Tycho Ralesh

Tycho Ralesh (a.k.a. The Maelstrom Blade)

Forged in the bosom of the Rhennee, tempered in exile from all he loved, Tobias Tycho Ralesh is a keen, agile duelist who bolsters his martial prowess with eldritch and arcane dweomers. With an ever-present cocksure grin, he has an easy-going confidence that often strays into bravado. Tycho’s early years were dominated by the stability and comradery of Rhennee life. He and his brother Ilias had gained a reputation as young, inseparable brawlers: Ilas as a pugilist and Tycho as a duelist. After an ill-fated choice at the age of thirteen, Tycho found himself separated from family, culture, and the rhythms of river life. The next four years found Tycho alone, and struggling to survive in the shadow of Greyhawk City. Aimless and betrayed, he felt driven toward a darker road when a complete stranger gave him a renewed sense of destiny and then disappeared. As if by fate, Ilias found Tycho that very moment, after years of searching. Tycho never shook that sense of converging destiny; it led him into a life of adventure.

Physical Description

Body Features

Tall for the Rhennee, Tycho has a trim, athletic build. Though not overly muscular, his lean frame and confident bearing project an air of strength.

He eschews most Rhennee trappings: tattoos, piercings, elaborate beards and jewelry. One might call him unremarkable, but his peak fitness and classic physique command their own notice.

Facial Features

Generally clean shaven, Tycho has the unblemished olive complexation common of the Rhenfolk. Though plainly young, his dark brows, strong nose, and commanding jaw strike a man's visage. He typically wears his long black hair tied back in a loose ponytail. This gives him the look of a man with shorter hair.

Tycho is particularly know for his ubiquitous cocksure grin. Subtle as smirks go, it is, nevertheless, annoyingly ever-present. Often perceived as sardonic, it actually derives from Tycho's innate sense of optimism.

His green eyes are slightly otherworldly. This is not always obvious, but can be perceived in the right conditions. See Devil Sight for more details.

Physical quirks

Devil Sight: Tycho can see in any accursed dark. Though his eyes are a particularly bright, arresting green, they seem normal more often than not. At times, however, his eyes flash like a cat's. At other times his pupils contract rapidly into slit-like shapes, and that can be unnerving. He often does this voluntarily to intimate his foes. Conversely, his pupils can dilate slightly wider than normal, giving him an innocent, trustworthy look.

Otherworldly Leap: Tycho can leap 30' from a standstill. He doesn't go out of his way to show off, per see, he simply makes leaps as necessary in a natural, but nevertheless shocking way.

Nimble: One cannot help but notice the ease with which Tycho moves and deftly manipulates objects. His superhuman dexterity naturally exudes from and permeates his actions. He can effortless slip through a crowded street, tightrope the ropes as if they were solid ground, or mesmerize onlookers by idly tossing a dagger or mindlessly rolling coins across his knuckles.

Subtle Magic: Tycho practices his particular brand of magic with a certain subtlety. He primarily uses his power to augment himself, which often seems less like magic, and more like superhuman speed, ability, and precision to the outside observer. People rarely take him for a caster, and that gives him an edge he prefers to maintain. He doesn't actively hide his command of magic, as he once did, but he doesn't mind if people go unaware of his full stable of talents.

Apparel & Accessories

Tycho wares the clothing; not the other way around. As such, what he wears has remarkably little effect on how people perceive him. Most days, he wears a simple shirt and britches with supple, cuffed boots; perhaps adding a vested doublet and cloak. Even on adventure, Tycho favors agility and arcane wards over armor, and dons only token pieces of the latter.

He isn't partial to this color or that, but flash is rarely his objective, so he tends toward subtle and natural tones. Whatever his attire, it is typically classic, well tailored, and intentionally understated.

He could never abide wearing jewelry or other such baubles. Though he does make exceptions for magical trinkets.

Mental characteristics

Personal history

But then I had ah, a disagreement, let’s call it, with a disagreeable ass named Izen Seferno. It didn’t go well for him. Seems daft now, but we, Ilias and I, well we figured I should lay low for a few. He’d let me know how things panned out, and when it was safe to head back. No one seemed to miss ole’ Izen, or tie me to his death, so Ilias sent out a message pretty quick. Tragically, the messenger never got to me, or back home. The reasons don’t figure in here, even if they were sorted enough to be a tale of their own. It wouldn't have mattered. I was a lone Rhennee kid; I'd been beaten near to death and chased off to ten different places by then. I was on the edge of the wild with no idea where I had gotten to and so injured I could barley move. Worst of all, I was sure I had been cast out by the Folk. The result was my unintentional, self-imposed exile from everything I had ever known.

I ended up homeless in the outskirts of Greyhawk for years, hiding my heritage to survive and generally failing to stay out of trouble. I had to turn to crime, but honest crime never much bothered me. Stealing for its own sake don't hold a thrill, but a man has to eat, and that’s no crime at all. It was surely nothing compared to what I witnessed. Everywhere I looked the strong were drinking the blood and sweat of the weak. Whether by the sword or in guile; everyone was out for themselves, and it was the opposite of the life I had known on the River. I was naïve, constantly starving, and perpetually dodging the guild and the guard. Towards the end, I had cobbled together a small group of other orphans and vagabonds, but it was shattered by betrayal.

I was losing faith and patience with civility; my thoughts mired in ash and grey, when I notice this this elf, standing on a balcony far down the road. He got a crazed look as soon as he saw me. I tense up and try to remember if I had robbed him. Suddenly, impossibly, he’s right there. I’m startled and rear back to strike, but he's unfazed, and that calms me down.

“You’re the Maelstrom Blade.” He points at me.

Now I’m rattled, searching way, way back for some memory of this elf; ‘The Maelstrom.’ That was my nick name as a kid. Ilias was the Tide...heck he still is, but mine never stuck. Even Ilias wouldn’t remember that name.

“How do you know?” I ask as cool as I can muster.

“Oh not yet, but you will be. Seek the path of the Maelstrom Blade. Seek it in Tome, and Bone; seek it in Synapse and Sinew. Seek its lessons in every fight you lose, every victory you savor. Most of all, seek in yourself and nowhere else. Every Blade is unique, made by his own hand, by his own deed...his own personal alchemy. Become the Blade.”

Though he had been steady and calm, he took on a sudden urgency, “My name is Dorian Keldimir; your predecessor. We will never meet again.” Then he turned and disappeared...and I mean he really disappeared: like poof.

I was colliding with destiny, and as I looked up, the Tide rolled in. Of all the people I didn’t expect to see at that very moment; my brother walks up, clasps me on the shoulder with a heartfelt grin, and gives me a shake. I’m not sure how, or why then, but he came through, as he always had.

He didn’t know Keldimir, and there weren't much to tell him about that. Turns out my brother had been searching nearly the whole time and having a few adventures along the way. Anyway, it didn’t take long for us to get back to our ways. And each time we did, I made sure to learn a lesson.

Education

Tycho has little by way of formal education. Although the Folk value basic literacy and arithmetic, Rhennee life is rigorous and focused on lived experience. They have little time for lessons and rote leaning.

Despite this, Tycho gleaned that knowledge is power quite early in his life. Without access to a meaningful educational system, Tycho learned to teach himself, and now that focus is bent on grasping the arcane.

Once he acquired a Talisman of Intellect, his progress accelerated dramatically. Tycho began to actually grasp the subtle lessons Morley had been gifting him all along. He came to suspect Morley had 'guided' him toward commissioning the Talisman...not to make a sale, of course, but rather because it was what Tycho needed.

Accomplishments & Achievements

Though Tycho is still quite young, has slain dragons and vampires; beholders and devils; elemental and giants, and too many fiends of legend to list here.

To this point, three achievements are of particular note:

One is secret, and came when the Company of Dire Fortune assaulted the resurging Temple of Elemental Evil, putting down the Paraelemental Queen, Ulsedra Vox. The Lady Rhalta of All Elvenkind herself hosted the company in secret celebration. Those who wished, partook of the Fey Mysteries.

The second and greatest deed is fast ringing in the ears of the highborn and common folk alike. The Company of Dire Fortune lifted the ancient curse on the Athis valley, restoring the mighty Athis River and releasing its life giving waters. Though it will take decades at the least, much of the wasteland that is now the Bright Desert will be transformed into a paradise of old.

The third deed is the delving of Iggwilv’s lost lair, and the defeat of the Witch-Queen’s daughter, the Vampire Drelnza. In reaching the inner sanctum, the Company battled past a chaotic remnant of Iggwilv’s rapacious and capricious thirst for power: captured demons, magical constructs, and fantastical beast drawn to the raw demonic scars left upon the Caverns of Tsojcanth. Perhaps as deadly as Drelnza herself, was the Black Dragon Calumnus, whose skull now adorns the walls of the Humble Ogre.

Failures & Embarrassments

I killed Izen Seferno when I was thirteen. He was trying to blackmail my father, Veylan, through me. He had concocted evidence, that I believed.

I don't know what he was thinking, or expected, given my impulsive reputation. Sure, I was young, but a man grown among the Folk, a bit drunk, and known to despise those who betrayed their own. His accusations were vile, and he was needling me repeatedly. I snapped, pummeled him with a ferocity I had never before know or unleashed, and threatened him with death itself if he mentioned ill word of my Family again.

Somehow he garbed a knife, and...he stabbed me. I didn't put any though into the killing blow...I don't remember it to this day.

I do remember the life draining from him...the way his face when slack, and the light slid from his eyes. I long in vain to forget that.

Intellectual Characteristics

Agile and adaptive, Tycho embraces the Rhennee worldview of life as a river. The River is a swirl of powers great and small: eddies, calm pools, rapids, and other travelers beyond count. All drawn along by forces one does not see, and cannot know, so much as control. One cannot command the River, only adapt to its ever-changing mysteries, navigating each choice anew.

The ability to refine his perspective is core to Tycho's life approach. He doesn't rely on or become mired in old ways or thinking; he reexamines his choices and course of action as he gains new information and encounters new realities. Yet always, Tycho is guided by his core values: he does not adapt them, only how he expresses them through action.

Not least, Tycho's analytic adaptability affords him a broad perspective. He often see both sides of the coin, gaining insight into but also sympathy for all sides of a conflict. This especially muddles his philosophies with paradox.

But alas, intelligence often sees wisdom as folly, and Tycho's dichotomy of high intelligence and average wisdom begets his greatest flaws. He wants to do right and is highly capable of planning and achieving goals. He is but seventeen, however, and not particularly wise. Curbing impulses and learning to trust experience over constructs of the mind are his real challenges. Being highly capable of rationalizing any action, goal or desire can be dangerous without the temperance of will. Luckily, Ilias has been a steady and subtle guide, lending Tycho direction when he wanders.

