Status update

As you may have noticed the 20th of the past months has passed rather uneventfully here on the blog. Due to things like studies, work and marriage (you know, life-stuff) its been difficult getting our stories to the standard we would like to see them at and the level our faithful readers deserve. This does not mean work has come to a complete stop, we have about six texts that are close to being done of which three are already being polished to the previously mentioned standard.

On my own and Sanlade's behalf I thank you for hanging in there and recommend that you regularly keep checking for updates here and on our facebook page (www.facebook.com/TalesFromHelitheren).

//RcaH

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The Withering

     From where the wide Uon slows down over the lowland to the coast where it washes out into the Sea of Donir there is nothing but inhospitable marshlands as far as one can see. In all of southern Donir, from Ferman Forest in the west to the eastern reaches of Ohren's Plains everyone has heard tales of strange inhabitants living deep inside the mazes of waterways and swamps. Most call them the Withering, for it is said that they are the remains of some ancient evil created by Eri-Ogori himself before he disappeared from Romesia.

      When travelling these lands one will hear storytellers speak of heroes of old and their encounters with these creatures, but most of all the stories of Ohren himself.

Rúh, son of Bann

        

The door opened, letting the storm spray the room with rain, leaves and anything else it could carry. The lightning cast a large shadow into the room and one not so large. Their owners, Homen and Pep, stepped into a well filled room.

     “Close the door already!” An angry fat man shouted, “if you were the ones to clean it up every time someone opens the door you'd understand why!”
     The two remained calm, took a step forward and closed the door.

     “You must be the innkeeper.” Homen walked up to him and extended his hand to greet him.
     “And you must be new here. But yes, I am indeed the innkeeper, Ludor is the name. What do you want?”
Homen's hand was not met.
     “Why would anyone in a storm like the present one enter an inn like this one?” Smiling he looked up at Ludor the innkeeper, for he was indeed the owner of the shorter shadow, “we simply want a room for the night.”
     He held up a well filled pouch and Ludor's face lit up.
     “Well you do know the way to my heart, and now that you mention it we do have available rooms for you and your...”
     “Associate.”
     “I am no one to ask questions, your business is yours alone.”
     “We would also like to meet potential swords to come with us westwards when this storm has passed.”
     “I see. I will bring the best we can offer.”

A Necromancer's Choice

      As the Goblins invaded the Dwarven kingdom of Thi'Betor year 1103 of the 2^nd Era no accounts of the events that took place at the capital of Maso Betorim, the last stand of King Daeken, survived. When the Goblin horde breached the gates no one got out alive, or so the Dwarven historians write. One month before the inner walls were soaked in the blood of both Dwarves and Goblins a series of extraordinary events took place that can only be found retold in one peculiar book, the chronicles written by a certain necromancer.

      The invasion was a fact, by 1124 all bastion in the north had fallen to the seemingly unending flood of Goblins. They had cut of the remaining resistance from the rest of the kingdoms and were now forcing them to retreat to their last stronghold, the capital, from where they would have no where to run. In all tunnels the Goblins were gaining ground fast, raiding all chambers with settlements in them. As the horde completely encircled the last stand all seemed lost. No Dwarves had been able to stand against the relentless Goblins, but their new enemies feared not death.