as told by Gilman the Dog, captain of the aforementioned Starkhaven mercenary company of no repute
Part i, prologue
Here be the story of a ragtag group of misfits who met in the godsforsaken land of Argosia for the purpose of making some coin and thus diminishing the likelihood of our collective or individual starvation. For those not familiar, the land of Argosia is peopled with the beastmen ('orcs' being the polite term, which I had best adhere to lest I offend my comrade at arms, Rock the Rager). Most contracts in that land consist of venturing into the neighboring land of the elves and slaughtering as many non-combatants as one may before an armed response can be mustered.
I found such work repugnant. I should have mentioned previously that I was not born in Argosia. My parents were both human, hailing from the frozen land of Astaria. They fled after being found out as magic users by the ruling body (known as the Sovereign Host, more on them in a moment).
Magic is strictly forbidden in all the realms (but it is particularly hated in Astaria) unless one takes the Oath and Seal and joins with the Mage's Guild . The Oath is a declaration that one shall never use magic in ways forbidden by the Sovereign Host. The Seal is the means by the which the Host enforce their law. Should any mage act in such a way as to offend them, the Seal may be destroyed by any ranking Host member, thus causing the mage to bleed out from the heart in seconds.
It is said even the very soul of the mage is destroyed in this process, rendering resurrection impossible. I think perhaps the member of the Host are so eager to destroy the souls of others because of jealousy, having lost their own souls when they agreed to be recruited by the Host.
Needless to say, my parents found such restrictions not to their liking and became rogue mages. I know little else about them. The Argosians were no more merciful with them than the Astarians had been. Orcs turned them in for a minimal reward, and I was given over at the tender age of 7 to a Quartermaster to begin training as a spider-mounted cavalry rider.
I believe that there is good (or the possibility of good) in the hearts of all sentient beings. That said, I have yet to encounter a people where that quality is so rare among its members as with the orcs. My training was mainly long and dull, punctuated at times by pain and terror. I owe the Argosians my gratitude for the strength of my arm and the spider mount given to me when I became a mercenary. That I do not exact vengance on them for having my parents killed is the means by which I consider that debt paid in full.
That is my background. I found myself a corporal in a minor mercenary company along with 6 others.
The first was our orc captain, whose name I never bothered to learn. (I fear it is now lost to history as he was slain on our first mission.)
Eluette, an elven ranger, was our second in command (who professed a burning hatred of her own people for reasons she has yet to divulge to us). Her prowess with a bow is quite formidable.
Then there was Rock the Rager, a half-orc cleric who served the nameless dead god the orcs once worshipped (strictly forbidden by the Host).
Two gnomes had joined us just a week earlier, an Alchemist (the psuedo magicians of Astaria) and Zellan, a 'rogue' who wielded a spiked chain. I was to discover later that our roguish friend had more talents than he initially led us to believe. But such is understandable with the world (and the Host) being what it is.
Then there was myself, and Charlotte my spider mount. The others tease me to this day over naming my mount. Though it may stem from some other reason. I must confess that my one strength lies in weilding a lance and wielding it boldly. I am well spoken, I am told, but I have no head for the subtleties of interaction between the sentient races. In all other things I am completely average. This is not self-deprecation, merely a straightforward account of my assets and limitations. They will be made manifest as the story progresses, in any case.
Next: Part I, the beginning of our story.
Our captain fell dead from his saddle after the first salvo. He had neglected to tell us our mission and would not be relaying our orders now. We had come across a half orc and two ogres in what appeared to be a parley with three elves. I hailed them, the elves ran, and the half orc plucked a bead from his necklace and threw it at us. It blossumed into flame, killing our captain and charring the rest of our company.
I have met few foes who could withstand a direct hit from my lance when Charlotte and I charge. This half orc mage (or whatever he may have been) proved no exception. The ogres were powerful but clumsy, and landed few hits before they were dispatched by my comrades. Elluette proved skilled as any of her fair folk with a bow, while the gnomish rogue made good use of his spiked chain. The alchemist was reluctant to throw bombs into the fray, and I was grateful for her prudence. Our cleric, Rock the Rager (himself an orc), healed us up once the ogres were slain and we set about the ghoulish business of searching the body of our former captain.