Morality & Philosophy

Tycho is morally shaped by competing internal drivers and juxtaposed external influences. His philosophies are ultimately rooted in his Rhennee youth, but they were significantly challenged and refined during his exile in the outskirts of Greyhawk.

Tycho has a personal code, but he sees The Law as a mere abstraction. He doesn't think an abstraction has much power, beside what those give it. Put another way, give it no power, and it has none. This isn’t to say he is lawless; the foundations of his code are quite civil: fairness, compassion, loyalty and liberty. His overall temperament is trusting and jovial. These traits, however, are balanced by an analytic mind that can sometimes seek advantage over virtue, and a weakness of will that often succumbs to indulgence and bloodlust.

An intelligent man, Tycho was raised among the tight knit but insular Rhennee. Though sharp, his extreme agility carried more weight among the Rhenfolk: rewarding him for taking deadly risks, heaping praise on his nimble mastery of river life; and allowing him and Ilias to consistently best dire odds, fight after fight, brawl after brawl, duel after duel. These formative years were dominated by the stability and comradery of culture and family: which seemed to protect Tycho no matter what follies he dared. This traditional life indelibly imposed upon him the wholesome comfort and deep security of loyal bonds. Likewise, he had an ever-present bond with his brother Ilias. Both eerie quick, Illias wise, and Tycho sharp; they banded together and entered the rough and tumble social world of Rhennee adults much sooner than their peers.

Yet even in his youth, he could see and feel that others were not so charmed as he. It seemed unfair that so much came to him so easily, while others, who genuinely toiled, receive so little respect. And some, some had no rights at all. But these thoughts were too often driven from his young mind, obscured in a haze of drink, adrenaline, and the warm embrace of maidens eager to hang on a victorious arm. Nevertheless, the seeds of his deepest indignation were growing, an indignation with injustice and the senseless suffering it brought with it.

The hard, lonesome years of his exile only deepened these core drivers. It was the absence of bonds that illuminated their true value. He suffered the full brunt of the deep hatred and mistrust directed at his people. He was now the 'other,' the hated river rat, far from the shelter of kinship. Strangely he was not alone. Here he was drowning in a sea of predators and prey, and he witnessed the strong devour the weak. He watched as injustice destroy bonds, keeping the downtrading vulnerable and frightened. Keeping them desperate and ready to prey upon those who should be allies. And so doing, they heap injustice upon itself, lengthen its shadow.

Conversely, Tycho was forced to lean on his adaptive and calculating side. He hid his heritage to survive and learned to leverage guile and anonymity. Conflicts were far more deadly here and no longer limited to the physical. He had to accurately discern whom he should brawl, whom he should befuddle, and whom he should not challenge. This last bit of restraint was gained painfully, humbly, and near fatally.

Despite all the pain and miserly that swirled around him, Tycho also felt curiously invigorated by his new freedom. The stifling traditions of his people now seemed distant and diminished, and he saw the Folk from the outside. He realized he had been released from cultural chains he hadn't previously know were there; and this freedom aligned with his nature.

Both disheartened to now inhabit a predatory world and excited to emerge from his culture's shadow, he found his perspective on everything being shifted and altered. These tidal forces forged a young man with genuine compassion for others, especially those in need of a helping hand, and genuine disdain for those who abuse their power. They also forged a man at ease with adapting his expectations and boundaries in service of his core values: for Tycho, every context has its own truths.

Taboos

Betraying the Rhennee. Though Tycho has no patience for most Rhennee traditions, he is still deeply committed to the Folk, and the values they represent. He could never abide Rhenfolk who betray their own. They are no Rhenfolk.

Personality Characteristics

Motivation

Tycho is convinced he was destined to become, and has indeed become, the next Maelstrom Blade. A title he knows nothing about; suggested by a total stranger. He believes this destiny is now interlinked with the plot of the Leviathan.

Tycho also has an idle dream, a knowingly unrealistic dream, of leading the Rhenfolk into a new era. He is deeply devoted to his people and revers their core values, but he wishes they would shed their unsavory, backwards veneer. He has some desire to show 'outsiders' what an enlightened Rhennee, unburdened by stale traditions, can achieve.

Likes & Dislikes

Tycho is a man of strong opinions who suffers few slights, but he does not seek out conflicts where none exist. Rather, that is generally true: Tycho seems to always run afoul of those he deems to have ‘false honor.’ In particular, he loathes those who equate strength with honor and justify preying on the weak. These 'champions' take what they want, killing everyone in their path, and name it glory. Tycho has an overt grudge with that ilk, and he relishes an opportunity to goad one into a fight.

Tycho also dislikes attitudes that demarcate between armed combat and spellcraft or that consider the latter dishonorable in a duel. In response to one such accusation he replied, “Cast away your sword then, rip away your armor; they are unnatural to your form. I call a sword to my hand by will alone and weave armor from my thoughts. I need no smithy to forge them; no squire to carry them. They are natural to me; Tycho Ralesh, the man you so foolishly insulted. The man you now plead with to lessen himself. Go back to your mother’s teat and challenge me when you’ve grown a pair.”

Virtues & Personality perks

Steadfast: If I make you a real promise, I’ll see it through or die trying. I never abandoned my friends, and if I do, it’s to survive and save them by other means.

Fairness: The underdog isn't always right, but certainly due a helping hand. The rich have more than their ill-gotten share. It’s only fair to relieve them of it when needs be.

Freedom: When the reaper comes...I doubt he can take me, but if it’s going to be my life on the line, then I’ll live it as I see fit. Only fairness comes before freedom. No one is truly free when the world is unjust.

Compassion: I find the line between fairness and compassion hard to see: the latter seems the former's twin, yet by a name more fair. But who can doubt compassion has the softer hand, and who's virtue can strive with that of the compassionate?

I reserve my ire for those who spurn compassion and take pleasure in spite and cruelty.

Vices & Personality flaws

Duelist: I may have a talent for skulking about, and a modicum of charm, but I’ll always be a duelist at heart. I find it difficult to brook any challenge. I know it causes no end of trouble, but what kind of man denies his own heart.

Hubris: I am cocksure to a fault; when guile and skill fail me, there is always luck.

Hidden Shame: I am sometimes haunted by the man I killed in my youth, and one of the Folk at that, so I throw myself into danger and folly hoping to slake my guilt.

Too Much is Never Enough: I see no reason to temper one's passions, though I must at least keep my bloodlust in check. Perhaps I indulge to drown out my indignation at injustice.

Personality Quirks

Honest Guile: I’m genuinely genuine, so when I must lie, people believe me.

Indignation: I value fairness, and it enrages me to witness injustice. When I can stand no more, I act, consequence and law be damned. If my ire truly takes me, I am a terror to behold.

I loath social hierarchies, especially when such nonsense stands between people.

Paradoxical: I’ve always been of two minds, sometimes several. Unlike many, I can set my thoughts aside, as it were, and try to see through another’s eyes. I don’t always like what I see, but I do tend to understand it. This gives me insight at the cost of sympathy. I tend to see people’s complexities, and many of my foes believe they are righteous. Many have met their end at my hand now...have my actions always been just? Sympathy can make this hard to know.

Or take Izen; was his death the event that propelled my destiny? Forcing me from complacency, hardening my body and mind, driving me toward a life of adventure. Or was it a tragedy that shattered many lives, most of all his, and the nigh idyllic one I had been living?

If not straight paradox, dichotomy, at least, has been the hallmark of my life. There is the dichotomy of my youth among the Folk, and then in exile, and those years split against the life of adventure. There is the dichotomy of my natural, foolhardy bravado, and the hard lessons that have beset me too many times of late. How many more times can I chance a peek at the Veil before I fall though? To curb one’s own nature seems a paradox I must endure. There is the dichotomy of my respect for my people’s values, and, frankly, disdain for their more backwards ways. They are themselves a strange dichotomy of liberty and oppression.

I suppose it matters not in the end: whether I have many facets or one; I am still responsible for them all.

Evolving Attitudes: Tycho’s relationship with eldritch and arcane powers is diametrically opposed to that of his culture. Magic is generally mistrusted among the Rhennee, and culturally the sole purview of women. This led Tycho to fear magic in his youth. Yet beyond this, he bore a palpable disdain for magic, and those who used it to vie against him. He found it unnatural and distasteful.

His Pact, however, put him in intimate contact with the reality of mystical powers, and the fantastic advantages they bestowed. He was forced to weigh this against the staggering and deadly terrors now become fixtures in his life. His foes were growing in power; so too must he.

He concluded that he had misjudged magic, misguided by tradition and ignorance. It was but another facet of nature that could be harnessed to shape and hone. It could be woven into who he was, and who he was destined to be.

No longer distasteful, Tycho now leverages magic as eagerly as his blades; even, for example, in a melee duel. Whether bestowed or learned, magic is part of him, and he will not submit to be a phantom of himself, leaving some portion of his prowess behind. Do the mighty agree to abandon their strength? Will the fleet submit to bind their legs? Tycho thinks not.

Hygiene

Tycho has had to endure filth and squalor, and can shrug off such conditions without too much discomfort.

Given his druthers, he prefers a clean environment and maintains a healthy and hale visage.

Social

Contacts & Relations

Ilias Ralesh: Ilas is my fraternal twin, and a nigh inseparable ally. Since being reunited, Ilias and I have been on a whirlwind of adventure.

Ilias was always there, further back than I can remember. An ever-present ballast tucked away against the upheavals of any storm. That is, until he wasn’t. One act of folly, and a child finds himself alone in a foreign land. In dire times the loss of all allies illuminates their true worth, and of all that I lost, I felt the absence of Ilias most keenly.

Now reunited by fate, I will not lose kinship with Ilias again

The Company of Dire Fortune: Though we have no real name, Ilias and I have found ourselves adventuring with a group who formed in High Ery. There we discovered plots that have seen the us aid the Oligarchs of Greyhawk and the very Queen of all Elves.

Our members include Ilias and myself, Phalcor Sherendyl, warrior of Celene; Kastran Glowsky, devotee of Brandobaris; the enigmatic warlock Moira; and Malachai of the Iron Elk.

Sylvexen: Sylvexen is among many Fey spirts curious with the Folk. She is the Fey Lord of Riverlands and saved Ilias and me from drowning as children. I entered a Pact with her later in life to honor my debt.

Derider Fanshen: Though unlikely to remember it, Derider Fanshen healed Tycho early in his exile. Prior to masking his heritage, Tycho was beaten near to death several times for the crime of being Rhennee, alone, and in the wrong places. After once such, and particularly heinous beatdown, Tycho was genuinely struggling to survive. He had a broken leg, jaw and ocular orbital, as well as other serious injuries. Derider was touring the slums, as is her way, and healing those in need when she came upon him.

