The attendant halts mid-step, her small frame straightening as she pivots on her heel to face Caio. The light from the stained glass above catches the gold trim of the gnome's robes and the tight spiral of her auburn braid, which bounces slightly as she moves. Her hazel eyes, sharp and inquisitive, lock onto the elf's face, as though trying to extract every ounce of truth from his words.
"A baelnorn?" The woman's voice is sharp, clipped and surprisingly commanding for her stature. "That is no small claim, Inquisitor. An accusation of such corruption strikes at the very heart of Eldrani tradition."
Her expression grows contemplative, but there’s a fire in her eyes.
"The creation of a baelnorn is a sacred practice. It is meant to safeguard Eldrani heritage and the legacy of our people. If one has turned from that noble purpose, then it is not just an affront to the divine — it is a wound to the very soul of Eldrani culture."
The attendant squares her shoulders, her slight frame radiating purpose.
"Steward Brighthill will want to hear of this herself."
The gnome gestures for Caio to follow. Despite her small stature, she moves at a surprisingly brisk pace, her boots clicking against the polished stone floor of the Bastion’s corridors. The sunlight that filters through the stained glass windows casts her in shifting patterns of gold and crimson as they proceed through increasingly ornate halls.
"As for your weapon," she continues, not breaking stride, "we will see to its consecration. The steward may also deem your cause worthy of additional aid, but such decisions are hers to make."
The attendant halts before a pair of tall, intricately carved oak doors. Depictions of holy knights and symbols of the sun are etched into the surface, glinting faintly with embedded shards of gemstone. Two halfling guards stand on either side, their silvered halberds at attention. The gnome turns to Caio, her voice firm but not unkind.
"You should understand, Inquisitor, that what you are proposing — hunting a corrupted baelnorn — is no ordinary endeavour. It may even stir controversy among the elves. If you wish the Bastion’s full support, you will need to convince Steward Brighthill of the righteousness of your cause."
With a respectful nod, she signals for the guards to open the grand doors. They swing inwards with a creak, revealing a cosy, yet imposing study lined with shelves of meticulously organised tomes and scrolls. Warm light spills from a chandelier, its soft, golden glow accentuating the polished mahogany furniture and the rich, crimson rug underfoot. Behind an ornately carved desk sits a halfling woman deeply engrossed in a document, her sharp eyes darting across the page as she scribbles precise annotations with a feathered quill. Her hair is tied up in a silver-streaked chestnut-brown bun that gleams in the sunlight filtering through yet another stained-glass window.
"Wait here. I will announce you," the attendant tells Caio, before striding confidently into the room and the steward's ears twitch at the sound of approaching footsteps.
"What is it, Adella? I trust that this interruption is worth my time."
"Steward Brighthill, I present to you Inquisitor Caio Cypherien, an emissary of the Sanctum of Rifts in Five Towers. He bears the mark of Warden Elias Aetherweaver and seeks an audience."
The steward sets down her quill with deliberate care and looks up, her emerald eyes narrowing slightly as she takes in Caio’s imposing figure. Leaning back in her chair, she temples her fingers over her chest.
"An Inquisitor bearing the Warden's mark, no less," she echoes, glancing at the runes still shimmering on Caio’s skin. "Such emissaries do not often grace our halls. Step forward, Caio Cypherien, and explain what brings you to Sunhold Bastion. Please do so concisely — I value clarity as much as I do security within these walls."
She gestures to a seat across from her desk, her demeanour professional yet piercing.
With that, she turns to Alaris and Astrid as she heads out of the building and straight for the establishment that she couldn't have been paid to enter just hours before. "You guys are coming, right?"
Alaris grins and hefts Hope's Edge with a gentle flourish. "Oh yes... I need a workout in the best way..."
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
Eshuvenniel Kazander Ravid,Valor Bard and Acolyte of the Goddess of Luck Caradoc Langham, Halfling Rogue - Lost Magics - Epic of Pre-made Proportions! I'm not looking for heaven or hell... just someone to listen to stories I tell...
Elias listens to Shiva with an arched brow, a glimmer of amusement breaking through his otherwise composed demeanour. The warden's hair shifts as he tilts his head, piercing blue eyes scrutinising the tiefling standing before him. Elias steps closer, his robes catching the arcane eddies still lingering in the air. He gestures lightly towards Shiva's runes, their faint pulsing reflecting her enthusiasm.
"Your confidence is admirable and the runes will sustain you. However," he cautions, "do try not to draw undue attention to yourself. Those seeking a quick profit or thrill at the pits may find themselves in situations that no magic can entirely shield."
He softens, his lips curving in a faint smile.
"I will ensure that Caio receives your message. Be careful, Shiva. You’ve been given tools of great power, but power alone does not guarantee victory — or safety."
Shiva stops mid-stride as she heads out, turning to face Elias.
"My apologies, Warden. I didn't mean to suggest that I will use the power of the runes for profit or mindless carnage. They will just allow me to do one of the things I'm best at without fear of losing control. I've much experience with fighting pits. Thank you for your warning and your help."
Turning to leave, she jokes with Ari as they walk to the fighting pit.
"Didn't think you were gonna get in on this to? Gods, this is gonna be fun!"
“Thank you,” he says with a nod to Adella before proceeding forward. The inquisitor does not take the offered seat, instead standing next to it. Of course, as he begins to explain his situation, Caio begins to pace.
”And thank you for hearing me, Steward. As for what brings me to the Bastion, I only required use of your teleportation circle to run an errand here in Paragon before returning to the Warden and my troupe. We prepare to embark to Beschadik on a dangerous mission, a mission Adella thought you might see fit to assist us with. We hunt a Baelnorn,” he pauses his slow strides just for a beat, “though given this entities proclivities some choose simply to call him a lich. His name is Valentine Morgenstern, and he lusts after a fabled runestone currently belonging to the Sarameian Emperor. We suspect he plans to bind his essence to the relic. We intend to thwart him before this happens.”
The Steward leans back in her chair, a frown deepening the soft lines of her face, and her eyes narrow as she absorbs Caio’s words. Her small hands rest on the polished oak before her, fingers laced together. When the elf mentions Valentine Morgenstern and the runestone, her lips press into a thin line.
