Banishment of the Shrike of Hsira Military Conflict in Myzelis

Banishment of the Shrike of Hsira

The Banishment of the Shrike of Hsira was a military campaign that the combined efforts the Wrenjers of Gylidd, the Gylidder Guard, the Gylidder Curio, and along with individual allies including the red greatwyrm Athalgaethir participated in. The Battle of Hopewatch, and the Battle of New Hsira were two facets of the same overarching campaign that took place simultaneously in the eastern reaches of Gylidd, in Hopewatch and New Hsira respectively. While the Gylidder Guard and Curio sustained few losses, the Wrenjers suffered a loss of nearly half of their number assigned to Eastern Gylidd, nearly 800 people. The forces of the Shrike of Hsira were defeated, with New Hsira being nearly entirely destroyed and under the control of the Gylidder Guard in the wake of the Shrike's forced retreat on The Falcon’s Fury.

Conflict Type

Military Campaign

Start Date

Tahla 13th, 0 AE (3518 AI)

Ending Date

Tahla 14th, 0 AE (3518 AI)

Location

Gylidd

LEGENDS AND LORE

These accounts are woven together from first-hand experiences, official records, and Legend Lore, compiled and presented by the Editors of Eblin. * Editor's note: Wrenjers often name their Chimes after the location they have gathered at or the task they have gathered for, so they very often bear the names of the problem they are trying to resolve. As in this case, the "Shrike Chime" is not a Chime belonging to the Shrike of Hsira, but a Chime that was formed for the purpose of recovering blackmail that was being held by the Shrike over those it had forced into its service.

THE DUNGEON OF GRAVES

Earlier… Rough, meaty hands clad in invisible gloves of fine leather slid across the final door to the inner sanctum as the rest of the Shrike Chime watched on. Xor, both barbarian and rogue, lowered himself from the balls of his feet as tension eased from his frame. At his side, Vai’len finished sweeping the hinges, her lips pursed as though she were holding back something unsaid that was distracting her from the task at hand. “If it’s trapped, it’s beyond us. Give it a go.” Xor grunted, stepping away. Veljen - the chime’s arcanist - looked away with eyes shimmering with barely perceptible arcana from the tall, thin doorway for just long enough to nod at the gigantic leonin paladin in their ranks. Sworen padded forward with the refrain of clanking steel. As he got out of the Wrenjer’s way, a whip of golden scales and black feathers coiled around the githelf’s shoulders - Veljen’s familiar, the flying snake Hulep - with a tiny thong of leather about its neck featuring a single, fragile, gray bead. “I could have told you it wasn’t trapped…” the sea-elf finally sighed, playing with a crossbow bolt on the tip of her finger. “We already searched this level.” “No half measures.” Sworen growled. “No shortcuts, no assumptions, and every reason to get this right the first time. Besides, you’ve been gone a while, and if what you say about this Oracle is true… it would be wise of all of our enemies to trap this approach.” “What if they’ve already asked it a question?” The Eslaiqi assassin pessimistically blurts out. “They haven’t always asked it a question.” The githelf smiled, looking directly at her. “That’s what I’m counting on.” Vai’len bit her lip in thought, as Sworen reached for the door handle. Sokratx - the Shrike Chime’s bronze dragon monk - silently watched on from slightly off to one side, choosing to carefully watch and listen rather than add to the conversation at hand. Xor joined him in flanking the door, and the phantom rogue shortly thereafter, until it was only Sworen with Veljen behind him, the two most heavily armored in the party. As the door creaked open, the room beyond began to gleam with a dim red light. The bodiless, engraved skull of the Oracle of ▒▒▒▒▒▒ lay inert at the center of a pentagram of softly glowing runes. “That means they did.” Vai’len nodded, after Sworen gave the all-clear. “Fine by me. You said it freely answers questions about its function, right?” Veljen asked her, moving close enough to inspect it but not crossing the threshold of the runes. She nodded. “Oracle of ▒▒▒▒▒▒. Can you hear us?” A moment passed while Veljen looked on, his golden eyes frustrated with hope. He seemed to be seeing things in the chamber that were not visibly there, staring primarily at a space above the Oracle, near head height. “I can hear you.” the skull intoned without lips or lungs, its voice simply projecting from the skull on the floor. “A question was asked and answered. I cannot divine again for several days hence. My vision is clouded still.” “I understand. When was the last time you answered a question, before that question?” “It had been nearly a month.” Sworen stood vigil at the center of the party, his attention split between the conversation and keeping tabs on Sokratx and Xor, who were standing just inside the open doorway, watching and listening at the Chime’s exit. “So that’s how it works, then, your powers are used and must regenerate for one sixday between divinations?” Veljen rested his gauntlet on top of his flower petal shield, tapping it idly as he thought aloud. “Indeed. I cannot divine so long as my powers of divination are expended.” “Direne al anfaeye…” Veljen whispered, translating for those in his party who may not speak Elven. “Potential in the arcane.” The githelf took a deep breath. “Oracle, I would like to restore your ability to answer a question… by borrowing the unused potential from your past.” The skull did not immediately respond. Then, “This has not yet come to pass, but now is its moment.” The answer seemed to satisfy the arcanist, but the others remained unconvinced. Xor, Sworen, Vai’len, and even Sokratx shared an incredulous look in varying degrees of disbelief. Regardless, Veljen exhaled completely, letting go of his anxiety and steeling his resolve. The githelf wizard reached out with his hand as if warming it over a fire by putting it directly into the flames. Veins of blue energy began to glow at his fingertips, rippling up his arm in a fibrous weave visible through his clothing and armor, and his normally golden eyes were overtaken with a shimmering blue glow as though his irises were made of brilliant sapphire crystal. It would have been hard for the others looking on to tell if the Oracle was drawn into the air of its own accord, or if their chronurgist had levitated it under his own power. Both artist and subject were supernaturally tethered, moving in concert as one even though still some distance remained between them. Red light suffused into the glowing runes on the skull from the pentagram beneath it, which began to seethe with that same crimson energy. Blue and red radiance merged and swirled across all surfaces in the room - living and unliving, active and inert - as Veljen and the Oracle’s powers reached their peak. Vai’len’s lips parted in shock as the skull of the Oracle - barren and lifeless for as long as she had ever known it - suddenly sprouted wisps of hair and a sunken layer of grey flesh. The demilich gasped through spectral lungs as its body - that of what seemed to be a human man of average height and weight - neared tangible coherence right before their eyes. Time was reversing, and it was hard to say how much. Questions layered chaotically over each other in all of their minds as their perception of linear time was battled by the truth of what they were seeing. Veljen grit his teeth, the glow reddening his skin where it rippled in swirling veins, searing tears from his unblinking eyes. He maintained his concentration, and pressed on until some semblance of the Oracle’s power had been restored enough for their purposes. A flash of red energy surged through the room, severing the githelf’s connection and instantly withering the façade of life from the Oracle’s skull before it was real enough to be identified. The falling hair and skin and bone and blood burnt to ash in the invisible fire, and the demilich was restored to full power through the temporary conduit to its past. Its voice boomed once again. “I am the Oracle, possessor of all knowledge. Ask me what you wish, and you shall hear the answer you seek… for a price.” Veljen stumbled, and all four of his comrades half-stepped forward to catch him before he fixed his own posture, taking a shuddering breath. He gestured for Sworen, who took a moment of his own to make sure the githelf wasn’t more hurt than he appeared before reaching into a handy haversack to retrieve a sack full of gemstones. “Oracle.” Veljen grasped the stones, chucking them into the pentagram. “Show me the Shrike of Hsira’s vault, where the bonds of its agents are stored.”