He protested, still blinded by cultural bias, but the horror in her eyes upon seeing a mangled child--the compassion in her smile--they broke his will. Without prejudice, without want of reward, without judgment, she quite literally saved his life with the touch of her hand. She was angelic to his eyes: radiant with goodness and beauty. She became his paragon of virtue, and the object of his deep and wholesome infatuation. Though he would never forget that pivotal moment, he never expected to meet Derider again, so he allowed her to became a symbol in his personal mythology.

And then, years later, he stepped into her office with Lord Summorford's writ in hand. She was unchanged: still angelic, but he, he was transformed. No longer a desperate child, he met her now as a capable ally and a man grown. She would have no memory of that broken boy. He has since been trying to gain her attentions, perhaps a little too pensively and aware that he is but a pup in her eyes. He is convinced, however, that the grandeur of his deeds, and the strength of his convictions will eclipse his youth in the end.

The Seferno Family: I killed Izen Seferno when I was quite young. It was the first time I had taken a life. Few but Ilias know, and I don’t know how to make amends to his family. It’s been a long time; and they don’t even know he fell by my hand.

The Ralesh and Suferno Families are somewhat rivals that nevertheless always find themselves banding together. There are many friendship and trysts between.

Thelonious Cherrypit I can barely stand to spit forth his name. After more than three hard and lonely years of exile, I had gathered together a few trusted allies, and taken to leading them on small heists. Or at least, I had thought them trusted. The tiny hooligan, Thelonious Cherrypit, betrayed us all for coin, some to their deaths. I name him Betrayer.

I am not man of vengeance, but by all the gods I've never believe in...the Betrayer will pay.

Dmitri Valonis A particularly slimy Rhennee whom I particularly dislike. Dmitri pretended to befriend us when we arrived in Greyhawk. I fell for it despite my brother's warning. Then this piece of filth had the gal to seek my help in cheating other Rhennee. What's worse, when I declined--more politely than he deserved--he had the temerity to become indignant.

We have been enemies ever since. I am spying on his operations, and I will uncover evidence of his treachery. I think he is plotting against me.

Family Ties

The Ralesh Family

Among the Rhennee Nobles lead Families, which are akin to clans. Bargewrights lead individual vessels, each housing a kinship group. Bargewrights can be independent sovereigns or vassal themselves to a Noble with few obligations. Nobles hold together Family flotillas, which are typically compressed of vassal Bargewrights from at least three or four district bloodlines.

The Ralesh Family is primarily comprised of the Ralesh, Tomea, and Santillian lines, with a fair number of Dagist kin mixed in. They are closely aligned with the Seferno Family.

As blood Ralesh, my father came up in the Family flotilla. Mother’s family boasted the Loresinger for generations now. My mother Sarra was well suited for the role and has spent her life attending the Vetha and handing tradition down to the young. Though she didn’t fancy Veylan as singularly as he had fancied her, they had many trysts and good years before father raised his own banner and struck out for the Velverdyva...I believe just after I had left the Folk.

Veylan Ralesh Veylan is a savvy, independent Bargewright plying his trade along the Velverdyva. He left the Ralesh Family once his progeny had come of age, having no taste for Family politics. He and Davorin, his eldest son, have been growing a flotilla by ferrying cargo for those who can pay and keeping well clear of trouble. Tycho has not actually seen his father or eldest brother since he left the Folk at the age of thirteen.

Sarra Santillian The Santillians have been with to the Ralesh Family for several generations. She has become the third Santillian to be the Family’s Loresinger, as such she attends the Vetha and cannot be taken as a man’s chattel. Otherwise, Veylan would have claimed her.

Tycho has had the opportunity to see her since his return from exile. She wept to see her young sons again, and she has been loving and welcoming. She is deeply traditional, however, and senses that Tycho is keeping troubling secrets. She will not put Tycho and Ilais’s deeds to song, though they now eclipse those of most Rhennee. None can tell if she refuses from sorrow or a stiff neck.

Davorin Ralesh Veylan's eldest and steadiest son. Davorin has ever stood by his father's side, and of all the children, he took Sarra's sermons on tradition most to heart. He is an independent Bargewright by the deeds of his own hand: hard but wholesome deeds. He now heads a joint flotilla with Veylan that sticks on the Velverdyva River.

Joren Ralesh Veylan's lost son. Of 'the three' as Joren, Davorin, and and Varek were once called, Tycho was closest with Joren. He is part grifter, part dreamer, and always looking for a shortcut to wealth and glory. He heard tale of some hairbrained score in Dyvers, chased after it, and never returned. Since Tycho learned of his disappearance, he has been planning to search for his lost brother.

Varek Ralesh Veylan's willful son. As quiet and aloof as he is stubborn, Varek was always a bit of a mystery. One day, when Tycho was ten, Varek offered his farewells and left the River behind. He now works the docks in the River Quarter, risen to foreman.

He has no ties to the Folk now, but Tycho and Ilias have seen him, and traded pleasantries, on occasion.

Saska Ralesh Veylan's watchful child. Saska is Tycho younger sister by exactly nine months, and was always a quiet, observant, and efficient child. The kind you suddenly notice has been in the room, taking note of your private buffooneries. Despite her sly ways and unnerving gaze, she is always welcome and beloved, melting away annoyance and suspicion with a well placed, glowing smile.

Saska has always been up to things, things no one seems to know. Whilst Tycho and Ilias have been making names on adventure, she has been making rounds in the circuits of power...obvious circuits she will not even acknowledge. Any inquiry is treated as absurd or insolent, and artfully dismissed.

Of all his family, save Ilias, Tycho has reconnected with Saska most. She visits the Old Docks with fair regularity, and always takes a serious interest in the twin's adventures and growing political connections.

Ilsa the Silver Siren Ralesh Ilsa is Tycho's great-aunt, Vetha, and Helmsman on the Humble Ogre. She was originally sent by the Family to pass judgment on Tycho, and secondarily to train his crew on the intricacies of sailing ships, not common among the Rhen. She has done admirably at that secondary task, while forestalling her primary duty. She has gained respect for Tycho, and his mercurial rise, and her loyalties are shifting in his direction.

Ilias Ralesh Veylan's restless son. Ilas is Tycho's fraternal twin, and a nigh inseparable ally. See Contacts & Relations.

Speech

Tycho is articulate and well spoken, especially for a man with no formal education. He shed his Rhennee accent to survive while living in the outskirts of Greyhawk city.

It didn't take long for him to realize that articulation and enunciation opened many doors, and he specifically focused on improving his vocabulary and linguistic command for several of his years in his exile.

With his intellect now propelled by the Talisman, he sometimes falls into erudite diction and semiotic wordplay, but he has tried to maintain a straightforward style of speech.

Swashbuckling, jovial, optimistic and brash, Tycho Ralesh is a kindhearted privateer and an adept of both sword and sorcery.

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Alignment

Chaotic Good

Age

Date of Birth

Sometime in Fireseek 559 CY

Birthplace

The Selintan River; Ralesh Family Raft

Children

Current Residence

The Humble Ogre (moored ship, being refit), Greyhawk, The Warf

Gender

Male

Eyes

Green (See Appearance: Devil's Sight)

Hair

Black, Long

Skin Tone/Pigmentation

Olive

Height

5' 9"

Weight

168

Known Languages

Rohpan

Elvish

Common

Common Sign Language

The Maelstrom Blade
16th of Goodmonth

The knock at the door was Li’ell’s, but forceful and off tempo. She didn't wait for my leave, marched in briskly and set a book upon my desk. I recognized it; a book of lore liberated from Iggwilv's inner sanctum...one I had yet to examine. Li'ell waited; she hadn't calculated what would happen, and that was peculiar...peculiar that she hadn’t, peculiar that it showed. I glanced at the book, almost apprehensively. I didn’t know what to expect, but I could feel destiny charging the air around me, building a luminous, almost stifling weight. As I moved forward, she pointed to a particular passage, and it suddenly loomed large and vivid as all else recede away. "Drunken tales abound of the cat-eyed thief, Ashen Grey, brandishing his black bladed swords and felling minions and champions alike. Though many accounts of his prowess are surly embellished, his name has not traveled down dangerous roads without cause. Cocksure and fearless, he charged his enemies seemingly transformed into a maelstrom vortex of scything blades. Ashen bewildered opponents, weaving his body and whirling his blades, deftly evading attacks as he leapt and tumbled. Feigning strike upon strike he unbalanced his foes; deathblows were sudden and precise, piercing flesh and bone from impossible angles. Woe be to those who raised the ire of the Maelstrom Blade." I stared at the passage over-long, increasingly aware that I was blinking at unnatural intervals. Li’ell finally spoke: “Had you...seen this passage in some other tome?” My expression left no doubt that I had not. She continued: “You told me that before you met Keldimir...you told me your life had turned to ash and grey. Those words always struck me—ash and grey. Now we have this tale, the tale of Ashen Grey? A cat-eyed man...a leaping, tumbling man brandishing two swords...a man known as the Maelstrom Blade? This is you Tycho: uncannily you. Yet these words were put to ink before you were born...before I was born, and they tell tales older still.” I was gazing at my reflection in a pane of glass. I contracted my pupils, a trick I use to unnerve my foes. My subtly fiendish eyes became cat-like indeed: fields of clarion green punctuated by thin, inky slits. Had Keldimir known this tale, and planted a ‘destiny’ in my mind? Or was he a figment of Sylvexen’s machinations, leading me along her designs? Had I lived before, in some distant time by some other name? Had Keldimir somehow possessed me, and others before me, living through us each in turn without our knowing? I was dizzy with a cacophony of wildly divergent thoughts. None coherent. I came back to my senses and thanked Li’ell for these tidings; I asked a moment to consider their weight. She placed a hand on my shoulder, inviting me, should I seek her comforts, and quietly departed. I resolved myself. I am not Keldimir, nor am I Ashen Grey. I am only what my deeds make of me. Mine shall be the deeds of Tobias Tycho Ralesh, now become The Maelstrom Blade.