"Valentine Morgenstern," Brighthill repeats, leaning back in her chair, her gaze steady and calculating. "A name that I’ve heard only in the whispers of old tomes and darker stories... and you say he is a a Baelnorn? Or rather, one who has desecrated the sacred rite that should be a testament to elven honour," she adds with a scoff. "A Baelnorn gone rogue is no small matter — and one seeking a runestone of such power… well, I don’t have to tell you the stakes. The Emperor himself might not be prepared for what could be unleashed if he succeeds."
The halfling's eyes sharpen as they settle on Caio.
“Your purpose here is noble, Inquisitor, but it is also daunting. Beschcadik can be a perilous place in its own right. Adding the threat of Morgenstern to that… I hope that the Sanctum's servants are steadfast. You hunt not merely a lich of sorts, but one who schemes to wield power that could tip the balance of the world."
The Steward leans back slightly, crossing her arms. Her voice is firm, but carries a note of genuine care.
"As for assistance, the Bastion does not take such decisions lightly. You understand this. However, if what you say is true — and I see no reason to doubt the sincerity of the Warden's envoy — then it would be remiss of us to ignore your plight. Nevertheless, while I respect the Warden’s faith in you and your cause, I must consider what aid I can offer without jeopardising the city’s own defences."
She gestures toward a map laid out across her desk, its detailed depiction of Paragon and the surrounding regions catching the light of the chandelier.
"Tell me, Inquisitor, what is it that you seek from us? Weapons? Blessings? Knowledge of Morgenstern’s movements or his weaknesses? The Bastion cannot join you directly, but we may be able to lend you tools or information. Provided, of course, that your cause aligns with our own tenets."
Her lips curl into a smile.
"If you’ll forgive the observation, I’d wager that there’s more to this mission than you’ve told me. What else should I know before I consider how best we can aid you?"
”Our motivation. Valentine holds one of our members in his clutches. Rescuing her is paramount. Valentine also has allies. His daughter Clarissa is powerful in her own right. At the moment she is our actual target, for it is she who currently sits in the Emperor’s court like a viper in his boot. We have the paired objectives of disrupting her schemes and extracting some physical part of her which will allow us access to Valentine’s own personal demiplane, where his current phylactery sits. Further, the two of them have been working with a cabal of occultists known as the 99 Hundred. It’s quite possible their agents have infiltrated the imperial court and will prove to be an obstacle.” he lets out a tense sigh, letting all of the information sink in.
”Information is our greatest weapon. Knowledge of the Morgenstern’s movements and weaknesses would be a godsend, any shred of it could tip the odds in our favor. Similarly, any information you have on the 99 Hundred would be greatly appreciated. Connections in Beschadik would also prove helpful. We will be strangers in Saramei, but it is my hope that we can earn the Emperor’s trust so that he will heed our warning appropriately. Now, any and all of that would already be an incredible aide to our cause, but I would not say no to any blessed armaments the Bastion is able to spare. I can assure you they will be put to good use.”
The Steward listens with unwavering attention, her eyes glinting with both concern and resolve. When Caio finishes, she nods slowly, her expression a mix of contemplation and determination.
"You aim to strike at the heart of a well-entrenched threat, one that could tip the scales of balance far beyond the borders of Saramei," she says, her voice steady. "To face Valentine Morgenstern and his kin, along with a cabal as nefarious as the 99 Hundred, is a task that demands not only courage but precision and cunning."
Brighthill leans forward, her hands resting on the desk again.
"Knowledge, as you rightly point out, is indeed the key. I cannot claim to know much of Valentine or Clarissa Morgenstern beyond their dark reputations, but the 99 Hundred... their name carries whispers of shadowed halls even here in Paragon. They are an enigma, a coalition of sorcerers whose goals remain as obscure as their methods. Yet, they are not unknown to us. I will summon what records the Bastion has on their movements and operatives, though I warn you: they are not an easy foe to anticipate."
The halfling pauses, her gaze piercing.
"As for Beschcadik, we do have contacts within the Sarameian court — though such relationships are delicate. I will write to them at once and request their assistance, though whether they will act in time remains to be seen. Their influence could at least grant you a measure of protection or audience within the imperial court."
The Steward's voice softens slightly, though the edge of authority remains.
"When it comes to armaments, the Bastion does not hoard its blessings. We are keepers of the light, and it is our sacred duty to arm those who fight in its name. I will see that our quartermaster prepares what we can spare."
She sits back, studying him once more.
"Your mission is no small endeavour, Caio Cypherien. You seek to unravel a web that spans continents and decades, but we will do what we can to help. You carry a weight that no one soul should bear alone and, though the Bastion cannot follow you into the abyss, we can at least light your way to its edge."
As Brighthill begins speaking of the 99 Hundred, Caio again stops his slow back and forth pacing. Now he is frozen behind the chair, hand gripping its back and fingers threatening to splinter the wood. His black eyes grow distant. They look back over rime laden Necorath, over nights spent with this very same cabal. He sees the faces of the witches and warlocks of the 99 Hundred. He sees her face. The Steward might think he has stopped paying attention to the important conversation, until she speaks her warning.
”I am well aware.” he responds as she pauses, and it’s impossible to miss the dagger of a lump in his throat lacing his voice with pain. As she goes on talking again he relaxes, and resumes his quiet march.
“Steward Brighthill,” he begins once she has finished speaking. “I could never have expected to find such an immense beacon of support as I have here in these sun-hallowed halls. I thank you, and the Septem Mortale thanks you. Now, our enemies do not dawdle so neither shall I. I will go about my business in the city and return with utmost haste.” With that, Caio bows and takes his leave.
Once out of the Bastion, Caio speeds through the streets of Paragon, beelining to the gnomish blacksmith he had met not long ago.
”Hello Wilben,” he says as he seems to materialize from the shadows of the man’s stall.
The Steward watches Caio intently, catching the subtle storm that brews within him as mention of the 99 Hundred pulls at buried memories.
"Of course," she replies. "The Bastion stands with you, though our light may reach you only from afar. Do what you must, and when you return, what aid we can provide will be ready."
"Oh, and Inquisitor," Brighthill adds as Caio turns to leave, her voice following him like a shadow, "beware the weight of old ghosts. They can slow even the mightiest of us if carried too long. May the light guide your steps."
Wilben wipes soot from his brow with a thick, leather-gloved hand, his sizeable nose twitching slightly at the scent of molten steel cooling on the anvil. His long, white beard sways as he leans over his work, examining the head of a nearly finished axe. The gnome mutteres to himself, utterly absorbed in his craft.
