall, and slowly pushed the structure up and out with its mighty boughs – Such can be wrought by the smallest acorn. And still, the Warforged sat, neither patient or resting, simply not working.
The ceiling of the room cracked, and the wind whistled through, but the doorway remained bricked up and sealed, built more strongly and more recently than the rest of the house. Vines and roots found purchase and widened the crack. And then, one days, though immune to the drip of rain, the whistle of the wind or the warming beams of the sun leaking into the chamber, something roused the Warforged.
“Help!” screamed a female voice. A young female voice. “Help me, please – don’t let them catch me. Is anyone here? Oh god, it’s a ruin. Nobody has been here for years!”
“Don’t you worry, young pretty!” called an ugly, damaged voice that matched its owner, as 3 figures came into sight, leaving the shadows of the forest. He carried a battered, but sharp sword, and a rag was wrapped about his left hand. “We’ll take good care of you, and we’ll dig you a grave in a pretty spot when we’re done.”
“That’s right, called the second figure, tall and slender as only those with elven blood could be, but with cold eyes, a ragged scar that went through the remnants of his cheekbone and right ear, and a voice that was once charming, when it’s owner cared to sound that way. “I’ve got some beautiful tricks to show you. They’re meant for elven ladies, but you look flexible. I’m sure they won’t hurt too much!”
The final figure lagged behind. His unkempt gear, stubbled, weak chin and watery eyes marked him out as a follower, a man with very little in the way of intelligence, cunning or any other redeeming feature. He said nothing, just followed his betters, in the hopes of catching scraps from the table, like a damaged puppy that no longer cared about good or bad.
The woman, well girl, could barely have been 16 summers, and there was a hint of elven blood in her – the eyes a little larger, the chin a little sharper, it wasn’t uncommon in this area. Though scoundrels acting so openly on the fringes of the territory of the Mourning Star was unusual and explained the fear on her face. They had thought they had reached safety, but now her brother would never join the Order, and she may not manage it either. Both simply lost on the long journey, and no one left to mourn them now their mother was gone to be with their father.
She picked herself up and stumbled towards the house, hoping she might find someone camping, or an old weapon that she might defend herself with, her belt knife lost in the initial attack, indicated by the small slash on the back of her hand dripping blood. She stumbled through the remnants of the back wall, and then into what had been the main hall, with a giant oak tree before her, wider about its trunk than 4 men could encompass. She wondered how long it had been since anyone lived here.
“Please!” she called, “Please! Can someone help me? They already slew my poor brother!”
As she ran towards the front door, it burst open. The cruel, cold face of the half-elf leered at her, and his rapier flicked out, slicing her cheek open. She screamed, a piercing, ululating cry….
As he stepped forward, a boom echoed through the floor of the structure. His eyes widening, the half-elf realised the cellar was intact and wondered what made the noise. Another boom was accompanied by a rumble and a crash.
He looked up and saw his companions rushing up behind their prey. The first human looked shocked, and the weak one behind him staggered backwards as a sword protruded through the floor, and transfixed him through the groin. Blood leaked, then it was torn to the side, and it spurted everywhere, and the thug collapsed. The weak-faced hanger-on turned to run, but a white hand burst through the floor, grabbed his ankle, and twisted. His knee and hip came apart, and he collapsed, screaming so loudly that the woman wondered how he could be so loud when there was so little of him. She felt an arm about her middle, and something cold at her throat. The half elf’s breath was foetid, stinking of bad meat and cheap mead.
“Don’t come near me, or she’s dead!! I’ll slit her throat ‘til she smiles for eternity. Just let me back out of the house and I’ll leave. I won’t even take her with me. Rat over there has the money and other valuables from her brother, you can retrieve them from him. He’s never walking anywhere again with that leg, let alone running.” He started to back up, pulling her with him. Both of them looked frantically about, wondering what would happen next.
They were almost at the main door, and he paused for a moment, his breath ragged and shallow. There was a splintering boom behind them, and he coughed, spraying a fine mist of blood on her shoulder.
“Fuck…” he whispered, and his knife hit the floor before her, as he slumped away from her. She took a breath to calm herself, and slowly turned about. A hole in the floor, 4 feet across was visible where the doorway had been, its edges pushed up and out by a great force. Between her and it, and past the body of her former assailant, was a strange figure – Dusty, and crusted with dirt, yet with the white of old porcelain showing through in smudges, and scrapes from the wooden planks showing shiny, bright steel and golden runes. It held out a hand to her, and she felt safe. Its hand was large, but odd, with reddish bark and wood showing around steel. She took it, and it was warm to the touch. Eyes like sapphires gleamed in sunlight that fell, dappled through the oak’s branches as she fainted, but her saviour caught her.

