In the years of the War, and all that came after, the only children the mad king killed were his own. 

In the center of the cemetery district of Ashk Dhaak in Arran, there is an obelisk supported by a plinth, 'round which the names of the Seven Bastards are inscribed.  Time and rain have worn the sharp edges of the letters away, and now the monument exists as yet another broken, human curiosity in Orc-held lands.

One wouldn't know it had been Embrey, seat of ancient kings - only the Allembine monks know the truth of that now - but there was a king, Styrald, ninth of his name, who decreed after fifty years of rule that his children should succeed him.  

***

According to Embrian custom, all royal progeny were entitled to a share of the kingdom to administer, with the crown passing to the eldest. Only recognized heirs were afforded a share, and it was understood that above all the kingdom must stay whole.

Styrald was handsome – it is recorded that Lannigold blood ran through his veins on his mother’s side. It is certain that he shared that family’s passions - for women and wine, and travel.  Never married, he had issue, and in his besotted condition, enamored by their mothers, he often lost track of how many he had claimed.

It came to pass he had named seven bastards, all of different mothers. There was the swarthy boy borne of the Sultan of Kazim’s daughter, and a miller’s girl, and the half-orc mage, and a ward of the Azure Throne no older than ten. 

The youngest was three, in swaddling - a Lannigold, on his mother’s side.

***

Seven armies converged on Embrey, and there the Bastards met their father. Styrald entreated them to settle their differences amicably. But denied a father’s love they decided they would have his empire.

After three days, Styrald saw there could be no amicable division. They would tear his kingdom apart.

And so he got very drunk, and invited them to the tower. Greed brought them to his chamber. There they drank with their father until the poison in their cup was spent. Alone, at last, with their father, to take the measure of a broken king as they lay waiting for their lives to flee them.

Until there was only an old man, weeping, and a babe in swaddling.

The last thought that Commander Jarra had as he looked upon the vast besieging army at the gates of his city was, 'But the Elementals are bound to the legendary cities! How is this possible?!' He had no thoughts when the huge Black Dragon sent a jet of flame towards him.

Karena Mazdar, last of the nine members of The Council of Illyria, was not used to traveling by the donkey caravan, 'How the mighty have fallen!', she thought, from plush palanquins on mammoths to a measly donkey, well it was that or walking, her host numbering in hundreds, now consisted of a few bodyguards and her faithful servant, young Nim. 'The breakdown of the protective runes should have been our first clue, damn the council members and their foolish deliberations'. She remembered it all too clearly. It began with reports filtering in slowly, attacks on small villages, raids, mere skirmishes on the borders of Lan Larosh. Caravans that once traveled unmolested throughout Illyria, disappearing, while only the donkeys seem to reach their destination. As always these small infractions were forgiven and forgotten, lulled into a false sense of security by a thousand years of peace, held together by the Crowlition and the Cinaess(peace keepers). By the time the co-ordinated attacks turned to a full fledged invasion it was too late. Soon, the legendary cities were hit. Humans, dwarves, elfs and even the blood thirsty orcs weren't spared. The Centrum had fallen. By the time the Cinaess and the Crowlition had gathered their forces, it was too late. And within a matter of a few new moons, a thousand years of peace lay shattered in one swift strike.

'The Factions have risen! They have Dragons and Elementals with them!', said the messenger who had died in her arms, his blood still stained her fine Elven cloak. Long had this been predicted, but years of peace had turned the Factions into mere jests, 'Behave or else the factions will come and take you away', stories to warn unruly children. 'We mocked the Gods and now we pay the price.', she muttered to herself. But more worrisome was the fact that the Factions had all been brought together to form an army with a single minded purpose, destruction of Illyria, and one name stood in the center of it all, Hakan Marsi. A name that had caused the uprising, a name shrouded in mystery, some said he was not human, but a beast, forged by an unholy union of an Orc and an Elf, while others said he had come forth from Audrey(the second), that vile pustular growth in the jungles of Kumala.

The Factions; nomads, traders, scavengers and now the bane of Illyria. Years of skirmishes with the cities across Illyria had forged this mix-race group of people into a battle hardened force, and now led by this brilliant and ruthless general, Hakan Marsi. they had a purpose. No longer were they dormant, mute spectators to the history of Illyria, they had risen to alter it. Hakan's blood-thirsty quench for battle and his need to enforce his will were unstoppable.

