The kingdom of Darion fell to pieces almost overnight. The king was assassinated, leaving behind no heir. No trace was found of the mysterious assassin and in the following months the realm descended into war, as the nobles each desired to take the crown for themselves. Some of them seemed to exhibit uncharacteristic cruelty, others have turned to dark powers to gain an advantage in war.

The war raged on for many months, during which the weakest were conquered by the strong and the land suffered. By now, the conflict has died down, although the kingdom has been split between the victors and it's only a matter of time before they decide they aren't satisfied with what they won anymore.

Worse yet, the weakened realm became a target for it's ancient enemies. Orcs, goblins and other dark creatures grow bolder each day, spreading terror and stealing what little the war still left. The Church of Pelor and Order of Heironeous suffered greatly in the war, while the Church of Hextor rose to prominence. As their patron god has been empowered by the strife, so too were his followers. They are offering protection to the common folk in exchange for their unquestioning servitude and worship of Hextor and establish order where there is none. And so the weak and helpless seek help from those who would enslave them. Their numbers grow each day, as more and more people abandon the teachings of Pelor and either seek protection from Hextor's followers or join them in fear of their might.

You are part of a caravan heading to Selenrad, a large port city to the north untoched by war. It's ruler, Duke Ulric, remained largely uninvolved in the war. Among you are many refugees fleeing there in search of safety and in hope of starting a new life. The duke has promised the refugees food, shelter and protection, but whether his offer is genuine remains to be seen.

The wagons came to a halt as the sun began to set. It was time for the caravan to camp for the night. It's still almost a weeks worth of travel before the caravan reaches Selenrad at this pace. It would probably be faster on foot, but the refugees move slowly, especially with all they took with them when they escaped the rampaging armies that plagued the realm. Due to this situation, you were forced to take a detour through dangerous territory.

Perhaps unexpectedly, forces belonging to the Church of Hextor were much less dangerous than the rampaging servants of the average power-hungry noble vying for the crown. Many of those consorted with demons, necromancers and other such entities in an effort to gain the upper hand on their competition. To many ordinary people, the blood-red robed priests of Hextor were saviors, bringing order where once there was only chaos and death. Many were content with serving them and living under their protection, even if it came at the cost of total and unquestioning obedience to Hextor and his servants.

That is not to say that they were benevolent. Any who refused their generous offers or even opposed them were enslaved or ruthlessly put down, without mercy. When they had a reason to, their acts of cruelty would make even the most ruthless noble flinch in disgust. Yet there was a system and method to their cruelty. That perhaps made it even worse.

As for the nobles... many of them had dealings with the Church of Hextor, even inviting them to their cities and making the Church of Hextor the official faith of their realm. Others kept them at a close distance or even declared them their enemy, be it due to them still worshipping Pelor and other gods of light or purely for pragmatic reasons. Meanwhile, servants of Hextor were playing the nobles against each other, while they slowly grew in power.

Was Hextor responsible for the king's death, or was he just taking advantage of the chaos the king's death brought upon the realm? And if so, was he acting alone, or did he have allies? Or was he too just a pawn in someone else's game? There were many questions and not many answers.

As the sun begins to set and the camp is made, the travellers begin to congregate, eat and rest after a long day of travel. Among those, right of them certainly stand out. And those eight have set up their sleeping spots near each other. Was it fate, or simply coincidence that it happened tonight? You have been on this journey for over a week now, yet there wasn't much opportunity for you to get to know each other. As you sit around the campfire and watch the sunset, perhaps now is the time to remedy that?

