Lymnor's Wake

[Wyvern]

OOC: This campaign setting will be used for my next serious roleplaying story, "Flight of the Zephyr," so if anyone is interested in participating in it they should read through this thread. The campaign is in developement and is flexible, so if you have any ideas that you think would work well in it feel free to PM them to me. If I approve of them, you can post them in this thread later. As mentioned in the topic description, Lymnor's Wake is closed to all Pen characters, and anyone who wishes to write in it will need to develope a character specifically for the setting. Rather than describing things directly, I'm going to reveal elements of the campaign through four events covering the four seasons: Spring, Summer, Autumn and Winter. Enjoy.

 

IC:

 

-Spring-

 

The large conference hall stood eerily empty as the early morning sunlight broke through its lavender curtains, reflecting off of open seats and illuminating spirals of dust in large shafts of light. Marcus Tormellus watched the dust as it coiled and flowed, his strange silver eyes gradually following its path until they reached the clock that rested in the far corner of the room. He adjusted his formal purple cloak and chained medallions, still finding them somewhat loose on his thirteen year old body, and made sure that the ruby comb nestled in his jet black hair was clearly visible. Leaning back against his podium, he rubbed the variety of rings on his hands and crossed his arms over his chest, watching as the first of the uninitiated entered into the chamber.

 

Men and women soon began flowing into the hall in a tide of emotional hues, their faces expressing confidence, anxiety, eagerness, reluctance, excitement, boredome… marks of individuality that contrasted with their formulaic formal blue and grey attires. Marcus smiled as he breathed in the essences of his future disciples, his eyes darting from corner to corner to intake every visage, every peculiarity of his students. He waited until the hall had been filled, then took a small sceptor out of his cloak and banged it loudly on his podium, insinuating an immediate silence. As the voices died down, he exclaimed:

 

“Time will explain it all. He is a talker, and needs no questioning before he speaks.” Marcus smiled and paced forward. “That is a quote from Euripides’ Aeolus, particularly pertinent to this series of information sessions. There will be no questioning during these meetings, for the accuracy of history will answer all uncertainties.”

 

Marcus paused for a moment, his eyes suddenly focusing on a man and a woman seated in the rear of the hall.

 

“Nor will there be any idle banter, Lorin Asmireldis and Joshua Kerrinats.”

 

The two chatters immediately sat up, not sure whether to be more shocked at the professor having noticed them whispering or his knowledge of their names.

 

“To answer the question that the two of you were too spineless to ask: this body, as well as my perceptive sight, are results of the Accursed… wretched malices that I must endure for the remainder of my life. Consider them severe battle scars.”

 

Pausing for a moment, Marcus eyed Lorin and Joshua to make sure they were attentive, then spread out his arms.

 

“Welcome, one and all, to the informative segment of the Antaen Confederacy’s training sessions. It is a pleasure to see the presence of elves, halflings, and other races in this crowd today… there was a time when the Confederacy was dominantly human, when the pull and allure of the Loom Rebellion pinnacled in its power. I am Marcus Tormellus, also known as Marcus of the Know, though you shall simply refer to me as ‘Sir.’ Let us begin.”

 

Marcus stepped up to the podium and took his place, his medallions clinking and his rings glowing in the light.

 

“Long ago, in the Years of the Dragon, the continent of Antaea was split and divided into jagged lines, war zones dominated by powerful emperors unafraid to conquer with the arcane power, that hideous weapon known only as magic. The power of magic ravished, destroyed, and utterly controlled the war. It was only a matter of time before the mages began rebelling against their emperors and waging wars of their own, and soon chaos and destruction were the only forces known to Antaea.”

 

Marcus paused for a moment, his silver eyes speculative and his ruby comb reflecting light.