The question that dogged Karena Mazdar's mind were numerous. How did the A'madheen, wise seers of the Fara Isle, not foresee this, why were there no warnings? How had their visions been clouded, a new magic had been awakened, elementals and dragons now roamed the land of Illyria, and with it everything had changed. The seers were blind. The protection of the runes failing. She needed answers and the only place to seek them were at the Fortune-Teller's. That's where she was headed on this vile donkey.

Descent

[northwestern Mal Motsha -- just south of the bend in the great river]

The grey skies let loose their cool droplets, a hundred thousand well-guarded secrets: tiny orbs of precious water suddenly relinquished to the world. Over and over, without cease. We are here! they seemed to shout as they impacted. We are life, and now -- we bring that life to you!

Water struck earth and was absorbed into the soft, worked soil. It fell against green stalks and leaves and clung to them, dully glistening and trembling as the light breeze threatened to break its tenuous hold. And it fell upon the stony face of the lone orc who walked through this storm. It clanged against his massive armor and pummeled the broad, crested shield he wore slung across his back. It dripped off the helmet he carried under his arm, and it pooled in the large depressions his footsteps left in the tender earth.

Tender. It will be difficult to grow accustomed to a land that yields so readily to flesh, the orc thought. So many things about this place were unfamiliar to him. The abundant plant life, for one. The warmth in the air, and the generosity of the heavens when it came to spilling their precious secrets. The mountains of his homeland, rising now far behind him to the east, were made of rock and stone that would crush a thousand mortal bones before deigning to display the slightest crack. The air was crisp and the skies clear; storms were short and violent, not like these lazy, meandering rains that had been plaguing his travels ever since he had cleared the forest and swung his march southwest to hug the shores of the great river. Not for the first time, a scornful expression played across his face.

Why was he trudging through this soaked land, anyway? Was it not wrong to abandon his tribe, his clan? Was it not sinful to turn his back on the peaks, to cast his gaze away from the exalted heights so close to Sky, and instead plod ever downward, spurning the highest intentions of the Earthgod himself? Under what sun were his actions not an affront to all his kin?

His kin. They were, of course, his purpose in all this madness. His father had warned him against such a foolish and blasphemous course, but his stubbornness was hereditary, dooming any such warning to fall on deaf ears. And for the son of the clan Warplanner to flaunt the old wisdom such? The offense was multiplied many times. Journeying far from home, beyond the sacred peaks, and to what end?

"To live in the mudlands, as a worm?" his father had spat at him, shaking and snarling with rage boiling over. Raätalagk had drawn himself up at this, had struck his most imposing figure.

"To show that it can be done," he returned evenly, though his voice too shook with emotion, both anger and suppressed fear. "That the failure of the uprising did not cause these mountains to become our prison. That all the land, all the rock and soil and mud of Oruk's body, all of it is ours!"

Raätalagk snarled softly as he relived the memory, his lips rising to reveal his tusks in the typical orcish way. There was a kind of laughter in that snarl, one that bore not mirth, but merely release. His father and all those he knew were now far behind him.

To the trolls

Erminor looked back at the cart with dismay as it creaked again. It was a brand new cart, especially made for tonight. It wasn't supposed to creak. But then again, it was loaded to the max of its capacity. Yet everything on it was needed this evening.

It had been a nerve-wrecking trip so far, up to the fort of Olog Rraus. Everywhere along the way they had seen signs of past encounters with the trolls. Burned husks of barricades here, some broken arrow-shafts there. They had started the trip early to hold small remembrances at each spot where an elf had died, honouring him or her.

Erminor had been leading magistrate for the outpost of Salty Breeze right from it's birth, and it had been a tough job. He had even doubted great magistrate Piarou's decision of settling here numerous times. But the settlement grew, and many elven warriors wanted to prove their mettle in this most dangerous town of all. Which they did. And this was with the trolls being quite passive as well.

But then came this weird message. It entailed a great opportunity, albeit dangerous. But to be able to see the layout of the troll-fort was too good to be ignored. So they had loaded up the new cart and left, him and 25 of his best and greatest heroes.

They had reached the outskirts of the town around the troll-fort, and it loomed up before them. It was brightly lit from the inside by fires. The cart still squeaked every now and then, but the roads were more even here. The houses around them were dark and closed off for the night.

As soon as they neared the fort itself, they could clearly hear crude but obviously festive music and singing from within its halls. When they entered the light falling from the windows they were spotted by a disgruntled looking guard. “Hmmpf” it said, “me was told yous would come. Wason the cart?” “We have brought elven wine and strong cheese for the Christmas party.” Erminor replied. “I'ss call bossman.” the guard said, pulling on a cord that set of a loud gong inside the hall.