The first thing Durgo had done when he and Bhagrim joined the caravan was look for others from their clan.  Perhaps he would stop his stupid deathwish if there were other survivors to protect.  After all, their arms instructor had always said, "In battle, you do not die for your clan.  You make the other guy die for his."
As the caravan moves along, he spends his time learning more about the above ground world.  His training had been almost entirely underground, but now, he is out of his preferred element and he must learn something new.
The campsite had been selected well before the arrival of the caravan by the scouts.  The area had been cleared of detritus (some used for campfires, some as makeshift bulwarks for defense), and food plants foraged, and small game hunted, to add to their food supplies.  Not much different from being a part of the deposit and ore.exploration teams back in the mines.  Fresher, cleaner air, different forage and game, but still much the same.
He knows that because of their ability to see in the dark, he and his clan brother will be on late watch rotation, which is fine by him.  It means he gets to sleep away part of the day in a wagon before going back out with the scouts.
He helps to set up the camp, choosing his own spot near his clan brother.  He knows none of the people around him outside of the scouts, and he does not even know them well.  Probably for the best, in case the unthinkable happens.  Afterwards, he joins Bhagrim in line for this evening's version of stew.
It is not all that chewy squirrel meat tonight.  We caught some rabbits and a sizeable groundhog.  Plus, I located some good mushrooms to add to it, he informs the former smith.

Nedal carried himself quietly in his time with the caravan. He wasn't much use in doing anything with the animals or hunting or anything, though he was easily able to light and maintain all the campfires for the caravan as camps were set each night.

Aside from that, he kept himself to himself. He wore common clothing that were non-descript in the extreme. He seemed every bit a refugee as everyone else on the trail right now.

Still each morning he prayed to Pelor, though he avoided the priest of Pelor and talks or discussions with him at all costs, even awkwardly exiting conversations when he saw the priest approaching at times.

He was pleasant with those who talked to him, though he said much without saying anything meaningful or revealing anything of himself to those he spoke with.

"Hrrrrr." came the customary resenting growl.

Bhagrim Dweomerdelf had made his presence felt around the camp in no uncertain terms. He stomped around the campfire, glaring at the refugees and cast spiteful glances into the distance as if daring any foe to show up. Considering he had been dragged wounded from the battle for the clan hold he had made a remarkable recovery. His chest was marred with numerous fresh scars but it was the nasty gash on his back that had done him in. Indeed, so ferocious his last stand had been that the enemy had to take him down from behind with a blow only a dwarf could recover from. But his honorable death had been denied him and ever since he woke Bhagrim had been a walking avalanche of spite.

It wasn't so much that death had been denied him itself that made Bhagrim such a paragon of simmering rage, it was that the future held no hope to him. Not in his lifetime would his clan be rebuilt. Indeed, it would very likely fade into ignominy. His generation was the one that had failed a line spanning back millennia. Had he died in a brave final stand he would have been welcomed by his ancestors in Moradin's halls. To live out his remaining centuries among the surface dwellers like some cast out fugitive, now there was true shame here and in the afterlife.

And so he had paced like a restless caged animal ever since. Sometimes simply along the caravan, but even as it stopped to let the weak surface-dwellers rest he paced on. In his hand he held a massive battleaxe that looked too heavy for many to lift. Indeed, Bhagrim's physique was gargantuan by dwarven standards. But instead of taller, Bhagrim was wide and barrel-chested. He was heavier then a human yet made of pure muscle, a testament to a century of working a forge like only a dwarf could. Not for decades had he lost an arm wrestling competition. The humans had learned to stay clear of him as well. His swats were likened to the blow of a kicking horse. The fact he had not bathed since the battle did not endear him to the senses either.

Only a dwarf could know Bhagrim's inner pain, and then know it wasn't proper to talk about it. Bhagrim had expressed his lack of belief in a future worth living for to Durgo, and that was that. No need to get mushy about it. And the bare-chested dwarf's perpetual scowl only deepened when Durgo brought up food.
"Who cares about yer stew. It's the ale I'm worried about. We're close to running dry."

Indeed, the only solace Bhagrim had found had been in drink. But someone of his physique and a dwarf to boot required staggering amounts of the weak piss the surface-dwellers called ale to even get a light buzz. It had been tortuous, but that had not stopped him from trying to drain every barrel the caravan had to offer, which hadn't been much to begin with.

