Discussion, Lore of Albadyn

Legends of Albadyn Short Story: Arrival

The City of Harfast. A large fort surrounded by several small villages and dominated by a large tower called, originally enough, The Great Tower.

But Harfast is not known for its history of impressive battles, nor indeed for The Great Tower, but rather, it is known as the headquarters of the Albadynian Guild The Champions. One of Albadyn’s first adventuring Guilds, many people have sought membership due to the pedigree of its members: people renowned world over for their greatness and power: Xandra the Dragonblood Knight, Archaemon the Blackbird of Bromstead, and Aja Whiteshield, who withstood the might of the terrifying Jade Dragon.

It is for this reason that a new character enters the story: a novice adventurer who bears the mark of one who has great heart, but not great skill. Her age: eighteen. Her hair: short and brown. Her most noticeable feature? An eyepatch over her left eye. Despite this, her demeanor could easily be described as perky and eager to see where life takes her. She has not allowed the failures of the past to drag her down.

Her name? Mary. A rather plain name, she will be the first to tell you, but that will be followed by a small talk about the beauty of simplicity.She has come to Harfast with a small amount of gold in her pocket and the pack on her back as her entire collection of worldly goods: she has been cast from where she was and used it to propel her to where she wants to be.

As she approached the guild hall, its somewhat ominous appearance made her falter: made entirely out of polished black stone with red banners hanging off the two upper-story balconies (each of which is embroidered with a black cross), the Champions Guild Hall was built by Dwarves out of polished Onyx. A very expensive (and very durable) structure, which was given to the Champions after they did a job for the aforementioned Dwarves.

After Mary recollected her nerve, she entered the building. It was surprisingly cool inside, and before her was a wooden desk, whereat at man was seated, and before him was a large (and very old) book.

“Welcome. If you seek to hire the Champions, please place your request on the board: I assure you someone will help you as soon as they become available. If…” The man had clearly given this speech many times before.

“I want to join your Guild!” Mary exclaimed, cutting the man off mid-sentence. His eyes narrowed and he surveyed her briefly.

“Very well, come forward and be seated.” He said, and Mary willingly complied. He opened the book and drew forth a Rook-feather quill.

“Name?” He asked matter-of-factly, with his eyes fastened to the book.

“Uhm… Mary Windstorm” she replied. He wrote it down and asked the next question without hesitation

“Combat Skills?” Mary regained her composure and shook off her uncertainty before replying.

“I am skilled with a saber and a hand crossbow.” She smiled: this was going well.

“Previous Adventuring Experience?” He asked, still steadfastly glued to the book. Mary was glad for it: she faltered. Thinking about her past adventure made her remember its disastrous result.

“I completed a Quest in the town of Stonewall. I was tasked with clearing out a Bandit camp.” She had tried her best, but a small quiver escaped in her voice.

“Completed?” he asked, still fastened to the book. That was beginning to annoy Mary.

“Well, completed enough. I vanquished all but one of them, but then I took an arrow…” The man raised his face and narrowed his eyes, judging what she would say next.

“…to the eye.” Mary said slowly, unsure of why he was suddenly so intense. He nodded, looked back at the book, and he sighed.

“Well, you have been truthful, and that counts for something. You have to pass our entrance test before you can join, however. It is not too difficult, but it winnows out those who have the spirit for the work, and those who do not.”

 

NEXT TIME: TRIALS

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Lore of Albadyn

Legends of Albadyn Short Story: Doom

Terrance had been proud once. Her hand lost due to her arrogance. Prior to that she had been a very curious creature, always landing in some new trouble due to her nosiness and impetuous nature. While the hand had returned due to the Temple Healers, the lesson she had learned had remained: while pride is acceptable, never underestimate an opponent due to their seeming lack of skill.

Now, however, she was simply a Half Elf trying to get by. Her half-blooded nature had only recently come to light, and it did not truly bother Terrance that much.

But now, her life was marching toward a conclusion.

