Ch. 1 - The Keep on the Borderlands

You have traveled for many days, leaving the last hold of the realm, Solenia, the capital, for the wilder area of the borderlands. Farms and towns have become less frequent, and travelers few. The road climbs higher the further you get into this country of forests and mountains.

The path to the Keep winds up a steep, rocky hill, cutting through patches of sparse yellow grass and wildflowers buzzing with bees. It is the height of summer and the air, muggy and sweltering, smells yet of fresh lavender and pine. The bright azure sky is clear all the way to the horizon, and the sun glints directly overhead like a disk of pure silver. You've become all but blind to the way it flickers every few minutes. Far below the hill the forest spreads north like the nap of an emerald rug. To the south, the land crumbles away to the midnight-black pits and creeping vines of the fens.

This is your last day of travel, and the Keep is just hours away. Some of you can even see its sturdy towers, gleaming in the sun, peek over the next rise. You have traveled together, the rough dozen of you, for safety—even the roads closer to the capital haven't been truly safe in an age—but who knows how your destinies may warp and weave inside the Keep . . . and beyond?

"There! Ahead, past yon hill!" Sir Norris exclaims to the troupe, pointing at the distant towers of the Keep... on the Borderlands.

"We've about made it, fellows," the handsome, well-built, bearded and perhaps slightly unlikeable man says with no small amount of excitement. That excitement, of course, is because he is soon be indoors. To have stone walls 'round him, a mug of frothy ale in his hand, and a well-formed wench in his lap. Hollysure, hailing from the distant province of Wrenstead, is not here, on this road, by his own design.

Lord Bransor Hollysure, Norris's father, well now, there was a man. A man with many sons, one of whom, the youngest, never had much interest in... well, much of anything -- beyond carousing, philandering and the like. Certainly the lad had learned to fight from the castle's master-at-arms, learned his letters from the sage, learned the finer points of courtly life from Lady Hemsing. But after years of putting exactly none of that to use, and after the scandal with the Bishop's daughter and the formerly celibate priestesses, Norris had been cast out from the estate by his irate father and four brothers. He was stripped of his titles, his squire and his inheritance, and charged to make his name and own fortune on the frontier if he wished to show his face again.

And so here he was, on this road. Reasonably well-equipped, with his chainmail armor, shield, and fine sword, but with not much experience with adventuring or battle, and with little else to his name...

Darlene adjusts the bow on her back. She knew little of her companions, having traveled with them for only a few weeks, largely for the safety that numbers offered. She comes from the elven lands, but she is an outsider even there. It is because of this that she has taken to traveling. She feels the desire to prove herself to, well, herself, mostly. She desires to feel worthy of her heritage, even if she is just a half-blood.

Natassia regards the others in her company with an admixture of amusement and suspicion. They knew little of her past, and she preferred it that way. Even the one that she had come to call friend, the rangeress Darlene, knew precious little about her. She considers the keep before her. A place for a new start, where no one knew her. But she was concerned that even here, in the borderlands, the Guild's fingers might reach.

Hrmph! "Yes, yes, we can all see it, Sir Hollysure," the elderly wizard says as he walks beside his mule. How he had made it this far on foot, nobody could understand. After all, he was very frail and very crackly. His purple robes were caked with mud, and even his normally white beard (of considerable length) was looking light brown from the road dust. Those listening to his ever-present grumbles knew that a bath was the top of his priorities.

By his telling of it, the knowledge of civilized man has bored him. But past the Borderlands, to the east of the keep that was the last bastion of culture, was knowledge and secrets that would propel him into the ranks of archmagi. No longer a young man, it was dubious he would survive long enough to find them, however.

Clearing his throat again, Hrmph! "Isolde, now remember what we talked about. No more biting the stable hands. Do that, and I'll see to it you have as many carrots as I can find." Many of you had learned to avoid the mule.

"Quit yer grunblin'," grunts the Dwarf, Kraagor. He spoke little of himself. As best you all could tell, he looked like darn near every other dwarf you had seen. Being the only of the stout-folk in a travelling caravan of men and elves had not done his mood any favors. The further from the capital you had traveled, the less he looked over his shoulders.

Wearing only the breastplate of his otherwise impressive armor, the sack hanging over his shoulder clanked frustratingly as he walked. A warpick, a weapon primarily of the dwarves and the elusive gnomes, knocked at his side from its strap on his belt. Very little about this person was quiet.

He had been of the last to join your party, wearing his mustard-yellow hood low over his face. Suspicious, for sure, but there was a saying that the only people that go to the Borderlands are either running to something, or running from something. And as a fighting-dwarf, there would be little to fear on the roads with him at your side.

Where Eltrezar desired a bath, Kraagor needed one.

Father Petronius, the old priest of Dionysus observed the keep in the distance. "Indeed, sir Hollysure. Such a centre of civilization so far away from main trade routes, I do hope they had wisdom enough to make a well-furnished wine cellar. If not, I can always put them in contact with some of my old business partners. For a reasonable cut of the profits, of course..."

The mysterious elf accompanying the group did not said anything, she was simply caressing Eltrezar's old stubborn mule, Isolde. Fadrielle had a ways with animals, and the mule had taken a liking to the silent petite elf woman. Humans and dwarves were so noisy, always having something to say... but the elf was quiet, and the mule loved quiet.