The shadows in the corner of the stall shift subtly and, when Wilben glances up, he finds Caio standing there, materialising as if from nowhere. The smith’s eyes widen for a heartbeat, before his demeanour settles into one of measured calm.
"Ah, there you are," Wilben grunts, straightening. "Got your hammer near done — been fine-tuning the links. You’ll find no smoother chain in Paragon, I’ll stake my name on it." He gestures proudly towards the finished meteor hammer hanging on a wall-mounted weapon rack, its steel balls gleaming in the flickering light of the forge.
"You’re a hard one to track, mind you, slipping in and out like a ghost," the gnome adds with a hint of suspicion. "Not many show up like you do. You been out scaring the shadows or something?"
“The things I’m hunting are far worse than shadows.” the fuinequendi replies coolly. Caio steps up to the weapon and reaches out, fingertips brushing the chain. The weapon is somehow both alien and familiar.
”It’s perfect.” says the other ghost which Caio carries around.
“You’ll have to teach me how to wield it.”
“You’ll be a natural.”
Caio turns to the smith. “Might I test its weight?”
Caio takes the meteor hammer in his hands and walks over to the open space. He starts by letting the blunt head tumble from his grip, chain sliding a few feet before he chokes it and sets the hammer swinging like a pendulum a foot from the floor. Slowly Caio begins to swing the flail in a circle, feeling its weight as it arcs around his hand. His eyes close. It *does* feel natural. It’s just like in his dreams, but of course it’s more than that. It’s muscle memory transposed from another body. The nostalgia melts the walls of ice which the shadow elf has erected around his psyche, and the shadow hunter from another world takes over. He bends and pivots and sends the hammer ricocheting around his body , the chain coiling around him only to be snatched back as he reverses the momentum. Then with a flourish he lets the hammer fly. It launches out back towards Wilben, snapping safely well above the gnome’s head before Caio yanks it back, down to bounce off the ground then up and into his hand.
”It’s perfect.” Caio says as he walks back to the smith.
Wilben’s jaw tightens as the meteor hammer hurtles towards him, his nose twitching as the weapon snaps harmlessly overhead. He doesn't flinch, his sharp eyes following every movement of the chain and its head with a craftsman’s focus. When Caio catches the weapon and declares it perfect, the gnome’s stern expression cracks into a satisfied grin, the bristles of his beard shifting as he chuckles.
"Perfect, you say?" Wilben remarks with an approving nod upon hearing the elf's verdict. "Well, I’ll take that as high praise, especially from someone who handles it like they were born to it. You’ve got a knack for that thing — guess I made it for the right customer."
He leans back against a workbench, arms crossed over his stocky frame, the grin lingering.
"I'm glad it feels right. I spent a good while balancing that chain. Not too heavy, not too light. Perfect for someone who knows how to handle it. Good to hear that it was worth all that fine tuning. Now, it ain’t enchanted or anything fancy like that. It’s just good steel, balanced and built to last. Still, seeing you handle it? I reckon it’s got all the magic it needs."
"I wrapped that strap for carrying," the smith adds, gesturing to a small leather strap on the bench. "Don’t want you walking around Paragon with it swinging loose. Folks here get jumpy. Out there, wherever you’re taking it? I hope it does right by you... and if it don’t, or if it takes a beating, bring it back. I’ll patch it up for you."
Shiva stops mid-stride as she heads out, turning to face Elias.
"My apologies, Warden. I didn't mean to suggest that I will use the power of the runes for profit or mindless carnage. They will just allow me to do one of the things I'm best at without fear of losing control. I've much experience with fighting pits. Thank you for your warning and your help."
Turning to leave, she jokes with Ari as they walk to the fighting pit.
"Didn't think you were gonna get in on this to? Gods, this is gonna be fun!"
"Going to watch your back. I don't think they'll let a bogatyr into the pits, but hopefully they'll be less likely to try anything shady against you." Alaris grins back. "But if they let me in, we'd make quite the team, wouldn't we?"
Eshuvenniel Kazander Ravid,Valor Bard and Acolyte of the Goddess of Luck Caradoc Langham, Halfling Rogue - Lost Magics - Epic of Pre-made Proportions! I'm not looking for heaven or hell... just someone to listen to stories I tell...
As Shiva and Alaris head for the Duelling Pits in the Red District, the first thing to catch the eye is the towering stone walls of the circular arena, weathered and scarred from years of ferocious contests. Banners of various mercenary companies and guilds flutter from poles atop the structure, each emblazoned with bold colours and symbols of swords, shields, or beasts. The wide entrance gate is adorned with iron spikes and intricate carvings depicting legendary duels.
Around the arena, dozens of makeshift stalls cluster like eager spectators themselves. Some display racks of gleaming weapons, polished to perfection: swords, axes, spears and daggers, each seemingly more lethal than the last. Others feature armour stands holding everything from simple leather jerkins to gleaming mail etched with runes. Brightly coloured awnings ripple in the breeze, casting pockets of shade over their wares, and the occasionally whiff of oil and leather drifts from the armour merchants’ booths.
Crowds gather near posting boards, where duel schedules and betting odds are scrawled on parchment. Thrill-seekers and hardened mercenaries alike mingle, placing wagers and arguing loudly about fighters' chances. The air thrums with energy. The rhythmic clash, clang and ring of blades striking each other echo from the pits, punctuated by grunts of exertion and the occasional roar of victory or groan of defeat. Above it all, the raucous cheers and jeers of spectators fill the sky like the calls of seabirds over a stormy coast.
Vendors shout their wares: "Steel for sale! Guaranteed to bite deep!" "Hot spiced cider! Perfect for a chilly duel!" "Fresh meat skewers — two for a silver!"
The enticing aroma of roasted meats, mulled wine and freshly-baked bread wafts through the crowd, cutting through the dominant scent of sweat and metal that hangs thick in the air , even as it mingles with the tang of trampled earth and the acrid bite of forge smoke from nearby blacksmith stalls. The creak of armour and the steady thud of boots against the uneven, hard-packed dirt mix with the clinking of coin purses as bets are exchanged.
A faint vibration hums through the earth with each clash of steel from the pits and the air carries a dry heat, intensified by the sheer number of bodies packed together and the forge fires burning nearby. There's a palpable tension in the atmosphere — a heady mix of anticipation and adrenaline. Eyes flicker toward the pits, where combatants face off in fierce displays of martial prowess. The crowd's energy is infectious, making even the most casual observer feel like they're part of something ancient and primal.