The Hero’s Doom rests in the Hands of The Shadow Knight…

The word’s bitter refrain echoed through her mind as she walked toward the small fortress in the distance. She had found the words etched on a stone of fortune, which told those who touched it what their doom should come by. Had she not succumbed to a fit of curiosity, she would not be any the wiser.

But Terrance was not about to run. If she ran from her fate, her doom, she would never stop running until it caught up to her. She would never outrun it, merely spend her final time fleeing and dreading an hour that would surely, inevitably come.

Terrance refused to live in fear. She hadn’t until then, she wouldn’t now. Her head would remain held high, her knees unbowed. While not arrogant anymore, she was still a proud person, and pride demanded she face her doom on her terms.

As she approached the fortress a sentry spotted her and began to blow a trumpet of alarm. She raised her hand and a bolt of pure white energy soared from it, colliding with the sentry and silencing him but good.

A gate barred her way. She raised her hand again, her sword held firmly in her other. A large concentrated beam of white energy flew into the gate, and with a thunderous crash it exploded inward, showering the men behind it with splinters, pieces of metal, and holy rage. No one that had been behind the gate would trouble her.

As a group of assorted highwaymen and thugs rushed toward her, her mouth gained a bitter twist. She evaded their attacks with elegance and grace, the setting sun making her glistening white armor look as though it was all the color of blood. She danced through those who opposed her march toward her doom, leaving them wounded and fallen behind her.

Another bolt of energy flew from her hand, silencing the crossbowman who had almost fired at her. Her blade deflected an axe strike from a thug and looped back around, slicing him down. She saw a great stairway in front of her: it led to the great hall of the fort. She began walking up it, never wavering.

The doors of the great hall opened and a horde of enemies spilled out, all shouting and charging toward her. Her mind registered it as a temporary delay, nothing more.

She was hard beset, but despite the deluge of offensive force raining down on her, she maintained her grace and her power. Soon, though many, all her foes lay broken at her feet. She resumed her march.

As she reached the double doors of the great hall, carved with dragons and knights, seated before her was a knight dressed all in black, a massive morningstar mace resting in front of him, his hands on the bottom of its handle. He sat on a throne, and his helmet was spiked as though it were a crown.

“Your doom is here, knight. Stand and face it.” She said, the anger in her words edged with bitterness.

The knight rose, and towered over her. She was short already, but his height was incredible.

“You’re bleeding, little elf. Run away home and mend before I do something you’ll regret.”

His words were true: she had sustained an injury while she fought on the stairs. She did not care: if this was to be her doom, let it be one that would be told and retold as a legend of strength and pride.

She leapt forward, and her sword… struck empty air. Despite his incredible height, he was incredibly nimble. Terrance ducked almost a moment too late, and felt as one of the long spikes of the morningstar scratched the back of her breastplate. She rose and leapt, bouncing off the back of the throne to reach his full height. She bellowed in rage and white hot energy enveloped her curved Elven sword. With a mighty blow, her sword cut into the Shadow Knight’s helmet. Had he been a second slower, it would have cut through his head. Instead, it merely cut through his visor, showing part of his face.

However, the evade was costly, for now he was unbalanced. Terrance pressed the offensive, raining down blow after fury-filled blow. If her fate could be avoided, it would be, but if not, she would make it a costly win for her adversary.

His armor now covered in scratches, some of which were darkened by the blood coming out of them, the Shadow Knight realized the power his opponent possessed. He was nearly sandwiched between her and the wall: if he kept evading by walking backwards, he would soon be out of places to run.

Terrance swung her sword horizontally, and the Shadow Knight let go of his morningstar with one hand and grabbed her wrist. He pulled as hard as he could, and her feet left the ground. With a yell she flew into the wall, her back and head taking the brunt of the impact. She hit the floor and lay crumpled on her side, her eyes closed.