After several minutes the door creaked open and a huge troll stepped outside. Grey hairs sprouted from his numerous warts. “Ahh, you have come. I am happy. And with goodies. Nice.” “I was surprised by your invitation” Erminor said. “Hey, it's Christmas. Even your enemies should be your brothers these days. Come on in.” The elves partied with the trolls all night long, and realized they were, besides the lack of true sophistication, not so different after all. 'Oh, how I wish it was Christmas every day.' Erminor thought as he left the hall, early in the morning.

The Fool’s Day

The architect watched the sun dive slowly behind the mountains, painting the sky a brilliant gold and scarlet. He saw the suns mischievous smile, but it was too late to aks what it was about; the moon was already rising, slowly and steadily, taking her rightful place as the town’s night-watcher.

The night in Milaro was always peaceful, quiet. Only elves, gathered around a fire and praising their lady moon with songs, broke the silence. The architect decided to think the sun the next day and went to sleep, with the sound of music caressing his ears.

Only the moon saw the mysterious figure appearing suddenly in the town square, carrying a large sack on his shoulders.

Early next morning, the citizens discovered in surprise a small fair, with colorful tents and carts full of marvelous sweets. A very tall man was inviting every one of them to step into the tents to try some for free. Of course, no one would turn down such an offer. An no one noticed that nobody ever came out.

The man was Pelagro, a wizard who used cheap tricks to steal mans knowledge and then turn them into gems, which he sold in the next town he visited. Very soon, half the inhabitants where in wooden cases and Pelagro was about to leave, when Tarryg walked in the tent.

‘I’m sorry, are there any sweets left?’ he inquired.

The wizard was startled. He was too occupied with preparing to leave. ‘Yes there are!\ he said smiling. ‘Here, have one!’

Tarryg ate it, but nothing happened. The wizard was worried. What was wrong?

‘Where is everyone else?’ asked the elf after eating a second cake.

‘Was there anyone else?’ Pelagro asked trying to cloak his fright.

Tarryg nodded. ‘Yes, you’re right, sorry’ he said. ‘Bye!’

The wizard finally understood: the elf was too stupid for his cakes to have effect on him. Relieved, he returned to his preparations. But the elf was too curious about his crystal ball and picked it up! ‘Oh! Nice!’ he said.

Pelagro ran to him panicking. ‘NOOO!’ he yelled, but it was late. Tarryg dropped the ball and it got shattered on the floor. All the elves where released and the wizard evaporated.

The town of Milaro declared Tarryg a hero. They erected a statue in his honor and they created an annual celebration, called “the Fool’s Day”. The architect smiled, solving the sun’s riddle.

A few days later

Tarryg stood in front of the statue troubled. One of the sculptors approached him.

‘Did we get the nose wrong?’ he asked worried.

Tarryg shook his head. ‘No, the nose seems perfectly fine to me. I was just wondering who that was’

Ryelle frowned as she scoured the report on her live oak desk. What a day! First, the news about the 'prancer's foot' outbreak. That would certainly put a damper on revelries at Winter Solstice. And now this graver problem--angry accusations that elves were plotting to harm human, orkan and dwarven populations. False accusations, of course, but ones that must be nipped in the bud.

Ryelle halloed down the vale for Rifiella and Chaleid who quickly skipped along to her office beneath the Spreading Wisdom Oak

"Greetings Ryelle", they chimed in perfect elven harmony. Brow furrowed, Ryelle explained: "We have a serious problem and I think it's coming out of Keppen. If my suspicions are correct, something is amok at the Steamtastic Brewery. You know how elves despise the insipid lager produced by the penny-pinching gnome brewmeisters there. My hunch is that the beer is being either accidentally contaminated or purposefully poisoned. Because we don't drink it, we aren't getting sick. Because we aren't getting sick, they are blaming us. To avert kingdom-wide warfare, we must move quickly to solve this mystery and vindicate elvenkind."

Preparations began apace. Ryelle formulated her famous Teleportation Spell. Chaleid gathered provisions while Rifiella packed the spellbooks. After a gulped stirrup cup of mead, the three elves were primed and ready. Poof! Ryelle teleported them to the brewery.

