[RP] Averancia: Hero's Call

The town of Redstone sits at a crossroads of its own history, a place where the past lingers in its architecture and the present feels uncertain. The town takes its name from the deep red stones that pave its central square, once part of the proud and formidable Castle Redstone. The castle, now dismantled, was torn down long ago during a time of peace, its stones repurposed for other buildings. But what once symbolized unity now feels more like a scar—a reminder of what the duchy of Averancia has lost.

As you approach the town, the streets are quiet, though not abandoned. Merchants still sell their wares from small wooden stalls, though fewer than there might have been in better times. Children chase one another through narrow alleyways, their laughter echoing off the walls of buildings that are sturdy but weathered. There’s no hustle, no sense of urgency—just the slow, deliberate rhythm of a town waiting for something to change. The faces of the townspeople tell their own stories: some wear the lines of hardship, others carry an air of quiet determination, but most seem guarded, as though uncertain of what the future holds.

At the heart of Redstone is the square, a wide open space paved with the deep red stone that once held the foundations of Castle Redstone. The remnants of the town's former grandeur are here in the form of half-crumbled statues and broken columns that line the edges of the square, now overgrown with moss and weeds. The marketplace, once bustling with trade, now only has a few scattered vendors offering basic goods—simple tools, stale bread, a few trinkets from travelers passing through. The imposing Lord Chamberlain Amberstead’s mansion looms on the far side, one of the only buildings in town that hasn’t completely fallen to disrepair, though even it shows signs of fading. Its walls are dark stone, and the iron gates, though rusted at the edges, stand firm, watched over by a pair of listless guards.

Those arriving in Redstone may feel the weight of its history, of a town that was once vital but now seems uncertain. Yet, not all is without hope. Though few openly talk of it, word has spread of Lord Chamberlain Amberstead's summons, the letter calling for aid in the name of the duchy of Averancia. It's said that Amberstead has plans to restore Redstone and perhaps even reclaim the glory the duchy once held. Some believe him a fool clinging to the past; others whisper that he has secrets, knowledge, or resources hidden away, waiting for the right hands to seize them. The town's atmosphere is a curious mix of resignation and simmering potential, like kindling waiting for a spark.

Should you choose to follow the letter's call, the path leads to Amberstead's mansion, where a few guards—more in appearance than readiness—stand watch, waiting to guide any willing souls inside. For those less inclined to answer the call immediately, the town offers space for reflection. There’s the Broken Blade Inn, with its weathered sign and warm firelight flickering from within, a favorite haunt for travelers and mercenaries seeking a meal and bed before deciding their next move. Or the Cathedral, a temple dedicated to the Church of Elion (now in some level of disrepair) where the faithful once prayed for the duchy’s salvation.

Whether to heed Amberstead’s summons or to explore Redstone further is up to you. The town itself seems patient, waiting to see what its few visitors—be they heroes or opportunists—will decide.

The sight of the four arrivals—a strange band to be sure—did not go unnoticed by the townspeople of Redstone. As Rafn the savage Beastmaster stalked through the streets, it was clear that the trappings of civilization sat uncomfortably upon him. His wild appearance, fur-lined clothing, and the wary gaze of the animal companion that shadowed him made the locals shuffle away, whispering behind their hands. Children were quickly pulled from his path, while merchants glanced up from their stalls with equal parts curiosity and unease. To them, Rafn was an intruder from a world they barely understood—a wild force stepping into the decaying remains of a once-civilized town.

Aengus the Shepherd, though a simpler figure with his humble staff and plain woolen cloak, was met with kinder stares. The people of Redstone, farmers themselves for the most part, saw in him a man of the earth, a kindred spirit. There was something comforting in his presence—a quiet, steadying force. Some nodded in recognition, others whispered that it was good to see a man of the fields answer the call for arms. Still, there was a lingering sense of confusion—what place did a shepherd have in a summons for war and glory?