 

“Emperor Tharis and Emperor Ferin were the first to form the Confederacy against magic in light of its frightfully destructive powers, and were quickly joined by Emperess Shia and Emperor Neren. Soon, the warring nations turned to nations warring against magic, though there were a few exceptions. Emperor Cludis wished to continue in his conquests of land, and Emperess Quara was driven to abuse magic in hopes of gaining of absolute power… but these rebelling lords were ultimately overthrown by their own sorcerors, and soon it was man against mage. The Confederacy fought bravely, but from the beginning it was understood that warring against magic was futile. Many of the powers fell and it seemed that arcane forces would forever dominate the continent. Hope was lost for mankind.”

 

Marcus turned his head to a ray of sunlight for a moment and smiled, his eyes glowing with radiance.

 

“Then, he came. Our savior, Lymnor the Great Sorceror, also known as Lymnor the Rebel Magician. Tired of seeing the chaos and bloodshed caused by magic, he formed a coalition of like-minded mages who turned to aid the Confederacy in its struggle. Together, they sacrificed their own powers to banish magic from the lands entirely, dispelling it by extracting it to seals that they carefully hid throughout the lands. Order was soon restored, and the wars came to an end as the Emperors decided to rule Antaea together in peace.”

 

Marcus paused for a moment and sighed.

 

“If only it were that simple… With the Confederacy established, it was only a matter of time before a rebellion was formed against it. The Loom Rebellion began to come about after Lymnor passed away in the Years of the Scorpion, and was formed by fallen sorcerors who wished to retrieve their lost power. Forming different coalitions and orders, the Loom Rebels sought out the hidden seals where magic had been stored, infusing it into their bloodstreams when it was found. These rebels infused with magic have been labeled the Accursed, as you know, and are hunted by the Confederacy to this day. Thankfully, the seals have been well hidden, and each seal offers only a limited amount of magic, which has given the Confederacy the opportunity to stop these Rebels and to be able to fight them on an equal playing field.”

 

Marcus turned to a shadowy corner of the room.

 

“There are also beings worse than the Accursed… things that have found and abused magic to the point of losing their humanity entirely. These are known as Abominations, and have fortunately only been known to act as solitary creatures, often with cryptic and arcane behavior that falls outside the category of a rebellion. It is not the duty of the Antaen Confederacy to conquer or destroy this type of being, and it is advisable that if you learn of the presence of an Abomination, you simply ignore it and avoid it entirely. Best not to mingle with that breed.”

 

Marcus took out his sceptor again, and waved it in a semi-circle to span the crowd.

 

“You, of course, are all here as you wish to aid the Antaen Confederacy in stopping the Loom Rebellion and its Accursed. Remember well that you should show no mercy to those with magic in their bloodstream, as the sentence to such a thing is and can only be death. Even I, a loyal member of the Confederacy, eventually face the death sentence for the scars that have been infused within me… I simply have chosen to live the last years of my life as a teacher under strict guard of the Confederacy, to pass my first hand knowledge down to you disciples in the hopes of your learning from my experiences. I applaud your bravery, and wish you the best in your training.”

 

Marcus tapped his sceptor on the podium.

 

“Class, for the day, is dismissed.”

[Wyvern]

-Summer-

 

Torches lit the mid-Summer night sky as shouts of merriment rolled through the outskirts of Valensia, laughter accentuating the various eccentricities that the regal fair grounds had to offer. The eleventh celebration of Lymnor's Wake was a festive time indeed, boasting fire-eaters, jugglers, stilt-walking clowns and all the free ale a thirsty citizen could dream of consuming. A few sooty firework engineers rushed back and forth through the carnival crowds, chatting amongst themselves and occasionally pointing out the beautiful quilts and murals that had been crafted for the event. They passed a young girl at a toad gaming booth, who waved at them briefly before following her parents to watch a puppet show being presented on Lymnor's accomplishments. At an old oak table near a rest area adjacent to the puppet stand, a burly group of men in rugged cloaks of all shapes and colors talked amongst themselves over foaming mugs of ale, occasionally jeering and laughing at each others comments.

 

"Twelve Antaen Silvers" exclaimed Coinpot Kren, flashing a crooked smile to a bald man with a glass eye across the table and winking to a man in a tattered green cloak sitting next to him. "For a coppered Lymnor head, c'n you believe it?! I swear, the folks out East don't even examine the merch."