Lament
2nd of Goodmonth

“Tobias,” my brother always preferred my given name; it served to rouse me from my musings. Why had Iggwilv maintained this place, a hollowed place, I could not say. I needed no explanation, only the respite it offered. Perhaps even the she, once known as Tasha, desired a place of apart from the depravities she dragged lusty into this world. We had rested here as best we could; sure that the next door led to the inner sanctum. I hadn’t given thought to the curse emblazoned on each gate until now. It suddenly seemed as folly to tempt a power such as hers. Iggwilv had bent demons her will...a curse hardly seemed beyond her powers or inclination. A growing and gnawing thought. We went warily, and stealthily. The guards that waited had indeed been many. We had bested most, but the blue beast still lurked about. We found our way to the last door without incident, and though it lay now agape, we could see nothing beyond the threshold. Ilias looked at me and nodded that he was ready. I was crouched down, hoping to slip in unseen after my companions. One by one we stepped in. A woman of impeccable and porcelain beauty sat upon a dais, wearing filigreed plate of the highest craftsmanship and artistry. An imposing bastard sword lay across her lap. She made a languid show of her rousing. Laying the back of her wrist upon her forehead, she gave a long, sensual yawn. I sank back to the wall and padded along the ledge that ringed the inner sphere. “Saviors,” she called out in an amplified breathy whisper. I could almost feel the sounds of her voice roll along and wash over my brother, cowing a man I though could not be cowed. A single word with such magnitude, its very wake drew out my hesitation as I thought to myself, ‘Stop, you will lament destroying such beauty’. “Come to me,” she called to Ilias in the most alluring, melodious sound ever to grace my ears, and I became jealous of my brother as he presented his neck. Time had ground near to a halt when a streaking shape snapped me from my enthrallment; Phalcor’s owl brandished its talons toward the vampire’s eyes before swooping away. Phalcor followed in an instant, slamming into the bitch with his shield even as she feast upon my brother’s lifeblood. As I leaped down from the ledge, I called on a favored power, then drew my blades at loathing odds with myself. I cut her deeply, and again, and then twice more, but fate would not let me blink away. She returned my cuts in savage kind, and chanced a moment to lick my blood from her claws. Her malevolent eyes, red on red, flared as she savored my essence. I could not now fathom how I had found this monster beautiful. Remarkably, Ilias regained himself and fell upon his bewitcher. We all stuck at her without respite, while she fell mainly upon my brother, the taste of his salty blood drawing her thirst. Every blow seemed to take an unnatural toll; he had desiccated into a gaunt husk of his once hale visage. Her prowess was formidable, and the battle ferocious, but she could not withstand our combined furry forever. As I stuck the final blow, her crimson eyes rolled up into her head, and her armor collapsed startlingly beneath me. Her body had disappeared into a mist, lingering for a moment along the cracks of the stone floor, then seeping into the Oerth. I could still feel her presence growing distant, but not fading. She had been banished, perhaps even humbled, but not yet vanquished...and more likely thirsting for vengeance.

Many are the Guards who Wait
28th of Reaping

[Greater Caverns of Tsojcanth: the battle closes] Kastran clinched his fist high above his head, then twisted his arm as he wrenched it downward. In unison, a pillar of flame descended upon dragon’s black skull. The column hammered down, causing a shockwave to undulate through the wyrm’s sinuous body. It staggered sideways, careening violently into a stone pillar. The halfling was spent with the effort and staggered to cover. Though only I now confronted the beast, it took to wing and fled to its lair high up in the crags of the great cavern. Victim to bloodlust, I pursued without thought or hesitation. As I leapt up to the cave ledged, I momentarily crossed into the ethereal plane. The dragon lay in wait, smoky and insubstantial. It seemed expectant, but it couldn’t know I was there, lurking beyond the real. I could feel myself slipping back to the material world, when to my horror, the dragon’s head whipped in my direction, maw agape. A gout of noxious acid erupted forth. Scrambling to my left, driplets of agony pelted me from all angles. I stayed ahead of the main geyser and dove behind a fortuitous bolder. Though my right ankle and shoulder had been doused and issued a torment I could scarcely stand, that mindless rock had saved me. This smaller cave hampered the beast. I leapt to its flank and drove Longtooth under a scale just below its ribs. With all my force and leverage, I wrenched it off. The dragon scuttled sideways, away from the pain, crashing through pillars and slamming into the wall. I leapt at it, turning a single gyre as I arced near 30 feet. Focusing the full brunt of that momentum, I sank Longtooth deep, fully to the hilt. Using the embedded blade to gain purchase, I hacked at the exposed flesh, stabbing and slashing frenetically inward with my second sword. One blow must have pierced it’s lung, as I could feel the rush of disgusting, stinging air hiss out over my arm. The gurgling howl the beast made was indescribable. The wyrm staggered and slammed about so wildly, I was forced to let go or be crushed. It crashed its way out, fleeing from me a second time. Bloodlust yet unslaked, I stormed after my prey, only to see a pillar of flame slam into the dragon’s neck. It fell lifeless to the cavern floor as Kastran slumped in exhaustion. I jumped down to the halfling. He was conscious...alive, but spent. I could feel the presence of his deity drifting away like a mist off cold water. "This one didn't escape us. My thanks to Brandobaris," I was forcing a smile through the pain. The thought didn't seem to comfort him. I turned to stagger about the cavern in search of our scattered companions.

Revelry and Memory
4th of Richfest

As soon as Tycho stepped aboard Raffaella appeared, beaming. He looked her way, letting her know she had his attention. “It’s ready, if you'd like to see?” He nodded and followed as she hurried down the hatchway. Tall grabbed Tycho, giving him a friendly hug without ceasing his song. “Good on ya, Tall,” Tycho nodded to the old sailor, and hopped down the hatchway in a single buoyant step. He knew Raffaella was ready to reveal the Lorehall, but the door to her cabin was along the way, and he kept imagining her turning aside at that door. She looked back, stopped betwixt the two doors, and smiled. That moment seemed overlong to his mind, and then she opened the one at the end of the corridor; the one to the Ogre's new Lorehall and Trophy Room. He smiled and looked past her into a warmly lit room. It was paneled with deep mahogany and rosewood, carpeted with thick, vibrant rugs, and furnished with supple, leather chairs. He followed her in, looking about. Tycho immediately recalled the ‘Smoking Room’ he had seen in the Lord Mayor’s Manor, but this space was distinctly Rhennee. There was only a hint of the dank feel one can never escape below decks, and the creaking of the boards seemed comforting in this atmosphere. There was ample room to sit, to hear and tell tales, and to set down a mug of ale. Scattered about the room—mounted on the walls, resting on tables and pedestals, hanging from the low ceiling, and even coiled about the mizzenmast—were tokens of peril and adventure. Most prominent, to this point, being the scarlet head of the Red Dragon Shervem. Tycho slowly meandered about, his gaze falling on this or that: a vampire’s teeth, a devil’s bones, the eye’s of a beholder, a mummy’s heart. He stopped and set his hand upon the head of a minitour, lost in the memory born by these artifacts. “No touching!” He whipped his head in her direction to find her returning a cocksure grin, not unlike his own. He nodded to acknowledge she had gotten him. “What’cha think?” “You know what I think.” “Oh sure, but I mean about the room,” she winked. “And you won’t get off that easy, I'll want to be hearing you say it.” He looked as if he wasn’t going to comply, sauntered around a bit longer, and then sat down. He grabbed a mug, took a long draft and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He then nestled back into a clearly comfortable, leather-upholstered chair and made a satisfied, grunty sound. “Feels right.” He breathed in sharply through his nose, “smells right.” He looked around again, then settled on her with a smile, “looks right.” He nodded genuinely, “It’s, exactly, just right.” “Would it kill’ya to say perfect.” They both burst out into laughter as she took a seat on a plush leather bench across from him and grabbed a mug of her own. “Beyond perfect,” he drew a pipe from his bag, lit it with flame that jet out from his finger, and handed it to her. As she took a long pull, Ilias and Baktah poked in the door. On the way to taking a seat, the hulking orc gabbed the top of Raffaella’s head and playfully, but roughly, shook it about. He looked around and grunted his approval, “hummm,” he nodded. Of course, he had helped her set up and was one of the few who had gotten a sneak peek. Illias sat down uncomfortably close to the beautiful Loresinger, intentionally staring at her far too intensely. “Oh Ilias, ya’stink boy.” She shooed him away with a few waves of her hands. He grabbed the pipe and slid over to the other side of the bench, with a grin, knowing she would say that, but never quite knowing if in jest. Anica suddenly hopped into the spot Ilias had vacated and hugged Raffaella with wide eyes and an excited sound. She grabbed two mugs, and handed one, without looking, up over and behind her head to her brother, who was drinking in the comforting atmosphere with a smile. Those two were soon followed by a steady stream of curious crew members, each staying a while to drain a mug or two and tell a tale. Soon Tall and Raffaella where singing and playing fiddle, and even El joined in. Food, ale, wine and spirits made their way down the hatchways and revelry rang out across the Old Docks until well after the cock crowed thrice

Lost No Longer
3rd of Richfest

Phalcor had called a moot at the Midnight Owl, which piqued our interest; he typically traveled to the City for such things. Nervous, excited? I couldn’t tell, but he was more animated than his want. He ushered to a parlor where he negotiated with clients. Definitely excitement, his smile belied that as he turned from barring the door. He began without hesitation, “I’ve just met with Ren o’ the Star...” “Didn’t he try to blackmail you?” I asked. “You might say he succeeded, but such is the cost of mercantile and pathfinding affairs. What is important is that his blackmail made our exploits known to him. He inquired with Hollardel and Fanshen, gaining confidence in our talents and impressive sting of success. He was also aware of our work for Celene, though he shouldn’t.” He paused for dramatic effect, and Moira glared at him impatiently. He continued after looking about, making eye contact with all of us in turn, “He has information on the fabled Lost Caverns.” “Of Tsojcanth? Iggwilv’s lair!” Moira’s instantly hurtled from disinterested to enthralled. “Surly, you don’t me that we will...” Phalcore signaled for patience, “Ren is aware that several interested parties have financed delving parties into the Yatils. All failed, to his knowledge, but getting closer. He represents one of those interested parties, and they want us to try our hand. Truth be told, he clearly doubted our survival much less success.” Phalcor raised an eyebrow, signifying his silent judgment of the Star, “But I could also sense his personal involvement and desperation. He was clearly loath to part with any information in the topic, and it goes without saying we are sworn to secrecy until he has what he seeks.” “Vat then, vhat does he seek?”, my brother asked the question for us all. “An artifact of old know as Daoud's Wondrous Lanthorn. We may take possession of any other treasures. If this is indeed the lair of the Which...it will have wonders and riches untold. And dangers to match; they will be unparalleled. But I already knew what your responses will be, so I accepted on our behalf.” I laughed and there was no argument in the room. Taking the best dwarven spirts I had on hand from my bag, I proposed a toast, “To Iggwilv’s Caverns...lost no longer.”