Arriving arms and legs akimbo, the elves quickly straightened themselves, huggled and began nimbly scouting the area. Senses keenly focussed, the elves soon picked up the scent of something wrong. It was at the water spigot supplying the brewing vats. While the water gushing from the spigot looked pristine, it was in fact contaminated with Pulchritudinus malevolencii, one of the wickedest toxins known in the Kingdom.

Ignoring standard diplomatic procedure, the three companions burst into the Head Brewmeister's office to report their findings. While the aghast gnome called in his assistants and halted production, Ryelle completed the Blessed Spell of Cleansing and cast it upon nearby Lake Sippensit and all of the brewery infrastructure.

Tired but satisfied, having been soundly thanked and meagrely rewarded by the gnomes, Ryelle, Chaleid and Rifiella teleported home. In the Vale, they were greeted with music, mead, revelry and best of all--one of Emily Jades famous cheesecakes.

One problem was solved, but another remained. Where had the PM toxin originated? Natural forces or nefarious spells?

Everyone thinks that I am an elf. But I’m not. At least I am pretty sure I am not. I was raised among humans, no one knowing who my father was, or my mother really. I think of the woman who raised me as my mother, but she tells me that she found me on a cold winter’s night, in the arms of a dead woman. She always told me that my mother at least appeared to be human. When she saw my ears, she knew something was amiss. But she took me anyway, and raised me to be strong of body and of mind and to take care of myself.

She died of consumption not long after I technically became a woman. I was 22. Old for a human but not for an elf. I am shorter than most elves and yet tall for a human woman. I can only think that by some strange magic my father was elfkin.

I knew after her death that I could not stay in the human lands, and so I left, on my own. I had to dodge many a raider but managed to raise enough gold to build my own place. I called it Greenpeace, after the woman who raised me. Her name was Molly Green. It did not take long for elfkin to come calling and to decide I was safe enough. Soon refuges, both human and elfin came to live near my home and a growing community began to thrive. We had so many people that we eventually had to settle some nearby areas to have more room for crops and to graze animals which we can trade for harder to get items.

Drinking With Dwarves

We’d made it to the second pitcher of the fine Aqua da Pyro Moonshine. My face was beginning to go numb, but the dwarf was still pounding the drink, so I wasn’t to let up. Pounding drink after drink, we got to where we could only barely understand each other. 

We ended up mixing my ‘shine with his Dwarven Whiskey. The truly magical mixture sizzled and popped. The dark elf dropped back behind the bar as me and the dwarf watched the mixture with glee. After it settled we each took a hearty swallow. It was like drinking fire itself. The dwarf burped and bubbles that popped like exotic fireworks erupted from his mouth and nose. The sights made us each giggle like children.

We polished off the mixture, and realized each other were still standing… in a sense. The nearest alcoholic beverage was across the tavern, a barrel of ale. No one else being around, we took it upon ourselves to get to the barrel.  

The dwarf lay down on his back and started sliding himself across the floor, knocking over chairs and tables alike. I was following, keeping close, crawling on my hands and knees and laughing the whole way. At one point, the dwarf’s axe got hung in a notch in the floor. While yelling about how they got him, I went to work undoing the beltwork holding the axe in place. (If you’ve never tried to de-arm a really drunk dwarf, don’t try it.) After what seemed like a millennia, we got him free and continued our journey towards the ale.

We finally reached the barrel, but realized it was untapped and we had no mugs. Leave it to a dwarf to come up with a solution. He punched the barrel, cracking it pretty good and it started releasing a steady stream of the golden liquid.

We took turns drinking from the stream while discussing what to tell everyone the next day. We decided on the story of a monster breaking in, trying to steal the ale. We battled this monster near to its death before it fled. And it drank all the ale at some point. We both passed out underneath the emptying barrel of ale.

    “Yes, mother,” he half sighed, lowering the cart with a heavy thunk to turn and look up to her.

    “Are you taking that order to the consulate, like your father asked?”

    The young Bertram turned his gaze from the matriarch gazing down on him to his burdened cart, and back, managing not to roll his eyes. “I was, mother!”

    “That’s a good lad! And don’t dawdle with that girl from the watch. They say she’s a thief!”

    “No, she catches…”

    But his protest was cut short by the window clanking shut.

    The whining and groaning of his cart mostly drowned out his indignant mumbling as he made his way down the street, until the voice from the alley halted his progress, again.

    “’That girl from the watch’?” came the richly bemused, feminine tone.