New Beginnings

Waking slowly, Bella realised she was on a bed, and that it was dark. A lamp flickered nearby, and two figures moved. One was an older woman, and she moved forward to check Bella, touching her face, sensitive and sore at the cheek, and the familiar pulling sensation of stitches. Hopefully, there wouldn’t be too much of a scar. The woman’s face was worried but kind in the lamplight. Behind her, a familiar figure stepped forward to see her better. It had been cleaned since she last saw it, and she could see the redwood bark in his limbs and neck, the steel plates, their golden runes and the white panels with their fine web of cracks and slight yellowing that gave them away as some sort of china or porcelain and seemed out of place with the grace and ease of his movements.
His eyes glittered again, and an odd, deep voice came from him as his mouth moved.
“I’m so sorry I couldn’t save your brother. I brought you here for aid, and led the occupants back to the house for the men who assaulted you. They found your brother and interred him. Are you ok?”
She studied him, and then considered, before saying “Thank you, I’m ok. But where am I?”
The woman took over at this point.
“You’re now at one of the border watch posts of the Order of the Mourning Star. According to the letter we found with your belongings, you and your brother had been granted admission to train with us. We’re only sorry that we weren’t able to help you faster. Our patrols were diverted to deal with a group of unruly Orks to the north, and so missed your assailants, and you. Be assured that you, and your protector here, are most welcome. He refused to leave your side till you woke.”
“How long have I been here?” Asked Bella.
“About a day and a half, Bella. I think that everything got a little too much for you, and you needed time to deal with all those shocks, not least of all the appearance of this fine gentleman, as he tells us of the events he recalls.”
She lay back, her head swimming. “Wait, how do you know my name?”
“The letter, silly.” Chuckled the woman. “I’m Anna, and this fine figure hasn’t given us a name.”
The Warforged straightened slightly. “I can only apologise. It has been so long since I last was aware, I have only vague recollections. This does not include any sort of identifier or name.”
Bella smiled, faintly. “Since you came to my rescue in my hour of need, I think I’ll call you Lance, from Lancelot. You’re my knight in shining armour!” Anna chuckled, and turned to Lance.
“Maybe you can let her rest some more, and go and see Commander Rupe now, Lance. She’s definitely on the mend. And can you ask the kitchen to send me some soup for her. I’ll take good care of her, I promise.”
Lance nodded, turned, and carefully opened the door to leave, being sure to avoid the frame and not cause damage. The smells of the night air wafted into the room, and then he closed the door behind him.
After calling into the kitchen, he paused on the way to the Commander’s office. It occurred to him to be puzzled at how readily everyone here accepted him when he was so obviously very different to them. His memories were... damaged, but he definitely recalled being treated very much worse before. He continued on his way, as there was nothing else he could do at the time.
Knocking on the door, Lance waited for the Commander to call ‘enter’ before opening it and stepping in.
The Commander, a grizzled and slightly disreputable-looking Dragonborn Male, looked up from the paperwork on his desk and said “Oh, it’s you. Do you have a name yet?”
“Yes, after Bella woke up, she decided I was ‘Lance’, from ‘Lancelot’, for being her knight in shining armour. I’m not familiar with the story, so I’ve taken her word for it. Anna seemed to think it appropriate, if amusing. I’m just glad I can introduce myself to people now.” Lance’s sapphire eyes gleamed.
A puff of smoke escaped Rupe’s nose as he snorted. “That figures, we always get the romantics. Listen, Lance. We’ve reviewed the area, and it appears that you were bricked up in the basement, covered in cloth. It’s obvious, since you cleaned up, that you’re a very fine example of a Warforged warrior, and so I’m puzzled as to how you got there, and why you stayed there so long.”
“I’m unsure, “replied Lance. I have vague recollections of fear, concern, and effort, then failure. After that, I recall nothing until hearing Bella screaming. That triggered my protective impulses, and so I figured out where she was and took the most direct route to save her. I must thank your artificer again for helping me with the damage to my hands, the metal is almost perfect again.”
Lance paced for a moment or two in the centre of the room. “I awoke armed with a pair of swords, one long and one short, and they are not cheap weapons, which support the craftsmanship used to create me. I thank you for letting me to continue to wear them. I obviously seem to know how to use them. I just don’t know why, or who I was. I’m very sorry that I can’t help any more, Commander.”
Rupe shook his head. “I hate to spring this on you, but I have a question for you - Do you wish to stay here, as Bella does, and become a part of the Order? I understand that it’s a sudden question, but you’d be an asset to us.”
Lance sat on a sturdy bench by the wall, and it creaked ominously.
“I’m really not sure. I don’t know who I am, and so I don’t know that I should be making promises right now. On the other hand, I’d hate for the damn fool girl have something unfortunate happen to her now I’ve gone to the trouble of saving her.”
Rupe smiled and shook his head understandingly. “Humans do the strangest things, somehow, but they’re very likeable. Those of us that aren’t human, we have to work around that. I have an alternative proposal for you. We have a good relationship with a number of Rangers that patrol the woods nearby. They cooperate with us, and we support them when they need a bit of extra muscle. I’ve seen you move, there’s nothing lumbering about you, and you have good instincts. One of them, and Elven ranger named Diraduial, has owed me a favour for a decade or so, and I know it bugs him. Would you be interested in apprenticing with him? His range is around this area, give or take a league or 2, and so you could call in and check on young Bella occasionally, and we could still work together, but you would have the freedom to see some more of the world, too. Diraduial might be able to help you find your way, he’s somewhere in the region of 400 years old, I believe. I can call for him tomorrow, and introduce you to him.”
“Thank you, Commander, I believe that would probably be a better option for me. I appreciate your assistance, and will repay the favour at some point. I promise. “Rupe smiled as best he could, and stood with his hand offered. Lance took his hand and shook it.

