Lux Tenebris: Well Met at Midwinter

           It was Midwinter's Eve and a misty rain was falling upon the city of Moontree.  The city streets were largely empty, even the most devout holiday reveler having slunk indoors to find what cheer they could near a warm hearth or in the loving embrace.

            Still, watchfires burned throughout the city and the temples blazed with light on this darkest of nights.  The air smelt of chimney smoke, the unmistakable stench of the sea and the crip smell of wet pine.

            Isteban Mirelle stood on the rear lawn of his Silver Hill home, a tankard of hot cider in one hand, his head tipped back.  He watched the sky, oblivious to the cold, damp air but appreciating the warmth of the drink in his hand.

            His home was quiet. The windows, festooned with seasonal greenery, were shuttered against the dark.

            The servants had been sent away for the night, as was Isteban's custom.  Most of them thought their master was simply being generous, giving them a night and a day for themselves and a gold coin apiece as well.  Only Esther, his major domo, knew better, but she kept her mouth shut and ensured no servants remained in the house.

            Isteban knew that Esther, herself, would be ensconced in a big feather bed at this time of night, after spending the first part of the evening at one of Moontree's temples.  She had been the last servant to go and would be the first to return tomorrow, at midday.   She did not like to leave him to his own devices for too long.  She knew him too well, and Isteban was grateful for her thoughtfulness.

            But tonight she was gone and he was standing on cold, wet grass watching the sky. Gray clouds rolled across the black sky, obscuring the familiar stars, but still Isteban kept watch.

            The soft sound of a man clearing his throat caused Isteban to sigh and pivot on his booted heels.

            "Is that for me?"

            The man leaning against the back wall of the house, arms crossed, grinning, was thin and wiry.  His skin was weather-beaten and brown, looking more like the gnarled bark of an old tree than flesh.  Wisps of silver-white hair clung to the sides of his otherwise bald head, and his eyebrows, thin and expressive, were raised in amused query.  He wore leather trousers and an embroidered buckskin shirt. His boots were worn, but serviceable, and a dark bag lay in a crumpled heap by his side.

            "Hell's teeth, old friend. I thought for sure that I would spot you coming this year."

            Smiling, Isteban crossed to the old man and pressed the hot cider into his hands. The old man took the drink with a laugh and raised it in a toast.

            "To your fortune, sir!"

            Then he tilted it back and drained it in a long gulp that would have impressed even the most ale-hardened dwarf.

            "Ah!" The old man sighed his pleasure. "That hit the spot! Thank you, my boy! Thank you!"

            Then he stepped forward and embraced Isteban in a ferocious hug that managed to knock the breath out of the younger man.

            "It's good to see you, Lamplighter."

            The old man stepped back, shook his head. "You know, you're about the only one who still calls me that."

            "It's the name I knew you by when we first met."

            "I remember," said the old man.  "And your name at the time? I forget."

            "I know better," chided Isteban. "You never forget anything."

            "Oh. I don't know. I am getting on in years, you know."

            Isteban snorted, and laid his arm across the old man's shoulders. "You talk like you're still mortal. Come, Lamplighter. Let's get in out of the cold and the damp. I've a warm fire inside and a good meal."

            They ate in the kitchen, at the servants' table.  The food was simple fare - bread, soup, roast chicken - but well made and washed down with tankards of hot cider.  Afterwards, there was dried fruit and sharp cheese served with glasses of good white wine. When the last bit of cheese had been eaten, the old man produced a pipe and settled into his chair for a smoke.

            Isteban left their plates in the sink, knowing that if he dared wash a single dish Esther would never let him hear the end of it.  He settled in his own chair, near the fire, with a glass of white wine.

            "So, Lamplighter, how went your night?"

            The old man took a long drag off his pipe and considered the question. He exhaled a stream of white smoke into the air and shrugged.

            "A mixed bag this year," he admitted. "So many folk, needing so many things."

            "And you provided for them as usual?"

            "To the best of my abilities," said the old man.  He eyed Isteban. "And what of you, my young friend? How have you been? Have you heard from your family?"

            "I've no kin left on my mother's side," said Isteban. "Not any more. The last branch of the family that I knew of died earlier this year."

            "The war?"

            "No," said Isteban. "More natural causes than war."

            "And . . . your father?" asked the old man, carefully.

            "He keeps his distance, as I've asked," said Isteban. He considered his glass. "But I find myself drawn into his sphere, despite my best efforts."

            "Ah." The old man frowned and puffed gently on his pipe for a moment. "What's happened?"

            "A debt has been called in by the Regent of Fallen Baramir."

            "Lukas Swann? He's always been a bit of a rascal, but he's a good man. Overall."

            Isteban grunted. "He sent a letter earlier this year, asking me to return to the city and marshal its forces. The armies of the west will gather there this spring, to march on Calhorne and the Draconic Empire before summer."

            The old man frowned. "I . . .  would not be so sure of that, my young friend."

            Isteban studied his friend. "You have news?"

            "I travel the length and breadth of Lore this night, not just western Nur. And I know things."

            "Are these the sort of things you can speak about?"

            "No confidences will be broken," said the old man. "But, bear in mind, what I'm about to tell you is not common knowledge."

            "What is it?"

            "The war may end before spring.  The Draconic Empire is troubled."

            Isteban leaned forward, studying the  old man's face.  "What do you mean?"

            "Things haven't been right in the empire for some time, but no one has spoken about it. At least, no one of importance. But that's changed. The invasion of the west has cost the empire the favor of the gods and the goodwill of their allies.  You must be aware of that, living here."

            "I've heard rumblings," admitted Isteban, "but nothing concrete."

            "Well, my boy, it's causing more than rumblings in the empire. There are public protests in the streets of Kargoth-Denn. The citizens are questioning the fitness of the Chosen Emperor to rule."