    He let the cart once again drop down to rest, coming to meet her arch-browed and smirking gaze with a sheepish shrug. “Gretchen. Sorry. She’s my mother. I’ll explain it to her,” he groaned plaintively, before adding, “Again.”

    But the dark haired slip of a girl merely purred a smugly dubious, “Mmmhmm,” before letting her playfully accusatory tone mercifully slip. “Don’t fret. Nobody trusts a girl in my line of work. Well, except the lord who hired me.” She tipped her head over his shoulder to the cart behind him. “More saddles to the consulate?”

    “Yup. You people sure use a lot of them.”

    “Yeah. It’s sort of a tradition. We issue a new horse and saddle to each recruit.”

    “I didn’t think you had that many working for you?”

    “We don’t. We have a high turnover rate.”

    “Ahhh. So, where are you off to?”

    “Just to fetch some beer for the lads at the consulate.”

    “Oh, to the tavern?”

    “No, the storehouse. We avoid the tavern whenever we can. When they know what you do, you can’t go in there without getting sob stories. Between snooty elves and orc-hunters and incompetent nobles, it just gets tiresome.”

    “I can imagine.”

    But their conversation was cut short by a girlish giggle and shriek as Bertram barely stepped out of her way, being chased breathlessly by the determined looking, elderly but surprisingly spry farmer.

    “I don’t trust that man,” Gretchen commented in a hush after they’d passed. “That’s the third bride we found for him since spring.”

Our fair town of Renaissance, just to the west of central Tor Carrock, was founded by one Jenin, a traveler of great renown in these parts.  Her name is long known one, appropriate to her travels is known in many languages (Jane, Janet, Janice, Jean, Jeannette, Jeannine, Johanna, Joan, Juana, Sheena, Sinead, Vanya, to name a few) and means "new born; mercy of, or little gift from God" – indeed to we townsmen of Renaissance, she certainly is all that.

Our benefactor has journeyed far and wide, seeing even other worlds, before settling in the Kingdom of the Illyriad.  Once finding the place a much welcomed relief after the toils of other places where far too many games were played, she stopped for some respite.  With the tiny settlement she started, the villagers and other subjects of the realm made her feel so welcomed that she felt reborn, hence the name of our fair town; Renaissance.

Of all the worlds seen by our Jenin, she says none can compare to the rule of King Sigurd, with his very well constructed rule of a very diverse domain.  His brilliance is seen every day in his territory, where his general managers see to his subjects needs, make sure all have an equal opportunity and that all is running smooth.  It is notable that many volunteers are inspired to welcome new immigrants to the country which will surely fuel yet more growth and even greater creativity. 

All this said, some new settlements do fail though, due to the dismissal of their founders, but the resources are collected and are collected with celebration to support the lives of our own citizens.  So, even though there are those who do not appreciate King Sigurd, there is still benefit in their giving this region a try.  Our founder can not see what is not to love about a territory of this size, its diverse races, varied climates, beautiful flora, amazing fauna and the felicity of her residents. 

Our town’s architect looks forward to making yet more new settlements in different places and loves the most of the new features Illyrian civilization.  Although our Jenin longs also for a nationwide judicial system, things such as the new developments in magic and the promise of more comprehensive trade have her waking excitedly to greet every day in the Great Kingdom of Illyria.  Long live King Sigurd!

Achillia of Atreanna picked her way carefully through the underbrush, striving with every step to keep quiet, and not draw attention to herself.  The rangers had done their job well; the numbers of cyclopes was absolutely accurate.  However, she needed to see the ground that they would fight on before launching the engagement, although her lieutenants had begged her not to go.

   Besides… what would draw the scum this far away from home?  The days of raiding tribes were past, the scholars said.  She snorted.  Well, the scholars aren’t here, but we are.  The cleansing culls had reduced their numbers.  Clearly, not enough though.

    She sighed.  There had been rumours of dark rituals and beasts attacking to the north. 

    But not here.  Not on my watch. 

A grunt from one of the raiders drew her attention.  He pointed in her direction.

    Well… that’s not good. 

Then he started gesturing wildly – at her.  He continued to gesture even after the first arrow left her bow.  The arrow lodged in his throat, but she had already loosed two more – one into him, the other into the Argeian next to him.  The next two of the raiders both fell as well, though they raised primitive shields to block her,but her 5^th arrow only seemed to wound her target, as she couldn’t aim for anything vital.  It was a much bigger one of them too… a Steropean.  He yelled out to the camp. 

     Time to go. 