"Best we find some more soon. Or I'm going to have ta find other ways to entertain myself..."
This message was last edited by the player at 22:48, Tue 28 Dec 2021.

Life with the caravan was mostly boredom, broken up by occasional bouts of dread.  Nothing disastrous had happened yet, but there had been the usual delays and of course the slow pace had a lot of people on edge.  The sooner they got to Selenrad, the sooner they could all start trying to rebuild their lives.  The problem was that there was no way to get them there sooner, and the delay was weighing on everyone.

It was certainly hard on the children, although in a different way.  They just wanted to be in something resembling a home again, and not have to be travelling all the time.  So Cassidy had fallen into the habit of entertaining the kids with little coin and card tricks to help the time pass more smoothly, both for them and for her.  Though her family had naturally travelled quite a lot, it had never been like this.  Their habit had been sneaking off quickly and quietly in the middle of the night, she thought with a sigh, not roaming around with a huge, slow, noisy caravan that attracted everyone's attention.  And they'd almost never had to keep moving for this long, either, and Cass was beginning to find it wearying.

The good news was that no one here knew her, and as they got further and further from the heart of Darion, the chances of anyone recognizing her grew more remote.  There wasn't any particular crime she was wanted for -- at least not that she knew of -- but any meetings with past marks would still be rather... awkward, to say the least.  Actually, it would be equally awkward to run into a member of her family, now that she thought about it.  But so far, so good, and at least she'd also managed to meet some new people.  New friends were the only kind she wanted right now.

Of course, the people in the caravan were a mixed bunch, to put it mildly.  There was at least one seriously angry dwarf, for example, whom she had developed a habit of avoiding just to be on the safe side.  Cass was fairly sure that he would swat her like a fly if she gave him an excuse, and she didn't want to find out if she was right or not.  But for the most part, she'd gotten to recognize a few faces among the travellers, even put a few names to those faces, and the whole crew was slowly starting to feel like neighbors of a sort.  As she settled in around the fire for the night -- the children had been sent off to bed some time ago, for the most part -- she listened quietly to the conversation as she ate her own portion of stew.  "It's a little bit better tonight, I think," she said, though her tone was doubtful.

This was the best night of his life. They were still celebrating his victory in the common room below, but the man of the hour had retired to his room upstairs, where he lay next to a roaring fire on a bear-pelt bed, belly full of wine and food, and perfumed company in his arms...

Except the fire wasn't so warm, and the bed not so soft. "Dellah, love, throw some wood on the fire, would you?" he muttered, nudging his sleeping companion, only to find no one next to him. Only the hard, unyielding floor of a wagon. He groaned and opened his eyes, heard the clanking and grinding of his armor in his ears, the soreness of badly healed wounds underneath. He had slept in the back of a wagon, in his armor, the entire day. Slept off his wounds, slept off his defeat, and waking up feeling like a broken down champion fallen on hard times.

The Dragon of Darion, the Pugilist of Baker Row, the Giant Bastard of Kord (he liked that one)... Now sleeping in his bloody battered armor in the back of a wagon. Fallen on hard times indeed.

He sat up, reached for his jug of wine, found it empty, tossed it over his shoulder into the forest. Defeated and sober? "Will not do... Will not do," he grumbled and jumped down off the wagon, the wheels squeaking in protest as his weight shifted off. He raised up to his full impressive height, rolled his shoulders and then hacked out a gob of spit flecked with a little blood. He ran a gauntlet over his shaved head, groaned again at the remains of a hangover thudding against his thick skull.

He draped his huge fur-line cloak over his armor and shuffled towards the campfire, looking at those tired, scared faces huddled in their tents and campfires. There would have been a time where he would have thrown his weight into putting on a show to boost morale, use that booming showman voice of his to rally the refugees. But the last time he played the inspiring leader, a lot of people died. So the once proud warrior kept his head down and stood in line for stew, his extravagant armor and height making him stick out among the refugees.