            "Are you suggesting that the Chosen Emperor could be forced to abdicate?"

            The old man fixed Isteban with a cool gaze. "You know better than that. Chosen Emperors don't abdicate. They die or get removed."

            "Civil war? In the empire?"

            "Not likely," said the old man. "Nothing so violent. More like a palace coup. Knives in the dark. Poison in the cup.  That sort of thing."

            Isteban shook his head. "It's hard to believe things are that bad over there."

            "People tend to act when gods make their displeasure known. And there has been something festering at the heart of the empire for some time.  Something sinister and dark."

            The tone in the old man's voice made Isteban uneasy. "Something diabolical?"

            "I hope not. But there is a familiar stink to all of this. At least, to me."

            "Even if the empire is sorting themselves out at home, I don't think it will have any effect on things here," admitted Isteban. "People want to go to war. They want vengeance."

            "Revenge is a fool's game," the old man said, bluntly.

            "We know that, but we've both lived very long lives.  Most people don't have that luxury."

            "True." The old man shifted in his chair. "So, what will you do? Will you go to Fallen Baramir? Answer the Regent's call?"

            "I do owe the city a debt. I'd like to wipe the slate clean."

            "Even if it means going back to war?"

            "I'll return to it one day," said Isteban. "It's inevitable. I am my father's child. War is in my blood and bones."

            "True, but there are many ways to wage war, Perra. Remember that."

            Isteban smiled. "So you do remember my name."

            "I remember the names of everyone I visit this night," admitted the old man.  "Do you remember being him? Being Perra?"

            "Vaguely. Like the memory of a dream. But every year Perra fades more and more and soon I won't remember being him at all."

            "No," said the old man. "You will always be Perra. You just need to hold onto him."

            "And how do I do that, old friend?"

            "With a little help."

            The Lamplighter bent and picked up his black bag.  He reached into it and drew out a rectangular picture. Even in the dim light of the kitchen, the picture's wooden frame gleamed.  The old man passed it to Isteban.

            Isteban studied the picture. It was a miniature painting, done in oils, by a fine hand. The subjects of the painting were a woman and a young boy. Mother and son. Both had reddish-gold hair and pale green eyes, but where the boy was pale as moonlight, his mother had skin like dark honey.  The woman was smiling at the boy,  who smiled back at her.

            Isteban looked at the picture and felt like he had been kicked in the chest by a mule.

            "Where did you get this?" he asked, softly.

            "Do you like it?"

            "It's . . ."  Isteban hesitated.  He didn't trust himself to speak for a moment. "I'd almost forgotten what she looked like."

            "Your mother was a handsome woman. She doted on you. You know that, right?"

            Isteban nodded, was aware of the unfamiliar sensation of tears welling up in his eyes as he studied the picture.

            "I know. Thank you, Lamplighter."

            The old man nodded and took a final suck off his pipe, before tapping its ashes into the fireplace.

            "Well, the night's fading and I've my own home to get to before the dawn."

            He stood and stretched, joints popping.

            "It was good to see you again, lad."

            Isteban stood and carefully put the portrait aside.  "And you, old man."

            They embraced and the old man hugged Isteban so hard that the younger man thought his back might crack. But he didn't complain. He simply returned the hug.

            "Shall I walk you out?"

            The old man laughed. "I'm sure I can find my own way. Happy Midwinter, my boy."

            "Happy Midwinter, old friend."

            With that, the old man tossed his bag over his shoulder and, with a smile, stepped back into the shadows and seemed to vanish.

            Isteban didn't bother trying to spot the Lamplighter. The old man had been doing this for centuries.  If he didn't want to be seen or heard, he wasn't going to be.

            Instead, Isteban picked up the picture and sat by the fire.  He studied the faces of the woman and child, memories flooding back to him of other Midwinter holidays, of a life he had almost forgotten.  He remembered snowball fights, the death of his first dog, the time he'd gashed his knee open while playing in the garden, the times his mother had sat by his bed and sung him to sleep.

            Had he really forgotten so much?  He shook his head and made his way upstairs, to his bedroom.  Carefully, he placed the framed picture on his bedside table, then walked to the window. He unlocked the shutters and pushed them open.

            The misty rain had stopped.  The clouds had parted. Pale moonlight painted the world in silver.  He smelt wood smoke and saw the distant glow of watchfires around the city, as folk waited for the long night to end and the light to return.

            Suddenly, Isteban Mirelle did not want to be alone in his home, sitting in the dark.  He wanted to be out there, on the streets of the city, among the people.  It was like a hunger, this sudden need for companionship, for human contact.

            The irony of that did not escape him and he chuckled as he drew on a thick winter cloak.

            He would find a tavern, he decided, and buy a round of drinks for everyone there. Afterwards, he would walk to one of the watchfires and sit and keep vigil until sunrise with other people.  When the new day dawned, he would make his way to the Temple of Sumet and offer a prayer to the God of War.

            After all, Midwinter Day was a time for family, and he wasn't just the son of a loving mother.  He was a Child of War.  It was inevitable that he would return to his father's house some day.  The time felt right for this to happen.

            Yes, thought Isteban. I will go to my father's house and I will offer him a prayer for peace.  I'm sure it will amuse him if nothing else.

            Smiling, Isteban Mirelle descended the stairs of his house and walked out, into the long night and the promise of a brighter tomorrow.

Hell's Coming

Bar the windows
Lock the door
You can try to hide,
beneath the floor.

Hell's coming for you.
Hell's coming for them.
Pray all you want,
you'll pay for your sins.

You know the ones,
the things that you did,
when backs were turned,
and you though you were hid.

But you thought wrong.
Oh so wrong.
Now there's hell to pay,
they won't be long.

They'll drag you down,
into fire and ice,
remove your flesh,
and they won't be nice.

Say your prayers.
Beg and plead.
It's too little, too late.
Time to pay for your deeds.