 And she ran.  Unfortunately, it seemed as though the entire encampment was behind her. Their longer legs were going to make short work of any chase…

 Luckily, she saw where she had to go.  And it wasn’t really THAT far…

 The Cyclopes broke out of the small woods surrounding the abandoned mill that they had been occupying, and sighted their elusive quarry.  Climbing the hill quickly, Achillia took one last look behind her.  The Cyclopes loped up the hill towards her.  Putting her boot into it, she re-strung her bow, sighted in on the Steropean she had hit earlier, and put out his one eye with her first shot.  The other Cyclopes flowed around his screeching body, as her arrows fell upon them, frothing at the mouth to get at the lone human woman that would do this to them…

They arrived just in time for the knights of Atreanna to crest the hill from their side, and charge into their ranks.  The battle was over before it had even begun, though the cyclopes didn’t know it – their lack of wits prevented them from fleeing until it was too late… and thus, they were completely annihilated.

 “Captain… are you well?  You took a risk there…” one of her lieutenants asked. 

 "Of course I am.  And it was no risk… I knew your rangers were watching me." she replied, with a wink.

 The lieutenant just shook his head as she walked away. 

It was a crisp autumn morning when I awoke in Illyriad.  My father’s mage had cast a power spell that transported me far from my home, far from my family, and far from the danger.  Was it the chill in the air that made me shiver, or the thoughts of a homeland I would never see again?  For at that moment, I knew winter is coming.

As I bid my father good bye, he implored me “Find the strongest alliance in you new home, prove yourself worthy, and tell no one of your heritage until you join that alliance. ”

“Father, let me stay and fight beside you for the survival of our kingdom,” I implored.

“You are my only child, you are the blood of the 4^th daughter, of the first-named, of the light that was there at the beginning.  You must survive, our bloodline must survive,” he commanded.  Then he signaled his mage and I fell into darkness.

And so my quest began to find the strongest alliance.  For many days, I traveled along a riverbank in what is called Lan Larosh.  The nights grew colder, the winds harsher, and my despair deeper.  When the grief from the loss of my family nearly consumed me, I stumble upon a city called Heart.

A fair human maiden appeared to me, her radiance was like the sun.  “Tell me,” I murmured, barely able to speak, “I must find the strongest alliance, can you help…” my world grew dark once again.

I dreamed of my father, a noble king defending his people from a legion of undead, of the curse that had been cast on our lands, and of how I must honor his last request.

“You have traveled far and are weak,” I heard as I awoke.  “I am Lady Luv, and I will assist you in your quest to find the strongest alliance.  We will first prepare you and help you grow stronger, now rest.”

As autumn turned to winter, I grew stronger and founded Winterfell.  For the Lady Chancellor and her Toothless Alliance, guided me in the creation of two additional cities.  Then she came to me and said, “You are ready Silverlake, to honor your father’s request.  Seek out a man named Killer Poodle, his alliance is the one you seek.”

And so I was battle born into Harmless, for the Valor conflict arrived with my initiation.  As I watched these legendary battles unfold on front line, I heard a whisper in wind "Well done son, well done."  For in the height of battle, I was finally at peace.

