The Tales of Arlis Wolfstar
Posted: Mon Jul 16, 2012 9:14 pm
I thought I would post this story thread because of the length of some of my LCC backstories. I will post links to my images but will not post the images directly in this thread as they will most likely be posted already in the Castle MOCs forum. If I have erred then a mod can move or modify this post however he/she sees fit.
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Written for GC2/Part One
"Seeking the Sword of Karlamac"
Arlis Wolfstar trudged through the swamp, boots squelching in and out of the choking mud, praying to whichever gods would listen to him to dry up the sopping misery that sucked at his boots with every step. There seemed scant chance of that happening. He was sore, bruised from head to toe from his previous headlong trip into Blackhand Bay. He had been double-crossed by the members of the Wild Claw Clan of the Wolfpack and he had leapt into the bay as a last resort, escaping certain death. After washing ashore from his dive into the bitter sea, he limped his way to the Summit Inn where the Wolfpack was thankfully not waiting to finish what they started, probably thinking him dead. He ended up parting with the invasion plans he had went to such pains to procure for much less than pleased him.
But Arlis sensed sunny days ahead.
The King of Roawia sought a sword – one with supposed supernatural powers – and was offering a veritable king’s ransom for it. “Given to the king by the gods themselves!” some declared. Arlis chuckled at the thought, even as he plucked a blood-sucking leech from his forearm.
If all the old codger seeks is a rusty blade, I can surely deliver, the smuggler thought as he continued his trek. Naturally, the mechanisms of avarice were already at work in his mind. He figured that if he could locate this dusty length of steel then he could pocket the reward and use it as a bargaining chip to gain a full pardon for his past indiscretions. Of course he did not pretend he could give up the adventure and danger his particular trade entailed, but he was not opposed to living in the lap of luxury for a few years in Loreos.
Finally, after a week of unbridled wretchedness, his eyes fell upon a sight that lifted his spirits. Jutting out of the swamp like a series of grey broken teeth stood what was left of Fort Quagmire, a bastion of times long forgotten and forever lost to the swamps. He never thought he’d be so relieved to see the ruins of an ancient fortification where gods-know-what lurked. Arlis had it on good authority (or as good an authority as one could expect out of a drunk mercenary in Dingewood) that the ruins were home to a trio of fell wizards. He had heard as much before. Three powerful, all-knowing wizards, masters of the dark arts, playing house in the swamp. He did not see the appeal personally. He wasn’t sure why they were there, but if these wizards were as powerful, ancient, and all-knowing as the rumors claimed then they would surely know the location of this sword. Now came the matter of kindly asking for said location.
Suddenly an orcish host appeared around him, seemingly from nowhere.
“Lovely weather out here,” he chirped as a red orc approached him from the front. He seemed to be the leader of this merry, snarling group.
“The Masters are interested in your presence here,” it hissed. The orcs quickly seized him and hauled him inside the fort. As they dragged him through the ruins, he breathed a sigh of relief. At least he was no longer having to slog through that forsaken swamp. The orcs dumped him unceremoniously in a room to the rear of the old fort. Time had reduced the stone floor to rubble. Shattered red tiles stuck up through the broken flags like a quills on a porcupine. However, the tiled walkway extending through the middle of the room was intact. At the end of walkway stood a dais where a trio of men sat upon thrones, two of black and one of red. Fallen arches rose from the rubble behind the wizards, looking like stone fingers reaching up to clutch at nothing. Arlis swallowed hard as he took in the sight of the ruins and those ominous men who lived in the middle of such a place. The smuggler figured he had little choice but to approach them.
Image 1
“Why have you entered our domain?” the middle one demanded. He was an orc of considerable age, perhaps centuries. He was seated higher than the other two men.
“I have come in search of a sword – the lost sword of King Karlamac,” Arlis said with as much confidence as he could muster. Standing before the trio proved far more intimidating than he ever imagined.
“Karlamac and his mythical sword,” the one on the left said harshly. He barked contemptuous laughter. “Even a blessed blade is worthless in the hands of an imbecile.”
“Still sore at Karlamac for crushing your army, Volken?” the one on the right retorted.
The breath caught in Arlis’s chest. Just how old are they? he wondered silently.