Hell's coming for you.
Hell's coming for them.
Pray all you want,
you'll pay for your sins.

Contradictory

Show me your scars

and I'll show you mine.

This isn't a contest,

there isn't a prize.

This is honesty.

Truth.

The bearing of souls.

Show me your wounds,

and I'll sew them closed.

Show me your love

and I'll look away.

Love is fatal to me,

a basilisk's gaze.

It turns me to stone.

Leaves me deaf.

Leaves me dumb.

Say that you love me,

and I'll say that we're done.

Show me some kindness,

some bit of regard,

I'll share mine with you,

although it can be hard.

I'm no dainty flower.

No silky soft rose.

My kindness has edges,

to keep you on your toes.

Show me these words,

bitter as salt.

Bruising. Confusing.

Tasty as chalk.

I will not deny them,

because they are true.

If you still want to talk?

Well, that's up to you.

Lux Tenebris: The Narnola Swamp

The Narnola Swamp covers almost 5000 square miles along the southern coast of Nur.  It is a swampy morass, birthed where the Narnola River and the brackish waters of the Gulf of Promises meet and mix. Most of the terrain is impassable, except by boat, but there are solid paths that lead through the swamp known by the natives. Most of these paths, however, are circutious and indirect, so travel by boat is often quicker, easier and safer.

The Narnola Swamp

The swamp is home to a wide variety of creatures. Most are quite average (rats, poisonous snakes, swarms of insects), but some are more deadly. Something about the swamp seems to enhance ordinary creatures and it is not uncommon to encounter giant versions of ordinary animals, such as rats, spiders and crocodiles. More rarely, truly monstrous creatures are encountered, such as shambling mounds and water elementals.  Centuries ago, a black dragon called Arranir claimed the Narnola Swamp as his territory but he met his death at the hands of a party of adventurers. Only one adventurer survived to tell the tale, and he died shortly afterward. But locals tell tales of a ghostly dragon seen moving through the swamp on dark nights, still hunting for the adventurers that killed him.

The Narnala Swamp is inhabited. Although most of its residents are human, the swamp is famous, some would say infamous, for being one of the few places in Nur with a native population of goblins.

The goblins of the Narnola Swamp are known as webfoot goblins. They have lived there so long that they have adapted to the terrain, and can move across the swampy ground with little difficulties. (In game terms, swampfoot goblins can move across swamp-type, difficult terrain with no penalty to their movement speed.)

The history of the swampfoot goblins is curious. When humans first arrived in the area, moving inland from the coast, the swampfoot goblins were already established in the swamp. Their own oral histories hinted that they had fled V'resh centuries before the humans, but there was nothing in their history to tell why they had left.

Most of the goblins in the Narnola Swamp live in or around the village of Iono. Iono is the goblin word for 'home' and about three-hundred people reside in Iono.  About 80% of Iono's population consists of webfoot goblins, while the remainder consists mostly of humans. The buildings are mostly small, reed huts built on wooden platforms or in the branches of trees. Although Iono is built on high ground, it does occassionally flood during the rainy season.

Iono is led by Iximor Grom (L9 Goblin Champion).  Although Iximor grew up in the swamp, he left for a while, traveling along the western coast of Nur, working as a professional gladiator. Eventually, he returned home and became the de facto leader of Iono.  He doesn't care much for the folk outside the swamp, or interlopers who would seek to prey on the swampfolk.

The only other community of any size in the swamp is Nymyra, a village of about 450 residents. Nymyra's population consists largely of humans, but there are gnomes, goblins, halflings and others residing in it as well. Strife and conflict are rare among the population. Appropriate since Nymyra means 'harmony.'

Like Iono, Nymyra is built on high ground. Unlike, their neighbors, however, Nymyra seldom floods. Buildings are constructed as either log cabins, reed huts or clapboard houses. A stout wooden palisade surrounds Nymyra to keep out predators.  The single gate is guarded all day and closed at sunset.

Nymyra is led by a five-person council, its members elected every three years by village residents. Residency requires someone to have made their home in the village for at least one year.

The current head of the village council is Dorum Aleman(L8 Human Wizard). Dorum owns and operates The Green Swan, the only tavern/inn in the entire Narnola Swamp. In his youth, Dorum felt a calling to serve Iorne, the goddess of magic. He served as an accolyte in her temple in Moontree, before receiving word that his father and elder brothers had died of fever. Dorum left the temple to return home and care for his mother and the family business, but retained the favor of Iorne and is quite the competant wizard.

There are other settlements in the swamp, but they tend to be small and somewhat isolated. The swampfolk are very self-sufficient and require very little from the outside world. However, there is some trade and commerce.  The swamp produces plants and animals that are used in certain arcane spells, and there is the occasional party of adventurers who venture into the swamp and need guides and transport.

Lux Tenebris: Somek

Somek, God of the Undead

Somek is the son of Elleru, Goddess of the Earth & the Underworld, and Rovelek, God of the Dead.
His half-sister is Arymat, Goddess of Misfortune.

Somek is the God of the Undead, the patron of necromancers and sentient undead. He is also referred to as the Defiler of the Grave and the Enemy of the Dead.

Somek's current relationship with his father is adversarial, but it was not always that way. For centuries, Somek aided his father in his duties as God of the Dead. But when the All-Fiend rose against the gods, Somek was captured and imprisoned.

The All-Fiend sent word to Rovelek that if the God of the Dead would ally with him, Somek would not be harmed and would be set free.  Rovelek refused.

As a result, the All-Fiend tortured Somek, disfiguring the left side of his face. As he tormented Somek, the All-Fiend told him, in painful detail, of the offer he had made to his father and his father's refusal.  The All-Fiend painted a picture where all of Somek's suffering could be laid at his father's feet.