A Gypsy Chef Finds A Home

            My earliest memories are bouncing along the rutted, dusty roads in a wagon loaded with clanging metal objects, pungent spices and woven tapestries.  The ever present smell of sweat, dung, and cooking fires permeated everything.  It was not till I was of age to attend the cumρanreą’s that I discovered my calling in life.  These were our Gypsy Clan gatherings for horse trading, bartering of goods, and most importantly, arrangements of inter-clan marriage, to avoid inbreeding. I had helped cooks since I could walk, and got a reputation for unusual, tasty food at gatherings. Woe and bemoan, I had come of age and was to be arranged for marriage this gathering!  In the early morn, I snuck into the paddock and quietly loosed father’s prize stallion.  Careful not to disturb other horses and donkeys, we slipped away under the waning moonlight.  The sun greeted us well and away, heading towards the bleak crags up north, where no clan dared venture due to roaming Orcs. I traveled Elgea for years, living off the land, accepting hospitality of strangers when offered.  By the banks of a blue-green river, refreshing both myself and my stallion, the most beautiful, ethereal maiden approached me.  Obviously elven, and of high stature, her demeanor and attire both claimed. “Who are you, sir, and what brings you to my lord's holdings here in fair Tamarin”, she asked in a melodious voice. Instantly smitten with desire, I introduced myself and bowed. She laughed in a delightful way, telling me to rise and her name, Allyria.  Seeing my road weariness, and that I was harmless, she invited me to her Lord’s country-manor for the evening’s repast.  When we arrived, the estate was in such a commotion, as if an Orc army was approaching.  We hurried into the Great Hall, to find Lord Elcrea pacing, muttering imprecations under his breath. Allyria asked what was amiss.  “Chef Allain broke his back falling down the cellar stairs” he moaned.  Elven, human and dwarf lords were arriving from all over for tonight, and he envisioned only disappointment and ridicule. In a moment of brashness, I told him of my many years at clan gathering cook fires.  Without hesitation, he escorted me to the kitchen and told the staff that it was my show tonight.  I couldn’t believe it, the most amazing kitchen, mine for a night!  With nerves on edge, I studied the possibilities.  After hours of directing, tasting, correcting, and ensuring a smooth, harmonious evening, I slumped into a chair.  Allyria came in, insisting I accompany her, ignoring my weariness. As we neared the Great Hall, I started to panic.  Oblivious to my discomfort she dragged me onward, only to enter to tremendous applause. Only slowly I realized they were applauding me.  Lord Elcrea quieted the crowd and said “We gather tonight to honor friendships, but alas, we Elves have postponed our departure for Valinor too long. In recognition for tonight’s amazing repast and festivities, I hereby bestow this estate to our outstanding chef, ChezBobbo.  And thus I made my home here in Tamarin

The fireball roared into existance, its hateful glare casting light onto the city. Then, as an unknown force propelled it from behind, it roared towards the city, screaming its hatred out to the stars, only to bounce off an invisible shield that surrounded Abeltifor.

Nokigon Cediris, Lord of Abeltifor saw this situation repeating itself a dozen times in various places around the city. The trouble was, although the shield was employed by a minimum of twent extremely powerful mages, and usually more, some of these fireballs got through through sheer force of numbers. As a consequence of this, Abeltifor burned. No matter how hard Nokigon's people tried to put out the fires, for every one that was extinguished another three raged out of control. It was the third night of bombardment, and already some of the more pessimistic of his forces were already starting to believe it was impossible to survive, that they were doomed. That this time, Nokigon had bitten off more than even he could chew. 

The trouble was, Nokigon was beginning to agree with them. When, so long ago,when his fury and rage and hatred was truly born for the first and greatest time, he had destroyed Gajik Hinor and killed so many of the Blood Reavers, he had believed he had seen the last of them. How wrong he was.

For now, the Blood Reavers had arrived in an enormous host and had layed siege to Abeltifor. Nokigon knew they were not planning on giving any mercy, and immediately the Shamans had started to lay waste to Abeltifor. There were many of them, so many.

But wait! Nokigon could hear something. A rumble of thunder, in the distance. So, soon the Mages of Abeltifor would be pushed to an even greater level of strain than before. Nokigon could have wept. The rumble of thunder became louder, and louder, and Nokigon started to create a few defences against lightning. The rumble of thunder was incredibly loud now, and suddenly Nokigon realised something. It wasn't thunder at all, but hoofbeats.

"Charge, my soldiers!" cried Nokigon. "Charge now, and wipe them from the land!"

Like a flood gate, the gates of Abeltifor opened and his cavalry poured out, followed by his infantry. From the east, another great host of cavalry appeared, and from the west even more cavalry appeared. And from it all rode the banner of the Cave.

The three forces slammed into the Blood Reavers, who fought visciously. But nothing, truly nothing, could deny so many human cavalry on the open plain. The orcs assembled around their banner, and refused all mercy. They were cut down like ripe wheat where they stood.

Looking to get away? Come visit Murderonia and plan on having a fun filled day at, um... The tannery! Where the stench might kill you but leaving without a handcrafted fanny pack will DEFENITELY kill you. Next a stop to our library which currently houses 4 books!

Then spend a relaxing evening in the paddock! Where you won’t be wined or dined because we are starving! But don't worry you can sleep in our common grounds along with the rest of the town and their livestock!

In the morning, if you don't die of exposure or the gray plague we offer a continental breakfast that consists of shoe leather and rotten fruit! Reservations are filling fast but act now and send all the resources you can and we will throw in 3 stray dogs. 3 STRAY DOGS!!!

Just pay separate handling. Must be 18 or older prices and participation vary per location see village on decline for details no purchase necessary void where prohibited "Murderonia...we are dying"

Do you sometimes feel as though you don’t belong?  Torn between two worlds?  One foot in the earthy world of the farm, and the other somewhere amongst the books and dust of the university?

