World NPC Storylines
As the stories of TerAirLeth unfold around our adventurers and players, life goes on through out the world.
*GM NOTE: These NPCs are mentioned throughout the game, usually in the opening narration of each session. These may seem to jump around a bit, but treat each paragraph break as if time has passed. They appear here in no particular order and I'll update each subsection as more story unfolds.*
Unnamed Mearst Farmer
Some miles away, a farmer packs his wagon with his harvest. It was a good year. The grain and oat should provide plenty for his family and their needs. A young boy, no more than 6 years old, fastens the bell mare to the front of the wagon. Maybe the farmer will purchase an ox at market, it was a good year.On the outskirts of Mearst, a farmer lies recovering on a posh feather mattress. Doctors tend to him while others tend to his child. Deliveries, goods, and tradesmen have started arriving by wagon, the modest farmhouse on the western shores is growing small. He must get better before anything. There are fields to till and responsibilities to be tended to and he has plans.
Order of The Protectorate
Sparks crack in the air above as magics weave and flow together into and out of the crystal and quartz orbs that hang in the upper reaches of the Tower of The Protectorate. Below, some of the Order scour ancient tomes and scrolls for clues or elucidations. So far, they've been unsuccessful.Meanwhile, inside the Sacellum Ward, the morning grows uneasy as an old halfling rummages through long forgotten crates, sacks, and pallets deep in a storage room. He is searching for something. Something that has not been seen in near a century and a half. He knows he put it down here, hoping he would never have to use it. After all - his predecessor had not and by reports none among the previous 40 had either. Of course it would fall to him.
The shadow of the Corim Protectorate tower is long and cold this early. The evaporation of dew adds a mist to the already morbid scene of bodies that litter the grounds. So far the Protectorate has not been able to gain access to the tower. Someone or something has been halting every attempt. A young order member breaths heavily as he continues his ascent of the backside of the tower. Perhaps he can succeed were the others have failed, he can gain entry - not from the base of the tower but from the spire. Hand over hand, foot after foot - up he climbs. There, just above he can see the lip of the overlook. Arm extended he grabs ahold and pulls himself up. He's made it. Drawing his blade he spins and prepares to enter the tower - only to be greeted by a little round red creature with six eyes atop tendril stalks. Pausing, just a moment, he lets out a silent yell and charges the stubby legged being, sword raised and ready…
Sark The Half Orc
Elsewhere, as the moons reach their zenith in the night sky, pale reflections play in the clarifying pools of the Sweepings. Two figures toss a naked and lifeless third into a pool in hopes it will sink to the bottom and decay. The two shadowed images gather the pale blue and grey garments into a bundle and disappear into the night. Their plans HAVE been successfulElsewhere, a half-orc woman sits alone in the corner of her bed chamber, her cries muffled and tears sopping into the tattered and bloody grey and pale blue tunic she clutches. She fells the crossbow hole tinged with red and the coppery smell of blood in the middle of the tunic. She's got to do it on her own now, just her and Sark. How will she tell Sark that his Da won't be coming home. Tonight will be a long night, made more so by the sound of revelry of her neighbors. Tonight will be a long night indeed.
Elsewhere, the wail of a young orc echoes into the forest. No more than a toddler, Sark calls out. He is hungry and alone. Sark crawls through the dense underbrush towards the figure in a grey and pale blue tunic laying against a tree. He climbs onto his mother's lap and nuzzles into her neck and chest. The ground is stained with the red ichor that once flowed through her heart. Sark clutches the cloak that once was his fathers. He wraps himself in it and closes his eyes against the darkness of the forest's ever present mists.
As the sun begins to set over the lands of TerAirLeth and the moons begin their ascent into the evening sky, a young orc - no more than a toddler, now exhausted from tears, wanders aimless within the mists of the dense forest wrapped only in the grey and blood stained cloak that once was his fathers. Sark puts foot in front of foot with naught else to do. A sudden burst of light and noise in the distance grabs his attention. Where there is noise there are people, he's learned. As a the earth begins a gentle shake, Sark takes his steps, dragging the overlarge cloak behind him.
