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.   

Toil walks at a generally leisurely pace, but with a confident swagger that is likely a rarity these days, in reality the Tiefling is just used to having a goblin set his pace and is fairly amicable to taking his sweet time. A smile seems surgically appointed to his slightly purple tinged face though it is charmingly effortless as he regards the thousand eyes staring at the group on the way to the field headquarters, he even offers a friendly wave. 

When asked to leave weapons, Toil pulls a large serrated and hellish looking saber from a loose sheathe at his waist, then a Morningstar from his back, he greets the orc and in a whispered warning states. "Don't touch any of those unless you want to become cursed, eh?" Though the smile never leaving his lips means warning could easily be misconstrued as a joke, though his intense gaze as he says it would likely persuade the orc otherwise. Toil thinks about giving the orc the patter on servitude, on relying on others for purpose, or hiding amongst ranks whilst bottling up and ramping down ones true self, but now was not the time, the Tiefling likes a challenge and has freed many a person from their bonds of 'duty' in the past, but this challenge would have to wait for another day.

Toil leans eagerly upon the map table as the secretive mission is laid out. He says nothing in response but does turn to the smallest member of the group, the young goblin that he has stuck close to the entire time, he raises his eyebrows at her twice in quick succession as if to ask, "are you interested?, it could be exciting" he waits for her response to the pale elf before he speaks himself.

Cork walks in with the rest of the group, her eyes pealed open wide looking at the beauty of the halls… her thoughts a mixture of wonder and disgust for the cost that it must have taken as this place was erected.  She tries to shake these thoughts from her mind as they were about to meet the famous Kaelor.

He turns out not to be what she expected.  Not sure what she expected, but it wasn't this soft speaking, worn out old man.  No matter, and that’s when she notices that they are all looking upon something on the large table that she is too short to see.  Hmph.

She looks around and sees no chairs to use as she typically would and sighs again.  She scampers over to Toil and pulls on his sleeve, “A little help?” and as he has done in the past, he puts his hands together and she uses them as a boost for her to climb up the towering tiefling, all the way to his horns as she grabs hold of them, peering over his head to look at the vast map spread before them.

As Kaelor explains the situation, Cork looks around at the people gathered and then just loud enough for all to hear, “No dwarf? They are always useful in these sorts of things.” She then jumps down onto the table, taking in all the notes scattered around. Seeing Toil’s question, she smiles and gives him a nod.  Then finally, directly to Kaelor, “Under Black Meridian here, it is noted to be best avoided.  What changed?”

Aubrik’s thoughts on the walk up the stairs and along the opulent corridors are heavy. The emaciated faces of the locals celebrating their "conquerors" do not sit well with him. A city out of balance, a population starving while the halls above them bleed gold. It is unclear whether the arrival of Kaelor has made a positive difference, but what he sees right now seems entirely counter to the natural rhythm of the Flow.

At the threshold, when the towering Orc guard demands their armaments, he doesn't bristle. As an Orc himself, he is no small man, standing at six feet and a handful of inches. His build is more medium than large, his dark blue skin covered in tattoos, and his long white hair and small matching beard are neatly braided despite his youth. The guard, however, is a true hulk in comparison. Aubrik simply meets his gaze, inclines his head, and offers a low, resonant greeting in their mother tongue.

"As you say, brother", he mutters softly in Orcish. He unstraps a shield that looks suspiciously like the lid of an ale barrel and places a heavy ironwood stirrer into the offered keg. A bow and some arrows also make their way in, but parting with the stirrer feels like shedding a layer of his own skin. Still, he complies without a fuss.

Now, inside the chamber, he stands with arms crossed, his dark eyes tracking the strange energy of the room. The rumors of Kaelor Vhane speak of an immortal warlord sitting on a throne of skulls, but the elf who just set down his thorned crown looks less like a monster and more like a dam holding back a flood. Tired. Broken down by the weight of his own march.

His gaze shifts across the map, then appraises the ragtag assembly around him. It is an eclectic mix. Why us? Proxies mean deniability, but deniability against whom? The Ashvault Resistance is a convenient lie, but deceit has a habit of fouling the waters and breaking a man's discipline.

"Navigating a cart and two warhorses through an unmapped mountain pass is not a simple scouting mission", he says after the goblin questions the markings near the Black Meridian, his tone measured and steady, carrying the smooth weight of a negotiator that belies his outward appearance. "It is a recipe for a sour brew, and it already leaves a bad taste. If we are to drag a heavy target across the Crownspire Range under a false flag, it makes me doubt whether wyverns, marauders, and highwaymen are your main concern".

He leans slightly over the oaken table, his eyes shifting from the red pebble to Kaelor’s weary face. "You have an army of thousands patrolling these streets, yet you sent for a handful of strangers who share no common clan or banner. Why this specific group? Whose eyes are you truly trying to blind by having us be your proxies?"

He locks eyes with Kaelor, his look respectful, as he mentions the pressing points on his mind, "I would learn more of your intentions in this city before agreeing to ally, and the price of declining".

Harper had not stopped writing while everyone spoke.

He finished the sentence he was on, tapped the charcoal twice against the page in a small unconscious habit, and then looked up. His eyes moved from the orc to Kaelor and back again, measuring something.

"Already in here." He tapped the journal without looking at it, not quite meeting Aubrik's eyes. "You just had the nerve to say it."

He looked back down at the page, waiting for the answer. 

"oooooh good questions! I like this, I wanna do one" The silky voice of the Tiefling cuts in before the warlord can answer, thus far the amusement in Toil's words are at a peak which makes it seem like he is not taking anything seriously at all and he has leant so far forward onto the map table that he may as well be laid upon it.

He watches in delight as his goblin companion Cork starts walking on the carefully carved map and reading the annotations, doing exactly as she likes, "well, why us? And who are ya expecting? This army seems like an unstoppable force but you don't want to be seen to be overreaching your 'political boundaries' why not? Who's hornets nest are you sending us into?"

Cork turns towards the orc as he lays out several questions about the proffered request, as she does, her big green feet seem to have stuck to some of the notes that were laid on the table and move with her, wrinkling and shuffling as she moves.  She does not appear to notice as her large, long ears go flat against her head as she takes in the large blue one.  She peers at the tattoos, curious what each one represents, if anything.

Then remembering that they are in the middle of a meeting, Cork nods to what is being said.  "Yes, yes, seems to me going without big warhorses and cart would make scouting mission much easier." She then wipes her nose with the back of her hand, then wipes the back of her hand on the tattered brown robes that she is wearing.

Orvyr Myastan follows the group in last. The large blue dragonborn is surprised at the size of the orc asking for his weapons. It has been awhile since he saw someone the same size as him. Orvyr stands at an even seven feet tall, with wide shoulders. He wares a simple traveling cloak and simple clothes. His weapons look well used and well cared for. If you look close, there are some green vines that are tattooed on his scales, snaking there way under his clothes.  He nods and places a large greataxe and several smaller handaxes into the barrel. 

He looks over the others quickly, but is fascinated by the map. He stands to the back of the group, easily looking over the others heads. He was about to lift up the tiny goblin, but saw she had a solution in hand... Although he winces as he sees the goblin start to smear some writing on the map. He is only half listening to the others. Orvry loves a good map. They always have little hidden treasures in there. 

He grumbles in agreement "The others are correct. It would be best to scout the pass first before trying to bring cargo. Why the rush?" As the continues to move along the map, he can't help himself "Oh, be careful, you're going to smudge it... oh here. Climb up, you'll see better." He offers his hand to the goblin so she can climb onto his shoulders.