The Defense of Sylvarelle

Commander Talion Lannigold barked an order. The Royal Lancers of Allon, sun gleaming off their polished platemail, smoothly fell into a wedge formation and charged. As they picked up speed, they lowered their lances to a horizontal position. The hooves of their steeds thundered, as did my heart, in anticipation. The wedge crashed into the rows of scarecrows that were arranged to represent the enemy armies, and they went flying in either direction, impaled by the shafts of the lances. 

Another order. The lancers slowed down, wheeled around 180 degrees smartly and drew fresh lances from their saddle holders to charge the enemy lines again. I could imagine the mayhem, the fear in the eyes of the enemy before their doom met them.

We will crush them, I thought. Easily.

I couldn't have been more wrong.

The Elves of Sylvarelle had somehow managed to move their towns - all 3 of them - in mass exodus to the middle of the Weeping Willow Woods. Commander Lannigold, unflustered, ordered a fully outfitted expedition into the woods.

What followed was a nightmare beyond my wildest imagination.

Arrows fell from all directions. I don't just mean north, south, east and west. They fell from the sky. They came from the undergrowth. They came from everywhere. Sometimes, there was only an odd arrow or two, shot from the dark, in the dead of the night. Sometimes, there were several volleys of concentrated fire from multiple directions. We lay awake at nights, dreading to fall asleep and wake up with an arrow through the gut.

Not once, I am ashamed to say, did we manage to catch more than a glimpse of the blasted elves. Oh, we gave chase, we did, with our fine horses. But before we negotiated a few turns in the trails through the woods, the elves were long gone.

Humiliated, Commander Lannigold withdrew our troops. We were harried all the way till the edge of the woods. As we retreated back to the city and the safety of our walls, I saw the Commander glance back to the woods.

He would go back, later, with a plan. I was sure of it. He was not a man to admit defeat.

Just as sure as I was that the elves would have something else up their sleeves. I shivered. This was going to be a long war.

   I was born in a small orc village located in Keppen, by the end of the day that same village was burnt to the ground & that is where my story almost ended. During the afternoon a horde of marauders attacked the village, being so small & feeling rather safe in the area, the villagers didn't have any military force to protect it, that didn't stop them from trying. The villagers fought, using whatever they had as weapons, but the marauders we're better equipped & trained. The fight lasted an hour, by the end any orc left standing was enslaved or murdered. The village was ransacked then set ablaze. So, you ask how could a new born survive such a thing? I'll tell you... by the will of The Great Chief & the orc blood that ran through me.

   By morning the village was nothing but burnt timbers & charred remains. This drew the attention of birds & a wandering old human merchant named Tim. As he got close he could hear crying which led to a baby covered in soot. Surprised, he quickly looked around & realized this was some kind of miracle. Taking the baby with him, Tim returned to his cart & left. That night Tim washed the baby & was shocked, as the soot came off the baby's skin turned green! It was an orc baby, explaining the ugly part. Tim never had nor wanted children but holding this baby changed his mind. He decided he'd call the baby Coal & raise it as his own.

   21 years have passed & now Coal is a grown orc, still slightly ugly but so intimidating that no one would dare tell him that. Tim has taught him English, trading & how to interact with other races, but some things he couldn't teach. So one day they arrived at an orc village that Tim had done much trading with, there he told Coal of the day he found him & how it was time for him to find his own path. The two parted ways, both hoping that they one day would meet again.

   For 2 years Coal trained in combat & learned everything he could about being a true orc. It was now time for his final test. The orc Chieftain knew of Coal's village, knew who attacked it, knew where to find the marauders. Gathering all his troops & Coal, he sent them to go wipe them out. After days of riding the army found them, that night they attacked. It was a massacre; the marauders had grown weak. Coal was in a full blood rage & fought his way to the leader, the two clashed for a while until Coal delivered the final blow, cutting the leader nearly in half. Soon the fight was over, the surviving marauders surrendered, begging to flee in peace. But Coal wanted more than that, he wanted bits & ‘peace’s. After that battle Coal became Eviscerator.

   I'm now chieftain of my own village, located in Mal Motsha. As I finish writing this, my home is being attacked by the undead, but fear not. For once I've dealt with them; my wolves will have many bones to chew on this Christmas.

Congratulations indeed to the winners. Also there were some other cracking stories that make great reads