HOPEWATCH

Minutes later, at the base of the tower of Hopewatch, far to the northeast of Gylidd and deep in the Brumewood, a small army of Gylidder Guard, cadres of Curio Investigators, chimes of Wrenjers, and a host of naturalists sent by the Wild Synga see a small speck of black amongst a morning sky of blue. Clad from head to toe in enchanted black cloth that obfuscates the sunlight from her pale skin, the vampiric archmage Inako shimmers into view and surveys the battlefield below her, attended by a half dozen skeletal mages, all flying far in the sky out of the reach of spells and arrows. Her dark eyes scan the Gylidder formations, quickly indicating locations of note, and each of her companions winks out of sight. Moments later, they are on the ground, deploying reduced stone teleportation circles which suddenly explode into full size and activate, conjuring readied undead legions directly into the defenders’ midst. The battle is on, and the fully enchanted and prepared agents of the Shrike seem poised to overwhelm the defenders with their brutality. Arrows rain down from the windows of the tower as spells erupt from the hands of arcanists and divine spellcasters all across the field, as Inako watches on from above to coordinate the assault. The forest all around the grand tower erupts into howls as wolves barrel into the clearing, led by a pack of dire wolves running into melee led by a wildshaped druid. Brume mist fills the air in their wake, obfuscating their numbers as they crash into the flanks of the undead. Inako bares her fangs, her black eyes narrowing in Gwneyd’s direction as she prepares to swoop down and deal with the interference herself, but then... …a deep, resonant, draconic roar ripples through the sky as a figure flying even higher than her suddenly emerges from out of the blinding light of the sun. The greatwyrm red dragon Athalgaethir screams down out from the heavens, curling flame from his tongue and igniting smoke in his wake to cast an even greater shadow over the relatively tiny vampire wizard. With a hiss, she turns her attention up towards them, and calls upon her magic.

