Post by Yendis on Mar 2, 2022 20:58:22 GMT -5
Miles north of Silverymoon, if you ever find yourself wandering through the woods, you may happen upon a large clearing in the forest. While the forest and clearing seem quite normal and peaceful, the sight that will be before you is somewhat odd. In this out of the way clearing in the middle of nowhere you will find the Keep of the Just, a walled, stone keep belonging to the Holy Order of the Just.
The Order was founded many years ago by a mighty paladin and champion of Tyr, who was called Lord Knight Silversword. Dedicated to all that is good and just, the Order welcomed those from many faiths, though they held those of the Triad in the highest of reverence. By 1360 the Order was fairly well established, with numerous paladins and other adventuring sorts holding membership and battling all manner of fell beings across the North. An oft overlooked part of the Order was what they called the Blades, men at arms hired from the local communities to serve as guards and common soldiers for the Order. The leader of these soldiers, titled the Blade Captain, was a close friend of the Lord Knight who had shed blood on many a battlefield in the service of his liege. His wife served the Lord Knight as well, as a leader among the clerics of the Order. It was in this place of order and goodness that our tale begins, on a most evil of nights in 1360 DR, the Year of the Turret.
“Dark days m’lord,” the Blade Captain said to his Lord as he looked out across the forest from the highest battlements of the keep. Smoke could be seen all around, the fires of the fell forces moving on the fortress.
The Lord Knight nodded grimly and spoke,”Worry not old friend, between the Blades, the Knights, and the Gods, we have nothing to fear.”
The Captain, a pious man himself, nodded and looked down to the walls surrounding the keep, where a multitude of folk worked to prepare for the battle that was sure to come that very night. Among them waddled a woman, large with child, but still wearing chain mail and carrying a mace. He smiled to himself, thinking of the child, his child, that was soon to come, and proud of his wife for demanding she do her duty no matter her state.
A scant few hours later, just as darkness fell, a storm rolled in. Blotting out the moon and stars, rain pelted the fortress and those on guard, who peered out into the darkness in vain seeking the enemy.
Like the Nine Hells themselves had been enraged did the fell forces come, breaking into the clearing through the surrounding trees. Rarely had such an evil force been seen girded for battle as it stood before the walls of the Just. Composed primarily of all manner of evil humanoids, from orcs to bugbears to hobgoblins, the force showed remarkable discipline for such normally chaotic creatures. The reason for this became rapidly apparent to the defenders, as abishai were seen filtering among the hordes or creatures. Other devils, various baatezu, could be seen at the rear of the formations, pushing the lesser orcs and such along.
Standing atop the gatehouse on the walls of the fortress the Lord Knight drew his sword, blazing with holy light, and cried out “For the Triad! For the Marches! For the Good of all Goodly Folk!”
At this cry a hail of arrows lept from the walls and the battle was joined in earnest. Many tales of heroism, bravery, sadness, tragedy, and loss were made that day. Of our concern is but one of many such tales. A section of the wall that was under a horrendous attack by a band of barbazu, the shock troops of the Nine Hells, is the focal point of this tale. There stood the Blade Captain's wife, Janette, calling out encouragement to the men and women fighting for their lives all around her and lending the powers of her god, Torm, to those spending their lifeblood on their duty. As a young squire fell beneath the glaive of a bearded devil she raced forward and smote the foul beast upon its head, destroying it. Kneeling in the rain, there on the walls, she called out prayers of healing for the young man in her lap. A sudden shout caught her attention, and she looked farther down the wall to see her husband and the Lord Knight running towards her with all speed. Concerned, she looked around for the threat. As she turned to look back at them she caught a hint of movement in the sky overhead. Struggling to her feet she raised her mace, but it seemed a poor defense against the foul pit fiend that landed on the wall just in front of her. She managed to block the first strike from the goad the beast was armed with, but rare is the mortal that can stand hand to hand for long against the 12 foot tall embodiment of evil that is a pit fiend. So it was that Janette died, a prayer to Torm on her lips and her only fear being for her unborn child.
Her body had scarcely settled on the battlements when the pair of running men reached her and joined into battle with the great beast. “Good then,” the fiend taunted, “I would hate to only have women to slaughter!”
Mad with grief and already sorely wounded from the long nights battle, the Blade Captain leapt at the fiend fully expecting to die, and so he did. With a final prayer to Tyr on his lips that he be judged worthy to see his wife again in the House of the Triad he was struck down by the giant fiend, falling dead beside his beloved wife.