A Song of Whispers
28th of Wealsun

“Don’t go crazy when you see her.” Sasha was looking at him...a bit wistfully. Tycho wasn’t sure what she was on about, but figured he would find out soon enough. She smiled and briefly looked aside, revisiting fond memories. She turned back to him before swinging the door wide. The light flooded in, momentarily blinding her. Tycho's eyes were indiferent to ligh, but he was stunned all the same. He inhaled sharply, and his torso reeled backward slightly, as if stuck by the shockwave of the woman’s visage. Sasha was exceedingly lovely, but the angel who stood before him, Raffaella Deleanu, was beauty incarnate. Raffaella, who had been smiling and chatting with Gavin, glanced at Tycho dubiously, clearly thinking ‘This boy is our captain...a dragon slayer?’ She regained her smile, and she was clearly thinking, ‘I have him already.’ Tycho pretended he had been befuddled by sudden and blinding light. Li’ell, a languid elf standing behind Gavin was shaking her head and asked, “Blinded by the beauty or the day?” Tycho shot her a squinting sideways glance, momentarily angry and contemplating a response when he realized Raffaella probably didn’t speak elvish. His face slid back into his sultriest, smuggest smirk. Li’ell chuckled, conveying her amusement and walked off; Sasha and Gavin went with her, each with a nod. Tall’s soothing voice was riding the winds and weaving in and out with the sound of water and gull. Tycho strode over to the diminutive Raffaella, took her hand and kissed it with a shallow kneeling bow, “My lady.” “My lady? Oh, they weren’t wrong about you” She spoke in Rhopan, “An odd one. With an odd crew...elves, a dwarf, an orc. Most peculiar.” Tycho broken into Rhopan as well, “Perhaps for some, but I am rather unique among the Folk.” “Ahh. Is that what'cha think?” she was clearly and genuinely amused. She had joined the crew precisely on account of Tycho’s growing reputation as a renegade, and she in particular, on account of his growing reputation as beast slayer, with a growing collection of rare and exotic trophies. She had joined the crew to care for those trophies, and to be Tycho’s Loresinger, a rare place of honor and prestige for Rhennee women. “Sasha said the space is...limited.” Tycho gestured to the hatchway and stairs down, “It is a ship...few ships can boast a Lorehall. Oh, and my apologies...your quarters...need a few days yet...that being said, you’ll find the Ogre spacious enough...just a little short on privacy.” They meandered down to the aft section of the lower deck and into a room that housed crates and furnishings, haphazardly pushed about. Tycho lit the lanterns by casually waving his hand, which the woman registered with only a stuttering flicker of her eyes. He whirled his arm in a wide circle once while he spoke, “I'll send Makki and Baktah to lend some muscle with all this. Baktah has the steadier hand, if that matters.” There was an awkward pause, “So you’ve known Sasha for...” “She’s already told me everything about the Ogre...and about you,” Raffaella raised one eyebrow and smiled. Her smile belied that the stories were flattering. A brief pause, “So, you can stop your small talk and fishing about.” Tycho returned her smile, perhaps a bit more smug than usual. “Oh you're a proud peacock aren'tcha? Well, she also told me not to tryst with yah. Peacocks are trouble...the worst kind. I trust Sasha, so don’t waste your time with me, eah.” “There are those who...crave a little trouble.” “I'm sure you can find a lass who does." Tycho chuckled to himself, bemused, then half-whispered, “Rhennee women.” “Aww, you have that elf of yours. She’s right easy on the eyes, if I must say...and she’s feisty; I can tell.” Tycho was becoming annoyed; but more with Sasha...she had told this one too much. “And, what would that constable woman think?” She gave him a wink. His smirk had been replaced by a blank stare, then an incredulous smile as he exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head. Though it was a trivial thing, he was dumbstruck to learn his crush on Derider was was known to this woman. “It’s a ship, tongues wag.” she said in elvish, and shrugged her shoulders. The boards creaked as she walked over to the dragon’s skull. Her eyes lit up as she felt its shocking metallic weight in her hands. She shifted back to the Rhennee cant, “I know about this ship, its crew...” she gave him a silky smile, “...its captain. Any Loresinger worth a pint of mead must know all these things, and many more beside. We the crew can all do our part, but only you can come back with a dragon’s skull. Leave the ship to us and go adventure; bring back more of these. I’ll weave grand tales of your legend...that, you can have of me.” The two appraised each other for a moment, then she went on, “Oh and before you finish my quarters, you may want to prepare a room for Ilsa.” Tycho was growing tired of feeling at a loss in this conversation. He only knew one Ilsa, “My aunt...the Siren?” “She’s your great aunt, yah’git, and she’s to be your Helmsmen and Vetha...Anca doesn’t really count.” “I decide who counts...and I didn’t send for Ilsa.” Raffaella guffawed, “You don’t send for the Silver Siren; daft boy. She’ll be along when she pleases. She can pilot an Ogre like this and teach your barge rats what it’s about...learned back when she was a spy...if that’s a thing to believe.” She changed her cadence and tone to punctuate her next words, “The Family; they are interested in your little home here. Oh, and they are very interested in you. A male Vetha...,” she shook head, and her eyes got comically wide, “...to think a Rhennee Wizard!” She was scornful; at least trying to be at first. A smile was creeping in as she spoke though. She was holding a dragon’s skull; she was now a bonified Loresinger and crewed up on the most unique of all Rhennee vessels. The possibilities were too titillating, platonically speaking, to maintain any scorn. Not always intuitive, Tycho noticed the smile and realized there was no game to win. She was an ally, here of her own accord, but also here to live her own dreams. His cocksure grin returned, “So, they know? Unfortunate, but...” “But?” “It feels good. I feel free.” “Well, good for'ya.” Tycho was unsure if she was being sarcastic. She went on, “Your fate, as to the Folk at least, is in the hands of Ilsa Ralesh now. You’ve only been spared on account of how you started down this river...” Tycho became anxious; she was about to bring up Izen, he was sure of it. She clearly knew things, why not that? “...Your taboo pursuits began through Sylvexen’s will and not your own. Well that and the Family wants your ship.” Tycho was momentarily relieved, then started to spin up. She waved him down, “Not wants to take it, of course, but ask yourself: how can your ship be in the flotilla if ya'aren’t in the Family? So, there is an ‘ogre’ sized reason to overlook your transgressions...even that business with Izen. Like anyone cares you gutted that worthless piece of flotsam...Folk or no." Again, her demeanor shifted: she took on a warm, supportive tone and spoke very calmly, almost slowly, "Now here’s the important part: I’m not here as someone else’s messenger...what I tell'ya, I tell'ya as your Loresinger...one who can sing of whispers as well.”

One Man's Salt
23rd of Wealsun

There was little time to rest after felling Nafik. The Staff and Gem elluded us, and Moira was certain the mummy would rise again, like some foul phenix. Ours was a tenuous respite. We concluded there must be a phylactery, or some such anchor, and we prayed that it rest within the temple. We readied ourselves for an arduous search, yet by luck or fate, we immediately stumbled upon an unceremonious curiosity. A jar of glass, sitting unravaged amid the tumble and ruin of ages? Curious indeed; clearly we had gained an objective. Though murky, the jar contained what was clearly a heart, still beating. I suggested we might keep it for a time; not to leverage its power, but to hedge against the potential consequences of a hasty act. My companions disagreed, and their course proved the straighter. Moira emptied jar into one hand, poising the other above the leathery, quivering heart that now rest in her palm. Slowly, in a display I found macabre, the tips of her fingers became deformed and grew into hideous, unnatural claws. They seemed almost to ooze downward from her poised hand, until they pierced Nafik’s final remains. Suddenly reality evaporated. What replaced it was a profound silence and contentment. One could feel that the very air, the very stone beneath our feet had become unburdened. I had thought my eyes were open, only to open them and return to reality. It had been Nafik’s curse that boiled away. In time, we discovered the Gem Mo-Pelar, embedded in some funerary ship, floating high above the temple. When Ilias retrieved it, born on the wings of his cloak, he gained a vision of the once fecund plains of Athis, teaming with culture and life...or was it a tiding of a things yet to be? Not far beyond we came upon the burial chamber of Amun Sa, and there we took the Staff of Ruling in hand. Returning to the font of the Athis, once defiled, but now gleaming in the absence of the mummy's curse. There, the River’s spirit searched my very soul, seeking out who I was, and what I sought. My answers were simple and true: “I am Tobias Tycho Ralesh, child of rivers; I seek waters in the desert, I seek paradise reborn.” And it was so. We delved yet further, passing the flame gate, where I recovered my lost blade. There we meandered a network of tunnels filled with a befuddling mist. We battled water and fire made manifest, and strange doppelgangers, masquerading as elves in need. Their words were dubious, but we could not fall on innocents based on suspicion alone. We traveled onward with them, warily, vigilantly, and when these skinchangers betrayed their form, we each cut down our foe with ease. I have not the words to convey that grotesquery: watching my enemy broil and churn into a mirror likeness of my form; gazing into my own frantic eyes whilst I drove home the killing blow...watching myself sputter blood and die. Such horrors, none should endure. Yet, to end this tale on woe is less than half the coin. We had given an ancient, willful River new life, and She would give life to the wasteland in turn, and in time. No deed I had done or was likely ever to do would rival this act. For this one deed alone, my life had proven worth it’s salt.

Paradise Defiled
22nd of Wealsun

The company accepted an errand-boy mission for Hollardel. Beneath our talents, but I was eager to test my arcane control in the crucible of combat. We were to check on a mining operation in the Bright Desert, a wasteland of sand and stone. Even a milk-toast errand in those perilous lands would find its way to suitable dangers. As it turned out, neither the mission nor my ability to harness the arcane went according to plan. By our second day out of Ul Bakak, we had already encountered several treacherous foes, losing Moira’s horse in the bargain. I hadn’t managed to call forth the arcane during those battles. Sylvexen’s energies course through me as easily as my own blood, but these—mystical weaving of my own mind—these were a struggle. It was one thing to call them forth in practice, but my first attempts under the shadow of death fizzled and failed. I was forced to rely on the familiar talents of boon and blade. Pressing on, we were visited by an uneasy spirit, lamenting the burden of past sins. He had defiled paradise, or so he claimed, and in so doing gave birth to the Bright Desert. He beseeched us to right his wrong and retrieve the Staff and Gem. With them he claimed, we might restore paradise. He bade us follow and plodded on unwavering and unheeding to the font of the long dead Athis. The ghost, who had called himself Amun Sa, led us to an ancient and staggering ruin. We began delving immediately. The complex was hollow and immense, and I had uneasy recollections of the vampire’s lair. Hollow perhaps, but not without many dangers both exotic and horrifying. In time we came to grand and ominous gates. Foreboding rolled over us, and we each took a moment to steady our will. I resolved myself in that moment. Embracing the arcane as a beloved, I must now chance disaster and not strategy. I shed my armor and imbued my very being with lasting magical wards. I could feel them infusing into blood and bone; I would trust them. Beyond those gates we confronted Nafik, a mummy lord twisted and ancient of days. In the battle that ensued, even faced with his terror, I mastered my nerves and called forth arcane powers alongside my eldritch tricks. Phalcore and I surged forward to engage Nafik while the others clashed with the mummy’s hoard. The elf was nigh untouchable, warded by both magic and metal. Nafik and his personal guard fell upon him to no avail, and to their ruin. I was stepping through the ethereal plane, skittering across this reality. I felt empowered to strike with the ferocity and abandon I had known in earlier days. A ferocity that fear of the Veil had stolen from me. I would appear, whirl a dervish of precise and repeated strikes, and then like Keldimir before me, blink out of existence. My confused enemies left slashing at the empty air. We were victorious, despite Nafik’s many minions...and his self-aggrandizing diatribe. Even as his accursed soul departed the material plane, he denied the magnitude of his defeat. Though Nafik had been laid low, we had neither Staff nor Gem. We must delve further. Have I become the Maelstrom Blade? No, but I believe I have taken my greatest steps.