The Fruit King
On the far side of Mearst, a man stands - beaming of pride - staring at his new purchase. Half storefront and warehouse and half living quarters and lodgings, he will be happy here. He glances at the pair of workers that climb on ladders in front of his leaded glass display window - as they raise up the signage of his new establishment. All will be able to find his shop for as he is proclaiming in big bold letters, he is the Fruit King now!Therlynn Pyke
Meanwhile, A young girl, no more than 7 rises earlier than the sun. She packs her bindle with the essentials - half a loaf of bread, some berry jam, and of course her most prized possession, Oopa, the stuffed owlbear doll she's had as long as she can recall. She sits on the edge of her bed's straw mattress, swinging her legs and watching for the first rays of light to clear the horizon. Excitedly she leaps from the bed, grabs her things and heads out on a very important adventure. She's gonna be just like him one day. A young dwarven girl no more than 7 sleeps, uneasily, in an oversized tufted chair. Surrounding her mouth are the dried remains of boysenberry pudding. A stuffed toy owlbear rests nuzzled in between her arms. A worried father takes a blanket from the bed and places it over her. The dwarven father with a salt and peppered beard continues pacing around the room. At every footstep or approach he glances up towards the doorway with a glint of hope in his eyes only to be once again devastated with each glance. They'll find him he keeps muttering to himself, they promised. He turns to glans out of the windowThordis Pyke
Through the endless dark and shadow, it's almost as if Thordis is floating above it all. He commands his body to rise, to get up but there is no response. The only break from the penumbra of his surroundings is the glitter of a twisted 4 veiled flame in the distance that tries to push the dark away. "Get up, Old Man." he tells himself. He must rise and finish what needs done. He must finish her will!The shadows of the city walls conceal his labored movement for searching eyes, no one really heads an old man's comings and goings anyway. He sulks as if guided by an unseen hand through the city and out into the surrounding jungle. The crimson shadow and wisps of darkness cloud his vision as footfall after footfall bring him closer to serving her will. Her wishes must be reality and he must be the one to bring them to pass. Footfall after footfall brings him ever closer.
Curafind
Deep into the darker regions of the Slips, a silver haired elf lays beaten and bloodied in an alley. His hazel eyes stare up at the moons of Ter-Air-Leth as the pain subdues him into a deep unconsciousness. In the near distance, several crates are being loaded onto a darkened wagon, an image of an owl can be seen burnt into the azure side rails. Without fanfare and pomp two men climb into the back and disappear along with the cargo under a blackened tarp of burlap and linen. The wagon drives off into the night leaving the evenings deeds behind.Elsewhere in the Slips district, a silver haired elf leads a small group through the twists of the old smuggling tunnels beneath the city of Merest. He is stiff and shallow-stepped as he walks through the muck and filth from the runoff of the city. Left arm in a makeshift sling and a ivory cane in the good hand. He stops short and raises the cane, signaling the others to hold. Something seems off. Ahead the shimmer of an almost unseen flesh wiggles and inches closer. Quickly and quietly the elf turns the group around to find a new route. The sound of sloshing comes from ahead as bits of broken weapons, coins, and even the remains of a partially dissolved skeleton seem to float just above the surface. Trapped…
Nyx Shadowcloak
How could she just run like that? Thordis would never have left her. And those kids - they don't know what they are doing. She's old now. Not as spry nor as quick, what could she realistically do? No better to head back and give warning where it's due. After all, Shadowcloak has made a living getting out of tight spaces and bad situations - why should this be different. Still she said she'd loved Thordis and though he could not return the words, the sentiment was there. How could she just run? How could she live with herself? But the Order must be told!The lighting cracks through the sky and the rain pelts in sideways from the torrential winds as the older gnome woman shelters behind a large stone outcropping. It had been days since the events that caused her friend to vanish and she was no closer to finding him. Try as she might, she's not a young adventurer any more - no - she's just an old rogue chasing after her only friend. A flash of lighting lights up the air around her, exposing what has been hidden in the darkness and the storm. With a sigh she slides her daggers from their sheathes. As the light fades terrorful screams and shrill cries echo into the darkness…
Unnamed Mearst Courier
Lightning flashes and rain drops from the sky in sheets. Huddled in the small traveler's waystation for warmth and protection a young man stokes the fire then turns back to his wounded companion. There's not much he can do, he doesn't even know what it was that attacked him - some sort of giant toothed worm. He'd been pushed aside as the senior courier jumped in front of those massive jaws. Where had it come from? Erwyn took the bites that were meant for him and now he lay there dying, his skin turning a sickly pale purple.Tippletoe and Wren
The moons set as the morning arrives to Ter-Air-Leth, even as Tippletoe gathers up her child and some bags, she is running out of time. The Protectorate is closing the city - and rightfully so - she's seen one of the monsters. Climbed right up out of the sewer and attacked that poor stable boy. Pulled him right down without as much as a sound. She can't stay here. Tippletoe must get away to somewhere safe. A safe place where she can protect Wren. She shoulders her bags and puts the babe onto her hip as she steps out into the early day. A safe place for Wren she says to her self as she closes the door behind her.The rain pelts in sideways from the torrential winds driving through the mountain valley as the small refugee caravan winds its way through the stony hills. Tippletoe trudges along forgoing the protection of scarf or headwrap in order to double up on little Wren. The man in front of her coughs and falls to the ground while the march of footsteps continues. Reaching down, Tippletoe checks his pulse then closes his eyes with her hand. With a heavy sigh and a readjustment of the babe on her hip, she stands and strides deeper into the valley. They must come to shelter soon.