Eventually, the All-Fiend was defeated and his various divine prisoners were freed. Rovelek himself broke the chains binding his son.  And although Somek understood his father's reasons for refusing to ally with the All-Fiend, he has not forgiven him for the choice that he made.

Rovelek, for his part, was unused to being judged by anyone and grew cold toward Somek. The two of them no longer worked together to guide the dead to their afterlives.  Instead, Somek chose to use his knowledge of Rovelek's domain to steal damned and damaged souls and return them to the living world as undead.

Rovelek grew incensed when he learned what Somek had done and the two came to blows, much to the horror of the other gods.  The two have opposed each other ever since.

Somek is described as a thin, sallow-skinned man with long dark hair. The left side of his face was horribly ravaged by the All-Fiend and Somek bears the scars of those wounds to this day. When he manifests on the material plane, he is always surrounded by shadows, to better conceal his disfigurement.

Somek is worshipped primarily by sentient undead, such as liches and vampires, as well as by mortals who seek to become undead.  He has no public temples and most nation-states ban his public worship, but he has a small, dedicated priesthood and many hidden shrines.

The few clerics that Somek empowers usually choose the Death Domain, while the very rare Paladin of Somek will most often take an Oath of Vengeance.

Somek's symbol is a black ouroboros, an ebon serpent eating its own tail.

Lux Tenebris: The Gray Wardens

Yrella made her way through the night, confident that there was nothing to fear in the dark. After all, there was little that could still harm her, in this world or the next, thanks to the blessings of Rovelek.

As she returned to her territory, she was aware of the lingering dead. Most were recent, slain during the Draconic Legions' march through the region. Some were older. Souls still bound to the earthly plain by pain and longing, attachments that bound them to the material world, compelling them to ignore the sweet surrender that the God of the Dead offered.

And, beyond them, as always, Yrella could sense the enemy stirring, roused by all the recent death and chaos the dragonborn had brought to this land. Yrella could sense his presence,like a fetid stink, rising around her.

Somek. Defiler of the Grave. Enemy of the Dead.

She ran her chain through her hand, spinning it expertly. Her spirit blazed and, if it had still been possible, her heart would have pounded in anticipation.

If the Defiler, or his spawn, dared appear in these lands again, she and the other Gray Wardens would be waiting, to send them to their dooms.

The Gray Wardens are priests of Rovelek, the God of the Dead, who sacrificed their mortal lives in service to the god. Their devotion was so great, their self-sacrifice so pure, that the God of the Dead resurrected them to continue their service to him as members of his Gray Wardens.

The Gray Wardens are not undead. Whereas undead are created via necromancy, the Gray Wardens are revived by the divine intent of Rovelek himself.  It is devine, radiant energy that raises them up and sustains them in service to their god.

This power leaves its mark on the Gray Wardens. Their skin and eyes possess an eerie luminosity that many other creatures find distracting or unnerving. For this reason, Gray Wardens typically wear long shroud-like robes when interacting with others.

As a symbol of their devotion to Rovelek, the Gray Wardens also wear chains. Some of these chains are purely ceremonial and decorative, but some fuction as practical weapons. For many Gray Wardens, their chains are the only physical weapon they weild.

The Gray Wardens are all Clerics of Rovelek. Players who wish to play a Gray Warden must play a cleric.  Multiclassing, however, is allowed.

The Gray Wardens have several special traits, listed below:

Blessed Nature. A Gray Warden does not require food, water, air or sleep to survive.

Necrotic Resistance.  Gray Wardens have resistance to necrotic damage.

Regeneration. A Gray Warden regain 20 hit points at the start of her turn if she has at least 1 hit point.

In addition to these special traits, Gray Wardens possess the standard cleric abilities, but a Divine Domain unique to them.

Gray Warden Domain Spells

1st Level         Charm Person, Sleep

3rd Level         Dark Vision, Invisibility

5th Level         Nondetection, Suggestion

7th Level         Greater Invisibility, Hallucinatory Terrain

9th Level         Antilife Shell, Telekinesis

Bonus Proficiency.

At 1st level, Gray Wardens gain proficiency with their chain weapon.  This weapon deals

1d4 bludgeoning damage and has the following properties: Reach, Special, Versatile(1d8), Finesse.

Death-Aware.

At 1st level, you gain the power to sense the presence of the dead and undead within one mile of you. And although you can differentiate between a restless spirit and an undead monster, you cannot identify what sort of specific undead you sense with this ability.

Channel Divinity: Death's Mercy

Starting at 2nd level, you can use your Channel Divinity to heal the badly injured.

As an action, you present your holy symbol and evoke healing energy that can restore a number of hit points equal to five times your cleric level in a single individual. You cannot use this feature on an undead or a construct.

Aura of Protection

Starting at 6th level, whenever you or a friendly creature within 10 feet of you must make a saving throw, the creature gains a bonus to the saving throw equal to your Charisma modifier (with a minimum bonus of +1).  You must be conscious to grant this bonus.

Divine Strike

At 8th level, you gain the ability to infuse your melee attacks with divine energy. Once on each of your turns when you hit a creature with a melee attack, you can cause the attack to deal an extra 1d8 radiant damage to the target. When you reach 14th level, the extra damage increases to 2d8.

Rovelek's Revenge

Starting at 17th level, you can use your action to project an aura of divine light around yourself that lasts for 1 minute or until you dismiss it using another action. You emit bright light in a 60-foot radius and dim light 30 feet beyond that. Any undead creature or necromancer within that area has disadvantage on attacks and saving throws for the duration.

Lux Tenebris: Fairhill

Population: 3719

Demographics: Human (66%), Halflings (23%), Gnomes (7%), Dwarves (3%), Other Races (1%)

Fairhill is the largest community in the Southlands and one of the oldest. It was established over six hundred years ago by the Phoenix Kingdom and survived the kingdom's collapse four centuries ago.  Today, Fairhill serves as a nexus of culture, trade and diplomacy within the Southlands.  It also serves as the headquarters of the Knights of the Phoenix Crown, a militant order granted wide-ranging powers by the Compact of Three Rivers.