The Shadow Knight believed he had won for a moment, but then her eyes snapped open. Though doubtless her right shoulderblade was shattered beyond almost any repair, and her sword arm was doubtless sprained, her rage spiked, giving her strength for one final push. She rushed forward drunkenly and rammed her sword into the Shadow Knight’s leg. Though no longer glowing with white hot energy, the blade was still wickedly sharp, and with a scraping sound it went through.

The Shadow Knight howled in pain as his leg gave way. He fell to one knee and looked up to see Terrance, holding a long silver dagger in her hand.

His hand darted forward and wrapped around the lower half of her face. Before he could do anything else though the dagger was rammed through his elbow. Another howl echoed from his lips, and his arm fell limp by his side. But one arm remained. He balled up his fist and punched Terrance as hard as he could in the stomach. He realized his error: though it would wind her, it would not finish their fight. She flew into the wall again and cried out as her several of her ribs gave way to the pressure of the punch and the impact she had made with the wall.

The Shadow Knight struggled to rise and as he did, he grasped the haft of his Morningstar. With great effort he dragged himself toward his still seated opponent. For a little Elf, she had made a surprisingly tough opponent.

He raised his massive mace and bellowed in rage. She bellowed back, raising her remaining arm. A beam of energy came from it, though now tinged with red. This blast was holy rage mingled with pain and blood: it would not last long.

But it lasted long enough. the Shadow Knight fell backward, his helmet and a good portion of his breastplate incinerated off by the sheer power of the blast.

Terrance coughed. a small line of red came from the corner of her mouth and trickled down her chin.

She knew the veracity of the fortunestone’s words: though all her foes were fallen, she could not survive the damage she had taken in the process. Her head began to slump, and she exhaled her last.

A man in a white robe entered the scene of the battle. A small smile played across his lips. He was in time, but almost too late. He draped a small golden amulet around Terrance’s neck, and with a glimmer of gold she faded away from view.

With a pained gasp, Terrance awoke in the Temple. dressed in a plain white robe, she sat bolt upright and her eyes darted about as she strove to get her bearings.

“Where…” She began, but speaking was incredibly painful.

“You almost did not arrive in time, sister of faith.” A young man said. She looked at him. A priest.

“I… I had no intention of coming… How am I here?” She asked.

“A brother of faith gave you this, a Resurrection Talisman. You must have been dead when he arrived, though, for many of your injuries have not fully healed.”

Terrance fell backward onto the soft mattress. How? While the Temple had been striving to find a way to save the lives of Adventurers who fell in battle, it hadn’t been successful… had it?

“It is a new thing that the brother of faith designed. He had help from the Blessed: Arkenmagics were what we were missing. He insisted on giving you the first one. I told him where you were going and he came after you as swiftly as he could. I am glad he did.”

Terrance was as well. Her doom… she had perished: the prediction came true. But life had come again to her broken form, and now… now the future was open to her.

(This Story takes place right before the Resurrection Amulets were created. fortunate for Terrance they were invented when they were, eh?)

 

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Lore of Albadyn

Legends of Albadyn Short Story: Ghost

A couple of Bandits. That was it. Nothing fancy.

Of course it could never hope to be that simple. A couple had mutated into five, and they were far from the unskilled ruffians that Archaemon had been expecting.

Fortunately, he was him, and he had fought out of far worse situations. As several Bandits rushed him, he aimed his small rifle at them with a single arm and fired a shot from both of its barrels. Two of the Bandits wielding axes shouted and toppled over, but three were still rushing him, and it took him a minute to reload.

“Always be ready to get rough in a fight. You can’t rely on your silly guns all the time.”

A ghost of a smile haunted Archaemon’s face for a moment. Using his off hand he pulled out his knife and placed his Twinshot on the enchanted back-plate that he wore so he could carry his Twinshot on his back without using straps. He placed his knife in his main hand and sized up the men facing him.

Two wielded swords and wore light leather armor that had seen better days, but one wore commoner’s clothes and held a decrepit rusty axe.

The axe wielder lunged with a yell, and Archaemon dodged the man’s chop and struck the man’s back hard. Unfortunately, the dagger stuck fast.

