a world of character-driven dramas
Some say that fire purifies,
A noble force, bright passion’s burst.
They’ve never watched as infants died.
Babes tossed in flames to slake his thirst.
They’ve not seen swords with unholy flames
Strike down the unarmed in a purge.
They’ve not seen the acts which shame the name
Of the dragon house that birthed the Dirge.
The Dirge of Dunland he is called.
But we do not sing it in despair.
For those with conscience are appalled.
They can see sin. They can still care.
O where were ye, upon that night?
At home in prayer for the highland men?
By Brightblade’s side, in Dun Muir, to fight,
To free our isle, each hill and glen?
They say that Brightblade there was caught,
By Captain Hoch, most cruel Blackwing,
A vile and sorcerous onslaught,
As good men fell to his curses’ stings.
As vile his greed in the days thereafter
To take what little each widow had,
So Dun Muir wept, where once was laughter,
As hope died too, with those brave lads.
So drink ye a glass, for Dun Muir’s dead,
And those who yet live, and long to be free,
And spit ye a curse on Blackwing’s head,
And his men, the Adamant Hart.
Hezke is the eldest surviving child of Müdegarde and Eberhard Heidrich. She has one younger sibling, Pankratz Jantis von Heidrich. Originally from Lystadt, Hezke currently lives in Stragosa where she serves the Emperor and the city in her role as Reichsgrafin. She is also a Knight of The Inevitable Truth.
The Gospel of Istra, in The Drottkvaet or Old Court Skaldic meter
(12 beats per line, in 6 beat segments. aBaB rhyme, with ‘a’ as trochee soft rhyme, and ‘B’ as a hard rhyme. Extensive alliteration to aid memory.)
Blood calls to us, blood-born, and by battle blooded,
The rent skin’s red river. A vibrant vivid sight.
All gaze upon its gush. Guard its loss, lest gutted,
The red that once raptured, turns horror, not delight.
A death, and what’s destroyed? All the dead one’s lessons.
A life. A lineage. Potential’s end. Such power!
So exhilarating. To feel ending’s essence.
Blood spilled. I thrilled to kill. To take a man’s last hour.
Once, I waded, wallowed, in blood and excrement.
In screams, in gags and gasps. When there were screams, I came.
I, Istra, sword maiden, whose blade made men lament.
I, ice-veined. Right. Righteous. A reaper without blame.
Then Shepherd of the Dead, archangel Lurian,
Who slips in dreams, and speaks, gave urgent whispered choice:
Be destruction. Death. Or: Repent my fury’s sin,
Heal. I heard, and haunted, ignored that solid voice.
I chose ruin. Mine and man’s. Destruction’s blade, bloody.
An undefeated blade. A cloak of flesh – man’s own.
Havok’s horror. Harm-mad. I made it rain ruddy.
I made a throne of blood. I made a throne of bone.
Believing I was right. But then came Benalus.
Requesting peace, passage, through my black blood-soaked fields.
He and his large army. I laughed, not covetous…
Of peace. My land grew bones. Why should I, Istra, yield?
I sang the song of steel. Men – wheat – to my scything.
I was War with no end. I had no cause to bend.
So battle broke, brutal. Our wounds wept, red tithing.
Archangel-deaf, Istra, seeking what I could rend.
Then Lurian appeared, awake-seen, arisen.
Up from the dead all piled. I saw. I caught my breath.
A thousand crows with him. His great wings. A vision.
And more than a vision. The herald of all death.
My death, and all men’s death. His eyes were white, blazing,
White-hooded and watching. I knew then who I faced.
He spoke, and now I heard. My cruel deeds, my razing,
My wrath and destruction, all a disgusting waste.
In His eyes, I saw death. I knew I’d chose wrongly.
In the billowing folds of Lurian’s white cloak
I saw the souls I’d shorn, and felt fiercely, strongly,
I was His, always His. A fool to flee his yoke.
I plunged my bloodied blade, hilt-deep, in earth buried.
My armor discarded, rain rinsed shoulder and breast,
The wet metal ran clean. But sin’s stain, once carried,
Is harder to set down. I knew I could not rest.
The rain would not rinse me – my soul by blood blackened.
Unarmed and unarmored, I walked away from sin.
As once, in bloody work, my pace never slackened,
Now I’d try to undo, one hundred fold, again.