CASTLE BRUMEWOOD

At the same time as the battle commenced in the northern Brumewood, another was about to begin. Deep in the foothills at the center of the verdant expanse, just south of the Cinnaen River and west of Cinnaen Ferry, a Castle of Wrenjers stood ready in a tense peace. The gates stood open, as the sight lines were clear - no danger approached that the Wrenjers could see, and their many beast and plant allies had raised no alarms. Arddan Goswren, the Ready Commander of the Wrenjers of Eastern Gylidd, stood at the top of the southeasternmost tower in full regalia, as did all others still watching the castle. His peers in the Brumewood Chime were spread throughout as best they could be, each of them connected to him via Telepathic Bond, and equally well-equipped. At his sides were Xaljun Wilver, the ranger, and Idasica Jor, the artificer, and both of them were brimming with gear prepared for an imminent battle. As though they knew it was coming. The pop of displaced air indicated a teleportation spell had finished just behind them, in the middle of the tower’s topmost chamber. The three wheeled about in place, confronted with only one figure - the Shrike of Hsira itself. Their hands loudly grappled with the leather bonds of their weapons, or in Idasica’s case, the steel of his limbs. “In truth, I do not care about that man’s family.” The Shrike croaked with its bony bill, its wings undulating out like feathered tendrils to choke the light in the room. “I only care to hurt him, and you, for your presumption.” “We saw no need to indulge you.” Arddan called back, while his mind telepathically communicated as quickly as he could manage. “You are a monster, Shrike, and no breath is wasted in defying you.” “You call this defiance?” The bony bill chattered back, the Shrike’s gloved claws stretching out to indicate the three before them. “Firrh killss thi firrh.” Arddan growled, his green eyes erupting in flame as his twin flametongue battleaxes heard their command phrase, the Rasifalian runes sparking and igniting. “Fire calls to fire. Blood for blood. Pain… for pain. You take from us, from them… and now we take it back.” In the next instant, all three wrenjers’ muscles tensed as they surged in motion, the Brumewood Chime acting as one under the direct telepathic command of their leader. Xaljun’s weapon, a modified longbore rifle, was aimed and fired. Idasica’s prosthetic limbs surged under crackling electrical impulse, his body propelled at incredible speed to rocket his fist toward the Shrike’s bony beak. Arddan leapt forward practically chest first, both of his arms swinging wide to build up as much momentum as possible before he could bring them down on the bulk of his foe. Enhaliyounraza, Belum, Bonnura, and Rhoxl - the Brumewood Chime’s barbarian, warlock, monk, and cleric, respectively - had nearly cleared the second landing, leaping stairs two at a time to come to their aid from their stations elsewhere in the castle. All of them felt the upper chamber suddenly rock and shatter under the force of a Meteor Swarm, blasting most of the cadre back down the stairs except the nimble hybrid ascetic. Bonnura reached the top of the landing - what was left of it - as the rocks and timber were still in midair, the flames still burning. Gone was the upper reach of the tower, everything above the second level. Gone was the roof, the stone walls and fortifications, and gone, too, were both the Shrike… and the three that defied them.

NEW HSIRA

Arddan’s motionless body crashed to the earth as the Shrike appeared in the city square of New Hsira, surrounded by the witless eye of the hosts of undead they had left behind to watch over it. The corrupt and wretched living too, drawn to the evil township by the promise of freedom from the yoke of Gylidd, craned their necks to catch a rare sighting of the avian necromancer in full wreath of their powers. In an instant, the zombies, skeletons, wights, and ghouls whirled about in place to begin scouring the city and raising its defenses. A few raised and elevated undead adventurers stood at the heart of the formations - those whose debts to the Shrike had come due long ago. Ghosts and other intangible creatures spread under the shadows the city’s architecture was designed to cast, and took their places as masters of the darkness. But they were not the only shadows cast that day. Arcing from the hills near the city, racing through the daylight and cutting through the wind screeching like hawkflight, thousands of arrows carved a path of destruction into the settlement’s unholy defenders. Taking to the heavens, the Shrike tracked their arc and - while the damage had already been done by the first volley - the lich lord’s reciprocation was swift and violent. A swing of their clawed hand hurled dozens of fire beads that ripped into the grassy knolls and tore into the ranks of the archers there, leaving whole chimes of dead Wrenjers in its wake. “Noddris, guide my hand.” a voice whispered from the ground below, inaudible over the horrific screeching of the Shrike and the wrath of their spells. “Hold on, Arddan, I have you. Stay alive.” Noticing more and more Wrenjer formations revealing themselves from illusions on the edges of their city, the undead aarakocran monster began to summon forth their mightiest spells. The ambient light of the city suddenly dimmed, as hosts of spirits exploded from their fingertips, their mouth, their claws, and their wings, roaring into the city streets and swallowing everything in a dome of swirling, shrieking necrotic energy. A blur of motion from beneath an eave below and slightly to the Shrike’s right caught their battle cry in their shorn throat. A crimson shroud turning the trail of their passage into a streak of dark red. A black, green, and white tabard - the colors of Gylidd - over a suit of dulled plate mail. And arrows. So many, too many black flighted arrows, which had crossed the distance so quickly between the figure and the Shrike that it might have been gunfire, and was accompanied by the snap of a bowstring so fast and so often that it could have been an entire storm of rolling thunder. The arrows plowed into the Shrike’s chest two at a time, cracking their bones and ripping through the tendons that held their body together, splintering their superficial wingbones at the shoulder. One final bolt slammed into the undead monstrosity’s eye socket, hurling its head back and casting it reeling into the sky. Under the overwhelming barrage, even the legendary, untouchable Shrike of Hsira lost concentration on their epic spell, which collapsed into sunlight as the lich itself plummeted to the ground. Stepping over the bones of a dozen skeletons, the First Spear of the Wrenjers of Gylidd, Kobeck Huaru, Son of Delsagha and Scion of Noddris the Half-dead, roared his challenge. “CATCH YOU AT A BAD TIME?”