“It is to be consecrated at the Sunhold Bastion,” Caio explains, not taking his eyes off the weapon in his hands. “Some things refuse to be brought down by even the most masterfully crafted mundane weapons, but I wouldn’t waste their blessing on anything that was not made to the highest standard. I thank you, Wilben.” he says, his normally stern tone softened with gratitude and respect. Caio takes the strap and secures the meteor hammer at his hip before departing on to the rest of his business.
After doing a bit of lighter shopping and finding both a wide brimmed hat and a loose silk shawl to protect his pale skin from the Sarameian sun, Caio returns to the Bastion and seeks out Steward Brighthill.
The cacophonous sound of the rabble surrounds Shiva as she and her divine friend are engulfed by the fervent crowds packed tightly outside the arena. Her heart begins to pound in her ears at the clang of metal and the roar of the spectators within, pulling her away into nightmarish memories.
Memories of terror, barely old enough for her horns to have begun growing, feeling the burning eyes of a legion of strangers boring into her. A sword shoved into her hands, but she can't stop crying as the crowd jeers and screams. No thought spared for the fresh chum thrown into the water, the crowd ready to eat their fill of carnage and desperation. They didn't care. The orc, tall as three of her, didn't care. Then something in her broke, and she didn't care either. She split the man's sto-
Shiva halts abruptly in the middle of the crowd, staring wide-eyed at her shoes. She takes deep breaths, trying to get her heart rate under control.
"That's it. Just breathe. Let the memory pass. You're not there anymore. You'll never be there again. You're strong. You've got friends. You're good."
Shiva looks up, her breathing slowing down as she begins to draw attention from passersby. Giving them respectful nods of acknowledgement, they go on their way and she comes back to herself, clenching her hands into fists and relaxing them rhythmically.
"Good girl. You got this. You're good." "My gods, you're in my head, you know I'm into that. Don't make this weird." Shiva laughs to herself and hears her Other's voice again. "But it distracted you, which was the goal. Now go kick some ass."
After a moment of searching, she approaches who she surmises to be the person in charge of the fights. "I'd like to fight, please."
The cacophonous sound of the rabble surrounds Shiva as she and her divine friend are engulfed by the fervent crowds packed tightly outside the arena. Her heart begins to pound in her ears at the clang of metal and the roar of the spectators within, pulling her away into nightmarish memories.
Memories of terror, barely old enough for her horns to have begun growing, feeling the burning eyes of a legion of strangers boring into her. A sword shoved into her hands, but she can't stop crying as the crowd jeers and screams. No thought spared for the fresh chum thrown into the water, the crowd ready to eat their fill of carnage and desperation. They didn't care. The orc, tall as three of her, didn't care. Then something in her broke, and she didn't care either. She split the man's sto-
Shiva halts abruptly in the middle of the crowd, staring wide-eyed at her shoes. She takes deep breaths, trying to get her heart rate under control.
"That's it. Just breathe. Let the memory pass. You're not there anymore. You'll never be there again. You're strong. You've got friends. You're good."
Shiva looks up, her breathing slowing down as she begins to draw attention from passersby. Giving them respectful nods of acknowledgement, they go on their way and she comes back to herself, clenching her hands into fists and relaxing them rhythmically.
"Good girl. You got this. You're good." "My gods, you're in my head, you know I'm into that. Don't make this weird." Shiva laughs to herself and hears her Other's voice again. "But it distracted you, which was the goal. Now go kick some ass."
After a moment of searching, she approaches who she surmises to be the person in charge of the fights. "I'd like to fight, please."
The fight master standing before Shiva is a grizzled dwarf with skin like cracked leather and a beard braided into thick cords threaded with steel rings. Scars map his broad face, and one eye is milky white, long past seeing. The other glints sharp as a blade as he sizes her up.
"You?" he grunts, crossing thick arms over his barrel chest. His voice is gravelly, worn like an old whetstone. "Ain't every day I see someone walk up so polite to sign their hide over to the pits."
He jerks a thumb toward the arena gate, where the sounds of steel clanging and spectators roaring never cease.
"We get three types here, see. Brutes with egos too big to fit through the gate, veterans too mean to die and fools with nothin' left to lose. So which one are you, eh?" His eye narrows suspiciously. "Or are you somethin' else altogether?"
Before she can answer, he spits to the side, narrowly missing the boot of a passing spectator.
"Doesn't much matter, I s'pose. I ain't in the business of askin' why folk want their bones broken. Just need to know one thing." He leans forward, close enough that Shiva can smell the faint tang of ale on his breath. "You ever held a sword before, lass, or are you just hopin' to get lucky?"
“It is to be consecrated at the Sunhold Bastion,” Caio explains, not taking his eyes off the weapon in his hands. “Some things refuse to be brought down by even the most masterfully crafted mundane weapons, but I wouldn’t waste their blessing on anything that was not made to the highest standard. I thank you, Wilben.” he says, his normally stern tone softened with gratitude and respect. Caio takes the strap and secures the meteor hammer at his hip before departing on to the rest of his business.
After doing a bit of lighter shopping and finding both a wide brimmed hat and a loose silk shawl to protect his pale skin from the Sarameian sun, Caio returns to the Bastion and seeks out Steward Brighthill.
The steward stands near one of the Sunhold Bastion’s luminous alcoves, the late afternoon sunlight filtering through stained-glass windows and bathing her in a warm golden glow. Her eyes gleam as they catch sight of Caio approaching, the soft rustle of her robe marking her movement toward him.
"You return swiftly," she remarks with approval, her gaze sweeping briefly over the hat and shawl. "Have you found all that you need for what lies ahead?"
The attendant halts mid-step, her small frame straightening as she pivots on her heel to face Caio. The light from the stained glass above catches the gold trim of the gnome's robes and the tight spiral of her auburn braid, which bounces slightly as she moves. Her hazel eyes, sharp and inquisitive, lock onto the elf's face, as though trying to extract every ounce of truth from his words.
"A baelnorn?" The woman's voice is sharp, clipped and surprisingly commanding for her stature. "That is no small claim, Inquisitor. An accusation of such corruption strikes at the very heart of Eldrani tradition."
Her expression grows contemplative, but there’s a fire in her eyes.