Fairhill occupies the highest point of land in the area and offers spectacular views of the surrounding area. It would be almost impossible for a hostile force to take Fairhill by surprise. The community is surrounded by a tall, stout wall of fitted stone. Entrance is granted by only two gates, which are heavily defended.

At the center of Fairhill lies the Bastion, an ancient fortress. The Bastion functions as the headquarters of the Knights of the Pheonix Crown, and also serves as a fallback for the citizenry in the unlikely event that the town walls are breached.

Fairhill and the surrounding area is ruled by the Delselors, a noble family that can trace its origins back to the founding of the Phoenix Kingdom.  The current Lord Fairhill is Ariel "Ari" Delselor. However, since Lord Fairhill is only five-years-old, his uncle, Sir Ephram Delselor, is acting as his regent until the young lord reaches the age of maturity.

Other prominent members of Fairhill's community include:

Lady Galena Sylvereve, L14 Human Noble

STR     06 (-2)             DEX    10 (+0)                        CON   11 (+0)

INT     12 (+1)                        WIS     16 (+3)                        CHA   15 (+2)

HP       73

Languages: Common, Elvish, Halfling

Skills: History +6, Persuasion +7

Tool Proficiencies: Cards +5

Feat: Position of Privilege

Lady Sylvereve is the widow of a Knight of the Phoenix Crown. The daughter of a minor aristocratic family, Lady Sylvereve had an adventurous youth before setteling down to become wife and mother.  She is good friends with Sir Delselor and hosts a weekly salon in her home that attracts a range of colorful and interesting individuals from Fairhill and beyond.

Secret Info: During her adventurous youth, Lady Sylvereve had an affair with an elf that resulted in a child. This half-elf son has been raised in Fallen Baramir. If the affair was revealed it would be somewhat scandalous, but if the existence of the child was exposed Lady Sylvereve could find herself ostracized from polite society and possibly disowned by her family.

William Murmur, L8 Human Artisan

STR     14 (+2)                        DEX    14 (+2)                        CON   10 (+0)

INT     10 (+0)                        WIS     15 (+2)                        CHA   10 (+0)

HP       43

Languages: Common, Dwarvish, Halfling

Skills: Insight +5, Persuasion +3

Tools: Mason's tools +3

Feat: Guild Membership

Master William Murmur is a large, gray-haired man who doesn't speak very much, but has a great deal of influence among Fairhill's various guilds.  Murmur is the head of the Mason's Guild, one of the most important guilds in the town, as they are responsible for the upkeep of the town wall, the Bastion and various public buildings. Even-tempered and quiet, Murmur caused a bit of a stir a few years ago when he married a dwarf woman and they adopted several children. However, since then the community has accepted this unusual family and even embraced them.

Secret Info: Murmur is the son of travelers, a fact most folk have forgotten about. He isn't ashamed of his background, but isn't proud of his family, who are infamous conmen. If they were to come back to Fairhill, or attempt to contact him, and his connection with them was revealed, it could have a negative impact on his status with the local community.

Ulrin Greenhall, L6 Strongarm Halfling Merchant

STR     11 (+0)                        DEX    15 (+2)                        CON   10 (+0)

INT     10 (+0)                        WIS     10 (+0)                        CHA   17 (+3)

HP       33

Traits: Luck, Brave, Halfling Nimblness, Strongarm Weapon Training

Languages: Common, Dwarvish, Halfling

Skill Proficiencies: Insight +3, Persuasion +6

Tool Proficiencies: Vehicles(Land)

Weapon Proficiencies: Shortsword, +8 to hit; deals 1d6 +2 piercing.

Feat: Guild Membership

Ulrin Greenhall is head of the Guild of Glassworkers in Fairhill and he also serves as Master of Guilds, an influential position that requires him to coordinate contracts and work between the town's various guilds. Unmarried and wealthy, he has something of a reputation as a ladies' man and can often be seen squiring attractive women about Fairhill.

Secret Info: Ulrin Greenhall is a devoted follower of Reined, the God of Mischief. He serves his god by spreading rumors and misinformation, usually to his own benefit. If his faith was ever discovered it could cost him everything, his wealth, his position and his reputation. Indeed, it could even cost him his life.

Father Aric Foghall, L13 Lightfoot Halfling  & Priest of Ratava

STR     10 (+0)                        DEX    10 (+0)                        CON   10 (+0)

INT     10 (+0)                        WIS     15 (+2)                        CHA   16 (+3)
HP       68

Traits: Lucky, Brave, Halfling Nimbleness, Naturally Stealthy

Languages: Celestial, Common, Halfling, Primordial

Skills: Insight +7, Religion +5

Feat: Shelter of the Faithful

Father Aric is a handsome halfling man with warm brown eyes, dark blonde hair and an easy smile. Because he is a priest of Ratava, the Goddess of Pleasures, most other halflings find him a bit . . . odd.  But Aric Foghall grew up alone, on the streets, scrambling just to survive. Coming from a history of privation, Father Aric understands that pleasure is more nuanced than most people realize. That it isn't just an end unto itself, but it can be something to coax and goad a person to greater success in life. He understands that the pleasure one gets from reading a good book or eating a fine meal is just as meaningful as that derived from sex.

Secret Info: Father Aric doesn't have any secrets of his own, but he is privy to the secrets of others. People have confided intimate things to the priest, mostly seeking reassurance that there is nothing wrong with their desires. As such, Father Aric knows things about some of Fairhill's residents that could be embarrassing or devastating if the information was shared.