High Priestess of Ordu, Rohesia
Elsewhere within the city, the temple of Ordu is crowded - more so than it has been in many years. The Numen Prime are all worshiped and given offerings but when things turn dire, Ordu seems to have many devout followers indeed. Acolytes float back and forth between patrons, offering support, comfort, and the occasional words of wisdom. High Priestess Rohesia sits in a back room, consulting tomes and ledgers from days past. There must be something in here that can help. There are many records of illnesses cured and tampered but none that have worked so far. She promised the Druidess that Ordu would be the way - Ordu IS the way, if only she could see it.Archmagister Bulzo Burrowdraught and Assistant Wills
Deep within the library of the Arcane, Wills, the young paige pages through tome after tome. Scanning and searching. A tidbit here about a land long since faded from memory. A snippet of information there about the building of the towers. The fine details elude him but the broad strokes start to fill in some pages. He's been tasked with putting together a history; the only history outside of the Protectorate. It would be easier to just walk over to the Halls and look at their records but he is not of the Order and Burrowdraught demanded secrecy. So he reads and writes, alone in these musty halls. He reads and he writes.As the sun begins to set over the lands of TerAirLeth and the moons begin their ascent into the evening sky, the Potentate lies on his feathered mattress and coughs into the silken handkerchief all but permanently affixed to his hand. Fine droplets of blood and sputum come away as Lady Tawna and Bulzo Barrowdraught cast dire looks at each other. It won't be long now. In the streets the black banners have already been hung and those of the Numen Prime take to the comfort of the Seven. It is never good to lose a Potentate, but now, as Mearst stands in these times - it could be catastrophic.
Elsewhere within the besieged city, Wills sits in a forgotten basement deep in the central tower of the Library of the Arcane. In front of him, tomes and scrolls that have long ago been forgotten, rest open. He moves about them scanning, searching. Hunting for some clue as to what now sits outside the gates of Mearst. If only a clue would present itself. Frustrated with a life devoted to knowledge and understanding only to be stymied for an answer, Wills lets out a scream. As the echos fade, he moves onto another set of books. The answer must be here… somewhere.
Ziri and Rowan, Proprietors of The Silly Ol Bear
A knock comes on the sturdy carved door of the tavern. The hearth is warm and inviting and the food is filling to those whom seek the peace of the common room. Outside of the door stands a messenger in grey and green and displaying a golden sigil. Ziri opens the door to greet the stranger. A missive is pushed through almost at once when not more than a hands width of space is available. Clacking heels together and without a word the messenger turns to continue his duties reaching into his pouch to produce an identical scrolled missive as the one just handed over. The redheaded tavernkeeper unrolls and takes in the clear message with phrases like "Summon To Arms" and "Protectorate" boldened with heavy ironed ink. Rowan stands behind the bar and reading her husbands face begins to sob.Across the spine of the world, in another place, Ziri and what is left of his squad slink between buildings, weapons drawn and ready. The idea is to approach the keep on the southern end and use the gardrobe entrance to get inside. Crawling through the muck and runoff of filth, they soon find themselves safely standing within the jakes and access to the inner keep. If they can rescue the potentate, all of this can end and he can get home to his wife, Rowan and their unborn child. Slowly he opens the door and steps into the darkened hallway. A glance to either side tells him that they have made it undetected, and yet there is an unease in the air…
Arabull
Arabull paces around the now seemingly empty tower. His eye reddened and sore. The tears won't form any longer. The lower level lay in ruins of smashed desks and cases. Tomes and scrolls litter the ground. How could this happen? Eledom was one of the strongest mages he'd ever met. His life torn down messing with portals and rifts and magics that were beyond mere mortals. It's all their fault! They took him from me! The machinations of that vile woman and her henchmen. Dreya will pay. Arabull strides to the door of the study he was once forbidden from entering - though there is none left to stop him now. Reaching down on to the pristine desk he picks up the red leather bound tome and opens it. The only markings read in ancient cyclopean, "Eledom's Arcane Musings."Llaryll Thunderstout
The cloaked halfling digs through the debris and wreckage. This was the obvious place to start the hunt - when the ship missed it's scheduled mooring. And now we know why. A fly in the ointment. Dreya was wise to send Thunderstout after these particular flies, they've proven resourceful time and time again - from unconscious prisoners to felling an entire flight crew. Llaryl will need to be cautious here, better to subterfuge and surprise than move against them headfirst. Wiping the blood from his boots, he pulls up his hood and continues into the underbrush - Step one is to find them, then he'll worry about the rest.Blackened plumes of smoke billow into the sky above the charred shells of thatched huts and narrow walkways above the crystal blue lake water. The calm water, almost acting as a mirror to the chaos and carnage. The kneeling figure rises and turns towards the dense jungle tree line. Wiping the blood from his boots, he pulls up his hood and continues into the underbrush, he's closer now. So very close.