"The creation of a baelnorn is a sacred practice. It is meant to safeguard Eldrani heritage and the legacy of our people. If one has turned from that noble purpose, then it is not just an affront to the divine — it is a wound to the very soul of Eldrani culture."
The attendant squares her shoulders, her slight frame radiating purpose.
"Steward Brighthill will want to hear of this herself."
The gnome gestures for Caio to follow. Despite her small stature, she moves at a surprisingly brisk pace, her boots clicking against the polished stone floor of the Bastion’s corridors. The sunlight that filters through the stained glass windows casts her in shifting patterns of gold and crimson as they proceed through increasingly ornate halls.
"As for your weapon," she continues, not breaking stride, "we will see to its consecration. The steward may also deem your cause worthy of additional aid, but such decisions are hers to make."
The attendant halts before a pair of tall, intricately carved oak doors. Depictions of holy knights and symbols of the sun are etched into the surface, glinting faintly with embedded shards of gemstone. Two halfling guards stand on either side, their silvered halberds at attention. The gnome turns to Caio, her voice firm but not unkind.
"You should understand, Inquisitor, that what you are proposing — hunting a corrupted baelnorn — is no ordinary endeavour. It may even stir controversy among the elves. If you wish the Bastion’s full support, you will need to convince Steward Brighthill of the righteousness of your cause."
With a respectful nod, she signals for the guards to open the grand doors. They swing inwards with a creak, revealing a cosy, yet imposing study lined with shelves of meticulously organised tomes and scrolls. Warm light spills from a chandelier, its soft, golden glow accentuating the polished mahogany furniture and the rich, crimson rug underfoot. Behind an ornately carved desk sits a halfling woman deeply engrossed in a document, her sharp eyes darting across the page as she scribbles precise annotations with a feathered quill. Her hair is tied up in a silver-streaked chestnut-brown bun that gleams in the sunlight filtering through yet another stained-glass window.
"Wait here. I will announce you," the attendant tells Caio, before striding confidently into the room and the steward's ears twitch at the sound of approaching footsteps.
"What is it, Adella? I trust that this interruption is worth my time."
"Steward Brighthill, I present to you Inquisitor Caio Cypherien, an emissary of the Sanctum of Rifts in Five Towers. He bears the mark of Warden Elias Aetherweaver and seeks an audience."
The steward sets down her quill with deliberate care and looks up, her emerald eyes narrowing slightly as she takes in Caio’s imposing figure. Leaning back in her chair, she temples her fingers over her chest.
"An Inquisitor bearing the Warden's mark, no less," she echoes, glancing at the runes still shimmering on Caio’s skin. "Such emissaries do not often grace our halls. Step forward, Caio Cypherien, and explain what brings you to Sunhold Bastion. Please do so concisely — I value clarity as much as I do security within these walls."
She gestures to a seat across from her desk, her demeanour professional yet piercing.
The Chronicles of Arden: Sheercleft - DM for Aiden, Bründir, Jex, Thurston, Valaith and Vark
The Chronicles of Arden: Hunters - DM for Alaris, Astrid, Caio and Shiva
Alaris grins and hefts Hope's Edge with a gentle flourish. "Oh yes... I need a workout in the best way..."
Eshuvenniel Kazander Ravid, Valor Bard and Acolyte of the Goddess of Luck
Caradoc Langham, Halfling Rogue - Lost Magics - Epic of Pre-made Proportions!
I'm not looking for heaven or hell... just someone to listen to stories I tell...
Elias listens to Shiva with an arched brow, a glimmer of amusement breaking through his otherwise composed demeanour. The warden's hair shifts as he tilts his head, piercing blue eyes scrutinising the tiefling standing before him. Elias steps closer, his robes catching the arcane eddies still lingering in the air. He gestures lightly towards Shiva's runes, their faint pulsing reflecting her enthusiasm.
"Your confidence is admirable and the runes will sustain you. However," he cautions, "do try not to draw undue attention to yourself. Those seeking a quick profit or thrill at the pits may find themselves in situations that no magic can entirely shield."
He softens, his lips curving in a faint smile.
"I will ensure that Caio receives your message. Be careful, Shiva. You’ve been given tools of great power, but power alone does not guarantee victory — or safety."
The Chronicles of Arden: Sheercleft - DM for Aiden, Bründir, Jex, Thurston, Valaith and Vark
The Chronicles of Arden: Hunters - DM for Alaris, Astrid, Caio and Shiva
Shiva stops mid-stride as she heads out, turning to face Elias.
"My apologies, Warden. I didn't mean to suggest that I will use the power of the runes for profit or mindless carnage. They will just allow me to do one of the things I'm best at without fear of losing control. I've much experience with fighting pits. Thank you for your warning and your help."
Turning to leave, she jokes with Ari as they walk to the fighting pit.
"Didn't think you were gonna get in on this to? Gods, this is gonna be fun!"
“Thank you,” he says with a nod to Adella before proceeding forward. The inquisitor does not take the offered seat, instead standing next to it. Of course, as he begins to explain his situation, Caio begins to pace.
”And thank you for hearing me, Steward. As for what brings me to the Bastion, I only required use of your teleportation circle to run an errand here in Paragon before returning to the Warden and my troupe. We prepare to embark to Beschadik on a dangerous mission, a mission Adella thought you might see fit to assist us with. We hunt a Baelnorn,” he pauses his slow strides just for a beat, “though given this entities proclivities some choose simply to call him a lich. His name is Valentine Morgenstern, and he lusts after a fabled runestone currently belonging to the Sarameian Emperor. We suspect he plans to bind his essence to the relic. We intend to thwart him before this happens.”
Chronicles of Arden: Sheercleft - Vark Galestone | Half-Orc | Storm Sorcerer
Chronicles of Arden: Hunters - Caio Cypherien | Shadar-Kai | Inquisitor Ranger
The Steward leans back in her chair, a frown deepening the soft lines of her face, and her eyes narrow as she absorbs Caio’s words. Her small hands rest on the polished oak before her, fingers laced together. When the elf mentions Valentine Morgenstern and the runestone, her lips press into a thin line.
"Valentine Morgenstern," Brighthill repeats, leaning back in her chair, her gaze steady and calculating. "A name that I’ve heard only in the whispers of old tomes and darker stories... and you say he is a a Baelnorn? Or rather, one who has desecrated the sacred rite that should be a testament to elven honour," she adds with a scoff. "A Baelnorn gone rogue is no small matter — and one seeking a runestone of such power… well, I don’t have to tell you the stakes. The Emperor himself might not be prepared for what could be unleashed if he succeeds."