Bearing solace, succor, things in this world lacking,
Consoling, comforting, a caretaker of man,
Pain easer. Wound healer. Never more attacking.
A servant of mankind, and of my Lurian.
My soul found peace and rest, in a world conflicted.
But not yet purity. Those, purified, are freed
In death to their reward. I remained convicted,
By my brutal actions, every last violent deed.
And those I healed had time, destiny delayed yet,
To change their course towards God. And those whose time was nigh
Had their release – a gift. So I paid my great debt:
To them kind face and words, farewell at their last sigh.
The Archangel of Death had made me his door man:
The door of death. Its host. The usher of that space,
With gracious welcoming, be they king or poor man.
Lurian’s honored guests who at last see His face.
But most can yet live on, with the lores of healing,
With rites and ornaments, bandage, and scholar’s art.
Balance of the humors – phlegm, choler, congealing,
Third, black bile, and fourth, blood. For me, an end and start.
The flesh can heal, and mind. Some thoughts can be diseased,
And need be purified. Some harms are healed with sleep,
With rest, or scourge of dream, for Lurian, displeased,
Sends night-sign and torment, a tax that some find steep.
I battled spirits then. Maleficent beings.
They enter into wounds, and must be purged with care,
With fire and heat. It hurts. But sends spirits fleeing.
Lurian hears the screams, as sweet as any prayer.
And so, a decade passed, and always I refrained.
Though violence called, I prayed. I never joined the fray.
I listened for crying, and went to serve the pained.
I’d have done forever, but came the fated day.
They came for Benalus. The darkest of onslaughts.
The Feasting King. Fleshless. Hooded. The Miser Lord.
Such overwhelming odds. The best of us soon caught.
Lurian reached for him. Death! I wished for a sword.
I begged the archangel. Unarmed, and then … gifted.
A sword of sharp silver. My flesh, his body’s shield.
I became Death. Their Doom. A blade, again lifted.
Unstoppable as Night. And thus, I reaped the field.
And Benalus survived. Like my last words, spoken,
When silver stopped singing, and I lay in the mud.
An acolyte found me, who sought out the broken,
My usher through death’s door, the one framed in red blood.
(This is in common meter, so it can be sung to any tune that uses it like Amazing Grace, O Little Town of Bethlehem, Tam Lin, House of the Rising Sun, etc.)
The Word was God, and God the Word,
And all yet silent, still.
God spoke, became Himself, and heard
A sound with Meaning filled.
A Word with Meaning is defined,
Life’s Meaning is its worth,
Its measure – good and bad, combined,
The sum of acts since birth.
So God made angels – Meaning’s Acts.
Whose Acts gave World growth.
God made man, with power to impact,
With Form and Meaning both.
And then God took from angels action,
They meant, but could not act.
And so, a discontented faction
Rebelled for what they lacked.
Tarraniel and Laziel,
And Kurian, beside.
They sang new meaning: evil’s knell,
Dark Purpose personified.
The could not act, but could men sway,
And men, for them, could act.
God saw corruption spread this way,
And all the harm it wracked.
So God, the seven angels made.
Archangels with the power
To Act, on Purpose, and dissuade,
To make the angels cower.
Archangels impact Purpose, each:
One fights, one saves, one guides,
One moves, one watches, one acts in speech,
One waits. And war abides.
Then Mithriel a hammer makes
Which Meaning can un-know.
Beneath their Meaning, the angels quaked.
And then He struck the blow.
The war was ended, their Meaning destroyed.
God’s Purpose purified.
God’s Judgement forged, to be employed,
On all who dare defy.
SandFlyers are found in the deserts of Sha’ra.
They are insects with powerful hind legs and long thin membranes between there hind legs and the second set of legs. They use these membranes to glide. The front claws end in barbed hooks which they sink into the flesh of their prey. Their mandibles are odd shaped resembling human hands with interlocked fingers.
When they attack the mandibles will tear a small piece of flesh from their target which it stuffs in it mouth. They are voracious and will attack again as soon the mandibles are free.
The average adult Sandflyer measures 1 to 2”s in length, although some have been found to measure up 4” in length.
They travel in swarms of dozens but larger swarms of hundreds have been found around battlefields.