 

"Stroke o' luck" chuckled a short man seated to Kren's right, talking through a mouth full of ale. "You sold it in some farmin' town I wager."

 

"Naw, right in th'center of Farshire, I swears!" Kren cocked his head up proudly, sneering at the short man, then at the bald man with the glass eye. "Watcha got to say to that, Gorth?"

 

The bald man shook his head, setting his ale mug down on the table.

 

"Not bad." His glass eye sparkled. "But how about this: once, I sold a dozen steel arrow heads to some Anarshin elves."

 

The green-cloaked figure to Kren's left let out a long whistle upon hearing this and rolled his eyes. "Yer bluffing."

 

"No I'm not." Gorth grinned and briefly raised the ale mug to his lips. "Forest of Anarash, got a good three golds for'em too. You never know with those elves, lemme tell you."

 

"Yah" spoke up the short man, tilting his head towards Gorth. "Heard it don't matter if yer a Confederate or a Loom to them, they're all about that uhhh, what's it called-"

 

"Individual worth." Gorth smiled.

 

"Yah, that's it!" The short man raised his ale mug, toasting to Gorth's vocabulary. "Man, must be creepy meetin with some elves like that, not knowin if their gonna slit yer throat or land some money in yer pouch."

 

Coinpot Kren tapped his fingers on the table, nodding silently to Gorth's story and scratching his chin. After a moment of thinking, he perked up and said:

 

"That's pretty good, Gorth, but I gotta another one. When the Confederates started cleanin the filth from the towns north of Gremsdale, like Hentrall and Glenfurel, was impossible for a merchant like meself to sell things around the West. I swears, you couldn't even bring a wooden stick into Hentrall, they'd think it was a wand or somethin! So anyway, I had this stock o' old trinkets that I had to get off my hands, and guess where I wandered to to sell'em?"

 

"Valensia?" jeered Gorth, his mock guess evoking an eruption of laughter from the table that was complimented by a gale of laughter from the children watching the puppet show.

 

"Valensia, pshaw!" blurted Kren, groaning. "Sure Gorth, I wandered a whole day's journey from Gremsdale, ha! Try again... what would you say if I were to say Salinsway, in the East?!"

 

The laughter slowly stopped as Kren revealed his boast, and the man in the tattered green cloak nodded thoughtfully as he considered it.

 

"Made a journey to the Land of the Spooks, huh?"

 

"Yup." Kren grinned and cracked his knuckles. "And you ain't heard the best of it. People 'round there really do think all strangers are part of the Accursed, but that didn't stop me. No sir! Still sold me trinkets, and made a profit of a good fifty silvers."

 

"Hmph." Gorth nodded and finished his mug of ale. "That's pretty darn good Kren, consider me impressed. Salinsway... that's Southwest of that town Dunegarth, the one right on the border of the Awe Tundras right?"

 

"Right." Kren shuddered. "Would never visit that place though, stories o' them Awe Tundras spook the hell outta me."

 

"Heard it was the wildlife" chipped in the green-cloaked man, shaking his head solemnly. "Animals broke the seals around there, made the magic run wild. Not even the Accursed're brave enough to venture there... it's a shame, cus that mountain range beyond the Tundras ain't ever been explored."

 

The conversation at the table was interrupted as a voice called from the crowds:

 

"Hey Kren!"

 

Coinpot Kren turned his head, perking up as he noticed a tall man with a long face in the throng of people, dressed in the familiar greys and blues of the Confederacy.

 

"Well if it ain't Joshua." Kren raised himself from his seat, grinning and waving. "What are ya up to, lad?"

 

"I'm headed to the central grounds of the fair, Emperor Neren is supposed to speak soon! Are you up to joining me?"

 

Kren glanced at the crowd of merchants, then at Joshua, then at the merchants again.

 

"Well, if ya don't mind then, I'll be on my way. Got some catchin up to do with an old friend."

 

"Be sure to tell us about your adventurous journey to the center of the fair grounds later" teased Gorth, and the table broke into another enormous gale of laughter.