Sadly, had he been but a handful of steps later he would likely still be alive today, for the Lord Knight was a favored paladin and champion of Tyr, and no common soldier. He swiftly set the pit fiend back to the pits of hell with sure strikes of his holy blade. As the fiends corporeal form melted away into nothingness, sadness overtook the Lord Knight as he looked upon the slain around him. The battle was won, that was clear, but oh gods the cost. He knelt and placed a hand on the chest of his dead Captain, “Rest easy my friend, you have long earned it.”
He moved to stand when he noticed a small movement come from the dead Captains wife. Eyes widening, he screamed for a cleric. There, among the bodies of the dead, in the rain and blood of that horrid night, a small miracle occurred. The summoned priest was able to remove the still living babe from his dead mother. The priest swaddled the child in his mothers bloody tabard and offered him to the Lord Knight, who was standing over them. The Lord, looking much older than his years would suggest he should, took the child and held him with tenderness no one would think existed in such a man. “Through valor were you born little one, so shall I name you.”
The years were mostly pleasant for young Emorikal Valorborn, growing up among the folk of the Order in the Keep of the Just. He received an education worthy of a noble child, and was trained in warfare from the time he could walk. He spent his years as a youth serving as a page and squire for the Order, then his teenage years as an apprentice Blade. As a young apprentice, he traveled the Silver Marches extensively, escorting messages and such for the Order. He saw his first real battle before he reached his 15th winter, fighting goblins on the road to Rivermoot. As his 20th year swiftly approached, he was called before the Lord Knight, who wanted to know his plans for his future. Would he stay and serve the Order as his parents had? Surely he would become the Captain of the Blades like his father before him if he chose that path. Would he seek admittance as a Knight of the Order? Taking an oath to serve faith and lord for the good of all.
None of these questions did Emorikal answer, instead asking one of his own. “Lord, might I be so bold as to ask, what did you do when you were my age?”
Smiling, the Lord Knight leaned back in his chair, “Lad, when I was your age I entered the service of the Crown, in far off Cormyr, the land of my birth. As one of noble blood I had it a bit easier than some, but I served for several years as a Purple Dragon and earned a knighthood of my own, aside from my family name, before taking to the adventuring life.”
With a terse nod Emorikal spoke, “Then with your permission sir, that is what I shall do.”
So it was that next spring that Emorikal set out on the long journey from the Silver Marches to the Forest Kingdom of Cormyr, with dreams in his eyes and hope in his heart. It took a few years, but eventually he made his way there. Coming to the town of Greatgaunt, he nodded to himself and muttered, “Now the journey truly begins.”
The Order was founded many years ago by a mighty paladin and champion of Tyr, who was called Lord Knight Silversword. Dedicated to all that is good and just, the Order welcomed those from many faiths, though they held those of the Triad in the highest of reverence. By 1360 the Order was fairly well established, with numerous paladins and other adventuring sorts holding membership and battling all manner of fell beings across the North. An oft overlooked part of the Order was what they called the Blades, men at arms hired from the local communities to serve as guards and common soldiers for the Order. The leader of these soldiers, titled the Blade Captain, was a close friend of the Lord Knight who had shed blood on many a battlefield in the service of his liege. His wife served the Lord Knight as well, as a leader among the clerics of the Order. It was in this place of order and goodness that our tale begins, on a most evil of nights in 1360 DR, the Year of the Turret.
“Dark days m’lord,” the Blade Captain said to his Lord as he looked out across the forest from the highest battlements of the keep. Smoke could be seen all around, the fires of the fell forces moving on the fortress.
The Lord Knight nodded grimly and spoke,”Worry not old friend, between the Blades, the Knights, and the Gods, we have nothing to fear.”
The Captain, a pious man himself, nodded and looked down to the walls surrounding the keep, where a multitude of folk worked to prepare for the battle that was sure to come that very night. Among them waddled a woman, large with child, but still wearing chain mail and carrying a mace. He smiled to himself, thinking of the child, his child, that was soon to come, and proud of his wife for demanding she do her duty no matter her state.
A scant few hours later, just as darkness fell, a storm rolled in. Blotting out the moon and stars, rain pelted the fortress and those on guard, who peered out into the darkness in vain seeking the enemy.
Like the Nine Hells themselves had been enraged did the fell forces come, breaking into the clearing through the surrounding trees. Rarely had such an evil force been seen girded for battle as it stood before the walls of the Just. Composed primarily of all manner of evil humanoids, from orcs to bugbears to hobgoblins, the force showed remarkable discipline for such normally chaotic creatures. The reason for this became rapidly apparent to the defenders, as abishai were seen filtering among the hordes or creatures. Other devils, various baatezu, could be seen at the rear of the formations, pushing the lesser orcs and such along.