The halfling's eyes sharpen as they settle on Caio.
“Your purpose here is noble, Inquisitor, but it is also daunting. Beschcadik can be a perilous place in its own right. Adding the threat of Morgenstern to that… I hope that the Sanctum's servants are steadfast. You hunt not merely a lich of sorts, but one who schemes to wield power that could tip the balance of the world."
The Steward leans back slightly, crossing her arms. Her voice is firm, but carries a note of genuine care.
"As for assistance, the Bastion does not take such decisions lightly. You understand this. However, if what you say is true — and I see no reason to doubt the sincerity of the Warden's envoy — then it would be remiss of us to ignore your plight. Nevertheless, while I respect the Warden’s faith in you and your cause, I must consider what aid I can offer without jeopardising the city’s own defences."
She gestures toward a map laid out across her desk, its detailed depiction of Paragon and the surrounding regions catching the light of the chandelier.
"Tell me, Inquisitor, what is it that you seek from us? Weapons? Blessings? Knowledge of Morgenstern’s movements or his weaknesses? The Bastion cannot join you directly, but we may be able to lend you tools or information. Provided, of course, that your cause aligns with our own tenets."
Her lips curl into a smile.
"If you’ll forgive the observation, I’d wager that there’s more to this mission than you’ve told me. What else should I know before I consider how best we can aid you?"
The Chronicles of Arden: Sheercleft - DM for Aiden, Bründir, Jex, Thurston, Valaith and Vark
The Chronicles of Arden: Hunters - DM for Alaris, Astrid, Caio and Shiva
Caio nods.
”Our motivation. Valentine holds one of our members in his clutches. Rescuing her is paramount. Valentine also has allies. His daughter Clarissa is powerful in her own right. At the moment she is our actual target, for it is she who currently sits in the Emperor’s court like a viper in his boot. We have the paired objectives of disrupting her schemes and extracting some physical part of her which will allow us access to Valentine’s own personal demiplane, where his current phylactery sits. Further, the two of them have been working with a cabal of occultists known as the 99 Hundred. It’s quite possible their agents have infiltrated the imperial court and will prove to be an obstacle.” he lets out a tense sigh, letting all of the information sink in.
”Information is our greatest weapon. Knowledge of the Morgenstern’s movements and weaknesses would be a godsend, any shred of it could tip the odds in our favor. Similarly, any information you have on the 99 Hundred would be greatly appreciated. Connections in Beschadik would also prove helpful. We will be strangers in Saramei, but it is my hope that we can earn the Emperor’s trust so that he will heed our warning appropriately. Now, any and all of that would already be an incredible aide to our cause, but I would not say no to any blessed armaments the Bastion is able to spare. I can assure you they will be put to good use.”
Chronicles of Arden: Sheercleft - Vark Galestone | Half-Orc | Storm Sorcerer
Chronicles of Arden: Hunters - Caio Cypherien | Shadar-Kai | Inquisitor Ranger
The Steward listens with unwavering attention, her eyes glinting with both concern and resolve. When Caio finishes, she nods slowly, her expression a mix of contemplation and determination.
"You aim to strike at the heart of a well-entrenched threat, one that could tip the scales of balance far beyond the borders of Saramei," she says, her voice steady. "To face Valentine Morgenstern and his kin, along with a cabal as nefarious as the 99 Hundred, is a task that demands not only courage but precision and cunning."
Brighthill leans forward, her hands resting on the desk again.
"Knowledge, as you rightly point out, is indeed the key. I cannot claim to know much of Valentine or Clarissa Morgenstern beyond their dark reputations, but the 99 Hundred... their name carries whispers of shadowed halls even here in Paragon. They are an enigma, a coalition of sorcerers whose goals remain as obscure as their methods. Yet, they are not unknown to us. I will summon what records the Bastion has on their movements and operatives, though I warn you: they are not an easy foe to anticipate."
The halfling pauses, her gaze piercing.
"As for Beschcadik, we do have contacts within the Sarameian court — though such relationships are delicate. I will write to them at once and request their assistance, though whether they will act in time remains to be seen. Their influence could at least grant you a measure of protection or audience within the imperial court."
The Steward's voice softens slightly, though the edge of authority remains.
"When it comes to armaments, the Bastion does not hoard its blessings. We are keepers of the light, and it is our sacred duty to arm those who fight in its name. I will see that our quartermaster prepares what we can spare."
She sits back, studying him once more.
"Your mission is no small endeavour, Caio Cypherien. You seek to unravel a web that spans continents and decades, but we will do what we can to help. You carry a weight that no one soul should bear alone and, though the Bastion cannot follow you into the abyss, we can at least light your way to its edge."
The Chronicles of Arden: Sheercleft - DM for Aiden, Bründir, Jex, Thurston, Valaith and Vark
The Chronicles of Arden: Hunters - DM for Alaris, Astrid, Caio and Shiva
As Brighthill begins speaking of the 99 Hundred, Caio again stops his slow back and forth pacing. Now he is frozen behind the chair, hand gripping its back and fingers threatening to splinter the wood. His black eyes grow distant. They look back over rime laden Necorath, over nights spent with this very same cabal. He sees the faces of the witches and warlocks of the 99 Hundred. He sees her face. The Steward might think he has stopped paying attention to the important conversation, until she speaks her warning.
”I am well aware.” he responds as she pauses, and it’s impossible to miss the dagger of a lump in his throat lacing his voice with pain. As she goes on talking again he relaxes, and resumes his quiet march.
“Steward Brighthill,” he begins once she has finished speaking. “I could never have expected to find such an immense beacon of support as I have here in these sun-hallowed halls. I thank you, and the Septem Mortale thanks you. Now, our enemies do not dawdle so neither shall I. I will go about my business in the city and return with utmost haste.” With that, Caio bows and takes his leave.
Once out of the Bastion, Caio speeds through the streets of Paragon, beelining to the gnomish blacksmith he had met not long ago.
”Hello Wilben,” he says as he seems to materialize from the shadows of the man’s stall.
Chronicles of Arden: Sheercleft - Vark Galestone | Half-Orc | Storm Sorcerer
Chronicles of Arden: Hunters - Caio Cypherien | Shadar-Kai | Inquisitor Ranger
The Steward watches Caio intently, catching the subtle storm that brews within him as mention of the 99 Hundred pulls at buried memories.