[Wyvern]

-Autumn-

 

Agneer the Kahn traced his finger down the rim of the opaque glass, blurring it with a faint moisture and focussing his bloodshot eyes on its contents. Through the torchlight, he could make out the liquid moving in faint ripples with every touch, lightly oscilating like a soft yet relentless Autumn breeze. He layed his elbows on the rotted wooden table in front of him, shutting his eyes as he ran his cold hands through his dirty mess of black hair and letting out a quiet moan. The sound of his tent entrance flapping open and of footsteps approaching him signaled that news had arrived, but he didn't bother lifting his head to greet the messenger.

 

"Sir" spoke the visitor in a firm and familiar voice. "Word from the South."

 

"The leaves" choked Agneer in a tormented tone, moving an elbow and knocking over his glass. He lifted himself from his chair groggily, practically tripping over one of its legs and cursing softly.

 

"Sir" The messenger hesitated, partially extending a hand yet not daring to approach. The stench of alcohol lingered in the tent, almost dizzying him. "The division of the Rebels of Kahn sent south of Salinsway and Meertag, to the Costeer Ranges, they-"

 

"The leaves are falling!" cried Agneer, his voice hoarse and terrified, his eyes wide and bloodshot. He stumbled forward, causing the messenger to start back. "Falling. The trees... the trees so barren!"

 

An awkward silence passed as Agneer examined the messenger for a moment, still perceptive in his drunken state.

 

"Herot, right?"

 

"Y-yes sir" The messanger trembled slightly, struggling to maintain his firm composure. "Herot Grudor of the Rebels of Kahn, sir. I was sent to inform you that the mission to acquire the seal of the Costee-"

 

"Don't tell me, I don't need to know." Agneer grimaced, staggering a foot back in the direction of his table. "The mission was a horrendous failure from the moment my father assigned it. No, don't tell me... I don't need to know how many valued Looms we lost to such foolishness."

 

Herot nodded to this quietly, staring at the ground.

 

"Magic" Agneer seethed, stroking a hand over his face. "Our magic. By a thread, Herot!" Agneer turned and moved forward, accentuating his exclamations by clasping his fingers together. "By a tiny thread, and he wastes the Rebels on what...? Rumors!"

 

Herot nodded again, and then looked up.

 

"If I may be permitted to agree with you, sir." Herot glanced towards Agneer nervously, cringing as he watched him kick a bottle laying on the ground. "His honor, Maxon the Kahn, has grown old. And time, far from wisening him, has seemed to have a negative effect-"

 

"What?" Agneer turned his face and looked Herot in the eye, scowling. "What did you say?"

 

"I-" Herot took a step back. "I'm sorry."

 

"Sorry? You owe him everything! All of us!" Agneer flailed a hand in the air. "These tents, this division of the Looms... his! And you speak of wisdome. Never use my father's name in vain again."

 

"Yessir."

 

Agneer cast Herot an angry glance, then slowly began pacing.

 

"Does the Dainus order of the Looms know of our losses yet?"

 

"Yes sir." Herot lost any remaining sense of fear at the question, regaining his firm posture. "They mentioned that they may send reinforcements to our camp to make up for our losses."

 

"Good." Agneer paused for a moment, frowning and turning to face Herot again. "And the Rebels of Ganarth?"

 

"No, not that I know of sir."

 

Agneer sighed, clutching his forehead. "They'll probably complain to the Dainus order once they learn of it. Ever since Lortif the Ganarth sent and lost those rebels to father's missions, they've been a thorn in our side."

 

Agneer's conversation was interrupted as another man, cloaked in robes, shuffled into the tent.

 

"Sir" The man bowed to Agneer. "The weapons merchant that you sent for is here."

 

Agneer nodded. "Gorth Admeiri?"

 

The cloaked man nodded back, smiling. "The very one."

 

"Excellent." Agneer smiled, then turned briefly towards Herot. "I must be off to make a few purchases for the future of our Kahn. The leaves have fallen, it is time to gather them where they rightfully belong. You are dismissed."

 

With that, Agneer followed the cloaked man, ducking out of the tent and wandering into the cool Autumn night air.