THE CHAMBER OF BINDING

^{(A song to set the mood.)}

Leagues away, and some time earlier, Sworen Zapalo heard a similar message from the same man. Thank you, Sworen, I’ll let you know the instant the moment is right. Be ready. Hedwydd hlad Cydwyssen, my friend. Hedwydd hlad Cydwyssen, Commander. Talk to you soon. The Leonin Spear Wrenjer suddenly stood from the barrel he’d been sitting on, quarantined with the rest of his specialized Chime in the basement of a safe house in Gylidd. His deputies; Xor, Vai’len, Veljen, and Sokratx, turned with some surprise and anxiety at the sudden burst of motion, but he was the first to reach out with a steady tone. His rumbling, deep, resonant voice filled the tiny space, and his hands reached out towards them with an invitation. “It hasn’t been long since we formed this Chime. Some of you are more familiar with who we are, what we do, and why, and in some of your faces I see recognition but not understanding. You might be wondering why we are so willing to sacrifice so much for what seems like so little.” Vai’len, ever ready, continued to lean against the wall with a bolt idly balanced in her palm. Despite the legerdemain, the paladin could see the glint of her eyes and thereby her attention. Sworen began to strap his gear on tightly, cinching his fastens one click higher than normal. “The answer I have for you is simple. It isn’t about us. It’s never been about this battle. It’s not about our victory. We fight for a future of peace. We fight for what’s right in the right way, because our choices and our methods resonate into our future. We have no control over what happens now, because that choice was made for us in our past, by those who came before us. People like the Shrike of Hsira.” Veljen sat hunched over in a chair, his knee bouncing uncontrollably as he tapped it with a potent looking scroll. He looked up through his hair, his golden eyes betraying little that the heavy, slow breath in his lungs hadn’t already said. Sworen checked potion after potion with the seemingly lazy eye of a warrior who knew their equipment by feel and weight, socketed deftly while his fiery gaze switched from deputy to deputy. “Here we are, the reaction they deserve. The fate they’ve earned. The only choice we have is how to do what compels us. How to resist. We could make destruction our aim, or we could choose life. And the Wrenjers choose life. In the next hour, countless Wrenjers, Gylidder Guard, Curio, and the allies we have earned through the strength of our character and the depths of our resolve, will lay down their lives for a chance to show the world even more of our character. Even more of our resolve.” The air seemed to ionize as the force and power of the paladin’s words broke through to Sokratx, who bounced from foot to foot as he warmed up for action. Sworen unsheathed his greatsword with one paw, sighting down its length, palming it in quarter turns to inspect its surface before planting the tip in the stone floor with a crack of force. “Balance is not ours to measure, friends. We do not control the cost. Balance is ours to serve.” Even Xor - with a face normally a hairsbreadth from a smirk or a snarl - found his eyes misting, his breath catching and jaw quaking. But Sworen looked him through, and gave him an encouraging nod that reminded him to breathe through the emotion. A few tense moments passed as the cadre waited, looking into the middle distance both at their feelings and at the plan as it played out in their heads. Suddenly Sworen jerked to attention, and each of his comrades stood up to join him. The paladin heard something that hurt him, but he fought through the feeling. He had to. “Shrike Chime. We have the signal. Let’s go.” Instantly, the five of them stood in a circle around Veljen, whose serpentine familiar continued to coil about his neck with its beaded pendant of dull gray, now firmly lodged in its mouth. They reached out to touch the githelf on the shoulders, and the chronomancer brought the scroll to bear, unfurling it and reciting it quickly. With a snap of light and pop of displaced air, they were gone. In the next instant, they were hurled across time and space, crashing into a large room with no doors or windows. There was no treasure, aside from shelves lining the walls adorned with gemstones elevated individually upon pedestals. At the center of the room, standing motionless until the intrusion, were three figures. One was a human death knight, bearing the seal of their merchant lord house on their shield. One was an unarmed goliath wight wielding nought but a tower shield and their claw. And the third, at the center, was a skeletal lich dressed in merchant’s finery - the Shrike’s quartermaster Bago Jadde. In the next instant, Veljen’s familiar snapped down on the bead in its mouth, and a ten foot hemisphere of shimmering violet light burst into view. Not a moment too soon, as the Shrike Chime witnessed dozens of trapped spells and curses exploding into action to smash against their barrier, unable to penetrate it thanks to the perfect timing on their plan. The warriors flanking Bago found their reactions stymied, and the lich itself was forced to waste its own reaction simply to dispel the barrier. And with that, the two sides rushed at each other, spells and weapons blazing.