But when he got to his turn for stew, he looked around at the hungry travelers around him, let out a grumbling sigh and stepped away. He had hardtack to eat and a few pounds of easy living to shed, so better some hungry waif get food in their belly.

He wandered over to the fire, looking from the two Dwarves to quiet man to the young woman with bloodshot eyes and a rough face covered in beard stubble. "What does a sober Dwarf do to entertain himself?" he mused aloud to Baghram. That heaping mound of muscles looked downright feral, but he couldn't help prodding him a little. He much preferred his quieter companions.
This message was last edited by the player at 03:11, Wed 29 Dec 2021.

For the weeks on the caravan a young man, always accompanied by his lute and voice walks up and down the wagons singing rhyming and otherwise making up songs. For the most part it is noticed, mainly by the working men, that Jaxson seems talented to get out of manual work. Finding himself thronged by children wanting a song sung using their names, or to hear a funny song about bodily waste. Though, while alone anyone will notice him strumming on the lute with a parchment, you see his mind totally focused on a new song. What he believes could be his swan song, what will make him legendary, build his renown he so greatly craves.

Walking over to the fire he grabs a patch of dirt, crossing his legs he sits down pulling out his lute plucking each string with a hum making sure it is in tone before looking up. "Luckily for us we have a mighty dwarf hunter to make the food better." He smiles looking at the gloom and tired faces. "How about a SONG! That cheers up every heart in my experience and it would be nice to sing about things other then bodily waste, and body parts." Clearing his throat, "Lets see, Ah yes this is a good one."


"We've been on this Caravan for a long time now
Not enough whiskey for the road
And we sure would like some real stew and meat
And we'll keep on tomorrow, what do you say?

When we're gone
When we're gone
We're not gonna miss war torn place
We're not gonna miss the grumping dwarfs
We're  gonna miss sweet women
We're  gonna miss pelor
When we're gone
When we're gone
You're gonna miss me when we get there
You're gonna miss my clothes I wear
You're gonna miss me by my songs, oh
You're gonna miss me when I'm gone

We've been on this Caravan for a long time now
The one with the prettiest of views
It's got mountains, it's got rivers
It's got sights give you shivers
But it sure would be prettier with ale!"

OOC: Credit to Anna Kendrick and Pitch perfect for original song - When Im gone (cups song)
This message was last edited by the player at 06:49, Wed 29 Dec 2021.

Though he'd kept away from the loud dwarves and the fire initially, the bard's odd song had been enough to coax Nedal from one of the wagon backs into this fire light with his bowl of... whatever it was.

He looked at those gathered, each in turn. The hulking man in fine armor was such an odd sight to see on this road south, and the bard seemed too oddly cheery for the road that had bound them all together.

Still, Nedal sat and ate his stew and listened to the other talk as he did so. The night felt more comforting to him these days than the bright light of Pelor's gaze, and so he sat at the edge of the dim light in his light clothing. He seemed unaffected by the chill of night around him even though the fire wasn't near enough to warm his spot.

He looked at the bard and said to him with a soft smile, "do you know any songs of hope good bard? Not ones to make us laugh, but ones to uplift the soul in these dark times? Laughter is hard to comeby for many right now, but a song to kindle hope. Now that might do some good."

Avri had laid out his sleeping spot and approached the fire with quiet steps. For some reason the man who said his prayers to Pelor every morning had taken offense to his presence and the last thing the priest wanted to do was make his trying journey even more difficult on anyone. So he’d tried to avoid the man in turn- but the night was cold and the other fires crowded with refugees even younger or more unfortunate than they.

He found himself nodding agreement to the man’s suggestion for songs of hope, but held his tongue on voicing verbal agreement. The last thing he wanted to do was bring the man’s attention to him and scare off a poor soul during this time of respite.

Like a shifting boulder Bhagrim turned to look up at Fenris Vast's face. Beady eyes glimmered angrily from under a massive brow. Even if the man who had spoken was a warrior, Bhagrim was not a dwarf to let a slight go, and he perceived one in every word not uttered by a dwarf tongue.
"Don't you know human? A dwarf who is sober is either working or sleeping. Since there ain't no forge here worth my time, maybe I'll go to work on yer face instead, eh?"