Azorna Dajir, L6 Human Folk Hero

STR     17 (+3)                        DEX    12 (+1)                        CON   11 (+0)

INT     11 (+0)                        WIS     11 (+0)                        CHA   13 (+1)

HP       33

Languages: Common, Halfling

Skills: Animal Handling +3, Survival +3

Tools: Woodcarver's tools, Vehicles(Land)

Feat: Rustic Hospitality

Fairhill tends to attract all manner of travelers, but few made the impact that Azorna Dajir did upon her arrival. The nineteen-year-old daughter of farmers slain during the Draconic invasion, Azorna organized the survivors from her village into a ruthless fighting force. Stories of their exploits reached Fairhill and, after the legions were destroyed, she was invited to join the Knights of the Phoenix Crown.  Azorna has come to Fairhill, but has not committed to the Knights. She feels she is still too angry and griefstruck and is considering heading north, to join the forces mustering at Fallen Baramir.

Secret Info: Azorna Dajir is the last living descendant of King Rochard, the last King of the Phoenix Kingdom. Azorna is unaware of this, but she has her suspiciouns. Omens and portents manifest around her with disturbing regularity, hinting that she is destined for greatness.

I'm still standing....

Hello, gentle readers!

It's been a little while since I posted here, hasn't it? Sorry about the absence, but life has been very distracting lately.

I've been working on my health.  No, it's nothing serious, and so far, so good, but it's eaten up a lot of my time.

Also, I've been helping out some friend who are going through a rough patch.

So, between that and the everyday stuff, I just haven't had the impetus to write as much as I would like. But, never fear! Updates will be coming!

Beneath Phantom Stars

Down among soft grasses,
kissed by the dew,
the lovers lay.

They twined about each other,
like ivy around a stone pillar,
and watched the night sky.

Their hearts beat in time,
almost in tandem,
as if they were one being.

The stars overhead looked down
and felt pity for the lovers
in their chill embrace.

The night passed,
and the stars and moon with it,
giving way for the sun.

Bright and bold,
the sun marched into the sky,
and did not deign to notice the lovers.

They lay stiff and cold,
still embracing,
even though they were dead.

The sun shone,
the day began,
but the lovers were gone.

Their souls had fled,
to a place of eternal night,
where kind stars shone.

Their bodies they left behind,
to grieving family and woeful friends,
to do with as they wished.

The bodies were buried,
the lovers mourned,
despite unanswered questions.

In the end,
the living got on with life,
and the memory of the dead faded.

Grief became regret,
became nothing at all,
just a hollow place in the heart.

And somewhere else,
the lovers still twined around each other,
beneath phantom stars.

Lux Tenebris: Sir Hospin of Beck

SIR HOSPIN of BECK, L16 Human Knight

STR     16 (+3)                        DEX    14 (+2)                        CON   14 (+2)

INT     12 (+1)                        WIS     16 (+3)                        CHA   14 (+2)

HP       118

AC      18 (Chain mail and Shield)

Racial Traits:

Languages: Common, Elvish, Halfling

Proficiencies: +5

Armor: All armor & shields

Weapons: Simple & martial

Tools: Cards +5

Saves: Strength +8, Constitution +7

Skills: History +7, Insight +8, Perception +8, Persuasion +7

Feats:

Knightly Regard

* * *

Fighting Style: Protection

Second Wind

Action Surge (1x)

Martial Archetype: Battle Master

- Combat Superiority

- Manuevers ( Commander's Strike, Disarming Attack, Feinting Attack, Manuevering Attack, Parry, Precision Attack, Rally, Riposte)

- Superiority Die (6d10)

- Manuever Saving Throw: 16

- Student of War

- Know Your Enemy

- Improved Combat Superiority

- Relentless

Extra Attack (3x)

Indomitable (2x)

Equipment:

Elfbane. Longsword. Melee. Magic Weapon. Requires attunementf. Non-elves only. You gain a +3 bonus to attack rolls made with this magic weapon. When you hit an elf or half-elf with it, that creature takes an extra 2d10 slashing damage. When you hold the drawn sword, it creates an aura in a 10-foot radius around you. You and all creatures friendly to you in the aura have advantage on saving throws against spells and other magical effects. If an elf or half-elf attempts to wield this sword, they immediately take 2d10 slashing damage for each round they hold the weapon,and all their attacks with the weapon are at disadvantage.  +11 to hit; deals 1d8 slashing. Versatile (1d10).

Hand axes (2). Melee. +8 to hit; deals 1d6 +3 slashing. Light, Thrown (Range 20/60).

Chain mail. Defense. AC 16. Minimum STR 13. Disadvantage on Stealth.

Shield. Defense. AC +2

An explorer's pack, a set of traveler's clothes, a signet representing his rank in the order, a pouch containing 10gp.

Sir Hospin of Beck is a senior member of the Knights of the Phoenix Crown, but he began life as the son of a poor farmer. As a child, he dreamed of becoming a knight and, when he was old enough, presented himself at the Bastion in Fairhill. Hospin was accepted as a squire-candidate and began several years of intense training and study.  He was eventually made a squire, and served Sir Alycier of Harrowtongue for a number of years. Hospin was knighted in a formal ceremony at the Bastion, welcomed into the Knights of the Phoenix Crown.  It was the proudest moment of Sir Hospin's life.

Since that day, Sir Hospin of Beck has served the order well and faithfully. He exemplifies the best qualities of a knight: courage, honor, chivalry.  His duty has taken him all over the Southlands and beyond. On one such adventure he came into possession of his magic longsword, Elfbane.  Sir Hospin has only told that story once, to the Knight-General of the order. He refuses to speak of it to anyone else.

When the Draconic Legions marched through the Southlands, Sir Hospin was called upon by his order to coordinate a group of irregular vollunteers. Sir Hospin would have preferred to confront the legionaires directly, in personal combat, but understood the necessity of using guerilla tactics against the foe.