HOPEWATCH

Athalgaethir’s massive form bears down upon the vampiric wizard shrouded in darkness, whose hands snap up almost as if to catch the train of scale, fire, and fury head on. Inches from her comparatively miniscule form, the greatwyrm suddenly smacks against a block of invisible force and veers off painfully towards the forest below. As he passes her by, the air near Inako begins to swirl with necromantic energy at her beck and call. Athalgaethir flips end over end, spreading his wings to catch the updraft from the flames of dozens of fires below, wheeling about as quickly as he can to bring himself back towards the First Thrall. With an outstretched claw and a shriek on the wind, a bolt of blood-red energy streaks out towards Athalgaethir’s massive torso, and when it impacts, the dragon suddenly jerks about in a full body spasm that sends it careening back towards the ground. The greatwyrm writhes in pain, resisting the titanic, unique spell only thanks to the desperate power of its legend. Only by great effort does he manage to stay aloft, his broad wings flapping desperately against the sensations crawling literally through his veins. Above him, Inako’s outstretched claw squeezes as if the Flame of Revival’s heart were somehow in her hands. Seething with anger and staring daggers at the wizard just out of the reach of his flames, he doubles over in agony as the blood pours from his body as if he had been lanced thousands of times at once. The forest floor below - a bedlam melee of spells and steel and screams - is suddenly showered with gallons of red greatwyrm blood, which ignites in the air and turns whole skirmishes into sudden retreats from the threat of immolation. Athalgaethir, looking pale and shriveled in comparison to how fresh and strong he was a moment ago, lets out a scream that echoes off the mountains and ripples visibly through the trees. Taking the initiative, Inako cuts through the remnant energy of her own spell with both claws, now drawing it back up towards her chest. Whatever she was about to cast is cut short, however, as the red dragon mutters a phrase of consonant-laden arcana under its breath, its entire body rippling with antimagic energy. It cuts the distance between them in a flash of beating wings, reaching out to grapple and pin and clench the surprisingly resilient vampire with both foreclaws. Inako, terrified beyond belief without magic to save her, can only struggle as she knows that there will be nowhere to run - even in mistform. She shrieks and claws helplessly at the iron scales of her captor, writhing against the long blade-like talons pinning her flesh, and stares wide-eyed at the face of Athalgaethir through the opening between his fingers. Taking a deep, triumphant breath, the Flame of Revival bears his lips down to the opening, and exhales the white hot fire of the greatwyrm red dragon directly into Inako’s cage until nothing is left - not even steam. Athalgaethir roars in challenge, diving down towards the battle below, and lands amongst Inako’s generals like a meteor, shredding them to pieces in seconds and sending the entire army into disarray. The Wrenjers and Gylidder Guard - on the backfoot for nearly the entire battle - suddenly gain a second wind and press their foes into the greatwyrm’s wrath, fighting defensively and sparing their healing for the dying or for their draconic savior, who regains his color and swells in size once again. Once the battle is over, and only remnants of the undead forces remain, Athalgaethir ascends once again without a word or gesture. A few hundred feet from the ground, he faces southeast, and speaks a strong word of draconic arcana. With a titanic pop of displaced air, the greatwyrm disappears.