The best protection against Sandflyers is thick padded clothing, or wearing several layers of clothing that do not show any exposed flesh.
“Hear, mighty prince, of the scourge that assails us.
Borne on black wings, hatred incarnate,
Child of the storm and child of the wasteland,
The wake of its passage is sorrow unending.”
The people called out to the prince of the mountains.
Jordermund, iron-thewed, blood-hardened, answered.
In the mead-hall of Breitheske the war band was gathered,
Neath smoke-darkened oak, where the elder songs sounded.
Bjorgir, the eldest, veteran and wise one.
Gray-crowned, branded the Unyielding Mountain.
In Jordermund’s youth, long days and nights
Spent teaching the path of the heroes of Njordr.
Skaedve, the Rager, impassioned and eager.
Once mortal foe, now a blood-brother,
Their paths joined together after Helvarsa,
Where together they felled the Giant of Egwend.
One more was there, his face hidden in shadow,
His eyes hooded, his envy unspoken.
He drank with the prince and joined in the skald-song,
Showing no sign of the treachery coming.
Bjorgir the Learned spake of the dragon.
“Terror dwells in the eyes of the monster.
Horror to choke the life from the warrior,
Icy dread spreading, freezing the lifeblood.”
“Biting teeth like swords of obsidian,
Claws long as scythes, wider than axes.
Brothers, will we answer the call of the people,
Strike down the beast born of darkest Malefic?”
As one man they roared the challenge’s answer,
The brave men of Njordr, the heroes of legend.
Death holds no fear for the mighty of spirit,
For those raised on mead, on songs and on steel.
Together they sought the trail of the monster,
In the far frozen wastelands they came to its lair.
Before them, the fortress of ice and black granite.
Jotunkoenig, seat of the King of the Giants.
They entered its halls, where the King waited for them.
But clouded with anger was the giant-lord’s visage.
“Humans, you dare to walk among Jotunn?
Thou shalt pay the price for thy ignoble trespass.”
Wise was Bjorgir, with faith in his war-band.
He stepped forth and offered himself up as hostage.
“Take me as prisoner, to vouchsafe their passage.
If they insult thy people, let my own life be forfeit.”
By the Old Ways, the king was forced to accept them.
Jordermund’s band went into the castle,
As great as the spreading Vale of Helvarsa,
As tall as the mountains that tear through the storm-clouds.
To the highest of towers their quest took the heroes,
Abandoned by Jotunn, now nest to the dragon,
Filled with the bones of cattle and human,
Devoured and discarded by the rampaging horror.
On the rampart they faced it, yelling defiance.
The wind mixing howls of human and hell-beast.
Jordermund and Skaede facing the monster,
The other behind, harrying and driving.
It turned on the harrier with its baleful ice-stare,
His hand faltered, knees weakened, heart filled with terror.
Unmoving, he stared up at black doom descending.
Then the Prince and the Rager leapt onto the monster.
Angered and wounded, the beast took to wing.
Up to the sky the warriors ascended!
To the blackness where stars look down on the world,
Dark blood and rimefrost coating the heroes.
Skaedve took up his mask of the blood-rage,
Onto his face the cold iron settled.
Brutal was Skaedve, his axe flashing forth,
The Frozen Slayer deep in the skull of the dragon.
Lifeless, the monster fell to the ground,
Carrying the heroes back to creation.
At the edge of the rampart its body met cold stone,
The warriors riding the corpse as an avalanche.
Skaedve stood, proclaiming the victory.
His boast cut short, blood from his mouth;
A dagger protruding from the back of the hero
The Betrayer, cruel and jealous, had slain him.
Jordermund’s grief howled through the caste,
Even in far forests stags paused to listen.
Jordermund rose, anger overflowing.
He took up the rage-mask fallen from Skaedve.
Jordermund cursed the name of the Betrayer,
Never again shall the skalds sing his stories,
Only in shame will he be remembered,
The one who betrayed the trust of his comrades.
Jordermund’s Fist rose over and over,
Delivering justice, the maul was relentless.
Broken was the Betrayer, cast down in ruin,
His body unmarked and unmourned forever.
Jordermund’s blood flowed from his brow,
From his chest and his back, from the wounds he had suffered.
His mortal strength leaving him, his spirit still dauntless.
Even as he died, he rose to face Sveas.
