Diremerc's Ironfang Invasion campaing (Inactive)

Game Master DireMerc

The battle was raging all around him. Their position had been over run. Men he had known an fought with for years were dying around him. Zelik was supposed to keep them alive. It was his job to protect them, but he had failed. The orcs had overrun their position, but that wasn’t it. Zelik could handle some orcs, Zelik could handle an army of orcs, but this was different someone was commanding them, someone powerful. He was almost out of spells. Zzzwooosh a burst of magic missiles sprang from his hands as a group of orcs crashed through the gate his missiles exploded on some sort of barrier protecting the attackers. He was done, this was it the orcs were rushing him and all he could do was stand there. He closed his eyes and waited for death. He heard screams all around him and all he could smell was death and smoke.
With a thump he was on the ground. Every muscle ached, and he heard nothing but a piercing screech in his head. He could no longer smell the burning and as the ringing in his skull began to subside he slowly opened his eyes. It was so bright, but he began to see blurry green in front of his eyes. ”is this Heaven. It can’t be hell,” he thought to himself, ”at least I’ve got that going for me.” the green blurs began to define themselves and they took the form of grass. He was laying on the ground. ”So heaven has grass” he mused as he rolled over on his back and peered upwards. He was under a large spruce tree and it was a clear day. He sat up and he could make out the sound of birds tweeting. He ached, but it wasn’t as bad as it hand been moments ago. He remembered Jeremy, his rabbit familiar being snatched into death by an arrow and wondered if he would be here too ”Jeremy!” he called out in a raspy voice ”Jerrremmy!” he called again, but couldn’t sense him anywhere. ”Perhaps familiars have there own heaven.”
Zelik began to walk and mused to himself about how similar this place was to Galorion. In fact this place was almost exactly like Galorian, and he had known powerful clerics who could supposedly commune with their deities and it always sounded like Heaven was some magical place, and where are all the angels? Just then his stomach growled and for some reason that was the trigger, he knew he was not dead. How could he be hungry if he was dead? But if he wasn’t dead, what had happened. He began to piece it together. ”I was fighting orcs, they were about to kill me, but they hadn’t? No, they hadn’t. I had what? Teleported? I’ve teleported pleanty of times before, but I was out of spells, and I’ve never teleported by accident before. And I was in the frozen wastes of_____. This can not to be ______. That Kind of teleportation is impossible, isn’t it.
He wandered for days in his tattered leather battle robes His spell book was gone, Jeremy was nowhere to be found and, while he had spent many days and nights in the wilderness with his unit, he was never the one who needed to actually find food, or shelter. That was usually Beltins job. Poor Belton, Zelik had shielded him before the battle, but he was the first to fall, ran through by a javelin that should never have reached him. Zelik was struck with a pang of sadness and regret. But continued on. As he jornied through the unfamilier wilderness he remembered his fallen comrades Zorik, a half-orc who signed up for the army around the same time as Zorik. They were vastly different people, Zorik being a brute of a man and Zelik, slight of build, but had bonded over how similar their names had been. Comander Pips, a halfling with an unnaturally bad attitude had taken to referring to them as Z. Anywhere Zelik was Zorik was never far behind, or rather never far ahead. He had become sort of a body guard to Zelik. Both of them were gone too, Comander Pips had taken the front liners to the outer gate to meet the orcs and their position had been over run in the second wave of the battle. There had been others in the group, Jenwin the elf, and Covey, and Dall. All of them dead.
On the third day, when all he had eaten was berries he some rustling in the bushes. [i] Could in be a bear, a panther, goblins, or something worse?” Zeliks mind had ever jumped the worst case scenario, and being alone in the woods was not helping. Then out loped a goat
A week passed and Zelik was getting good at finding berry patches. On the third day he had eaten some dark red berries that he had thought would be delicious, and they had. At least until he vomited them up and spent the next few hours writhing on the ground. He avoided those bushes from then on and made a mental note of what they looked like. On the 7th night he attempted to summon Jeremy. He didn’t have the usual candles that he needed, and he had never tried to do it without his spell book, but it was worth a shot. He set up camp and began the ritual. When it concluded he looked around, but nothing seemed to have happened.
He awoke in the middle of the night with a start, ”Gahhhh! Get it off, get it off,” he screamed. Something was on his face. He drew back his hand and slapped, but only connected with his own nose. Then he felt it, that familiar bond. ”Jeremy” he called out tentatively. Nothing… then it came again, but this time it the feeling felt like a name and he called out the name that he had felt ”Lola?” he heard a fluttering of wings and he was smacked in the face again, but this time he knew what it was. His familiar was back. It wasn’t until the morning that he found out that the creature who called herself Lola was a small Luna moth. He felt reinvigorated knowing that he was no longer alone.
Lola and Zelik continued to travel for two and a half more weeks, but they were easier. Lola seemed to understand the wilderness better than him and it seemed easier to find food and shelter. It had been almost a full month since the battle when he came across a road, and within hours he arrived at town. Well it wasn’t much of a town, more of a grouping of hovels, but that was almost 40 years ago.
In the years since the town had grown. It’s no metropolis, but Phaendar grew and Zelik was able to carve out a living selling baubles and magical trinkets. He began to rebuild his spellbook, but something had been lost when he was teleported to the other side of the world and he forgot much of the Arcane knowledge that he had once had. And that was just fine for Zelik for he had no desire to see battle again. Due to its’ location on the Marideth River Phaendar was the ideal for trade. As it grew Phaendar began holding an annual trade festival, where folks from all over would come to sell their wares. Zelik, like all the other residents of Phaendar, loved the festival and looked forward to it every year. Zelik would sell scrolls, herbs, and other magical and non-magical trinkets. He would put on displays of magical prowess and the crowds would clap and cheer. Zelik grew old with the town and began to forget the days when he fought in the frozen lands where he had lost so many friends.
[bigger]Crash, boom[/b] The sound of the roof of the Crables house crashing in next door snapps Zelik out of his day dream. The town is under attack. There have been small raids in the 40 odd years he has lived here, but nothing like this. Zelik peers out his window and sees a hobgoblin carrying a woman over his shoulder. “I don’t recognize her, must be the wife of some trader,” he thinks as he runs to his back bedroom to grab up his pack, the same pack he carried years ago. The straps have been replaced multiple times, and its more patches that original cloth, but there is still enough of the pale canvas to call it a Kalsgardian soldiers pack. He quickly stuffs some gear in the back and grabs the crossbow leaning next to his nightstand. ”Haven’t had much use of this,” he says out loud and grabs a quiver of what is most likely rusty bolts. ”Lola, have you seen my spell book,” The moth flutters in looking the same as she had the day he summoned her. As he passed the mirror he glanced at himself. “When did I get so old?” he wonders as he looks over the grey, almost white hair, and wrinkles that cover his face. As he grabs his walking stick he becomes acutely aware of his aging joints and wonders if this is the battle that will finally reunite him with all of his fallen comrades. ”Luna, it looks like we must go out the back,” [b] he calls as he sees a group of invaders running down the street.
[b]”I never wanted this,” he whispers as he uses his staff to nudge open the back door.