“Void.” Archaemon muttered under his breath, and he evaded two strikes from the men with swords. Dodging handily out of the way, Archaemon found the fallen Bandit’s axe and lifted it. Evading two more strikes from the bandit duo facing him, he hurled the axe at one of the Bandits facing him. The axe found its mark. With a gurgle, he fell backwards, leaving his compatriot alone facing Archaemon.

But things were not going well for Archaemon. His gun was empty and the only weapon nearby was his bonestuck dagger.

“A foe’s sword can as easily become your own if you act fast enough.”

Archaemon and the man circled. Archaemon tried to calm down: he could handle one little Bandit, no problem.

And yet, with a handy strike, the Bandit sliced Archaemon’s exposed arm with the tip of his sword. Archaemon’s quick reflexes had ensured it was not a deep cut, but it still hurt. Archaemon had learned from Aja that there were few things more unpleasant than sweaty arms sticking to your sleeves in the middle of a battle, so he had had his Rook’s coat modified to be sleeveless. It traded protection for comfort, sure, but he was skilled enough to win without sleeves.

The Bandit twirled his sword around twice before thrusting with it. Archaemon smiled. Dodging to the side and lunging forward, Archaemon grabbed the Bandit’s wrist and brought his fist up under the Bandit’s elbow. The Bandit dropped his sword with a yell and stumbled backwards. Archaemon picked up the sword and marched forward. He looked at the man on the ground. He looked rather pathetic, and he whimpered for mercy.

Archaemon chuckled and shook his head as he turned to leave the man alive.

“Never leave an enemy behind you.”

As soon as the thought passed his mind he heard a yell. Archaemon jumped to the side and spun, using his momentum to propel his sword. The Bandit, who had been brandishing a rock, fell to the ground with a thud, immediately succumbing to the sword wound.

“Void take it Auburn why’d you have to be right about everything?” Archaemon asked quietly. No answer came to him, and a cold wind gently blew in his face. He ran his hand through his short brown hair and sighed raggedly.

He missed Auburn.

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Lore of Albadyn

Royal Proclamation (Legends of Albadyn Lore Update)

⊕Loyal Subjects of Donyavar⊕

On the night of the 25th of Autumn’s Dawning, in this the 25th year after the Four Day War, a group of adventurers fought against the Jade Drakeling that had been plaguing our countryside, and prevailed with few losses.

The Adventurers embarked late in the night, with the first party comprised of eight Adventurers with the Crimson Cross Guild arriving first. After withstanding the initial onslaught, the party struck back with courage and ferocity.

Sadly, the Dragon lashed out and bit into Tian, an Amaresu Samurai with the aforementioned guild, felling her without a chance for healing. She returned to the temple early on into the fight. This loss stalled the efforts of the Adventurers, and the dragon began to gain momentum. Fortunately, about that time, a second party comprised of six Adventurers from a fellow guild arrived. From here, the dragon was quickly felled.

The Adventurers who survived the battle were named as follows:

Aja Whiteshield

Orijen Whiteshield

Silas Archaemon

Terrance Gilfaren

Julius Ironwill

Xandra

Alrich Montague

Kirie

Jade

Scotia

Hope

Sasha

Mehpool

We thank them for vanquishing the Dragon and for keeping our land safe.

 

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Lore of Albadyn

Whitehaven Stories Pt 3: Memories

“Unless you better yourself, a worm like you does not deserve to exist in my presence.”

The woman’s voice was thick with loathing, and the man being forced to kneel before her snarled. He rose suddenly, mauling the two guards holding him down, and grabbed the sword out of one of their sheathes.

With a rapid whirl, the man’s newly-acquired blade soared through the air and was barely blocked by the woman’s own sword. With a forceful push, the woman sprung backward and landed in a defensive stance.

“Never… Belittle those… less powerful… than you.” The man’s voice was trembling with rage, and he sprung forward, swinging his arm downward in a powerful crushing blow. Instead of foolishly trying to block it, the woman sprung to the side and swung at the man, but he handily dodged it and swung at her with a masterful diagonal strike.