[Wyvern]

-Winter-

 

The rotund table of the conference chamber at Gremsdale Hall seemed desolate when stripped of its common maps and coordinates, barren in the grandeur of the heroic murals that covered the walls surrounding it. Flourishes of victorious combats circled the room like lost echoes of wars past, and Lymnor's image covered the ceiling like a spiraling spirit of hope. Two figures sat at opposite ends of the table, their manners of dress and dispositions seeming to suggest foreign strangers. The man seated at the left end was rigid in his chair, cloaked in several heavy coats and Winter boots, his arms muscular and his face rough with a light trail of beard stubble. He stared mostly at the table as his fingers tapped at its edges, though he occasionally glanced towards the woman seated at the opposite end. She was dressed lightly in a loose grey and blue tunic, her long black hair braided prettily behind her to accentuate her good looks. She leaned back in her chair, her legs cocked up onto the tabletop and her grey sandals crossed in a comfortable position, staring idly at the nails on her left hand while her right rested lazily behind her head.

 

"Katherina... How can you wear that?"

 

Katherina glanced up from her nails, meeting the man straight in the eye.

 

"Hmm?"

 

"How can you dress like that?" The man sighed and shook his head, directing a hand towards a window. "It's freezing outside."

 

"Well, Gerald." Katherina smiled mischeviously, removing her right hand from behind her hair and pointing a finger at him. "I don't recall you complaining about it when it came to undressing me."

 

Gerald opened his mouth to speak but choked on air for a moment, absorbing the comment and running a hand across the table top. He tapped a finger twice on the smooth surface, shaking his head.

 

"Two years ago." He let out a deep breath. "That comment's not as effective now as it was then, you know."

 

"Really?" Katherina crossed her arms over her chest, still smiling. "I guess that would account for the face you made when I said it. After all, it only took you about three minutes to muster a reply."

 

"Oh please." Gerald let out an exasperated sigh, clawing a hand through his dark brown hair. "You really get a kick out of this, don't you?"

 

Katherina stared at the ceiling for a moment in mock consideration, failing to keep a completely straight face. "Just about anything that annoys you, yep."

 

Gerald let out a disgruntled chuckle, scratching his head and thinking for a moment. He then slowly shuffled in his seat and sneered.

 

"Let's face it, Kate... you just still haven't gotten over those months we spent together."

 

"Uh huh" muttered Katherina sarcastically, removing her legs from the table and switching to a different position. She crossed her arms on the tabletop and leaned forward despite the obvious distance, smirking at him. "First of all, Gerald, it's Katherina to you. Second of all, I wasn't the one who messaged to say meet at Gremsdale Hall early."

 

Gerald stared at her in confusion, his sneer now gone. "What?"

 

"Let me guess." cooed Katherina, enjoying Gerald's changing expression. "You thought we should meet here early to make sure that we were on time for the conference, right? You're not fooling me Gerald, I know why you really wanted to meet early."

 

"What?" Gerald gritted his teeth, standing from his seat and glaring at her. "What do you mean?! Of course I arranged it so that we could be early, we don't want to be late, I- what do you-"

 

Gerald stopped as he noticed that Katherina was now giggling helplessly, one hand over her mouth as she tried to contain it. He shook his head and slumped back in his chair, throwing a hand in the air.

 

"God, you're hopeless Katherina." He stared at the ceiling for a long moment. "Look, about the clothes... you really shouldn't dress so lightly in this weather. I'm serious, you could get sick."

 

"Well, I suppose I'll die a martyr for fashion then. A look is important for motivating troops, you know." She paused, then glanced at him and briefly cast him a gentle smile, less teasing than before. "Thanks anyway."

 

"But if you think I wanted to-"

 

Gerald was interrupted as the door to the hall opened and another man entered, scrawny and covered in several layers of robes and coats. He nodded to Gerald and Katherina, brushing a hand through his graying hair as he unpacked his belongings at a seat in a section between the two of them. Katherina stuck her tongue out at Gerald while the man was busy unpacking, signaling her victory.