On the other hand, the sight of Wilfrid Aelwynd and Aundovold stirred a different kind of reaction. Wilfrid, with his noble bearing, clean attire, and delicate fingers that spoke of a calligrapher’s craft, was met with polite bows from the few locals who recognized his station, albeit as a lesser noble. They saw in him a man from their own world, yet one perhaps untested by the dangers that lay ahead. Aundovold, however, clad in gleaming armor, was a vision of the past. The old days, when knights and champions rode into battle under the banners of House Anvilstar, still echoed in Redstone's memories. Aundovold's noble-hearted presence stirred whispers of hope, admiration—and perhaps skepticism—among the guards.

At the gates of Lord Amberstead's mansion, the guards straightened as they saw Aundovold’s approach, their gaze lingering on his armor. They glanced between each other, unsure whether to show deference or maintain their indifference. As the party approached, one guard, trying to suppress his discomfort, stepped forward with a wary eye toward Rafn, while acknowledging Aundovold with a respectful nod. "Lord Amberstead has been expecting you." the guard said, though his voice held a touch of hesitation. Behind the gate, a few of the staff peered out of windows, curiosity piqued by the mix of figures answering the call.

"Please leave the animals in the garden. Lord Amberstead will see you in the dining hall." They open the doors and usher the others into the older mansion.

Scene: Rafn confronts the Lord Chamberlain's GuardsAs Rafn forges forward with the large wolf at his side, the two guards look at each other briefly. One looks like he is about to say something but the other one shakes his head at him vigorously. They return to their guarding positions and admit the others in if they do not attempt to engage them in some way.

As you step into Lord Chamberlain Amberstead's foyer, the faded glory of the mansion becomes immediately apparent. The tiled floor beneath your feet, once a pristine white marble, now bears the marks of age and neglect. Several tiles have cracked, while others have been haphazardly replaced with wooden panels cut to fit the same shapes, a makeshift patchwork that hints at the dwindling resources of the estate. The brass ornaments that line the walls—once gleaming symbols of wealth and power—are now dulled with tarnish, their luster long forgotten. Yet, despite the wear and tear, the room exudes an air of what it once was: a grand entrance befitting a noble of high standing. The intricate design, though faded, still holds a ghost of its former ostentation, and one can only imagine the splendor this room held in years past.

The dining hall beyond is no less revealing of the mansion's decline. The long wooden table that dominates the room, likely once used for elaborate feasts, is now completely covered in disorganized stacks of paperwork—scrolls, letters, and documents spilling over in uneven piles. The only hint of warmth in the room comes from the small fire burning in the large stone fireplace to one side, though the flames do little to chase away the chill that seems to cling to the walls. The servants move about in threadbare garments, once fine enough to reflect their master's status, but now faded and patched. Their clothes are frayed at the edges, barely holding together, a somber reminder of the fortunes that have withered away in this household.

At the far end of the table, Lord Chamberlain Amberstead sits, his posture one of weary authority. His garments, much like those of his servants, are threadbare and worn, though meticulously rehemmed as if to preserve some semblance of dignity. Behind him looms a stained glass window, once a masterpiece of color and craftsmanship, now a patchwork of opaque, milky glass and wooden tiles—hasty repairs made with whatever materials were available. The dim light filtering through the mismatched panes casts strange shadows across the room, illuminating the solemn figure of Amberstead, a man burdened by the weight of a once-great duchy now teetering on the edge of ruin.

The guards have taken up their formal defensive positions, but one of the guards nods and jerks his head towards the door.

Lord Amberstead stood quietly as Rafn's outburst subsided, the wild man's rage and grief giving way to a sudden, almost jarring, moment of empathy. The fiery accusation that had brought the beastmaster and his wolf crashing into the hall lingered in the air, unanswered. The heavy stillness in the room was broken only by the soft crackle of the fire in the hearth and the weight of both men's burdens pressing down on them. For a moment, the papers strewn across the table, the endless reports, and the broken tiles of the floor seemed irrelevant in the face of such raw emotion.

Amberstead, for once, did not respond immediately. He let the silence stretch between them, his tired gaze lingering on Rafn, taking in the wildness and sorrow that had come so unexpectedly into his life this day. He ran a hand through his graying hair, as though brushing away the weariness of countless days spent drowning in the troubles of his crumbling duchy. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer, more measured than the commanding tone he so often used, no longer the voice of a statesman but of a man who understood the weight of loss.