Lance, Hunter of the wilds of Kyrila

A Warforged of ancient manufacture, Lance is approximately 5’11 in height, and solidly built. He is not blocky but has elegant lines. His body is based upon Redwood and is clad and framed in burnished Dwarven steel, with ancient dwarven runes inlaid in gold. His plates of armour have inset porcelain, which has gained fine cracks with age indicating he probably originates in the times of the Portal War, though his memory is badly damaged.
He awoke unexpectedly, bricked up in the basement of an abandoned country home, and broke free, saving a passing woman from harm. The order of the Mourning Star offered him a position, but he chose instead to apprentice to the elven hunter Diraduial, which allowed him to remain in the area but take the time to figure out who he was in a less pressured environment.
HE has been the hunter’s apprentice for over 130 years before he was judged capable of setting out without supervision. In that time he saw many people he called friends die, including the lady Bella, who died a Commander in the Order at the ripe old age of 58, and Rupe, the Dragonborn captain who introduced him to Diraduial. After saving Rupe’s life several times during fights with monsters and bandits, Rupe succumbed to a lung infection aged 74, and complained to his last that he’d always planned to die with a sword in his hand.
Diraduial finally set the Warforged free from his apprenticeship the morning after Rupe’s death, sensing his last tie to the area should be loosed, allowing him to find his destiny in a world in need of people that could meet its challenges, and defeat the scourge of Corruption, as he did in his own way. Each treading their own path, in their own way, to their own destination.

Lance's Freedom

Lance spent years learning from Diraduial, apprenticing as a Ranger to learn new skills, and to rediscover older skills that were clouded by years dormant. As he grew more confident, his visits with the watch post and others helped him to learn to be social. While not as gruff as his tutor, he was hardly a social butterfly - but he learned a soldier’s humour, dark and quick, and became familiar with commerce and bargaining at the towns they visited. He also learnt to use the fear others had for him to come out on top of arguments when necessary.
When he was given leave to be a free agent, there was a certain amount of confusion as he had to figure out how to be his own master. The commission he was offered to hunt a rogue officer was precisely what he needed, as it gave him a focus to build on. He didn’t expect it to take more than 6 years, and crisscross the lands of Kyrila and beyond, but he learnt that his opponent, corrupted as he was, retained his intelligence, experience and charm. Because of this, many aided him, or obstructed Lance under the belief that the Warforged was an enemy of their land. And yet he persevered. If there was one thing Lance had, it was patience (and stubbornness), and he occasionally made a friend or ally that he might be able to call on later. Periodically he sent dispatches back to update his progress and educate the Officers of the Order back home of his progress and the depravity of his prey’s actions for the foe.
When he ran into an annoying and arrogant young elf and a mad old man with incredible power used casually and insolently, he thought it a distraction. He had no expectations that they would lead to his quarry, and free him from his commission. Now he may even have found friends to journey with, and a new mission to pursue.

A Warforged of ancient manufacture, Lance is solidly built.His body is based upon Redwood and is clad and framed in burnished Dwarven steel, with ancient dwarven runes inlaid in gold. His steel plates have fine ceramic inlays that show fine cracks.

Current Location

Balon

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