Filon hails from a tribe of displaced Elven refugees that had been slowly making their way South, fleeing the horrors of the Worldwound. Their trek had been perilous and few except a sister (a Ranger who lives in Tamran) are still alive. Demons to start with, and then eventually Orcs and then Blighted Fey have all caused Filon's people great distress. Unfortunately, their northern approach had left them decimated and constantly scavenging for resources.

Eventually Filon, his parents, a sister, and a few other siblings made it into the Fangwood and settled deep into it, making due for several years. Most of his tribe were practitioners of the Green Faith (Filon being no exception), part of the reason for their desire, and willingness to harrow such a dangerous adventure (though the Worldwound certainly was a good motivation too). So living in such a remote location where they could properly respect nature was ideal for them.

It was during this time that Filon learned the art of Alchemy from old manuscripts and Elders in order to better contribute to the survival of his tribe. Filon, in particular, took care to infuse his alchemical teachings with the naturalist philosophies of the Green Faith. He aims to preserve and honor the many wonders of the natural world. To preserve it.

For many years his tribe lived in relative peace, their encampment was well protected and hidden, they were far enough south as to avoid the vast majority of Orc's and had seen no sign of a known Green Dragon that they had heard tale of while passing through Lastwall (some of the tribe stopped they, either not wishing to travel the dangers of the Northern Fangwood or hearing their pleas for fortifying their numbers to stand guard). But, after a few decades living in remote isolation, a number of Blighted Fey started causing his tribe problems. These small skirmishes eventually grew more numerous as the blight spread and eventually the Darkblight spread and the corruption destroyed most of their tribe.

Filon and his sister are the only known survivors (from their perspective), though Filon nearly died from an otherworldy fungal disease. They fled further South, his sister joining up with smaller communities along the way.

Filon himself has survived practicing his alchemical skills as a trader for smaller communities, moving about from place to place within Nirmathas and surveying nature, trying to serve the Green Faith in motion. While his sister has served a town healer and acolyte for the Green Faith for Tamlan.

Appearance:
Elven typical look. He wears a travelers outfit, fit for any sort of conditions with greens and browns that are specially tailored to the Fangwoods.

A nasty scar marks his left arm from the Blightburn. It encompasses the entirety of the arm, and has only been further injured from his alchemical "oopsies". He has several burns and his clothing is often burned as well from alchemical testing and experimentation.

Personality:
Filon is laid back and enjoys a good chat, though he is naturally quiet. His tribe would practice not speaking for long hours most days in order to better facilitate deep meditation in their reverence. He, over the past few years, has become better acquainted with interacting with others. He is most open with his sister, the two enjoy a friendly rivalry in terms of their naturalistic skills.

Filon does not like fighting, as it brings memories back of the loss to his family and tribe. Thus he has avoided joining most organizations that are more martially minded. That being said, he practices with his ancestral arms (bow in particular) most days, as weapon proficiency is needed for survival. Deep within Filon is the call to stand up and fight when needed.

He is a devout worshiper of the Green Faith, but he is also a dedicated Alchemist. His interest in Alchemy was a naturally occurring event that happened to coincide and work off of his faith.

Betto Calvus liked drinking and liked fighting. He regularly got into bare-knuckle brawls in every inn and tavern within staggering distance of Phaendar. He was a second son, and would inherit a small portion of the family land a few miles outside of town, but at the rate he was going he would be dead in a bar fight before long.

Then he met Pollia. They got on fantastically. She knew his reputation, but found a good man lurking behind a mouthy drunkard. And she offered him a straightforward choice: clean up his act or find someone else.

They were married within a year. Four children followed over the next few years.

Betto received his share of the family land, and worked hard to make a success with it. He currently stands an imposing figure of 32, 6' 1 tall", heavily muscled and tanned from years of outdoor labour. Scars remain on his face and chest from his violent youth, and the odd spot of trouble he's had to handle over the last few years reminds people that he still has hard knuckles. The worst was an assault by a group of Ironfang Legion on neighbouring farms, which he helped drive back with his bare hands. But overall, he lives peacefully.

Life is good for Betto Calvus.