"Of course," she replies. "The Bastion stands with you, though our light may reach you only from afar. Do what you must, and when you return, what aid we can provide will be ready."
"Oh, and Inquisitor," Brighthill adds as Caio turns to leave, her voice following him like a shadow, "beware the weight of old ghosts. They can slow even the mightiest of us if carried too long. May the light guide your steps."
Wilben wipes soot from his brow with a thick, leather-gloved hand, his sizeable nose twitching slightly at the scent of molten steel cooling on the anvil. His long, white beard sways as he leans over his work, examining the head of a nearly finished axe. The gnome mutteres to himself, utterly absorbed in his craft.
The shadows in the corner of the stall shift subtly and, when Wilben glances up, he finds Caio standing there, materialising as if from nowhere. The smith’s eyes widen for a heartbeat, before his demeanour settles into one of measured calm.
"Ah, there you are," Wilben grunts, straightening. "Got your hammer near done — been fine-tuning the links. You’ll find no smoother chain in Paragon, I’ll stake my name on it." He gestures proudly towards the finished meteor hammer hanging on a wall-mounted weapon rack, its steel balls gleaming in the flickering light of the forge.
"You’re a hard one to track, mind you, slipping in and out like a ghost," the gnome adds with a hint of suspicion. "Not many show up like you do. You been out scaring the shadows or something?"
The Chronicles of Arden: Sheercleft - DM for Aiden, Bründir, Jex, Thurston, Valaith and Vark
The Chronicles of Arden: Hunters - DM for Alaris, Astrid, Caio and Shiva
“The things I’m hunting are far worse than shadows.” the fuinequendi replies coolly. Caio steps up to the weapon and reaches out, fingertips brushing the chain. The weapon is somehow both alien and familiar.
”It’s perfect.” says the other ghost which Caio carries around.
“You’ll have to teach me how to wield it.”
“You’ll be a natural.”
Caio turns to the smith. “Might I test its weight?”
Chronicles of Arden: Sheercleft - Vark Galestone | Half-Orc | Storm Sorcerer
Chronicles of Arden: Hunters - Caio Cypherien | Shadar-Kai | Inquisitor Ranger
Wilben’s bushy brows furrow as he strokes his beard, his eyes narrowing at Caio’s words.
"Worse than shadows, eh? S'pose that’d explain the look in your eye."
He steps aside, gesturing towards an open area near the back of his shop.
"Go on, then. Give it a swing. Mind you don’t break anything important — I like everything standing where it is."
His voice carries a gruff humour, though he keeps a keen eye on Caio’s movements.
The Chronicles of Arden: Sheercleft - DM for Aiden, Bründir, Jex, Thurston, Valaith and Vark
The Chronicles of Arden: Hunters - DM for Alaris, Astrid, Caio and Shiva
Caio takes the meteor hammer in his hands and walks over to the open space. He starts by letting the blunt head tumble from his grip, chain sliding a few feet before he chokes it and sets the hammer swinging like a pendulum a foot from the floor. Slowly Caio begins to swing the flail in a circle, feeling its weight as it arcs around his hand. His eyes close. It *does* feel natural. It’s just like in his dreams, but of course it’s more than that. It’s muscle memory transposed from another body. The nostalgia melts the walls of ice which the shadow elf has erected around his psyche, and the shadow hunter from another world takes over. He bends and pivots and sends the hammer ricocheting around his body , the chain coiling around him only to be snatched back as he reverses the momentum. Then with a flourish he lets the hammer fly. It launches out back towards Wilben, snapping safely well above the gnome’s head before Caio yanks it back, down to bounce off the ground then up and into his hand.
”It’s perfect.” Caio says as he walks back to the smith.
Chronicles of Arden: Sheercleft - Vark Galestone | Half-Orc | Storm Sorcerer
Chronicles of Arden: Hunters - Caio Cypherien | Shadar-Kai | Inquisitor Ranger
Wilben’s jaw tightens as the meteor hammer hurtles towards him, his nose twitching as the weapon snaps harmlessly overhead. He doesn't flinch, his sharp eyes following every movement of the chain and its head with a craftsman’s focus. When Caio catches the weapon and declares it perfect, the gnome’s stern expression cracks into a satisfied grin, the bristles of his beard shifting as he chuckles.
"Perfect, you say?" Wilben remarks with an approving nod upon hearing the elf's verdict. "Well, I’ll take that as high praise, especially from someone who handles it like they were born to it. You’ve got a knack for that thing — guess I made it for the right customer."
He leans back against a workbench, arms crossed over his stocky frame, the grin lingering.
"I'm glad it feels right. I spent a good while balancing that chain. Not too heavy, not too light. Perfect for someone who knows how to handle it. Good to hear that it was worth all that fine tuning. Now, it ain’t enchanted or anything fancy like that. It’s just good steel, balanced and built to last. Still, seeing you handle it? I reckon it’s got all the magic it needs."
"I wrapped that strap for carrying," the smith adds, gesturing to a small leather strap on the bench. "Don’t want you walking around Paragon with it swinging loose. Folks here get jumpy. Out there, wherever you’re taking it? I hope it does right by you... and if it don’t, or if it takes a beating, bring it back. I’ll patch it up for you."
The Chronicles of Arden: Sheercleft - DM for Aiden, Bründir, Jex, Thurston, Valaith and Vark
The Chronicles of Arden: Hunters - DM for Alaris, Astrid, Caio and Shiva
"Going to watch your back. I don't think they'll let a bogatyr into the pits, but hopefully they'll be less likely to try anything shady against you." Alaris grins back. "But if they let me in, we'd make quite the team, wouldn't we?"
Eshuvenniel Kazander Ravid, Valor Bard and Acolyte of the Goddess of Luck
Caradoc Langham, Halfling Rogue - Lost Magics - Epic of Pre-made Proportions!
I'm not looking for heaven or hell... just someone to listen to stories I tell...
As Shiva and Alaris head for the Duelling Pits in the Red District, the first thing to catch the eye is the towering stone walls of the circular arena, weathered and scarred from years of ferocious contests. Banners of various mercenary companies and guilds flutter from poles atop the structure, each emblazoned with bold colours and symbols of swords, shields, or beasts. The wide entrance gate is adorned with iron spikes and intricate carvings depicting legendary duels.