Standing atop the gatehouse on the walls of the fortress the Lord Knight drew his sword, blazing with holy light, and cried out “For the Triad! For the Marches! For the Good of all Goodly Folk!”
At this cry a hail of arrows lept from the walls and the battle was joined in earnest. Many tales of heroism, bravery, sadness, tragedy, and loss were made that day. Of our concern is but one of many such tales. A section of the wall that was under a horrendous attack by a band of barbazu, the shock troops of the Nine Hells, is the focal point of this tale. There stood the Blade Captain's wife, Janette, calling out encouragement to the men and women fighting for their lives all around her and lending the powers of her god, Torm, to those spending their lifeblood on their duty. As a young squire fell beneath the glaive of a bearded devil she raced forward and smote the foul beast upon its head, destroying it. Kneeling in the rain, there on the walls, she called out prayers of healing for the young man in her lap. A sudden shout caught her attention, and she looked farther down the wall to see her husband and the Lord Knight running towards her with all speed. Concerned, she looked around for the threat. As she turned to look back at them she caught a hint of movement in the sky overhead. Struggling to her feet she raised her mace, but it seemed a poor defense against the foul pit fiend that landed on the wall just in front of her. She managed to block the first strike from the goad the beast was armed with, but rare is the mortal that can stand hand to hand for long against the 12 foot tall embodiment of evil that is a pit fiend. So it was that Janette died, a prayer to Torm on her lips and her only fear being for her unborn child.
Her body had scarcely settled on the battlements when the pair of running men reached her and joined into battle with the great beast. “Good then,” the fiend taunted, “I would hate to only have women to slaughter!”
Mad with grief and already sorely wounded from the long nights battle, the Blade Captain leapt at the fiend fully expecting to die, and so he did. With a final prayer to Tyr on his lips that he be judged worthy to see his wife again in the House of the Triad he was struck down by the giant fiend, falling dead beside his beloved wife.
Sadly, had he been but a handful of steps later he would likely still be alive today, for the Lord Knight was a favored paladin and champion of Tyr, and no common soldier. He swiftly set the pit fiend back to the pits of hell with sure strikes of his holy blade. As the fiends corporeal form melted away into nothingness, sadness overtook the Lord Knight as he looked upon the slain around him. The battle was won, that was clear, but oh gods the cost. He knelt and placed a hand on the chest of his dead Captain, “Rest easy my friend, you have long earned it.”
He moved to stand when he noticed a small movement come from the dead Captains wife. Eyes widening, he screamed for a cleric. There, among the bodies of the dead, in the rain and blood of that horrid night, a small miracle occurred. The summoned priest was able to remove the still living babe from his dead mother. The priest swaddled the child in his mothers bloody tabard and offered him to the Lord Knight, who was standing over them. The Lord, looking much older than his years would suggest he should, took the child and held him with tenderness no one would think existed in such a man. “Through valor were you born little one, so shall I name you.”
The years were mostly pleasant for young Emorikal Valorborn, growing up among the folk of the Order in the Keep of the Just. He received an education worthy of a noble child, and was trained in warfare from the time he could walk. He spent his years as a youth serving as a page and squire for the Order, then his teenage years as an apprentice Blade. As a young apprentice, he traveled the Silver Marches extensively, escorting messages and such for the Order. He saw his first real battle before he reached his 15th winter, fighting goblins on the road to Rivermoot. As his 20th year swiftly approached, he was called before the Lord Knight, who wanted to know his plans for his future. Would he stay and serve the Order as his parents had? Surely he would become the Captain of the Blades like his father before him if he chose that path. Would he seek admittance as a Knight of the Order? Taking an oath to serve faith and lord for the good of all.
None of these questions did Emorikal answer, instead asking one of his own. “Lord, might I be so bold as to ask, what did you do when you were my age?”
Smiling, the Lord Knight leaned back in his chair, “Lad, when I was your age I entered the service of the Crown, in far off Cormyr, the land of my birth. As one of noble blood I had it a bit easier than some, but I served for several years as a Purple Dragon and earned a knighthood of my own, aside from my family name, before taking to the adventuring life.”
With a terse nod Emorikal spoke, “Then with your permission sir, that is what I shall do.”
So it was that next spring that Emorikal set out on the long journey from the Silver Marches to the Forest Kingdom of Cormyr, with dreams in his eyes and hope in his heart. It took a few years, but eventually he made his way there. Coming to the town of Greatgaunt, he nodded to himself and muttered, “Now the journey truly begins.”