At the gates of the Underworld the mighty do battle,
At the gates of the First Ice Jordermund fought Sveas.
At the gates he defeated her, his legend enduring.
Over warriors he watches, and lends us his strength.
A Legend of the Falaisia, along the border of the Throne and Sha’ra
They say that when it arrives in your town, it is heralded by the sound of ghostly laughter. It seems childish, at first, taking small, worthless items, moving objects, upending pails of water. And perhaps that is all it really wishes to do, for it was once a child born of the forbidden union of a Capacian man and a Shariqyn woman. But like so many children born on that border, so many lives caught up in that ancient struggle, violence twisted it into something darker. Its laughter turns to the guttural moans and screams of the suffering of war. It begins to remember what became of it, in its short, tragic life. Its parents driven apart by their families, its father killed in senseless fighting between his brothers and those of his love, its mother driven into the streets in disgrace for bearing a child outside of marriage, only to starve to death. Its own life of fear and deprivation, ended when it was forced into battle all too young, a soldier long before it was truly old enough to understand the war.
Childish pranks soon no longer suffice, for it was never really allowed to be a child, but a soldier. It turns its pain and rage on those it encounters, those still living, whispering thoughts of violence against the self and others into the ears of those it encounters. As violence and fear spreads, its power grows, and it begins to appear in a physical form, its face veiled except for its dark, sunken eyes. A touch of its hand can bring even the strongest man to despair, the sound of its cries are enough to cause even the most hardened soldier to quake in fear, for fear and despair are the only things it ever knew. It will lash out with hands that have been formed into razor sharp claws, rending the flesh of those that come near, for it learned not love, but only war. And wherever it can find those who stoke conflict for their own gain, it curses them, turning them more and more fearful and insane, forcing them to suffer as the victims of their wars suffer. And only when your town is utterly destroyed, torn apart as its home once was does it disappear, moving on to spread its pain and madness to the next town or village it sets its sights on.
There is something wrong with the world. The world is sick. Scholars say that it wasn’t always like this, but to the people of the Throne, it is an everyday fact of life. The sun rises in the east, one eats and drinks to live, the night is purest evil. The Night Malefic, as the people call it, is the idea that the world responds to the wickedness of the deeds which take place there. Wherever natural law is broken, wherever a disgusting crime goes unpunished, wherever something happens that is just wrong, the Night Malefic grows. It leaks into the dirt and settles into the land like a canker, getting worse over time. The blood spilled from the roadside murder nurses carnivorous plants, the cannibal rises again from his grave with his hunger renewed, the hanged and crow-eaten pederast draws the neighborhood children to his death site like an eerie dream. The Night Malefic takes innumerable forms, and is always at its most powerful in the dark. The night itself is considered to be an evil time, when the laws of God and man are subverted and perverted, and each new dawn is a blessing – proof that you have survived the terrible dark.
Rogalia emerged from the Age of Witchkings in a much more structured position than other countries. During the Rule of the Witchkings it was Adrasteia, the Vampire Queen who held Rogalia, while her Vampire Counts reigned over the human population. Each Vampire Count or Countess had a province handed to him or her by the Queen, and quarreling amongst one another was forbidden. The Vampire Counts took their taxes from their peasants in the form of blood rather than coin or commodities. In that time, Nobleman and vampire were synonymous terms, and the vampires had armies of their Spawn as well as other monsters under their control. The humans, not required directly as in other countries for food production or war, served partially as a kind of cattle to keep the noblemen fed and become selected as Spawn when the need arose. Very few scholars are quick to admit, however, that as the Age of Witchkings lasted for nearly a century, by necessity the humans were not merely blood slaves.
In order to protect their existence, the noblemen had to manage their human factors carefully. While they themselves did not require bread or beer, the humans that fed them did. They also required clothing, settlements, and protection from the attacks of the minions of other Witchkings. And of course, the vampires themselves were once human as well, and many preferred to maintain a relationship with other humans to a point. The noblemen needed people to protect them while they slept through the day from attacks and other subversion, and furthermore to actually run their fiefs in the daylight hours. All of this interconnection actually meant that vampire rule was not actually so dissimilar from the feudal rulerships of the Lion Age. Some Counts even earned the genuine loyalty and trust of their people, though these reclusive lords were rarely seen very often with their peasants, to remind them as infrequently as possible of the inhuman nature of their master.