"I have spent the day, and many days before it, drowning in the troubles of men," Amberstead began, his tone almost mournful. "And in all that time, I have forgotten that there are other lives—other worlds—affected by the choices made here."

His eyes met Rafn’s, no longer filled with frustration or ambivalence but with the understanding of a man who recognized the pain before him. "I know the names of the men who took from you, though I did not know their crime until now. Your wolves—" he paused, his words careful, "they are more than beasts to you. I see that."

Amberstead's gaze drifted for a moment to the wolf at Rafn's side, and then to the broken marble beneath his feet. He let out a slow breath. "I cannot bring back what was taken. But, as the one who carries the weight of this land's laws, I can see to it that those responsible understand the cost of their actions."

His voice, weary but resolute, softened further. "Our law, though… it is thin. Like old cloth stretched over a wound too large to heal. I will do what I can, beastlord. It is all I can offer."

Amberstead paused again, as if weighing his next words carefully. The beastmaster had spoken with a raw intensity that had shaken the Chamberlain’s usually unflinching demeanor, but now there was something new in the wild man’s eyes—pity, even empathy. Amberstead, though surprised by it, understood. "How am I alive under such a burden?" he echoed softly, almost to himself. "Perhaps I am like Atlas. But we each carry our own weight, do we not?"

He let the thought hang for a moment, before turning back to Rafn with quiet conviction. "I know your wolves were not simply animals, not to you. Their loss… the damage it caused is not something I can truly understand. But perhaps you can help me to right that wrong."

It was a small offer, perhaps even inadequate given the weight of Rafn’s grief, but it was sincere—a fragile connection between two men who bore the weight of the world in different ways.

As Wilfrid Aelwynd spoke, his voice cut through the heavy air, bringing a shift in the room's focus. Lord Amberstead’s eyes moved from Rafn to the nobleman, the Beastmaster’s wild grief now tempered by this sudden offer of calm, composed assistance. Wilfrid stood with the poise of a gentleman, his words respectful and measured, yet beneath the formality was a sense of earnestness—of someone who had come not for personal glory, but to contribute in whatever way he could.

Amberstead studied the man before him, noting the sharpness of his attire, though like much in this crumbling duchy, even Wilfrid’s fine clothes bore signs of wear. Still, the scribe carried himself with dignity, and his introduction—proprietor of the 'Worn Nib', a small scriptorium—was an intriguing contrast to the wild figure of Rafn, who moments before had filled the chamber with fury. The Chamberlain’s expression softened slightly as Wilfrid continued, revealing something more than just a desire to serve with pen and ink.

"I am not a warrior, but I believe I have been given this power so that I may serve Averancia. I would be honored to contribute what little I can, my Lord."

The mention of healing gave Amberstead pause. In a land fraught with wounds—both physical and spiritual—such a skill was no small thing. His tired eyes flicked to the papers on the table, filled with reports of unrest, sickness, and injury across the land. This man, a scribe of all things, now claimed to have been blessed with the ability to heal—whether by divine grace or some other means, Amberstead was unsure. But such an offering, however humble, could not be dismissed.

"You speak well, Master Aelwynd," Amberstead replied, his voice quieter now, more contemplative. "A scribe, and yet you bring more than ink and paper. Healing..." He trailed off, considering the significance of what Wilfrid had said. "That is no small gift."

Amberstead straightened, casting a glance between Rafn and Wilfrid. The contrasts could not be starker—the wildman grieving over slain wolves, and the nobleman offering the power to heal. Yet both had come, drawn by some calling. He nodded, his tone shifting to one of guarded appreciation. "The burdens on this land are many, and heavy as you say, Master Aelwynd. If your hands, both to write and to heal, can help ease even a fraction of what we face... then they are welcome."

He paused, looking toward the others in the room, aware that each of them—whether wild or noble—had a role to play. "Averancia needs more than swords, it seems. We need those who can heal its wounds, whatever form they take."

Though brief, there was a spark of hope in Amberstead’s words. His weariness had not left him, but the quiet, steadfast offer from Wilfrid had eased some of the weight on his shoulders, if only for a moment.