The Slumbering Ogre
7th of Wealsun

I can’t recommend withstanding a dragon’s breath, but their treasure does sooth the pain. With a little coin, I’ve commissioned real work on the Ogre. Till now the crew was clearing out the wreck, scrubbing down what wasn’t rotten, and stripping out what was. Viviana had identified the primary structural repairs needed, but we had no means to begin. Now, Anca is replacing and repairing the worst interior timbers and removing the cracked mizzen mast. Viviana has turned her attention to making Kaz’s crucible forge stable at sea...which she thinks madness. When pressed though, she admits that it will work safely enough. "That is if he doesn't fire it up in a squall!" She always screams like Kaz can't hear her. I'm pretty sure she does it to annoy him. Tall's been putting it all to story and song. You can see it in their eyes, when they look at the ship. The subtle curl in the corner of their lips. They see her high on the sea, just as I do. Of course, the loyalty of any crew passes through their gullets. When I told Darius that the galley and mess were the first interior expansions, he was ecstatic, well for him. He has done remarkably well with remarkably little. Now he has room to feed an army, and there will be space for the army to feed. The crew is much obliged. Our experience with Vargo also prompted me to commission a Brig. Malachai still believes he can reform that lunatic; I’ll have Kaz forge some cell bars just in case. A humble beginning for the old girl, but a welcome one.

A Winged Shadow Flees
5th of Wealsun

A second dragon’s skull slipped our grasp. A young, inky black dragon with violet shimmers: the self-styled Sludge Tyrant. I tell you, the beast is welcome to it. All the years of filth and squalor I endured in the outskirts could not prepare me for the skull rattling reek of Guttershade Grotto. Uxizor may have escaped, but I fear he will fair almost as poorly at the hands of his master...at least given the message we discovered from Scoria: another ‘lord’...this one of Ash, or Excrement, or whatever filth these twisted fools wallow in. I suspect we will cut him down as easily as his cohort. Our new barbarous friend took a thrall. Malachai seems to have taken pity on some cultist named Vargo and is going on about reforming him. A noble action I hadn’t expected, but one I think may be foolish. Vargo tried to kill us the first change he got. Malachai will have his hand full...and I should prioritize a Brig on the Ogre. I really must avoid dragons’ breath in the future. I owe my life too many times over to the Halfling. Though his constant pranks are annoying, especially his little birds, we all owe our survival to him more than any. In any event, Kastran’s magic may hide the scars, but I can still feel them.

Rising Filth
4th of Wealsun

Whilst we adventured, the traitorous Dmitri has gained in power. I thought of jumping him in the streets, but he is always with a few men. I have a crew as well, but there is little value in endangering them. If I don’t kill the bastard outright, which even he doesn’t deserve, he would only come back stronger. I won’t repete my mistake with Izen, so I’ve started keeping tabs on his operation. I will unmask him. When I do, the Folk’s punishment will be swift, and likely deadly. The other option is a duel, but I’ll have to seek the right moment.

Pursuing Derider
4th of Wealsun

We were leaving Derider’s office, charged to liaison with Gaspar, The Beggarmaster. She paid me no mind again; rather, almost worse than my companions, aside from my brother. His odor clearly disagreed with her. I had planned to remain aloof and not act a lovesick pup. Suddenly reconsidering, it seemed madness to hide my interest. And then my father’s advice echoed in my head, "In love, disaster; not strategy." Hum, there was no time for a proper disaster, so I left a token for now. [Tycho used prestidigitation to leave a fleeting rose on her desk.] I also left another trade bar at the Temple, with another note...this one includes a drawing of a rose. Perhaps I am a lovesick pup.

A Whoelsome Diversion
3rd of Wealsun

I found myself at the Temple of the Radiant Sun and the Shrine of Saint Cuthbert, lending my aid with the downtrodden. I have not suddenly found religion, I just assume they know where an honest day’s labor will matter most. It’s not as hard work as adventure, but only slightly less dangerous. I was amazed at how poorly some in the streets treated their benifactors, but I held my tongue and my blades as I was asked. There were many more, though, that were grateful well beyond the morsels we could afford them. Seeing true gratitude in their eyes was good for my spirit. I must now contend with such madness and perversion, it is comforting to converse with good, ordinary folk in the streets and riverways.

The Horizons of Mind
1st of Wealsun

Well before we departed with Melchris, I had accepted Morley's invitation to further conversations and Chess. The old sage was impressed, but mainly amused, that I was attempting to unravel the arcane without a formal master or curriculum. He offered more than a few key lessons as the weeks progressed, but he became irritated with my impatience. One day he slapped the table with enough ire to be noticeable, “Tycho, you are not listening. You have a modicum of wit, but you cannot move at the pace you wish. Not without honing your mind, and frankly not without honing it further than you are able. I mean no offence, and no discouragement. You may still achieve your goals, but you will go slower than others, not faster. You should accept this, and things will come in time.” His words sailed past me; I was unready for defeat, “I don't understand: how can magic so easily lend agility to the body, but not the mind?” Morley, raised an eyebrow, “What makes you think that? You believe magic can’t help you reason with alacrity or expand the horizons of the mind?” I had been sullenly staring at my king; it lay toppled on the board. I shifted my gaze upwards with a grin, “I feel like you are about to teach me a valuable lesson.” Morley, cocked his head to the side, “No my boy, I am about to sell you something I’ve just made you believe you must have.” He winked, “How’s that for a sly old man?” *** We had been absent for over a month, and Morley looked a bit relieved when I entered his shop, “Oh my, and I feared you had joined those others we once discussed...those who died along with their dreams and their names. I’m glad you haven’t Tycho, and I have something for you, crafted simply as you requested.” After an uncomfortably long wait, Morley returned with a velvet draped tray. Upon it lay a sturdy leather necklace from which hung a talisman of the mind's eye, “It will take time for your mind to...get acquainted with it. Once it does, I think you will prove a more formitable partner at Dragonchess, and you will find that your studies proceed at a far greater pace."

Warmth of the Light
27th of Flocktime

We battled our way through the sinuous halls of the labyrinth for two days and vied with devils and aberrations alike. The deeper we delved, the more unmistakable the carvings and depictions became: the entire temple was devoted to the worship and gorging of something we could only assume was vampiric. Eventually we crossed into a far more ancient sanctum, around which the rest of the structure had been built. As we stepped onto the dark, icy stone, we could all feel its presence. A moldering presence; a remnant of past glory; now aware of our beating hearts. We could feel its thirst, beckoning us to do battle with it; we could feel its desperation to either be renewed by our blood or finally released by our blades. Once we entered its decrepit throne room, I almost pitied the wretch. So much fear and horror to feed what has become a desiccated husk; so many lives fantastically wasted, and for what? It was well for us that so many decades had passed, for the vampire and his guard of consorts were clearly shades of their former power. Yet, they proved formidable even in such a state. After a final, exhausting battle, we collected tokens of our victory and stumbled thankfully out into the warmth of the light. The trek back to the ship seemed an impossibility in our current state. With little hope it would have remined upon our return, we turned to the magic of Melchris’ scroll.

Trapped in the Labyrinth
25th of Flocktime

As we had all quietly suspected, Melchris' interests were not mercantile. He was an agent of Iuz, or perhaps he fancied he would be, once he handed the Old One this accursed crown. Even wielding the artifact's demonic powers, he was not our equal. I rather believe he was pursuing delusions of grandeur, and the Old One would have sent a more capable minion. It matters not. We now find ourselves trapped in this testament to slaughter, some twisted, labyrinthine temple where the few tortured the many. It makes my blood boil. Yet, boiling blood will not free us. And what when we do escape? Would the ship have stayed? Could we hope to find it? That avenue seems bleak. My only hope is their genuine appreciation when we saved them; perhaps it sill spur them to be steadfast. Our only other hope is this scroll. Its magic is clear to several of us, but its potency is beyond our skills. Using it is to risk destroying it, but I suppose we would then be no worse off. We must escape the labyrinth in any event; it is warded against the scroll's powers.

At the Temple's Steps
24th of Flocktime

I had thought the life of a lone criminal dangerous; how timid it now seems. Our journey started more pleasantly than I had hoped: three weeks at sail. Having just procured the Ogre, I couldn't help but imagine I was standing on the deck of my own ship. A real wind cutter, and not the bloated barges favored by my Folk. It was humorous to watch most in the party gain their sea legs and loose their pallid blush. Ilias and I found ourselves helping out the crew from habit, and learning the tricks of a sailing ship. Oh, it had been too many years since I had been on River or sea; it was a damn welcome respite. All that changed the moment we made land. It began with southern mermen who attacked with the rising of the sun. Luckily for the crew we were there to dispatch them. We soon debarked and our seaborn respite spiraled into a mad dash through the strangest, most uncomfortable lands I have ever seen. It was an overgrown, sweltering hot, fly infested, humid, nightmare forest populated with creatures I would have previously put down to drunken tale. A hulking lizard king with teeth as long as my arm nearly cut me in half in its maw. This beast split the very forest when it charged us with shocking alacrity. So fast, Ilias doubted what he had seen. And it was hardly worse than its more numerous, more agile cousins. The very ground nearly swallowed Ilias while fiendish crocodilians attacked. And Minitours: we were beset upon by actual Minitours. Only a few months ago I was stealing bread to survive and now I have slain a dragon, fought beside portals leading to the very roots of fire and ice, and contended with fiends of myth and lore. It has been a whirlwind...no, a maelstrom to be sure. Now we must battle past more creatures of legend, and for what? Gold? Great forces are at play, the threat of the Leviathan looms before us, and we are chaperoning a failed cleric on some fool’s errand. I suppose gold has its uses, just as I suppose it is better to lend an army than an arm or even two. I'll get the Ogre running; I'll raise an army and a crew. Then I'll lend an army and a warship...or I’ll lend an arm...which ever proves mightier in the end. First though, first we must delve this temple's depths.