 

"Rald" said Gerald sternly, ignoring Katherina's final gesture. "A good day to you."

 

"Yes yes, a good day." Rald finished unpacking and sat down in his chair. "Orin shall be here shortly to commence the meeting, I saw him talking with a fellow in the lobby. Big news, supposedly."

 

Rald turned to Katherina for a moment, squinting to make sure he wasn't seeing things and shaking his head.

 

"Dressed for Summer? I'll never understand you, Katherina."

 

Katherina shrugged and shifted in her seat, the phrase "at least I'm not dressed for a funeral" caught on the tip of her tongue. She knew better than to retort a senior officer, however, and remained quiet.

 

After a long silence, the doors opened again and a handsome man dressed in a regal uniform of blue and grey entered into the room, causing the three that were seated to immediately stand and bow. Orin nodded to each of the captains as he passed them, his robes flowing over the floor of the chamber until he arrived at his seat at the head of the table. Seating himself, he looked at each of them and slowly spoke.

 

"Let us hear the new field reports. How go the divisions? Rald Wexsler, please commence."

 

Rald nodded and cleared his throat for a moment, brushing off his robes and speaking.

 

"The First Division of the Antaen Confederacy is doing well, sir. The veterans build their tactics, and the recruits are currently developing their skills in archery. The evil of magic has also been emphasized, and is central to all aspects of training."

 

"Good." Orin turned his head towards Gerald. "Gerald Hitorin."

 

Gerald placed a fist on his chest.

 

"The Second Division of the Antaen Confederacy continues to excell, sir. We have been blessed with many strong recruits this year, both in power and in will. The soldiers continue to develope their physique, and many excell in melee combat. A pride in the Confederacy is also always valued."

 

"Good." Orin turned and waved a hand towards Katherina. "Katherina Lumend-"

 

"The Third Division of the Antaen Confederacy is a force to be reckoned with, sir." Katherina smiled. "In addition to mastering both the art of ranged and melee combat, they are skilled and intelligent planners, easily capable of qwelling any rebellion. I take a great pride in my troops, as they have their hearts set on their goals and are a thoroughly talented unit. I am certain that there is nothing they will be unable to accomplish."

 

"Good." Orin nodded, slightly irritated by Katherina's previous interruption but otherwise ignoring it. "Please be seated all, we have news from the East."

 

The three division captains took their seats, silent and attentive as Orin spoke.

 

"It appears that the Kahn lineage may be within our grasp." Orin cast his eyes across the table, glancing from captain to captain. "Word has it that Maxon the Kahn, leader of the Rebels of Kahn, may venture to the West in search of a seal hidden at the Kii Penninsula, North of Gremsdale. Once a great rebel leader, Maxon has grown old and foolish in his conquests, which gives us this opportunity to strike. His death would be a means of destroying rebel hopes, and could possibly end the ventures of Rebels of Kahn entirely. For this reason, it is important that we act with stealth and accuracy in order to intercept him. Each of you shall choose the finest soldiers from your respective divisions to form a special unit, which will specifically be used for this operation. You have four months to make these decisions, and the operation will be conducted one month after that. I trust your judgement. Questions?"

 

"Sir." Rald spoke softly, contemplating the task. "Is this the operation that was hinted at in earlier conferences, the 'Sealed Fate' operation?"

 

Orin turned to Rald and shook his head. "No. His Emperor Neren has requested that that operation remain confidential until it has been further developed. News of Maxon's plan to journey West reached us just recently, and this new operation was developed in light of that."

 

"So, old Maxon is actually venturing out here?" Gerald shook his head, his tone somewhat skeptical. "I have a bit of difficulty believing that... why not simply send his rebels?"

 

"Still worth pursuing" interjected Katherina, suddenly standing and bowing to Orin. "Sir, I promise to have my choices ready at least a month before Rald or Gerald, despite the difficulty of choosing from so many talented soldiers in my division. I'll set about it immediately."

 

With that, Katherina shot a knowing glance to the two other captains, and briefly winked to Gerald before departing from the chamber.