Since the destruction of the Draconic Legions, Sir Hospin has made his way back to the Bastion in Fairhill. He has spoken with the Knight-General and other senior members of the order regarding recent events. Sir Hospin believes the Compact should be adjusted, so that the Southlands have a formal standing army to repell any future invasions. Alas, his arguments have mostly fallen on deaf ears, leaving Sir Hospin feeling quite vexed.

Lux Tenebris: Iliana Greenlane

ILIANA GREENLANE - L12 Strongarm Halfling Assassin

STR     12 (+1)

DEX    15 (+2)                                   

CON   10 (+0)

INT     10 (+0)

WIS     12 (+1)

CHA   10 (+0)

HP       60

AC      13 (Leather Armor)

Racial Traits:

Size: Small

Speed: 25 ft.

Luck

Brave

Halfling Nimbleness

Strongarm Weapon Training

Languages: Common, Halfling, Thieves' cant

Proficiencies: +4

Armor: Light

Weapons: Simple weapons, Hand x-bows, Longswords, Rapiers, Shortswords, Battleaxe

Tools: Thieves' tools, Dice set, Land vehicles, Disguise kit, Poisoners kit

Saves: Dexterity +6, Intelligence +4

Skills: Acrobatics +6, Athletics +5, Insight +9, Intimidation +8, Perception +9, Stealth +10

Feats:

Military Rank

* * *

Expertise

Sneak Attack  (6d6)

Cunning Action

Roguish Archetype: Assassin

- Bonus Proficiencies

- Assassinate

- Infiltration Expertise

Uncanny Dodge

Evasion

Reliable Talent

Equipment:

Daggers(3). Melee. +6 to hit; deals 1d4 +2 piercing; Finesse, light, thrown (range 20/60).

Crossbow,Light. Ranged. +6 to hit; deals 1d8 +2 piercing; Ammo (range 80/320), loading, 2-handed.

Battleaxe. Melee. +5 to hit; deals 1d8 +1 slashing; Versatile (1d10).

Leather Armor. AC 11 + Dex Mod.

An explorer's pack, a disguise kit, a poisoner's kit, a set of thieves' tools, a set of common clothes, a set of traveler's clothes, a dice set, a purse containing 17g.

Iliana Greenlane grew up in the halfling village of Gold Meadow. Most of her friends were Stout or Lightfoot halflings, but Iliana's family were Strongarms. Because of this, she was always a little out of step with her peers. While they were fishing or picking apples, Iliana was undergoing weapon training with her father.  Her preferred weapon was the battleaxe and she became quite good with it.

Upon reaching her age of majority, Iliana joined a reputable mercenary company and left Gold Meadow to see the world. She was gone for ten years and when she returned she was much changed. Reserved and taciturn, she refused to speak of her time away from Gold Moon, and became quite cold to anyone who pressed her on the issue.

Iliana joined the village militia where she soon distinguished herself as a deadly marksman with a crossbow. Over time, she thawed a little, and even participated in local archery contests where she won several prizes.

However, when the draconic legions passed through the area, Iliana's warmth vanished. She became frighteningly cold and pragmatic. Her quick thinking to evacuate Gold Meadow probably saved lives, and her neighbors were thankful, even if they did return to decimated homes.

When the compact was invoked, Iliana led her village militia to Fairhill where they joined the forces that would harangue the dragonborn legionnaires. Because of her skills, she was asked to join a group of individuals who would focus on high-risk targets, such as dragonborn officers, clerics and spellcasters.

Iliana agreed, even though she was unsettled by the presence of a Gray Warden among the group. During the campaign Iliana removed a number of high-ranking dragonborn officers, and was credited with slaying the last dragonborn soldier.

Iliana has since returned to Gold Meadow, to help her village rebuild. Her actions in the conflict have earned her quite a reputation, which she finds annoying. She has been appointed commander of the village militia, and begins and ends each day with weapon training on the village green. Inspired by their grim-eyed leader, many of the Gold Meadow militia now take their duties far more seriously than before.

Lux Tenebris: Strongarm Halflings

LUX TENEBRIS: STRONGARM HALFLINGS

Strongarm halflings are a halfling subrace found exclusively in the Southlands of Nur. Although they possess the traits common to all halflings (as outlined on p. 28 of the 5e Player's Handbook), they also possess unique traits.

Strongarm halflings tend to be more serious than other halflings, and slower to warm up to strangers in their midst.  They also tend to be more clannish than other halflings, preferring to associate mostly with their own kith and kin.  Strongarms are not unfriendly, per se, just more reserved and cautious than other halflings.

Strongarms appeared after the fall of the Phoenix Kingdom, when Southland halflings had to become more self-reliant re their own protection.  Halfling communities could no longer rely on the protection of knights or soldiers of the crown, so individuals within those communities began to take it upon themselves to defend their communities. Naturally, these likeminded individuals married each other, beginning a tradition of physical conditioning and martial study.

More martial than most other halflings, Strongarms spend a portion of their free time practicing with a weapon of their choice.  Many choose the hand crossbow, preferring to strike from a distance, but others choose traditional melee weapons such as the battleaxe or warhammer.

Strongarm halflings often surprise Northland fighters with their physical strength and martial ability.

Ability Score Increase. Your Strength score increases by 1.

Strongarm Weapon Training. You have proficiency with either the battleaxe, longsword, shortsword, warhammer or hand crossbow.

Lux Tenebris: The Southlands

            If you were to ask someone from Darkwater or Mountgate where the Southlands begin, they would probably describe the region south of the New Road and west of the Palatine Peninsula.  Ask the same question of someone from Alindor or Alindrast and they would laugh and say that they were the South.  Southlanders, however, would not include the Palatine Peninsula in the region, and would scoff at any part of Nur further north than Alorn's Wall or east of Dorem's Keep as being southern. Pretty much everyone agrees that the Southlands end at the banks of the Narnola River in the west.