Roots of the Humble Ogre
26th of Planting

Costing all the favors his minor and recent notoriety could garner, Tycho had the hulking, shattered bones of an old xebec tugged into position and moored next to the Driftwood. Ilias looked dubious, like the wood rot of the old behemoth would scramble down the dock to his raft while they watched. “Vaht an ogre of a ship, brother,” Ilias was regretting his offer to birth the old wreck. Tycho barely heard him, picturing himself on the ships deck, cutting through the spray, “She’s humbled now, but she’ll live again.” Tycho turned away from the ship and to his brother, “You remember Gavin, the Dagist boy? I’ve hired him on as Quartermaster." "Gavin is no boy, he is man...older than ve," Ilias was in the mood to be contentious. "Yah...well...he brought Sasha, so I hired her on too.” Ilias immediately shot his brother a look of disbelief, “Ohhh boy, here ve go! Vaht’s she...” “Sailing Master. I’ve also got a Wood Witch...Anca... coming up from the flotilla, ma pulled some strings. I’m going to get this thing back in the water. You watch” “I’ll vatch your gold flow down the river,” Ilias was shaking his head. “I don’t vant to know vaht you paid for it.” “The Humble Ogre!” Ilias shot his brother a questioning look. Tycho was genuinely grinning from ear to ear, and not his customary, manicured smirk, “I christen her the Humble Ogre.” The two brothers nodded their heads in approval, “Yah...that seems about right.”

First Conversations with Morley
25th of Planting

[While Tycho is browsing the wares of the Unearthed Arcana.] “How do you come by all these wonders?” By now, Tycho had spent more time chatting with the kindly old man than browsing his wares. “Oh, well, there is who you know...and over here you have favoritism...and, well, I’ve been doing this a long-time now son.” Tycho laughed, “All right keep your secrets, but the Arcane, that does fascinate me. How it can be harnessed, bottled if you will, and imbued in a sword, or a shield. Why not an arm?” “These things can be done, but it takes time...dedication...and a bit of wit up here,” the old man pointed to his temple with a knowing tilt. “I have those things. I have dedicated myself to the craft of swordsmanship, and that I will not forsake. But now I dedicate myself to becoming the Blade, and I know the Arcane lies along that path; a path on which I feel destined to tread.” Morley chuckled; it was a surprisingly deep, substantial sound, “Many a brash young man has told me much the same. Perhaps your ambitions will bear fruit, while theirs only withered and died along with their names.” In that moment Morley took on an ominous visage that unnerved Tycho. Not a feeling of fear, but of awe. Tycho blinked, and he found himself sitting once again with the old man, who said “Come see me again. I’ve enjoyed our talk, and you need practice at dragonchess.”

A Gift to Palor
24th of Planting

Lord Summerford had provided the party with a letter of introduction to Derider Fanshen, asking her to consider what they had uncovered in High Ery. Upon seeing her for the first time in years, Tycho was smitten anew for a host of reasons: she is unobtainable and therefore a challenge; she is alluring powerful and therefor a peer in his eyes; she is beautiful and therefore desirable, and she is devoted to compassion—which is for Tycho, the truest expression of fairness and justice. Derider had been a hero to Tycho ever since she healed him from near, perhaps certain death, when he was thirteen. Though she is unlikely to recall this encounter, it left an indelible mark on him. After their one-sided reunion (she showed no signs of remembering him), Tycho performed an investigation in the hopes of approaching her personally. He had sought to learn of her personal diversions: a beloved treat, or perhaps her favorite song or flower. He asked all the right people the right questions and discovered only the truth: she is selfless. Nothing he could do for her would make an impact, for she wanted nothing for herself. He respected her all the more for it, and 'seeing' through her eyes, he knew what he should do for her...though she might never know it. Tycho found himself at the Temple of the Radiant Sun. He made the first of many and varied donations...a trade bar of pure gold accompanied by a note that read: “This gift was inspired by her selfless example.”   Tycho, genuinely did his best to do this anonymously.

The Scions of Elemental Evil
11th of Planting

[All in the party save Moira fell in the final battle. Tycho had spent most of the battle defensively engaging Vox and one of her minions, whilst the company fell upon the other thralls; eliminating them in turn. As the battle raged, the heroes fell one by one; only Moira managed to survive long enough to vanquish Vox, and bring Kastran around to consciousness. He was, in tern, able to heal the others. While again on deaths door, Sylvexen voices her displeasure that Tycho has fallen even after receiving her boons.] “You’re a curious visitor to this place,” Sylvexen’s voice hung against its own echo receding into a thin, cold oblivion. “So many talents to find yourself here again, so close to the abyss, your breath shimmers on its veil.” Tycho had just a moment ago imagined himself facedown—frozen mid plummet—just a hairs breath from a shimmering, ominous surface. But now...well it didn’t seem sudden, so much as jarring; now he was standing with his feet on some unseen black ground, but still staring into that same oblivion. She shifted from an amorphous, psychically overwhelming Dreamform into an imposing, twelve-foot tall avatar somewhere betwixt elf and treant. Until now, she had only appeared in her Dreamform or as a looming shadow. “I’ve bestowed many gifts on you already. Though I have more yet to give, you need to use them more wisely. Drag me not again to this place, or I shall leave you to sink through that veil. Where you would go, not even I can say.” Tycho was waiting patiently and respectfully, but the awe had worn off, “What is the...” “Leviathan? Hummm. No, not yet; all things in time. You and your band must fight your way to that truth, lest you find yourselves unprepared when the time comes." Her eyes shot to the right, and her head twised slightly, as if she had heard a sound in the distance. She returned her focus to him, and the agonizing weight of her gaze bore down upon him. Sensing his disease, she touched him on the cheek, and the stars danced and leaped beneath his skin. She whispered, as the void started closing in on him, "Off you go now, they are calling you back...can’t you hear?” As everything around him began to fade, Tycho could hear Kastran’s voice chanting through a cottony haze, and then he opened his eyes. His body was cracked and dry, worse than any time he had fallen asleep on the deck all day in the sun. Kastran's healing words eased the static of pain shooting across his body, but the Halfling had others to attend to. Tycho would need to seek a healer in the city, and he got the district impression he ought do that before he sought a mirror. "Why is it always fire?"

A Traitor to the Folk
16th of Coldeven

[Tycho while speaking with Ilias] "You were right about him brother. Now's the time we wipe that smile from his face. I was beat near to death for the misdeeds of his ilk; scum like Valonis give our people an ill name. The world always has its fools, but that bastard is cheating his own. Worse yet, WORSE YET, he had the gal to ask me to do his dirty work. We need to clean up the River's scum brother...starting with Dmitri. I'm not so sure he isn't plotting the same." Tycho shook his head pursing his lips in a sudden burst of anger, "I can't believe he fooled me, sure as Seferno had." Tycho lookup and caught his brother's smug expression, "Yes...I've already said you were right."

A Patron's Favor
15th of Coldeven

The next day found Tycho contemplating the folly of his youth. He had always mistrusted mages and clerics all the more. Thus was the Rhennee way. He used to glower and seethe when others used magic to contend with him. He had thought it unnatural and unfair. But now his eyes were opened. The powers he now commanded seemed to flow in his veins: more a part of him than his very name. These powers had allowed him to face a dragon and its vaunted dragon-fire; more than this, these gifts had empowered him to slay a dragon. These boons were indeed potent, but they were also bestowed. Of that, he never forgot. They were the favor of another; a favor that could someday be withheld. He thought on that for a while. Tycho decided he would accept whatever powers Sylvexen bestowed upon him, humbly and gratefully. He would continue to pay her price, but he would seek another path as well. He knew it would take time and toil, perhaps even years, but he would learn the intricacies of the Arcane. He would learn to weave them into his very body and soul, and more importantly, he would bestow these secrets upon himself.

The Winged God.
14th of Coldeven

I turned the skull in my hands, bringing it to rest so that I could peer into its crimson-black eye, a tiny reflection of myself gazing back. Were it not for the pain, I would have doubted I was awake. To slay a dragon is the dream of boy and man alike. I had dreamt it many times, but always the heroic dreams of youth; save the damsel, slay the beast. Dreams are often a far cry from reality. Today I slew a child; a wicked and fearsome child, to be sure. Murderous, and more dangerous than any foe I have faced, but a child among its kin. It seemed distasteful to revel in its blood. A searing wave of pain erupted from my arm, and I forced myself to look upon it: clothing fused and roasted with my own skin. My arm blurred and the ground beneath it came into focus: it was littered with bones...human bones. We were not the first to come for Shervem. Where I had been baptized in dragon-fire, these others had drowned in it. Where I had called the monster out; challenged it, they had turned and fled. Where I had grit my teeth as the flames broiled about me, singing hair and flesh: these lesser men perished. Child or no, my companions and I had faced down a dragon, the most fearsome of all beasts. We had rid the lands of a marauding fiend; we had surly saved the lives of folk we will never meet. We could claim it for it is true, we are dragon slayers. Why else would the very Queen of the Elves call upon us, seeking our aid? These things cannot be chance; I am on the Path.

In response to Ilias
1st of Coldeven

[Ilias implied that Tycho had lost touch with his roots and has his head in the clouds.] You have me; I dare tread lofty heights. Ours are a bold people brother; there is no shame in it. You have always had your feet firmly on the deck; add the clarity of my soaring vantage (Tycho winked to punctuate the joke), and woe be to our foes, should they stand long enough to consider their folly. Remember brother, the strength of one is the strength of all who stand together; this is the Rhennee way. Do not disparage the paths that now lay before me. Our people have always claimed to be of some distant land. Somehow we have lost touch with the power inherent in our origins. Call me not greedy to seek these powers for the sake of our people's gain. I would guide our people back to long forgotten roots. Sylvexen has taught me much that now seems lost to the Rhenfolk. I have come to know fantastic powers, but more staggering still is a glimpse of powers yet untapped, powers that shame the parlor tricks I can now disgorge. And what of you? The power you now focus through muscle and bone? Yours are no longer the deeds of a natural man. For such deeds Father would name you Warlock: River forbid what he would name me. We share a destiny Ilias, of this I am sure. Make no illusions brother, you must gird yourself for the coming battles with all the powers you can muster. I fear your sense of tradition alone will prove an insufficient ward. There are dark things in the world, fueled by even darker powers. With these powers we must vie. Think on this brother, for you know it to be true.

A Victory Celebration
28th of Readying

“The mines are open!” Tycho’s voice boomed in the stogy air. There was a great scrap of chair and boot, as the patrons turned to look at him. “A drink for one and all!” Tycho turned to the barkeep, “What do they call you, sir?” “Not sir, that’el tell yah,” the Dwarf smiled, “Kaz, Kaz Kurden.” Kaz nodded, “And I know who you lot are; no need to tell me.” Tycho nodded in similar fashion and handed Kaz a stack of coin, “That should cover a round or two, some bread, some cheese, whatever that will muster. If ya need more, ask me, but then I’ll be want’n a full account.” Tycho tossed him another coin, “That one’s for your efforts friend, thank you.” He nodded in dwarven fashion again. Tycho grabbed a mug and turned to the crowd raising it high, “Huzzah! To the miners, to the hearts of Blackstone! Huzzah!” “Huzzah!” the crowd roared in answered.