Around the arena, dozens of makeshift stalls cluster like eager spectators themselves. Some display racks of gleaming weapons, polished to perfection: swords, axes, spears and daggers, each seemingly more lethal than the last. Others feature armour stands holding everything from simple leather jerkins to gleaming mail etched with runes. Brightly coloured awnings ripple in the breeze, casting pockets of shade over their wares, and the occasionally whiff of oil and leather drifts from the armour merchants’ booths.
Crowds gather near posting boards, where duel schedules and betting odds are scrawled on parchment. Thrill-seekers and hardened mercenaries alike mingle, placing wagers and arguing loudly about fighters' chances. The air thrums with energy. The rhythmic clash, clang and ring of blades striking each other echo from the pits, punctuated by grunts of exertion and the occasional roar of victory or groan of defeat. Above it all, the raucous cheers and jeers of spectators fill the sky like the calls of seabirds over a stormy coast.
Vendors shout their wares:
"Steel for sale! Guaranteed to bite deep!"
"Hot spiced cider! Perfect for a chilly duel!"
"Fresh meat skewers — two for a silver!"
The enticing aroma of roasted meats, mulled wine and freshly-baked bread wafts through the crowd, cutting through the dominant scent of sweat and metal that hangs thick in the air , even as it mingles with the tang of trampled earth and the acrid bite of forge smoke from nearby blacksmith stalls. The creak of armour and the steady thud of boots against the uneven, hard-packed dirt mix with the clinking of coin purses as bets are exchanged.
A faint vibration hums through the earth with each clash of steel from the pits and the air carries a dry heat, intensified by the sheer number of bodies packed together and the forge fires burning nearby. There's a palpable tension in the atmosphere — a heady mix of anticipation and adrenaline. Eyes flicker toward the pits, where combatants face off in fierce displays of martial prowess. The crowd's energy is infectious, making even the most casual observer feel like they're part of something ancient and primal.
The Chronicles of Arden: Sheercleft - DM for Aiden, Bründir, Jex, Thurston, Valaith and Vark
The Chronicles of Arden: Hunters - DM for Alaris, Astrid, Caio and Shiva
“It is to be consecrated at the Sunhold Bastion,” Caio explains, not taking his eyes off the weapon in his hands. “Some things refuse to be brought down by even the most masterfully crafted mundane weapons, but I wouldn’t waste their blessing on anything that was not made to the highest standard. I thank you, Wilben.” he says, his normally stern tone softened with gratitude and respect. Caio takes the strap and secures the meteor hammer at his hip before departing on to the rest of his business.
After doing a bit of lighter shopping and finding both a wide brimmed hat and a loose silk shawl to protect his pale skin from the Sarameian sun, Caio returns to the Bastion and seeks out Steward Brighthill.
Chronicles of Arden: Sheercleft - Vark Galestone | Half-Orc | Storm Sorcerer
Chronicles of Arden: Hunters - Caio Cypherien | Shadar-Kai | Inquisitor Ranger
The cacophonous sound of the rabble surrounds Shiva as she and her divine friend are engulfed by the fervent crowds packed tightly outside the arena. Her heart begins to pound in her ears at the clang of metal and the roar of the spectators within, pulling her away into nightmarish memories.
Memories of terror, barely old enough for her horns to have begun growing, feeling the burning eyes of a legion of strangers boring into her. A sword shoved into her hands, but she can't stop crying as the crowd jeers and screams. No thought spared for the fresh chum thrown into the water, the crowd ready to eat their fill of carnage and desperation. They didn't care. The orc, tall as three of her, didn't care. Then something in her broke, and she didn't care either. She split the man's sto-
Shiva halts abruptly in the middle of the crowd, staring wide-eyed at her shoes. She takes deep breaths, trying to get her heart rate under control.
"That's it. Just breathe. Let the memory pass. You're not there anymore. You'll never be there again. You're strong. You've got friends. You're good."
Shiva looks up, her breathing slowing down as she begins to draw attention from passersby. Giving them respectful nods of acknowledgement, they go on their way and she comes back to herself, clenching her hands into fists and relaxing them rhythmically.
"Good girl. You got this. You're good." "My gods, you're in my head, you know I'm into that. Don't make this weird." Shiva laughs to herself and hears her Other's voice again. "But it distracted you, which was the goal. Now go kick some ass."
After a moment of searching, she approaches who she surmises to be the person in charge of the fights. "I'd like to fight, please."
The fight master standing before Shiva is a grizzled dwarf with skin like cracked leather and a beard braided into thick cords threaded with steel rings. Scars map his broad face, and one eye is milky white, long past seeing. The other glints sharp as a blade as he sizes her up.
"You?" he grunts, crossing thick arms over his barrel chest. His voice is gravelly, worn like an old whetstone. "Ain't every day I see someone walk up so polite to sign their hide over to the pits."
He jerks a thumb toward the arena gate, where the sounds of steel clanging and spectators roaring never cease.
"We get three types here, see. Brutes with egos too big to fit through the gate, veterans too mean to die and fools with nothin' left to lose. So which one are you, eh?" His eye narrows suspiciously. "Or are you somethin' else altogether?"
Before she can answer, he spits to the side, narrowly missing the boot of a passing spectator.
"Doesn't much matter, I s'pose. I ain't in the business of askin' why folk want their bones broken. Just need to know one thing." He leans forward, close enough that Shiva can smell the faint tang of ale on his breath. "You ever held a sword before, lass, or are you just hopin' to get lucky?"
The Chronicles of Arden: Sheercleft - DM for Aiden, Bründir, Jex, Thurston, Valaith and Vark
The Chronicles of Arden: Hunters - DM for Alaris, Astrid, Caio and Shiva
The steward stands near one of the Sunhold Bastion’s luminous alcoves, the late afternoon sunlight filtering through stained-glass windows and bathing her in a warm golden glow. Her eyes gleam as they catch sight of Caio approaching, the soft rustle of her robe marking her movement toward him.
"You return swiftly," she remarks with approval, her gaze sweeping briefly over the hat and shawl. "Have you found all that you need for what lies ahead?"
The Chronicles of Arden: Sheercleft - DM for Aiden, Bründir, Jex, Thurston, Valaith and Vark
The Chronicles of Arden: Hunters - DM for Alaris, Astrid, Caio and Shiva