NEW HSIRA

The First Spear’s initial assault had been incredibly potent, sending the Shrike of Hsira reeling on a back foot for the first half of their encounter. Flight was nearly impossible - Kobeck’s first target had been the lich’s wings, and they were shattered by subsequent arrows every time they seemed close to mending. Every spell they conjured was met with a hail of arrows pinning their limbs to nearby objects. Every spell component was sniped from their claws, often shattered into pieces by adamantine arrows launched from Kobeck’s greatbow as if he were a walking ballista. The Wrenjers were holding their own despite massive initial losses, harassing and avoiding skirmishes while disabling the more potent undead with sharpshooter precision from well outside spell range. It was clear to the First Spear that without the Shrike’s hands - Inako, Bago, Conneghal, et cetera - all that he had to do was stop the archlich from rallying their forces, and eventually the Wrenjers would win the day. But he was running out of resources, and ribs - several had been fractured when the deathless aarakocra’s claws had managed to strike true. As Kobeck’s huge arms tensed their grip on the bow, three arrows nocked and the sweat and blood of exertion scrambling down his face, a titanic roar exploded over the citywide battlefield. Athalgaethir - flames from his last breath weapon still wreathing his body - suddenly teleported into the sky above New Hsira. It only took a second for the greatwyrm to locate the Shrike amidst the fighting, and to the First Spear’s surprise the lich had managed to teleport away to the deck of his ship - the ancient, four-masted galleon Falcon’s Fury - thanks to the distraction of the dragon’s arrival. Taking a deep, revitalizing breath, and downing yet another of his potent potions, the First Spear of the Wrenjers vaulted over intervening terrain and ran full sprint towards the docks to get into greatbow range. Overhead, Athalgaethir dipped his massive head and lunged forward with a great burst of his wings, showering central New Hsira with sparks and heat. The Shrike’s claws had dug into the deck of the ship, their posture telling both dragon and orc that this was a last stand. The Flame of Revival began to inhale, barreling down on the tiny lich with purpose. Kobeck slid across a shattered building’s ramplike roof, raising his bow and drawing it back to let loose another multishot volley. Suddenly, the entire ship moved. The main deck rippled as if an earthquake had shattered it, puffing up into an upward curve. Beams twisted and splintered, gaining joints. Masts furled and pulled apart in separate directions from each other, stretching out into massive wings. The aft deck pulled itself in twain, its supports snapping into vicious talons, ‘feathered’ by layers of ancient splintered wood. The rear sails and rudder stretched into a pinioned tail that splashed into the shore and sent seawater dozens of feet into the air. The wood around the two foremost gun ports crackled and shattered until they were a fierce pair of eyes, which suddenly began to glow with a bright yellow light. Athalgaethir let out a bark of surprise as the entire ship suddenly flipped over, one of its massive ‘wings’ slamming down on the greatwyrm’s neck and crushing it into the long pier. The wooden pylons and beams exploded under the pressure of the crashing dragon, the construct’s massive weight sinking him beneath the waves. The now animate, colossal construct held Athalgaethir’s head underwater while it quickly reoriented itself, pinning the dragon with a taloned claw and brutalizing his exposed neck with a beak made of twisted metal and enchanted, ancient wood. The Shrike still clung to its chest, crawling creepily along it and twisting its head towards Kobeck and his Wrenjers with a snap of bone. “MY AIMS WERE SMALL, GYLIDD. I SOUGHT REUNION, AND FOR MOST OF YOU IT MEANT PEACE.” The amplified voice of the Shrike echoed out over the entire city, as Kobeck loosed his arrows in rapid succession, trying desperately to force the Shrike to defend itself before the massive ship-bird could kill the dragon. “NOW, I WILL BE A CURSE FOR YOU, AND A CURSE FOR ALL MYZELIS. A CURSE FOR ALL THE REALMS.” The Shrike’s eyes glowed the same yellow, and with a single wingbeat the animate Falcon’s Fury ascended a hundred feet into the air. It carried Athalgaethir by the neck for half the distance, dropping them into the sea with a violent splash. Kobeck’s arrows were lost in the sudden gale that blasted slag metal, shattered wood, corpses from its belly, and the Wrenjer himself back onto the earth. “I WILL ENACT MY VENGEANCE. AND WHEN MY ARCHITECT RETURNS, I WILL WELCOME HIM INTO A NEW AGE.” The air around the construct rippled with black energy, ribbons of swirling pitch similar to that which acted at the Shrike’s beck and call. From the shoulders outward, both the ship and the Shrike were enveloped in conjuration magic steeped in necromancy, and began to teleport away as time and space folded around the behemoth of wood and bone. The Shrike’s last words echoed off the hills… “AN AGE OF FEAR.”

THE CHAMBER OF BINDING

While their allies had been more easily and permanently put down, every time Bago’s vessel was destroyed, their spirit suddenly reanimated in a new body made of treasure. Their Staff of Power flew across the room into their hand, ripped free from whatever detritus or other limbs had held it fast, and the new Bago - whether made of magical silken robes, a tinkling shape of glowing vials, a suit of animated armor, or some other humanoid-shaped presence that was equally capable and equally impossible to stop.
We have to destroy the items in here! This ▒▒▒▒▒▒ is pissing me off! Xor thought to his comrades as he swung his axe through the merchant lich’s newest form, sending parchment flying. It’s hard enough just buying a moment’s peace from his spells by putting him down…! Vai’len replied, loading another bolt as she darted around behind a thick bookshelf. That’s all we have been doing, Sokratx thought back in his southern canal accent, shredding another shelf of vials with his breath weapon, it never ends, there’s always anoth- I’m trying to keep you alive and save enough energy to get us home! Figure something out! Veljen telepathically shouted, his entire focus on watching the lich’s hands for the barest sign of spellcasting. Y- A potent mote of arcana slipped out from between Veljen’s counterspells, exploding through the room in a detonation of necrotic energy so devastating it was practically concussive. Xor, Sworen, and Sokratx weathered it with grit, but Veljen was knocked to the ground, smothered out of concentration. The githelf’s familiar companion snapped out of existence in a puff of black smoke, and Bago moved quickly with spell and claw to engage the barbarian, rogue, and monk, while the paladin fell back to return the wizard to his feet. Sworen dropped to a knee to grab Veljen by the shoulder, and the wizard rose most of the way, only to stumble back down. Sheltering the githelf from another blast of flame that seared his exposed fur and nearly set him alight, the leonin Wrenjer took a moment to appraise the situation, keeping his thoughts to himself so as not to confuse the others. Room full of vessels. Veljen can’t keep up with the lich’s magic. Another blast like that and either one of us is down, and I don’t want to know what would happen to somebody who lost consciousness to Bago’s necromancy. The vessel gems seem resilient, at least. Saved my healing for a moment like this. If I have to decide… Suddenly settled on his choice, Sworen jerked Veljen up to his feet with a single hand, standing with him, and forced every mote of the healing energy vested to him by his Oath into the wizard. “You get them home.” He said aloud, as the golden eyed chronurgist blinked through the disorientation, and planted his greatsword into the wizard’s grip. Time slowed down for Veljen, a feeling not at all unfamiliar. He watched as Sworen suddenly turned and began to run directly at Bago, while the lich - now looking like a tower of scrolls and tomes - was preoccupied trying to strangle the life out of Vai’len, tanking the ever-weaker slashes from Sokratx and Xor. In a flash, the leonin charged down the Shrike’s Quartermaster and grappled with him - not with his body, but with the Staff of Power in his grasp. Instantly, the lich dropped Vai’len, who nimbly flipped away far enough to crash onto the far side of a table, gasping for breath around the vestiges of the lich’s magical paralysis. Sokratx tried to push the advantage as Sworen pulled the magical staff across the bulk of Bago’s chest, putting a knee in the lich’s ‘back’ for extra leverage. Run. Was all he said to the others, and all he had to say. Xor saw the staff splintering, swelling with glowing magic threatening to burst, and ran to the same cover Vai’len had chosen. Sokratx followed suit, flipping the table onto its side with a powerful kick and bracing himself against it. Veljen was suddenly back to normal speed, ripping one last spell from out of Bago’s mouth before finding his own shelter. “HOW ABOUT THAT PHYLACTERY, BAGO?” The Leonin Wrenjer growled in his deep baritone. “THE MOST SECURE PLACE THE SHRIKE HAS? I BET IT’S IN HERE SOMEWHERE.” Snap. “I BET IT ALL.”

