VEYL: First Campaign Thread

Part I

A Matter of Trust

Everyone knew the name Kaelor Vhane.  For many, the name felt almost like a legend, like a myth made flesh.  Some alleged he was immortal.  Others simply attributed his longevity to his High Elf genealogy.  Whatever the case was, they all agreed on a few things.  First and foremost, he was the leader of the Hand of Kaelor, the militant city-state inhabiting the island continent of the same name.  It was said he ruled from there while seated on a throne of skulls, harvested from those that would dare stand in the way of progress.  

The truth, it seemed, was more complicated. 

The Ash Legions had crossed the Sundering Strait and landed on the north-western shores of Valedyr before crossing the Sere Marches to take control of Ashvault Keep.  Just as there were stories about Kaelor, so too were there stories about Ashvault, and why he had decided to take it.  Some said it was a strategic point of interest, positioned within striking distance of the Black Meridian, though most agreed not even Kaelor was foolish enough to try such an endeavor. Some said it was because of the incompetence, or even corruption, of local leadership; that the people were starving, and that Kaelor had come to put a stop to it.  No matter what the truth was, there was one thing you all agreed was indisputable- 

The Kaelor Vhane had learned your name, and had sent an emissary to request an audience.  

You met each other on your walk through the city.  Emaciated locals celebrated the arrival of conquering heroes as the Ash Legions patrolled the streets, manned the walls and guard towers and checked out everyone going into and out of the gates.  

A thousand eyes crawled over you as you walked together in silence toward Kaelor's field headquarters up the stairs.  Down halls entirely too opulent for the field headquarters of a military warlord.  It was clear that money had been misappropriated under the previous regime.  

"No weapons beyond this point."  A guard said, a hulking Orc who looked like he meant business.  "Everything you have, leave it here."  

He pointed out a series of kegs nearby, clearly set up as individual repositories for anyone passing into Kaelor's chamber.  And so you obliged, leaving your weapons behind before being ushered inside.  Two guards size you up, and then the crowned individual in the back of the room waves them off, dismissively, almost like he's bored even with the prospect that you could be a threat to him.  

"Come in."  He says, his voice soft, almost meek.  He is, in fact, a high elf, some six and a half feet tall, his hair and skin pale, his face scarred from years of conflict.  A sword hangs at his hip, and his visage is of a man who knows how to use it.  It's his mannerisms and voice, though, that tell a different story; a story of empathy, of a gentle heart made monstrous.  There is a long oaken table between you and him, and a series of maps and military pawns strewn across its surface.  There's not a single chair in the room; it's as though half the furniture has been removed.  He beckons the lot of you closer with the gentle 'come hither' gesture of one hand.  

You can see a map of the greater portion of the continent of Valedyr before you.  The desert, the forests, the Crownspire Range, all drawn on with meticulous detail.  South of the mountains, a black pawn is placed in the location of the Black Meridian.  Scribbled notes nearby indicate that someone, possibly Kaelor, has been charting time and distance between Ashvault Keep and the Meridian itself.  

 "I thank you all for coming."  He said gently, one finger tapping the map absentmindedly.  "I've never been one to waste time, so I'll get right into it.  Your time is valuable, as is mine."  

He reached over to a pile of polished pebbles nearby and pulled out a red one before placing it along the Crownspire Range.  

"I need proxies."  He stated flatly, his faced tilted down to examine the map, his eyes shifting up to gauge your reactions.  "I'm not asking you to do my dirty work, so don't involve yourselves in anything unnecessary, do you understand?  The job is simple.  There are rumors of a pass through the mountains in this general vicinity."  

He tapped the map again, this time next to the red pebble.  


"I need this pass located and scouted, all the way across the range from north to south.  I'm not going to lie.  The little bit of recon we've performed in this area indicates it's dangerous.  You should be prepared for violence.  There's wyverns in the area, as well as various gangs of marauders and highwaymen.  I expect you may need to defend yourself from such threats, but I don't expect you to engage in any sort of military activity on our behalf, save for mapping the pass."  

He takes a moment to reach up, adjusting the thorned crown on his head.  An angry red mark can be seen below it.  He takes a moment, winces, and then removes the crown before setting it nearby on the table.  In that instant, he goes from looking like a warlord to a regular soldier.  A soldier who has fought hard.  Who has marched far.  

"You'll have cargo.  I'll send two warhorses pulling a cart.  Do your best to get the cart across the pass and to some of our agents in the south.  Don't steal from the cart.  Don't die for it."  

He takes a moment, not raising his gaze back to you, but sticking to his study of the map.  

"Deny who you're working for.  If caught, you're part of the Ashvault Resistance, moving supplies south so your forces can rally and rearm.   I can't promise what you'll be paid, but I'll make sure that a successful mission is worth your time.  Do you understand what I want?"  

His eyes meet yours.  He looks tired.  Sad.  Imploring.  

Harper had been taking notes.The third journal, the one with the water stained cover, sat open in his left hand before Kaelor had finished his second sentence. Charcoal moved in small careful strokes. Names. Distances. The word wyverns, underlined twice without him consciously deciding to underline it.

The crown came off and he stopped writing. He watched Kaelor set it on the table. Watched the warlord become, just for a moment, a soldier who had marched too far and slept too little. Harper owned several versions of that face himself. When Kaelor's tired eyes came up to meet theirs, the halfling closed the journal. He was easy to miss in a room like this. Small, road worn, a harp strapped to his back that he showed no apparent intention of playing. He looked like someone who had been walking a long time and hadn't entirely decided to stop.

"I understand the assignment," he said quietly. "I will also note, for the record, that I am a bard who records things and not a soldier. I expect the wyverns will record this as irrelevant."

He tucked the journal away. He did not mention that he was already noting the fastest route back to the door.

Rory had his left hand tucked under his right elbow and his right hand his chin the entire time during the explanation, watching the different points on the map.  He took notes in his mind about the probable location of the pass, the areas to be mapped, and where attacks could potentially occur.  A previous sailor, a current soldier, he looks up with crystal blue eyes and meets those of Kaelor, nodding toward the end.  “It can be done.  And it will be done.  We won’t take any extra chances.  Good to know a clear objective.  If things go haywire, as they sometimes do, any area that we should fall back to?  And you’ll have info on the meetups in the south, our contacts and where to locate them I’m sure.  Someone else will fill us in on the details.  Right.  We’ll get it done sir.  I understand.”  He nods to the weary elf, turning his head and appraising his crew, already running scenarios in his head, assessing capabilities.  He turns back to Kaelor expectantly and waits to hear if there is more or if they have been given leave to proceed.