Miner Difficulties
27th of Readying

Light is no ally in the dark places of the world; the mines taught me that. What can light be, but a beacon for foul and treacherous beasts to fall upon me? Being—enveloped—by that demon of a squid was horrifying. A terror I would not wish on my most hated foe, but more frightening still was the reality that this beast could blind us all from afar, snuffing out even Kastran’s divine light. I thought hard on this: I had chose the path of adventure, and it leads to the deepest, darkest places. I besieged Sylvexen, and she bestowed on me gifts anew...boons beyond my desires. Chief being the ability to see in any dark as if it were the light of day and to leap like a spider. Armed with these new powers, I savor the thought of now being the stalker in the dark, the one who hunts them.

I Believe You Mean Warlock
23rd of Readying

“A Vitch!, You are a vitch?" Ilias closed his eyes for something longer than a blink. "Veylan vill burn you himsev; and mother? Vat will she say? It vill end her. I...I...” Ilias froze for a moment; though he looked composed at first, he was raging inside. So angry, his only recourse was to burst into a momentary, uncharacteristic and near hysterical laugher. A laugher squarely directed at his brother. “Vat...” he had to pause for anther burst of incredulous guffaws, “Vat is it you can do?” Tycho raised is brow, his mouth slightly agape, “Ahhhhh...I don’t really know. Well...I mean, I can do this.” Tycho flicked his finger idly at a candle and it ignited. Ilias let out a single sharp laugh, “Traded your soul to light a candle?” “I traded my soul to save your life,” Tycho’s quiet words and earnest look cut through Ilias’ mirth and anger. Ilias winced as if he had stepped on a tack, then nodded subtly, “Yah, ya did, and vell...” Ilias knew Tycho had hated magic, and the magnitude of his brother's sacrifice dawned on him. He became sanguine and simply repeated, “...yah, ya did.” His grateful expression said what words would not.

Words with Lord Summerford
21st of Readying

Tycho “Yes, but Lord Fabius, with all due respect, your reward seems only to point us toward another reward posted by another mayor of another town for an entirely other task. You speak of other 'steps' you are prepared to take; what, may I ask, are these?” Fabius “I would politely remind you that we never spoke of deeds or rewards before you set out to the cave. I understand the river folk's penchant for trying to renegotiate business deals after the fact, but in this case, there was no deal to start with. I would also remind you that I can walk into the Free City today; throw a copper piece up in the air and it would land on the head of a would-be adventurer as skilled as yourself. I had thought you honest and eager men, seeing the good fortune of a high-reward, but perhaps I will toss my coin instead. Now, to put aside your insolence, these are the steps: I will write letters of introduction to several people within the city to both aid with your investigation and get you squared within the city walls. If I was mistaken about the nature of this group, I can prepare these writs for one of my men instead. Perhaps such excellent negotiators such as yourselves can fair without my help.” Tycho “My thanks; generous tokens on your behalf. If I may add, what you say is true: you could take that long walk and toss your coin, but what manner of men will it strike? We are a bird in hand, so to speak, and proven at that. This particular bird nearly died on your town's behalf, and without being bidden or bribed. I rather think that makes it all the more honorable, and heroic. As I have said, we seek no coin for these deeds, but I should hope a modicum of respect is not too great a boon to ask amongst honorable men. Would you not you agree?”

The Fouled Stream
20th of Readying

I was cutting a swath through my foes, ecstatic in berserker trance. The frogmen, the ogre...all fallen to my blades. Now I was stepping over one cultist to strike down another; no thought of my own mortality. And in an instant, my own mortality became my one and only thought. First one cultist struck me, then another. I dropped to a knee in disbelief, brought back to reality as I was being brought low. I collapsed; the shades of pain and shame stomping my skull into the cold stone my cheek now lay pressed upon. As the cultist stepped over my body, all was fading to black. “No...I’m to be the Maelstrom Blade...what a feeble last thought...how could I...” A deep silence was overtaking me; even my last thoughts were slipping away when the divine weight of Kastran’s incantation shattered the void. The silver cord I had just noticed passing through me pulled taught, slowing, but not halting my decent. “No,” came a voice, “That half-man and his trixsy God won’t steal you from me.” I had heard that voice before...what was the name? “Sylvexen?” “How charming, you remember.” An old memory flashed fresh on the canvas of my mind. Some fools in a trade cog had slammed into our raft. A crate had broken loose and tumbled into Ilias, knocking him unconscious and into the water. We couldn’t have been but five or six; our parents focused on insulting the crew of the cog. I jumped in, but the current was strong, Ilias sinking, dragging me down with him. Just as now, I heard that voice; the Fey Lord Sylvexen, as close as my family has to an ancestral patron. “Would you like to live? Be a hero for saving your brother?” Though my lungs had already filled with water, my very soul was screaming “YES!” “Alright then; we’ll make a Pact, but you’re far too young to make good on your end. There is always time...nothing but time, and I can’t pass up on you...a man with a destiny. We’ll met again in time, when your old enough to be of some use.” I hadn’t remembered that until I was being shocked back into consciousness by the pungent, iodine taste of Borogrove’s acorn. As I came to, I looked toward my brother, and behind him stood the towering, shadowy form of the Fey Lord. No one else seemed to notice her. She pointed toward me, “Our Pact begins. I’ll visit you again. Until then, enjoy the boons of my favor.” And with that she faded back into the Faerie.

Background
1st of Readying

Our mother always said, “You two were either scrap’n or fight’n, even back in the womb...that is till Ilias wanted out.” Ilias was born nearly a month early and survived by some miracle. He was certainly born first, and he just seemed and acted like the older one. We were inseparable and had our ways. Sure, I’d get us into trouble, but I’d be talking us out. That would have always worked if he’d let it, but Ilias had to ‘save’ people...primarily by starting fights. Anyway, one minute and thirty-two seconds; give or take. That’s how long it takes Ilias to throw the first punch once the posturing starts, regular like the tides. Well, we’d scrap our way through it from there. A strangely satisfying life; free on the River. But then I had ah, a disagreement, let’s call it, with a disagreeable ass named Izen Seferno. It didn’t go well for him. Seems daft now, but we, Ilias and I, well we figured I should lay low for a few. He’d let me know how things panned out, and when it was safe to head back. No one seemed to miss ole’ Izen, or tie me to his death, so Ilias sent out a message pretty quick. Tragically, the messenger never got to me, or back home. The reasons don’t figure in here, even if they were sorted enough to be a tale of their own. It wouldn't have mattered. I was a lone Rhennee kid; I'd been beaten near to death and chased off to ten different places by then. I was on the edge of the wild with no idea where I had gotten to and so injured I could barley move. Worst of all, I was sure I had been cast out by the Folk. The result was my unintentional, self-imposed exile from everything I had ever known. I ended up homeless in the outskirts of Greyhawk for years, hiding my heritage to survive and generally failing to stay out of trouble. I had to turn to crime, but honest crime never much bothered me. Stealing for its own sake don't hold a thrill, but a man has to eat, and that’s no crime at all. It was surely nothing compared to what I witnessed. Everywhere I looked the strong were drinking the blood and sweat of the weak. Whether by the sword or in guile; everyone was out for themselves, and it was the opposite of the life I had known on the River. I was naïve, constantly starving, and perpetually dodging the guild and the guard. Towards the end, I had cobbled together a small group of other orphans and vagabonds, but it was shattered by betrayal. I was losing faith and patience with civility; my thoughts mired in ash and grey, when I notice this this elf, standing on a balcony far down the road. He got a crazed look as soon as he saw me. I tense up and try to remember if I had robbed him. Suddenly, impossibly, he’s right there. I’m startled and rear back to strike, but he's unfazed, and that calms me down. “You’re the Maelstrom Blade.” He points at me. Now I’m rattled, searching way, way back for some memory of this elf; ‘The Maelstrom.’ That was my nick name as a kid. Ilias was the Tide...heck he still is, but mine never stuck. Even Ilias wouldn’t remember that name. “How do you know?” I ask as cool as I can muster. “Oh not yet, but you will be. Seek the path of the Maelstrom Blade. Seek it in Tome, and Bone; seek it in Synapse and Sinew. Seek its lessons in every fight you lose, every victory you savor. Most of all, seek in yourself and nowhere else. Every Blade is unique, made by his own hand, by his own deed...his own personal alchemy. You will be the Maelstrom Rogue...become the Maelstrom Rogue: become the Blade.” Though he had been steady and calm, he took on a sudden urgency, “My name is Dorian Keldimir; your predecessor. We will never meet again.” Then he turned and disappeared...and I mean he really disappeared: like poof. I was colliding with destiny, and as if on cue, the Tide rolled in. Of all the people I didn’t expect to see at that very moment; my brother walks up, clasps me on the shoulder with a heartfelt grin, and gives me a shake. I’m not sure how, or why then, but he came through, as he always had. He didn’t know Keldimir, and there weren't much to tell him about that. Turns out my brother had been searching nearly the whole time and having a few adventures along the way. Anyway, it didn’t take long for us to get back to our ways. And each time we did, I made sure to learn a lesson.

Entry for WorldEmber 2024

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Tycho Ralesh

Tycho Ralesh (a.k.a. The Maelstrom Blade)

Physical Description

Body Features

Facial Features

Physical quirks

Apparel & Accessories

Mental characteristics

Personal history

Education

Accomplishments & Achievements

Failures & Embarrassments

Intellectual Characteristics

Morality & Philosophy

Taboos

Personality Characteristics

Motivation

Likes & Dislikes

Virtues & Personality perks

Vices & Personality flaws

Personality Quirks

Hygiene

Social

Contacts & Relations

Family Ties

Speech

The Maelstrom Blade 16th of Goodmonth

Lament 2nd of Goodmonth

Many are the Guards who Wait 28th of Reaping

Revelry and Memory 4th of Richfest

Lost No Longer 3rd of Richfest

A Song of Whispers 28th of Wealsun

One Man's Salt 23rd of Wealsun

Paradise Defiled 22nd of Wealsun

The Slumbering Ogre 7th of Wealsun

A Winged Shadow Flees 5th of Wealsun

Rising Filth 4th of Wealsun

Pursuing Derider 4th of Wealsun

A Whoelsome Diversion 3rd of Wealsun

The Horizons of Mind 1st of Wealsun

Warmth of the Light 27th of Flocktime

Trapped in the Labyrinth 25th of Flocktime

At the Temple's Steps 24th of Flocktime

Roots of the Humble Ogre 26th of Planting

First Conversations with Morley 25th of Planting

A Gift to Palor 24th of Planting

The Scions of Elemental Evil 11th of Planting

A Traitor to the Folk 16th of Coldeven

A Patron's Favor 15th of Coldeven

The Winged God. 14th of Coldeven

In response to Ilias 1st of Coldeven

A Victory Celebration 28th of Readying

Miner Difficulties 27th of Readying

I Believe You Mean Warlock 23rd of Readying

Words with Lord Summerford 21st of Readying

The Fouled Stream 20th of Readying

Background 1st of Readying