HOPEWATCH

Now... In the days after the Battles of Hopewatch and New Hsira, information the Wrenjers previously withheld from the populace of Gylidd at large begins to trickle in through news reports, town and village elders, word of mouth, and other sources. The Shrike of Hsira - a nightmare haunting the shores of Gylidd for millenia - was uprooted from their latest attempt to form a new village on the eastern side of the island, driven back into the sea by the efforts of Kobeck Huaru and the Spears of the Wrenjers. But it didn’t come without cost. Just under half of the nearly two thousand strong force of Wrenjers watching over eastern Gylidd were slain by the lich’s dire counterattack. Their bodies were transported to Asheido, cremated, sent to their families, or taken care of in other ways that best followed their wishes, and a ring of ten foot tall ceremonial stones were equally spaced and erected around the grand tower of Hopewatch, in the Northern Brumewood. Each stone has the name of a different warrior written in the languages they best spoke in life, standing vigilant for all time. Known as the Hopewatch Memorial, these sacred stones represent all eight hundred and thirty two Wrenjers, Gylidder Guard, and others who died that day, a number that included the former Commander of the Wrenjers of Eastern Gylidd, Arddan Goswren, as well as his Chime brothers Idasica Jor and Xaljun Wilver. The dedication of this memorial came during the funeral ceremony for the fallen, which served also as a rededication of those who lived to follow in their footsteps… “I, Sworen Zapalo, pledge to urge boldness and guide others away from selfish glory; applaud strength and discourage thoughtlessness; inspire courage and eschew naivete; stir swiftness but leave witlessness behind. I pledge to honor and explore the natural world; encourage the minimal impact of civilization; defend the lives of both the wild and the cities from my enemies and my allies; educate others of the balance of nature; and in all things to oppose Vrokíva without giving offense nor seeking revenge.” Sworen’s words echoed out throughout the clearing surrounding the grand tower of Hopewatch, followed swiftly by another voice - gruff, and practiced. “Kneel, Wrenjer.” Kobeck Huaru, First Spear and leader of the Wrenjers of Gylidd, shouted loud enough to be heard by all in attendance, amplified by magic from the Wrenjer Crowns standing surreptitiously at his side, who also boldly signed into the air for those who had no ability to hear his words. The leonin paladin took a knee. “For your distinction and valor, for your thoughtful adherence to our nine principles, and your inspirational example, I recognize the depth of your spirit and name you Noble, Wrenjer. And in light of the same virtues, and as penance for your success where your brethren have fallen, I name you Commander of the Chimes of Eastern Gylidd. Arise, Noble Wrenjer. Arise and take your place, Commander Sworen Zapalo.” Sworen bowed his head, speaking before rising to his feet. “I accept this penance, and will see it through until I have served it fully. Thank you, First Spear.” Kobeck affixed the golden Wrenglyph - symbol of the Wrenjers of Gylidd - to the sash at Sworen’s breast, and clasped his hand with warmth and strength. …as well as an opportunity for those who had seen enough, and wished to lend their aid. Several people who were there to witness the fortitude and honor of the Wrenjers were so moved that they too took the Nine Promises, kneeling side by side before the First Spear at the heart of the memorial… “Repeat after me.” Kobeck began, looking down upon them to judge their resolve while speaking in stanzas to clearly hear their return call. “I do swear this oath - with my feet firmly planted on Myzelis’ earth and her air in my lungs. I will be bold, but not selfish. I will be strong, but not thoughtless. I will be courageous, but not unwise. I will be swift, but not witless. I will explore the natural world. I will minimize the impact of civilization. I will defend the lives of the wild, and of the cities. I will educate others about the balance of nature. And I will in all things, oppose Vrokíva, without giving offense, nor seeking revenge. On this day I pledge my life to the balance, from now until my return to the cycle at the heart of all things.” As they echoed his voice, he waited for their voices to clear the air before speaking again. “Arise, Initiates. Accept the Wrenglyph, and bear it as proudly upon your breast as you bear your service upon your soul.” These new Wrenjers were mostly fresh recruits, and it would be a long time before their training bore fruit. But for some, Kobeck knew they were warriors of mettle, and it would not be long before their initiation would pass and they would soar through the ranks as befit their abilities. But first, they would have to prove they not only had the strength to defend the balance, but the wisdom to understand the path of the Wrenjer. While this went on, one of the Armies of the Gylidder Guard - the Gweid y Biddengolan (Gylidder for “Blood of the Army of Light”) - were dispatched to take over the defense of Castle Brumewood from the weary Wrenjers and reinforce the new expanse of Gylidder territory into the domain Vrokíva had held for nearly thirty thousand years. More than this, its General Xideus Afbor - a earth and giant-blooded sorcerer descended from the Biddengolan - transplanted all but the most critical Wrenjer Chimes from the Castle, sending the rest out to the edges of the Brume once more. The new Commander, Sworen Zapalo, accepted the order to vacate after making sure those charged with investigating the Dungeon of Graves would retain at least part of the castle for their purposes. After this, Commander Sworen renamed his personal coterie from the Brumewood Chime to the Hopewatch Chime, and marched into the wilderness to establish a more forward position against Vrokíva. With the confidence of the Gylidder Guard in play, the people of Gylidd suddenly began to carefully expand east. They traveled in waves guided by expert naturalists trained by the Wild Synga, making sure their new plans for settlements did not interfere with the careful balance of nature and civilization. Cinnaen Ferry - the first and east-most of these settlements, would soon explode in size and importance. But there would still be much work to do before these settlements could fully expand to the eastern sea… and the Wrenjers would still have a very important part to play.