“Silence,” the orc commanded. “Karlamac's bones have long turned to dust so we will spare him no thoughts.” He gave a pointed look at the one called Volken. He turned his attention back to Arlis, though the smuggler did not wish it. “Why do you seek to wield the blade of Karlamac?”
“I don’t wish to wield it,” Arlis answered frankly. “I only wish to profit from it.”
The wizard on the right howled with laughter. “I like him,” he said, wiping a tear away. “I say we tell him where the sword is.”
“Silence, Rook.” The orc looked down from his throne, his thick black beard obscuring the lower half of his face. After a time he said, “I am inclined to agree with you though, Rook, if for nothing more than entertainment. I do not think that this mortal could ever hope to best the Guardian.”
“The who?” Arlis said, not bothering with the pretense of courage.
“A relic of the past old Duke Wirklich Nervig dug up to protect the sword,” Volken said with a predatory grin. “He went to great lengths to keep the sword forever hidden away.”
“However, nothing is hidden from us,” Rook added.
Image 2
“The sword awaits you on the mountain west of Fangwood Monastery. It lies at the peak of one of the lesser mountains in the range, reached by a forgotten path leading to its precipice. The sword will be waiting, as will the Guardian. It will be greatly entertaining for us whether you obtain the sword or perish.”
“So…are you all coming with me?” the smuggler asked.
“We have ways of watching from afar,” Rook said, steepling his fingers.
“Kneel before us and we will use our magic to transport you to the mountain,” the orc said, rising from his throne of blood.
Beats walking through the swamp again. Arlis knelt upon the tiles as instructed. The other two wizards rose and they began chanting together. A blue light surrounded the smuggler, increasing in intensity until it was near blinding. Suddenly he was weightless, hurtling through the blue light. His head spun unpleasantly and his stomach roiled. He tried screaming, but he could not hear anything. Then there was darkness. He blinked, blinked again, and then looked around. He lay on a broken stone path. He rose unsteadily to his feet and wobbled over to the edge of the path. He could see what was left of Fangwood Monastery and the swamps stretching out before him. The wizards had succeeded in teleporting him to the mountain.
“What have I gotten myself into?” he asked aloud as he began his lone walk to the top where he would find the sword…and the Guardian. He suddenly stopped and looked around as if searching for somebody.
He could have sworn he had heard Rook laughing.
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Written for GC2/Part One
"Seeking the Sword of Karlamac"
Arlis Wolfstar trudged through the swamp, boots squelching in and out of the choking mud, praying to whichever gods would listen to him to dry up the sopping misery that sucked at his boots with every step. There seemed scant chance of that happening. He was sore, bruised from head to toe from his previous headlong trip into Blackhand Bay. He had been double-crossed by the members of the Wild Claw Clan of the Wolfpack and he had leapt into the bay as a last resort, escaping certain death. After washing ashore from his dive into the bitter sea, he limped his way to the Summit Inn where the Wolfpack was thankfully not waiting to finish what they started, probably thinking him dead. He ended up parting with the invasion plans he had went to such pains to procure for much less than pleased him.
But Arlis sensed sunny days ahead.
The King of Roawia sought a sword – one with supposed supernatural powers – and was offering a veritable king’s ransom for it. “Given to the king by the gods themselves!” some declared. Arlis chuckled at the thought, even as he plucked a blood-sucking leech from his forearm.
If all the old codger seeks is a rusty blade, I can surely deliver, the smuggler thought as he continued his trek. Naturally, the mechanisms of avarice were already at work in his mind. He figured that if he could locate this dusty length of steel then he could pocket the reward and use it as a bargaining chip to gain a full pardon for his past indiscretions. Of course he did not pretend he could give up the adventure and danger his particular trade entailed, but he was not opposed to living in the lap of luxury for a few years in Loreos.
Finally, after a week of unbridled wretchedness, his eyes fell upon a sight that lifted his spirits. Jutting out of the swamp like a series of grey broken teeth stood what was left of Fort Quagmire, a bastion of times long forgotten and forever lost to the swamps. He never thought he’d be so relieved to see the ruins of an ancient fortification where gods-know-what lurked. Arlis had it on good authority (or as good an authority as one could expect out of a drunk mercenary in Dingewood) that the ruins were home to a trio of fell wizards. He had heard as much before. Three powerful, all-knowing wizards, masters of the dark arts, playing house in the swamp. He did not see the appeal personally. He wasn’t sure why they were there, but if these wizards were as powerful, ancient, and all-knowing as the rumors claimed then they would surely know the location of this sword. Now came the matter of kindly asking for said location.