Durgo sits at the fire, slowly eating his stew as other filter in to enjoy the meager warmth of a fire intentionally kept hungry to avoid being easily spotted.  He looks to Bhagrim and speaks gruffly, deciding to rib the older dwarf a bit.
[Language unknown: A titiut eveidi p sanredher ulnd, wito, atiundest, at ourou k prfo larconson o stihi shesa derkorman.  Tedtedund, pl ekmili ho whoman ndouma k setha fi setrutthe ereithing ioupr ith nte la mo ekne thaentenc, ieel ng traartthaatiare omfossio.*]
As Cassidy takes a seat nearby, muttering about the food, Durgo looks towards her.  The hares found this afternoon will be a dmned sight better than the mangy squirrels we've had lately.  And the morels, while nowhere near as fine as the mushroom we cultivated in the clanhold, will definitely bring some welcome flavor to the stew, he says with a small smile almost hidden by his mustache.  Now, if you above-grounders would learn how to ferment mushrooms, you might be able to brew ale with a decent alcohol content.  He chuckles a bit with that last.
He looks up as the large fighter approaches.  He looks at Bhagrim and nods towards the looming human.  [Language unknown: Is we wit ro blehouble, e omanel unwi llis es wasnt.]
Then the minstrel arrives, and begins to sing.  Not a dwarven ballad, it is mildly entertaining, parodying the life of caravanners on the road.  He had seen Nedal around, watching as the warlock comes over.  Though he does not know the man or his profession, there seems something a bit off about him, and Durgo had not yet taken the time to become acquainted with him.  He had not really taken time with any of them, except the scouts, with whom he shared some skill, and the others with whom he shared nightwatch duties.
He is about to say something in agreement with Nedal for songs about hope, when another human of indeterminate occupation, when words are exchanged between the mountainous human and his simmering, almost boiling, clansman.
If you want to bandy about insults, he says standing up so quickly he nearly spills his stew, then so be it, you "jobby-flavored fart lozenges".  But, if you want to fight, save it for any bandits we come across.

"Feces tasting suppositories".  A creative Scottish insult.
This message was last edited by the player at 23:21, Wed 29 Dec 2021.

Finishing his song, he again tuning his lute in preparation for his next ditty. He looked on at the exchange between the dwarves. Turning to the men, "I have been working on a few songs recently, I have one that may be to your liking. It is ruff, still needs polish, you all shall be the first to hear it." Uncharacteristically the young mans tune begins slower, with a slight cheer to the stings as the first verse begins, his face filled with reverence.

"It was the sounds of laughter,
Noisy carts pulled on cobble roads,
Children running brushing your cloak,
Feeling the sweet touch of a women's embrace,
Fresh baked bread wafting down the streets,
Lavender, cut cedar, soot, and metal,
It was people dancing, moving to a beat,
Watching die roll and drinks flowing faster.

All these senses let us know there was peace.

It was the sound of battle,
Ringing of metal screaming pain,
Sticky red liquid between fingers,
Leather on a hilt with a sword plunged deep,
Burnt cloth, hair, pitch,
Nauseated by fumes,
Watching family fall,
As Children torn from mothers, fathers bury sons.

All these senses let us know peace had ended.

It is the sounds of wagon wheels,
Singing praises to Pelor,
Clasping hands with strangers,
Blisters burning on heels as a reminder of their chance,
Fresh mountain air,
Unwashed bodies, clothes smelling of nightly campfire,
Its Watching faces change to smiles,
Looking up to knew Horizons.

All these scenes let us know peace can be found.

Remembering, not forgetting,
Those that passed, for as we live,
We can honor,

Their sense of peace."

OOC: An Original, not great, but gets the job done I think
This message was last edited by the player at 19:38, Wed 29 Dec 2021.