Prologue - Khulod - The Broken Anvil

The hammering of eldritch steel against the glowing embers of a new born dream started as soon as you felt the caress of the Hunting moon against your senses. It is another cool summer night as you rest your head against the warmth of a folded cloak and slightly comforted by the dwindling light of the campfire. You struggled to sleep, as your dreams begin pushing and pulling against your weariness. More hammering follows and then a dozen sparks erupt, dancing in a spiral around a bright blue flame. A spider veined chunk of metal and bone appears and is then slowly remolded into a fragment, a piece to an unknown puzzle. You stir even more as the images began to swirl faster and faster until you could no longer hold down your voice.

"Enough!"

Silence quickly followed as your echo drives away the nothingness of another night and the vague promise of another morning. But before you succumb to the creeping madness of frustration, a single reflected light no bigger than your thumb steadied your nerves and reminded you of why you are here. You did not need to see where the reflection came from. The source is beside you, an artifact from an age long gone. A sundered image of a glorious past, broken in a battle that was not yours and bloodied by an enemy that walked a thousand wars. Yet it is this very artifact that has driven you away from the war camp you call home. You are a sehan'maniith, a Valenor pursuing a vision quest, a traveler on the road of redeeming the honor of an heirloom or cursing your family for failing to do so.

It has been many days since you have left your home, a modestly populated mobile settlement last situated near the border of Taer Elladon and the Talenta Plains. Your departure was not even welcome since your clan needs a talented artificier, though young and inexperienced as you are. But the elders understood what the young bloods could not. You are your ancestor if you prove yourself worthy was their final say. And now in the desolate sea of grass, you hope that you are indeed worthy. And as you dreamed of hope, the peace of rest finally embraces you.

The bright rays of the sun trickle through the minute holes inside your tent and gently nudge you into wakefulness. But something is wrong. Like a chess piece out of place, the aromatic smell of a cooked meat amidst hushed talk triggers an alarm within you. You were alone when you set camp last night, but not anymore.

The leather flap of your tent barely stroked the cool breeze as your emerged, the subtlety of your motion gently flickerering away the sparse morning dew that hung lazily on its surface. Emerging rays of light began to glimmer and glide around the angles and curves of your double scimitar, a sight that would be more than enough to render fear to any trespasser on your sacred land. Yet barely a hundred feet away and directly in front of your tent a curios duo celebrating a rather mundance ceremony, a simple breakfast with a side of jolly banter. You examine the scene more and you're only able to discern a party of 2, that sounds like a party of more.

Towering above the surrounding grassland and is just strangely standing still, is a humanoid form clad from head to heel in steel and wood armor. More statue than and less alive, it holds a horseman's bane, a halberd, with a wicked looking spike tip and broad axe blade.

Just a couple of footsteps away from the armor clad is an elderly human, dressed in the manner of city folk from lands of north and west. From the sounds of the conversation it is evident that the old human is dong all the talking, and perhaps all the eating. The old man walks around a bit and talks intently with the armor clad form, laughing and snorting as if sharing a joke or two.

After but a few moments, the old man goes silent and nods to the armor clad form. He then directs his head towards your direction. And with a mug of some steaming liquid held high, the old man shouts.



"Ah, finally our mysterious neighbor has come out. Please pardon the little merriment... but my friend and I have not seen a soul around these parts since our airship crashed."

The old man waves his mug once more, motioning you to come closer.

"Of course, of course, where are my manners." the old man exclaims in a voice teetering between arrogance and humility. "I am Vincent, inventor and explorer." the old man manages a weak bow before saving himself from the disgrace of spilling the contents of his mug all over. Vincent haphazardly resembles the image of an explorer, even if seen through human eyes, with an outlandish doublet and breeches better fitted for attending some bubbly ceremony than delving through the wilds. The leather boots and the gloves though look weathered and show signs of heavy use. A thin rapier rests in a finely detailed scabbard strapped to his side. Even without checking, you know the fragile weapon is enchanted.

"And this is my faithful companion Brek." he raises his free hand and waves at the iron clad figure. The warforge is a veteran with all the deep gouges and cuts, an old warrior that has gone through too many battles and patched up in too many places. His stance though does not even show a hint of labors he went through. The creature's head slow turns to you and you immediately notice that he only has a hole for a mouth.


"Faaa..[creeek]..ith..ful...[crackle]" came a voice that sounds more like rusty cogs grinding together. Interesting that somehow you managed to taste a little bit of the sarcasm Brek was attemtpting to highlight in each pronounciation.

"And yes our airship went down about 3 hours hard walk to the north east, struck down I tell you by the arrows of barbarian halflings!", again Vincent used his mug as a navigation tool, this time paying for it as a good amount of whatever hot liquid was in it sploshed on the dry grass.

"[shreek] poor... pilo..ttttting...moar..[crackle] it" Break groaned, his massive shoulder pads rising and falling in affirmation.

"You know that is just not true old friend, but nonethless just stop talking or the rest of your vocal segments will unravel and I do not have the means to remedy this. Not even this clockwork cat can help...look at the eyes..." Vincent clinically states then he pauses, stares intently at your metal companion and shakes his head. Grasping the hilt of his rapier, Vincent lowers himself down. His face grimaces in a thousand lines and turns a deep red.

"Need... help.. [crackle]..." Brek looks at you with eyes deep as a dying flame.