Suddenly an orcish host appeared around him, seemingly from nowhere.
“Lovely weather out here,” he chirped as a red orc approached him from the front. He seemed to be the leader of this merry, snarling group.
“The Masters are interested in your presence here,” it hissed. The orcs quickly seized him and hauled him inside the fort. As they dragged him through the ruins, he breathed a sigh of relief. At least he was no longer having to slog through that forsaken swamp. The orcs dumped him unceremoniously in a room to the rear of the old fort. Time had reduced the stone floor to rubble. Shattered red tiles stuck up through the broken flags like a quills on a porcupine. However, the tiled walkway extending through the middle of the room was intact. At the end of walkway stood a dais where a trio of men sat upon thrones, two of black and one of red. Fallen arches rose from the rubble behind the wizards, looking like stone fingers reaching up to clutch at nothing. Arlis swallowed hard as he took in the sight of the ruins and those ominous men who lived in the middle of such a place. The smuggler figured he had little choice but to approach them.
Image 1
“Why have you entered our domain?” the middle one demanded. He was an orc of considerable age, perhaps centuries. He was seated higher than the other two men.
“I have come in search of a sword – the lost sword of King Karlamac,” Arlis said with as much confidence as he could muster. Standing before the trio proved far more intimidating than he ever imagined.
“Karlamac and his mythical sword,” the one on the left said harshly. He barked contemptuous laughter. “Even a blessed blade is worthless in the hands of an imbecile.”
“Still sore at Karlamac for crushing your army, Volken?” the one on the right retorted.
The breath caught in Arlis’s chest. Just how old are they? he wondered silently.
“Silence,” the orc commanded. “Karlamac's bones have long turned to dust so we will spare him no thoughts.” He gave a pointed look at the one called Volken. He turned his attention back to Arlis, though the smuggler did not wish it. “Why do you seek to wield the blade of Karlamac?”
“I don’t wish to wield it,” Arlis answered frankly. “I only wish to profit from it.”
The wizard on the right howled with laughter. “I like him,” he said, wiping a tear away. “I say we tell him where the sword is.”
“Silence, Rook.” The orc looked down from his throne, his thick black beard obscuring the lower half of his face. After a time he said, “I am inclined to agree with you though, Rook, if for nothing more than entertainment. I do not think that this mortal could ever hope to best the Guardian.”
“The who?” Arlis said, not bothering with the pretense of courage.
“A relic of the past old Duke Wirklich Nervig dug up to protect the sword,” Volken said with a predatory grin. “He went to great lengths to keep the sword forever hidden away.”
“However, nothing is hidden from us,” Rook added.
Image 2
“The sword awaits you on the mountain west of Fangwood Monastery. It lies at the peak of one of the lesser mountains in the range, reached by a forgotten path leading to its precipice. The sword will be waiting, as will the Guardian. It will be greatly entertaining for us whether you obtain the sword or perish.”
“So…are you all coming with me?” the smuggler asked.
“We have ways of watching from afar,” Rook said, steepling his fingers.
“Kneel before us and we will use our magic to transport you to the mountain,” the orc said, rising from his throne of blood.
Beats walking through the swamp again. Arlis knelt upon the tiles as instructed. The other two wizards rose and they began chanting together. A blue light surrounded the smuggler, increasing in intensity until it was near blinding. Suddenly he was weightless, hurtling through the blue light. His head spun unpleasantly and his stomach roiled. He tried screaming, but he could not hear anything. Then there was darkness. He blinked, blinked again, and then looked around. He lay on a broken stone path. He rose unsteadily to his feet and wobbled over to the edge of the path. He could see what was left of Fangwood Monastery and the swamps stretching out before him. The wizards had succeeded in teleporting him to the mountain.
“What have I gotten myself into?” he asked aloud as he began his lone walk to the top where he would find the sword…and the Guardian. He suddenly stopped and looked around as if searching for somebody.
He could have sworn he had heard Rook laughing.