We found our company badge (without which movement between the islands of the four nations is impossible) but could see no sign of our company charter, or our present orders. We searched the captain thoroughly, but could find no scrap of parchment on his person, not even burnt remnants. In a poor jest, I suggested we search his posterior cavity, and Rock being ever literal-minded took up my jest in earnest. Low and behold, there the orders were. What little faith I had in the powers that ordered the goings on in our beknighted planet was lost to me in that moment. It was as though the captain were but a pawn in a storybook and his death a mere device to move forward whatever plot was afoot. I cursed the fallen gods who may or may not order our daily lives and unrolled the tube that Rock profferred.
The orders were, of course, blank. At least we found our charter. (It was illegal for us to leave the borders of Argosia without it.)
So there we were, in the middle of the Vemish wilderness with no idea why we were there and no leads whatsoever. I proposed we follow the elves that had fled the scene. Rock and Eluette accompanied me while the rogue and the alchemist searched the bodies of the ogres for anything of value. Eluette caught their trail immediately and we were upon them within the hour.
I hailed them again, proposing that we meant them no harm if they meant no harm to us. When they did not attack, I asked them why they had been conferring with the ogre party (normally the deadliest of enemies to elves). They informed us that the Elven Kingdom had rebelled against the Empire and the Sovereign host, and that by conferring with them we risked being branded as rebels ourselves. I deemed it no large risk to tell them I had no love for the Empire myself, and I would help them if I may. They gave to us a letter, telling us to seek a person named Garion at a certain inn in Starkhaven. With that they took leave of us.
I would like to say we found new direction and purpose with this missive. We did not. Eluette and the alchemist allowed as how they wanted no part in rebellion, and professed a dislike for the magic-loving elves. But Rock and the rogue were for the expedition, so off we went. We fared no better on our second 'mission' than on our first. We found Garion dead upon our arrival, slain by inept imperial bouty hunters who tried to trap us into admitting we were revolutionaries ourselves. A fight ensued, even briefer than our encounter with the orcs, but we did not slay the imperial agents. Rather we convinced them that we thought it was they who were revolutionaries (for they had presented themselves to us as such). My glibness of tongue served us well, and they believed our ridiculous lie.
The evening ended and my disgust for mercenary life knew no bounds. Between quarelling amongst ourselves, clumsy ogres, inept bounty hunters and captains who die at the first sign of danger, I wondered if I might better try my hand at coopering. Of course, there was no call for barrel-making in Argosia (where the orcs preferred to steal goods rather than manufacture them) and Charlotte would be killed if I took up residence in any other nation (where they frowned upon giant spiders being kept as pets).
I called a curse down upon the Overwatch, upon the Sovereign Host, and upon whatever power had made the world I found myself in. I doubt if any being paused to listen.
I must amend my entry above:
The alchemist, having looked over my shoulder while I scribed this journal, informed me that she was a halfling, not a gnome. I confess that persons under 4' in height look very similar to me (she is not, praise the fallen ones, looking over my shoulder at this moment). She also told me her name and said she did not appreciate being referred to by her profession. I confess I forgot her name again before I could write it down. I will never disclaim that I am a horrible lackwit. My memory is atrocious and I have no doubt misrepresented many of the details listed above. I care not. This journal is likely destined for the same flames that shall consume my mortal remains once the templars become apprised of my disdain for them (an inevitability, i am told, for they see into the very souls of men with their glowing blue eyes).
To end on a positive note, I've been promoted. Eluette excercised her right as the ranking surviving officer to make me Captain owing to my pleasant demeanor and pleasing countenance. I held my tongue at the thought that she may as well have promoted Rock for his pointy tusks.
Now I am our leader. Gods help us all.