As she looked in the distance, Fadrielle could not help but feel excited, not at the sight of the keep, but at the sight of such large swaths of unexplored wilderness...

Hearing the words of Sir Norris, Farem hurried his younger brother Bofum to take a look at the Keep. Of noble lineage themselves, the two would be warriors left their comfortable life to escape a life of monotony and duty, but soon enough found reassurance in following the former knight. For sure, life in the borderland would bring them glory and fame, right?

At least that is what Farem was telling to himself, while moving forward. "A keep is a keep" he says to Bofum. "There will be good food, there will be baths, there will hard ground to sleep on... we will be fine. And we won't have to put up with this horrible mule." The young man had a hard time to hide that he was somehow starting to miss his former life.

"Can you, Eltrezar?" Norris says with a grin. "Can you see it with those old eyes, with those bushy eyebrows?" The former knight has turned to look at the others, walking backwards so he can see the entire collection of travel-weary misfits. Well, they weren't all misfits.

Being Fae, Fadrielle showed some promise -- the woman was sure to be a crack-shot with a bow. Darlene was easy enough on the eyes, and Natassia seemed the type to slip a knife in here and there when one was needed -- always a a good skill. Sour-faced Kraagor and the two Dor boys might be good brothers in arms; Father Petronius and Eltrezar the Medium seemed the types that would likely stay at the keep and never venture into the wilds, if Norris had to bet. The mule was a sorry animal, certainly, and flatulent. Unless those pungent camp smells had come from--

Delfarious had largely kept to himself on the journey. Despite his bulk and his limp, he kept up without issue or complaint. He was not much of a conversationalist, and wore dank, well-worn purple roles that were of a darker hue than the ones favored by the older wizard. Del was an illusionist by trade, but seemed offended and outraged whenever someone asked to see a trick. "Sorceries are not trifling things!" the bald man would say.

And bald he was, and jealous of Eltrezar's hat...

The clerical fellow follows along towards the Keep.

Oh I do look forward to entering yon Keep, and spreading Lawful cheer. All will be well indeed, my friends!

Charles, Carl to friends, had heretofore spent time praying and being priestly-minded. Ready to help his traveling friends, and proselytizing only when he feels required to do so.

One might describe Carl as a plate-mailed fellow ready to help in a fight, more than just a feeble priest without battle-minded purpose.

Fredrick, Fred to friends, expressed similar eagerness at entering said-Keep!

I too am happy to be traveling with such great company! Though I’ve traveled with y’all only a short time, I’m sure everything will be great and nothing will ever go wrong.

Y’all. A colloquialism from Fred’s regional homeland. A long-expressed shortening of you and all, intended as a term of endearment among ideal traveling company.

Following the troupe, Ezra seemed joyful. He was a lean man who had a tendency keep his hood up to somewhat conceal his face. and it seems like the years hadn't been too kind on him. They had finally reach their destination and he was looking forward to having an ale.
Also he was hoping to pilfer the pockets of some of the locals.

Surprisingly it seems like we have made it here with less trouble than I was expecting.

Eltrezar wasn't sure about many of his traveling companions. For one, that fat magician kept looking strangely at him. Perhaps the gluttonous one desired his spell book? It was so hard to tell. And then that dwarf, there was something strange and sinister about him.

For much of the journey, he had enjoyed his time spent with the Dor brothers. There was something authentic about them, and he had in his years grown weary of trying to pierce deceptions. It was easy to talk to them. He didn't mind the elf Fadrielle, though she was likely annoyed at the sheer number of times he mentioned that he had been named Tarathiel by the elves.

As you climb, the land fades from sparse meadows to rocky gray crags, and the muggy air gives way to a cool summer breeze. The setting sun spills warm gold over your backs as you reach the top of the hill. Here the Keep rises out of the ground like a claw of battle-scarred stone, all towers and battlements that dig up out of the earth. The entrance is a heavy, iron-banded drawbridge flanked by twin guard towers; right underneath the drawbridge is a deep cleft in the earth—a natural moat—that spans much of the keep's eastern face.

Men-at-arms in blue-and-black-checkered gambesons stand atop the gate and the guard towers, armed with spears and steel caps. A group of them stop and watch your approach, then the leader calls out to you once you reach the lip of the moat. "Hold there, strangers! Who are you, and what business have you here?

All along the parapets, many other men-at-arms pause where they are to peer down at you curiously, as if wondering: will these newcomers be friend or foe?

Hrmph! "I am Eltrezar the Medium, known to the elves as Tarathiel, and to the dwarves as Dalomdûmir. I have traveled from the capital with this band, as we have interest in the wilds beyond your keep. We would seek safe beds and food as we tame your wilderness. We have coin to spend, and news to share. Now, would you deny this old man rest from the long road?" It should be noted that nobody assigned the elderly wizard to speak for the group, but he did so with the confidence and ease of someone who had traveled far in his life.

Darlene looks up at the people on the walls as if judging their character. "I am but a humble wanderer who seeks shelter, food, and perhaps the opportunity to make some coin. My name is Darlene Dawnstar."

Natassia regards the guards with an even stare, looking back at them as hard as they stare at her. At length, she speaks, "My name is Natassia and my business is, like the others, a traveler seeking shelter. I have coin to spend."