AFTERMATH

In the wake of these events…

INDIVIDUALS

Wrenjer First Spear Kobeck Huaru, Son of Delsagha, has survived.
Ready Wrenjer Captain Sworen Zapalo of the Xhogumal has survived.
Deputy Wrenjer Xor Minori of Odun has survived.
Deputy Wrenjer Vai'len'thala Miltrawn of Hyalma has survived.
Deputy Wrenjer Sokratxodamira of Orlewynd has survived.
Deputy Wrenjer Veljenseram syl Sira of Zhen Ishraihadasha has survived.
Red Greatwyrm Athalgaethir, the Flame of Revival, has survived.
Gwneyd, Pack Leader of the Wolves of the Northern Brumewood, has survived.
Gylidder Guard General Xideus Afbor of Dantawyr is instated as commander of the garrison at Castle Brumewood. Their battalion, the Gweid y Biddengolan, is made of direct descendants of the Biddengolan.

Ready Wrenjer Commander Arddan Goswren of Zhen Israihadasha is deceased.
~~Ready Wrenjer Captain Sworen Zapalo of the Xhogumal is missing, presumed deceased.~~
Ready Wrenjer Idasica Jor of Hangorfeydd is deceased.
Ready Wrenjer Xaljun Wilver of Fain Wood is deceased.
The Shrike of Hsira is missing, presumed alive and dangerous.
Quartermaster Bago Jadde is destroyed, presumed permanently.
Conneghal Shrikehand is destroyed, presumed permanently.
Galron Shrikehand is destroyed, presumed permanently.
First Thrall Sen Inako is deceased.

FORCES

The Shrike of Hsira’s Army at Hopewatch is destroyed.
The Shrike of Hsira’s Army at New Hsira is destroyed.
The Wrenjers of Eastern Gylidd lost half their numbers.
The Gylidder Guard of Gylidd remains strong.
The Gylidder Curio remains strong.

LOCATIONS

Castle Brumewood has been attacked, its southeastern tower’s top level destroyed. The rest of the castle is in good condition.
Hopewatch is in good condition.
New Hsira has been mostly destroyed.
Cinnaen Ferry is in good condition.

Banishment of the Shrike of Hsira

LEGENDS AND LORE

THE DUNGEON OF GRAVES

HOPEWATCH

CASTLE BRUMEWOOD

NEW HSIRA

THE CHAMBER OF BINDING

HOPEWATCH

NEW HSIRA

THE CHAMBER OF BINDING

HOPEWATCH

AFTERMATH

INDIVIDUALS

FORCES

LOCATIONS

Find your way!

Resources

WHO WE ARE

LEGAL

Get the news

Our Shop

Development

EVENTS

REACHING OUT

A BIG THANK YOU