“You think that just because you have a high station you deserve the slavish devotion of all those around you? YOU’RE A FOOL!” He twirled his stolen sword in a flurry of strikes that the woman could barely stay ahead of. She was an adept swordswoman, and this disrespectful drunkard was keeping her on the edge of defeat.

Infuriated, the woman parried his strike and countered it with a jab and several artful slashes of her own. Then disaster struck. As she chopped downward, he sidestepped and the point of her sword bit into the ground. With a swift swing, searing pain bit through her left arm. She heard a snap, and a thud. Her left hand was no longer joined to her body.

Shock pulsed through her, and for one critical moment, she froze. A boot collided with her gut, sending her sprawling. The man’s sword point lightly touched the woman’s throat, and she began to cry despite herself.

“I could kill you right now. Know this. Acknowledge it. But instead, I prefer to teach you a lesson. There is always someone more powerful than you, but just because you possess greater power does not give you the right to belittle those around you. Remember that.”

The man threw the sword to the ground and staggered away, returning to the tavern from whence he had come. The woman struggled to rise. How… She had been so foolish! She had forgotten what she was meant to be, and what she had wanted when she was young.

She struggled into the temple. As the healers began their work, she instructed them implicitly

“Do not return my hand.”

 

 

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Terrance shook her head. The memory came and went unbidden, without sign of trigger or any indication of what brought it on. Despite the distance of fifteen years between that day and the one she was currently in, the memory was still as clear as though she had just experienced it.

She had learned how to fight without a hand, she had learned to get by, and she had learned humility. She sighed and poured herself a cup of water. It had been one day since Aja Whiteshield and Orijen had left to get whatever they needed, and Terrance was on edge: waiting before an operation was always the hardest part. She propped a book on the stand she had had made and opened it to her place.

She would always remember.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Lore of Albadyn, Uncategorized

Whitehaven Stories pt. 2: The Mission

As Aja and Orijen sat at The Inn, Aja began to grow impatient. They had been at the determined locale for hours, and while the minstrel was adequate, plucking away ancient ballads on a well-worn lute, Aja was never one to take inaction well.

As she reached her boiling point, the door opened. A woman with shoulder length curly red hair and pointed ears entered, a longsword by her side and white armor with a red cross on the front equipped. The armor was nicked and dented in places, showing she had fought in many battles. The fact that her left hand was absent showed that not all of them had ended in victory.

She spotted them and walked over to their table, grabbing a chair and sitting down in a stately manner. She was fair of face, but not extravagantly so.

“Greetings, Aja, Orijen. I am Terrance, and I have been sent here to speak with you on behalf of High Priest Avram. He would have come to greet you personally, but there is a matter that required his immediate attention.”

Aja raised an eyebrow and looked at Orijen askance, but he seemed to be perfectly calm.

“What is the matter that the Temple requires our assistance with?” he asked, and Terrance exhaled a small sigh of relief.

“I was concerned that you would not help if it were not Avram that was here… The Temple has reached out to your guild in a matter concerning a shipment of gold that was stolen on its way here. The wagons were burnt, and the caretakers treated with the utmost of disrespect. Of the few that could speak, one remembered seeing this symbol on the breastplate of one of the men that robbed the caravan.”

Terrance produced a piece of paper. On it was an illustration of a jagged crown. Aja’s eyes widened, and Orijen looked at her.

“This… is bad. This symbol belongs to the Knights of the Fallen Court.” Aja said, and Terrance furrowed her eyebrows as she responded.

“The Knights of the Fallen Court? They’re merely a legend the Bandits came up with to give themselves credibility. Everyone knows that.”

Aja shook her head. She knew better: she had been a soldier at the border of the Disputed Lands in her youth, so she knew the workings of the Bandit world.

“No, they are real, they just very rarely do anything. They’re content to rule the Disputed Lands and horde all the riches the Bandit Clans pay them in tribute. If they’ve come this far north, we have a very serious problem.”Aja finished speaking, and Terrance sighed.

