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.

The city of Midrod -part 1

go to The city of Midrod -part 2



In the history books the year 1127e2 is often called the ”Dark Year”. The year begun with Mes'Okreber spitting out fire. Ash and smoke filled the sky, covering the whole known world in darkness. The world of Helitheren fell in a coma like state. Hunger and sickness spread like wildfire. But in the North a city seemed unaffected by these circumstances.  That city was like in another world. There was enough food produced to be exported to the hungry masses in the South. But in the streets of southern cities rumors and conspiracy theories filled the minds of people. The source of the high amount of food in the North must be produced by magic, and surely the mountain's rage was produced by the same people, for the food was not free at all. Someone in the North was making a huge amount of profit. To have that much food could only mean the Northern people were prepared for the year of darkness. So most historians recorded the Northern people as responsible for the misery of the people in the South. In the same history records the following year marked as the beginning of a new era. The year begun with the Southern people standing united at the gates of the Northern city Midrod, demanding the control of all the food storage. What happened next was a blank page in history. Our story take place at the seventh year of the third era. A lone man, standing at the ports of the same city. His name was Myrosi.

A Necromancer's Disciple

          In the far east of the Dwarven Mountains, where the Black Ridge stretches south-east, casting its shadows upon the Old Alliance-Road, rises a high menacing dark claw. Mag-Ogor, the Mountain of Darkness, has always been home to a large variety of terrifying creatures and the 2^nd era was no different. Back then, when the Alliance had recently been forged, living corpses roamed its highlands and lurked in its many caves, all answering to their master; Arthom, Garfereas a'Har.

          The winds were howling outside the mountain and their screams reached the heart through all the cracks and openings in the mountain's slopes. Through one of these tunnels a man walked, shadows played with the light from the torch he was carrying on the walls around him. Tall with black hair, proud posture and a longsword in his belt, a thin face with determined eyes, all these descriptions could fit any noble of the Indorim but there was something darker behind his cold eyes. He walked as if he knew the dark caves like his own home. He knew he was followed, and now he also sensed a presence in front of him, but he did not stop.

The cursed cave

“You will die today!” A voice echoed in Fenoam's mind. He was sitting in a pitch dark cave, leaning against a rock, barely breathing. It had begun as an ordinary day, and an ordinary hunting trip. He had hit a deer, but his aim had been a bit off and the wounded game ran into a cave. A cave that was regarded as cursed by many in Fenoam's village. There were rumours that those who had gone in there returned insane, or they hadn't returned at all. But Fenoam had considered the rumours as nonsense, nothing more than fairy tales to scare children from going into the cave, protecting them from cave-ins and such. So, without a second thought he went inside.

A Necromancer's Path

         During a harsh winter in the early 2^nd Era a boy was born to the widow Ameni in the small village of Deepwell. Being as pale and cold as he was, no one expected him to survive his first night. But as a late spring reached Deepwell and as it turned into summer the young boy Keemon seemed as healthy as any other of the children around him. But everyone knew something there was different about him, something that was wrong.

         As he grew up he never lost his pale skin or cold blood. He was a skinny boy with two tired ice-blue eyes and a thin face, framed by light grey hair.

         It took several years until something happened.