            Culturally, the Southlands share a common history and heritage that dates back to the time of the Phoenix Kingdom, when the Kings of the South ruled from Goldcastle and the Northlands were nothing but wild frontier.  The Phoenix Kingdom collapsed over four hundred years ago, at the Battle of Grey Hill, but Southlanders still talk of the event as if it were recent history.  They curse Athen Blackmantle's name to this day, burning him in effigy every winter, while Rochard, the last king's name, remains a popular choice for boys among humans and halflings.

            Halflings are more prevalent in the Southlands than in any other part of Nur. They live quietly, in small villages or hamlets, farming the fertile valleys. Some halfling communities exist along the southern coast, but not many. Human communities dominate the Southshore and the northern and eastern regions, especially along the ruins of Alorn's Wall.

            There are no proper cities in the Southland, and few towns of any prominence.  Fairhill is, perhaps, the best known community outside the region.  Although it is a prominent trade and social hub, Fairhill is best known as the headquarters of the Knights of the Phoenix Crown.

            The Knights of the Phoenix Crown trace their history back to the Phoenix Kingdom. They were hand-picked by the King himself and charged with defending the kingdom from all threats, foreign and domestic.  The order served loyally and well for centuries, but was unable to prevent Athen Blackmantle's rebellion. Indeed, the order was betrayed by two of its most respected members, Sir Tellorol Leanleaf and Sir Ormero the Doomed, who chose to ally with their elven kin against King Rochard.  Although King Rochard died and the Phoenix Kingdom ended, the Knights of the Phoenix Crown remain, continuing to defend the South and its peoples from all manner of threats.

            Elves are neither liked nor welcome in the Southlands. Many historians agree that if the elves had not betrayed King Rochard and allied with the Blackmantle that the Phoenix Kingdom could have survived. To this day, however, debate continues as to why the elves betrayed the king. The most widely accepted theory, at least in the South, is that they allied with the Blackmantle because he was a half-elf. Blackmantle's mother was from a powerful elvish family, and it is widely agreed that they engineered his birth to give them a road to the throne.

            Whatever their reasons, when the rebellion failed the elves found themselves driven from the South. They fled north, establishing the cities of Goldsun and then Moonhome.  Even the wood elves fled the region, claiming that the traitorous acts of their cousins had poisoned the very land and water against the race. 

            There seemed to be some truth to the wood elves claim that the Southlands had been tainted by the rebellion.  Droughts, forest fires and pestilence seemed to fall upon the land. The Southshore was beset by storms and hurricanes.  Communities that had survived and thrived for centuries were wiped out, some in the space of a few days, others more slowly.

            With no central authority, lawlessness swept the land. Banditry became common, almost expected, and the surviving coastal communities turned to piracy and shipwrecking to survive.

            Eventually, the leaders of the larger communities, as well as the heads of various temples and the Knights of the Phoenix Crown came together and hammered out an agreement, known formally as the Compact of Three Rivers. The compact established a unified legal code across the Southlands, based heavily upon the old legal code of the Phoenix Kingdom. It also established a series of conditions and treaties wherein the individual members would agree to suspend any disagreements if the region was threatened by hostile forces, foreign or domestic. The compact would be evaluated every ten years, although it could be evaluated earlier if a majority of signatories desired.

            Although the compact had no immediate affects, it laid the groundwork for greater cooperation and planning among the various Southern factions.  The mutual defense aspects of the compact would not need to be invoked for almost seventy years after the initial signing, when a plague of undeath would sweep the region.

            The Gray Wardens appeared at this time, and, working with the Knights of the Phoenix Crown, ended the situation by tracking down and executing the Carrion Court, a group of evil necromancers.  Afterwards, the Grey Wardens would remain, declaring themselves guardians of the region's graveyards, ruins and haunted places.  And although many would find their presence, and their nature, unnerving, no one could deny that they kept the dead quiet and in their graves.

            The compact would be invoked again, ten years later, when the Kraken Brotherhood tried to seize control of the Southshore, to turn it back into a haven for piracy. The Pirates War, as it became known, would drag on for almost three years before the Brotherhood would admit defeat and retreat.

            In general, however, the Southlands have remained largely at peace.  Considered somewhat backwards by others, there is little trade between the Southland and the other regions of Nur. Insular and close-knit, the region's communities look after themselves and each other, preferring to ignore events happenings beyond their borders.

            Unfortunately, the Southland has not been able to ignore the Draconic Invasion.  General Akor Korkiri led over 10,000 dragonborn legionnaires from Calhorne, in the east, to Moontree, in the west. Korkiri chose the most direct route, leading his army through the Southland. What little resistance they encountered, the dragonborns responded to with lethal ferocity.  Whole communities were laid waist to, while others were stripped of anything of value or use. The Draconic Legions moved quickly, leaving death and hardship in their wake.

            However, after laying siege to Moontree and burning the coastal city to the ground, Korkiri chose to return to Calhorne along the same route. This would prove to be a fatal mistake, as the compact had been invoked and the South prepared a lethal greeting for the dragonborn invaders.  Knowing they could never field a proper army against the legions, the Southlanders adapted guerilla tactics.  They harangued the draconic legions with arcane spells and divine curses, assassinated key commanders and destroyed supplies. They prevented them from foraging by adopting scorched earth tactics, destroying anything in the legions' route that could be of use.  Southlander casualties were light, while draconic losses went from a trickle to a flood.

            It was roughly 1500 miles from the banks of the Narnola River to Calhorne. Before they were even half way across the Southland, even after abandoning their spoils from Moontree, the Draconic Legions had been decimated by the Southern tactics. At the end, the Knights of the Phoenix Crown led a frontal assault upon the dispirited remnants of the draconic forces, decimating them. No quarter was given or asked for and the dragonborn dead were left where they fell, to replenish the land they had invaded.