More often, the noblemen were hated and feared, but the peasants could do little to resist. Vampires are truly immortal, and no act in the world can slay one forever. This changed when the Ordo Croix arrived, and at their head, St. Aren Kauspyre, Heaven’s Chosen. No one knew how, but the leader of the Ordo Croix had the power to slay vampires forever, and demonstrated it when he destroyed the Count of House Sanguinius, Sebastian. The peasant revolt was immediate and fierce, the entire county rising up with torch and rake against the remains of House Sanguinius, but they were put down at once by the beasts that served the Count, and his vampire sons and daughters took his place. Word spread, however, and acts of sabotage and insurrection began to occur more frequently, and with coordination from Ordo Croix agents in the area. When a Count was weak because of their meddling or because of an attack by the forces of Andrugal, the Sovereign Usurper or Sulterok, the Burning Prince, Ordo Croix would signal for the peasants to revolt against their Counts to give them time to make an attack on the castle itself, and bring St. Aren Kauspyre in to perform the execution.
It eventually became clear that this strategy could not bring the war for Rogalia to a close. Queen Adrasteia seemed capable of replacing her subordinates at least as quickly as Ordo Croix could arrange their ruin, and it seemed that only destroying the Red Queen herself would rid the land of her kind.
A conspiracy to sow agents of Ordo Croix into Queen Adrasteia’s court was made. Over the next 10 years, loyal subjects were discredited or killed and replaced with agents of the Ordo Croix (giving up their humanity to aid mankind) or dissenters and malcontents. The machination led to a horrible night of rebellion where Queen Adrasteia was torn limb from limb and consumed in her entirety by her own courtiers. From then, the grip of the vampire nobility was broken. Alone and besieged on all sides by enemies, the vampire nobility was strangled out by infighting amongst each other and the culture of vampire hunting that swept Rogalia.
The first of the new Rogalian Counts was Adam the Greathammer, the first man to lead a revolt against his vampire master and hold the territory from even other vampire lords. From there, others followed, and the remaining vampires were either destroyed or driven into hiding. The first generation of human Counts of Rogalia had been born, and the country began to largely stabilize under human rule. Early alliances formed to help route out the last of the Vampire Counts, already landed human lords installing their relatives or favorites into available domains. As the counties began to be settled under human rulership, the first great crisis arose.
Famine wracked the land in the winters after the human rulers began to settle. The new gentry were not prepared for the logistics of running the country and had no trade arrangements with one another, so without the infrastructure provided by the Vampire counts, shortages began to be the norm and conquest amongst the various counties began in the spring. As the seasons changed and militarism set in, the counties that had survived the year without having to kneel to another lord made a partial recovery due to an unusually bountiful harvest that year. The atmosphere, however, of the Rogalian countryside was set. Each county was on its own and should treat the others with hostility. This state of affairs persisted for decades.
When the Emperor arrived, he found the region completely militarized, with each individual section blocked out like fortresses. By this time, Victor von Herkheist was gray, but still potent, and Templar missionaries had already been preaching in the area to prepare for his coming. He sent messages to each Count inviting them to a small coastal fishing town called Archa, and proceeded to move his army through the region under a peace banner. Understanding that such an entrenched Rogalia would take years to conquer, likely a longer campaign he still had in him with Sha’ra and Njordr still left on the horizon, he decided on a diplomatic option. The Emperor’s army was vast and imposing, and would have been a hard battle for any three counts to match, but the Emperor did not attack any settlements, simply moving through the various counties in his path until reaching Archa. Once there, he awaited the counts.
Almost all of the counts were in attendance, and Von Herkheist explained the situation and his mission of creating the Throne. He promised relative autonomy to Rogalia, and pointed out that since the country was not unified, it could not resist his conquest. He explained that just as humanity had risen up here to overthrow its vampire oppressors, humanity would rise up everywhere and overthrow the darkness of the world. The meeting resulted in the signing of the Pactum Domini, which, amongst other things, created Rogalia as an official country, and ceded that country to the Emperor. The town became renamed to Port Melandir, and became the site of a Parliament of ruling Lords Temporal and Spiritual, which then would meet periodically to discuss the issues of the land and agreed to be bound by the decisions of the other lords.