Miniri and Bird-In-Hand
Waves lap the shallow shoreline as she stands ankle deep in water and reed. The Wilytrun has a strong current from the rains further up the mountains. Fires rage in the small hamlet behind, illuminating the night sky as Miniri swaddles her kitten and places it into the woven basket at her feet. Her large paw wipes away tears as she kisses her child and stares into her eyes. At least she'll live, she'll have a chance at a good life, she thinks. "Goodbye little one, know that I am with you no matter where you go." As her tail brushes the underside of the babe's chin, Miniri pushes the basket into the current, watching as it drifts down stream. She is still watching as the large spear is thrust through her chest… "At least she'll live…"Zlogg The Goblin
Elsewhere, Snarl and snap. Bootfall and crunch. Little Zlogg keeps pace with the goblins around him. "Not just gobblins, also orcies, and hobbie goblin," he thinks to himself. "We are march for war!" He picks up one foot after another, so tired! When there? When eat? Maybe leader orcie have food for Zlogg? So many orcies and goblin and hobbies. Snake lady not know what coming for her! Zlogg checks his dogslicer at his side and imagines himself stabbing through the heart of Dreya. "Zlogg will be big hero now! Then Zlogg be chief and Ikta want Zlogg!" He lets out a wild yell as the sound is immediately drowned into a sea of footfalls and grunts.The moons rest high in night sky as little Zlogg curls the burlap blanket about him to stave off the cold. War is close he tells himself. For not the first time this evening he thinks he should eat his fill as often as he can, meals might become hard to come by once we strike. Hugging his rusted dogslicer to himself he drifts away to an uneasy sleep. The last thoughts on his mind are the same that have been running through his head for weeks now, "Zlogg will be big hero, then Zlogg be chief and Ikta want Zlogg."
Peli
As the people wisp around below, the slender and lithe gnome flows with the grace of a ballerina. The purple strands of hair that fall into her eyes are more of an inconvenience than a distraction, she'll have to tie those up better for the second performance. The silken ribbons and ropes intertwine to create a sort of textile waterfall and she swims among it with few cares. She is truly at hope among the rafters, ropes, and trapeze. As pleasant as ever, things are good and right with the world.Prince Rae Tali
Elsewhere, the large man with long black hair swings his bastard sword, separating head from shoulder of the vile hobgoblin. As fire burns through the thatch and wooden structures, he raises his sword and charges forward with a piercing and guttural growl. The howl of his faithful companion rings out beside him as they both rush further into the fray. Blood and ichor fly as the invaders are met with steel and tooth. His bloodied hand wipes sweat from his brow as he takes stock of the battlefield, several of his wounded but none dead. In a doorway to one of the homes the crimson and orange flash of a large lizard streaks past followed by shrieks of pain and swears in the under common tongue. He thinks to himself, how did they find us, but without the time to dwell, he once again puts steel to bone to protect his peoples.Elsewhere, as structures still smolder. The man walks about as if absent from the horrors in front of him. Charred bodies of common folk litter the area some with slashings, some with more grizzly disfigurements. Still, more of the strange beasts and monstrous people lay dead, in fact, all of the invaders. Some, including the large muscular man with long black hair and a bastard sword strapped to his back, nurse the cuts and wounds of others. A bloodied wolf hound and the orange and crimsoned lizard are at work as well, dragging the husks of the fallen attackers to the ever growing pyre on the far side of town. The acrid smoke fills the cavern and blots out the glowing orbs that provide light and comfort before billowing out finding its own nooks and cracks to the surface.
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