“First the influx of Void Cult activity, and now this. Donyavar is falling to pieces around our ears… Well, since you know this foe, I can get down to your mission. A small shipment of incredibly precious stones is leaving from the Whitehaven Grand Temple to be taken to Rhasys for the dedication of the new Temple there. If these stones are stolen, the Temple in Rhasys will not be able to receive any Adventurers that perish in their borders, and Adventurers working there will be forced to return to this world much farther away from their work than normal. Will you and your guild assist us in keeping it safe?” Terrance finished speaking, and awaited an answer.

Aja looked at Orijen, and they both smiled. Aja looked at Terrance and spoke, an excited edge to her voice.

“Give us two days, and we’ll make sure not even a dragon could steal these jewels.”

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Lore of Albadyn, Uncategorized

Whitehaven Stories Pt 1: Arrival

The rain cascaded on Whitehaven’s streets like a curtain of glistening beads, each bead plummeting freely until colliding with its target and exploding gloriously.

As long as its target wasn’t your eye, foolishly looking upward, you would be fine. Summers were warm in Donyavar, the neighboring land to Inyan. Whitehaven, the capital of that land, was famed far and wide for its glistening marble walls and streets, signs of its affluence and might.

The guards of Whitehaven, on the other hand, left much to be desired. As the woman and her companion entered the city through the main gate, the guards were too immersed in their game of Flags to even notice someone had entered. The woman tsked and shook her head, but the man smiled, glad that the men were enjoying themselves.

Both wore cloaks of dark black to keep the rain from their eyes, cloaks unmarked save for the small crimson cross embroidered on the right shoulder. To those who did not know of them, the symbol was nothing other than a decoration. To those who did, the symbol testified of their Guild Affiliation with the Crimson Crosses, a small adventurers Guild operating from the Inyani town of Harfast.

As the pair walked the streets, the woman surveyed the surrounding buildings seeking an inn, while the man looked around in wonder. The woman’s eyes lighted upon her sought-after establishment, a place imaginatively named The Inn.

As the pair entered, the woman lowered her hood. Her hair was short and raggedly cut, hanging just below her chin. Her hair was raven black, save for a streak of red in the lock that perpetually hung over her right eye. Her skin was pale, and her makeup accentuated that fact with its dark colors. Beneath her left eye, a symbol: a small half-diamond underlined her eye, its tip ending at her cheekbone. She was fair to look upon, and her face seemed to have an ageless quality to it, which annoyed the staff of The Inn to no end.

The man lowered his hood and straightened his shoulder length blonde hair. His ears were pointed elegantly, and his face constantly had a small smile on it. His skin was light golden, and he wore a small silver cross around his neck to show his status as a priest.

The woman took a seat at a round table in the dark corner, but her companion sat at the table next to it, which was somewhat more illuminated. After a brief wordless argument executed with expressions and gestures, the woman sighed and moved from her table to sit next to her companion.

One of the servers, a young woman with curly brown hair and freckles, approached and began to speak.

“Greetings, travelers! What may I get you on this rainy evening? We have tea if you’re feeling unwell after getting wet.”

The woman with the short hair sighed and spoke, her voice slightly lower than one would expect.

“I’ll have some brew, and the gentleman here will have, without fail…”

“Water.” He said in a slightly musical voice. The maid blushed slightly, and a flash of aggression flared in the woman’s eyes.

“Sorry, missy: he’s taken.” The maid’s eyes widened for a second, and she nodded and walked away.

“Well, it’s an improvement over the last one. No sword, for one thing.” The man said, and the woman chuckled. Shortly thereafter, the maid returned with their drinks, and after a drink, the woman spoke.

“Well, Orijen, what kind of work are we here to do?”

“Ideally, we’ll be finding out here in a few moments. My contact should already be here… Hopefully she’ll arrive soon, Aja.”

 

(TUNE IN NEXT WEEK FOR PART TWO!)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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