The adventures of the 4 Nations Mercenary Company, a unit small of repute but widely troubled, as told by Captain Gilman of Argosia
We went to the mercenary compound in Starkhaven and decided to accept a contract delivering adamantium ore to the kingdom of Astaria. Though it is technically the place of my birth, I have no associations with the place as my parents moved when I was very young. I could hate the Astarians for forcing my parents to leave their homeland and for the backwards hatred of all magic the Astarians espouse, but in truth I find Astarians no more or less reprehensible than the people of any other place. We are all complicit in that we do nothing to prevent the injustice perpetrated by the Overwatch kingdom and their templars. I am no exception.
We left Starkhaven city with our merchant contractors, who had hired another company in addition to ours. On the seventh night of the trip we were assailed by the undead, 5 ghouls and a wight. I awoke to their icy claws and could do nothing but watch in horror. Charlotte sprang to my defense, and prevented the fiends nearest to me from dining on my entrails. Though I could not see them at the time, Zellan the rogue was also paralyzed, and Alchemist was partially drained by the wight. That left only Rock, Elluette and the weakened alchemist to fend off 5 ghouls and a wight. By rights we should have perished then and there, but a strange thing happened. Fire beetles descended upon the ghouls, one by one, fighting as if on our behalf. We were far from the forests, and it was highly unlikely that the creatures would have migrated to our camp, let alone have the will to do battle with the undead (which all natural creatures abhor). The beetles kept the ghouls occupied long enough for Zellan and I to recover, and when we did the company managed to dispatch our foes.
I allowed then and there to the company that our deliverance was miraculous, and likely attributed to magic. I avowed that should whomever in the group was responsible for saving us confide in me that they were in fact an illegal magic user (for none may do so without taking the heart seal of the Templars, which is to say they accept slavery) I would never betray their confidence in me. The alchemist scoffed, but I allowed that there were very likely still other ghouls about and she could seek her death at their hands if she felt she had been cheated of her proper death by illegal magic use.
Elluette found the trail of the ghouls and divined the direction they had approached from. While she did this, Zellan approached me and confirmed my suspicions. He told me he was a summoner, a mage specializing in the conjuration of a special creature he called... something that begins with E. Again my memory fails me. I could not follow the particulars of his profession and my mind wandered during much of his description (as the reader's mind may wander during my long and poorly written dialogue, if reader there be). He summoned his special friend, which looked rather like a snake with wings, and sent it in the direction Elluette had said the ghouls had come from. We did this out of sight of the alchemist, who still showed no signs that she accepted illegal magic use even when it was to her own benefit.
Zellan reported that his 'special snake' had found another camp, seemingly abandoned except for the corpses of 4 horses. Something had attacked the camp and left the bodies, which had turned to ghouls in a few hours time. (Reader: all the dead of all four nations spontaneously return to unlife if not burned and beheaded, and such it has been since ancient times, since before the fall of the gods and the coming of the Overwatch nation, and their templars.)
Rock, Zellan and I decided to investigate the camp, owing to our curiosity and the presence of two wagons of goods. His 'Dimelon' (I beleive that is the name) saw a small chest made of adamantium in the second wagon. When we arrived, the horses rose and sloughed off their flesh as one. The skeletal horses then attacked. It was a close thing after our fight with the ghouls, but we prevailed. Zellan, despite careful and thorough examination of the chest, still lost his eyebrows and facial hair when he attempted to open it. Rock healed him of his burns, and we discovered the chest contained many potions (which Zellan identified as potions of healing and strength), many gold coins and a minor magical ring. Rock located another ring among the debris around the campsite, which Zellan told us was cursed. It attracted undead from miles around to the wearer. Likely one of the members of the caravan had put it on unware that he had sealed his company's fate. This did not explain why the ghouls had made directly for our caravan, but we could find no other tracks here. We contented ourselves to leave that mystery unsolved and hoped the immediate threat was ended.
In all, our evening had been our most profitable to date, although nearly deadly. We could only hope the alchemist would recover on her own from the touch of the wight, for none of us had the means to assist her.