NPC Spotlight: Reggie Danpero

Reginald Danpero, known to most as Reggie, lives a joyful, adventurous life plying the waters of the Blue Wash. He captains one of the many trading barges that calls Berador home and ventures up and down the Wash in search of profit and pleasure, not necessarily in that order. As a purveyor of sometime exotic goods and always interesting news Reggie finds himself welcome at any table in the Maple House when he comes home.

Up River or Down River

"It's a simple question: up river or down river; which do you want?" Reggie asks with a twinkle in his eye. A strong breeze blows in his face, and his wavy brown ringlets of hair bounce and flutter in the wind. He fixes the younger Halfling with his deep emerald eyes and his lip curls in a playful grin.

"Um, I'm not sure, Reg. Shouldn't you decide? I mean, you know, you've got all the experience and all." The apprentice shuffles his feet as he mumbles to the master trader. He meets Reggie's gaze with a look of awe and near reverence.

"Aw, c'mon, Raykie, don't you want to make journeyman someday? You have to be able to make the tough calls, boy," Reggie cajoles the Halfling apprentice trader called Raykimi Cachon. "Make a decision. What have we in our holds?"

"Well, we've got plenty of roots from several of the nearby farms. And there's the salted pork from over‘t the Branloth holdfast." He pauses to think, "Oh, and then we got the hides and beef from Greyski and his neighbors." Raykie smiles nervously, seeking Reggie's approval.

"That's right," Reggie replies and nods reassuringly. "Now, where's the best place to trade that gear off for something of use here or elsewhere we can go?"

"Well, we could take the roots down river t' Darshire," Raykie answers hopefully. "Maybe trade for some greens or other vegetables; maybe even some early summer pears. The beef and pork would sell about anywhere, but would probably fetch the best price down t' Port Eben. And the hides . . . well, I'm not too sure about those."

Let the Goddess Decide

Raykie pauses and rubs his chin thoughtfully. Reggie looks on with a hint of pride. The boy will make a fine trader some day.

"Well, when you're not sure, what should you do?" asks Reggie.

"Look to the master trader for advice?" grins Raykie.

Reggie laughs a hearty laugh. "I guess that's one way. But what if you're the master trader and you can't decide? What then?"

Raykie's brow furrows as he considers the query carefully. Uncertainly he mumbles, "Ask Avandra for guidance?" It's clearly a question and not put forth with any conviction.

"That's right!" Reggie hoots and slaps his young charge on the back. "Let the Goddess decide!"

Reggie draws a fat silver coin from his purse and rolls it expertly across his fingers. The coin dances between his knuckles catching the sunlight in flashes and then rests in his palm. "So, you call the toss. If your call is right we'll go downstream. If you call it wrong we'll go up."

Raykie nods hesitantly, and Reggie tosses the coin high in the air. Raykie calls loudly, "Crown!" as the coin spins overhead.

Reggie snatches the silver from the air as it passes in front of his face. He holds his fist out in front of himself and towards Raykie. Slowly he lays open his fingers and the reveals the coin. The etched crown of the lost Oshland Empire winks up at the apprentice trader.

"South it is, boy. Now go get the others ready."

Master Trader Secrets

As Raykie heads down the gangplank and back to shore, Reginald Danpero, master trader, chuckles softly to himself. He rolls the coin over in his palm, alternating the crown of the Oshland kings with the menacing head of a dragon on the reverse. He slips the old Oshland silver crown back into his purse. Raykie will learn someday. His reasoning was good, given what he knew. And the decision to go down river was the right one, but not for the reason Raykie thought. And Reggie has never heard the Goddess complain when someone makes his own luck.

Unknown to the apprentice trader one of Reggie's barges carries a chest full of silver bars and ingots down from Dalton. The silver came over by a caravan led by Reggie's cousin. Those bars and ingots will fetch a nice load of master crafted steel weapons down to Port Eben. Steel weapons are hard to come by out in the wild and will fetch an excellent price at any town or holdfast north of the Palantir.

Raykie also doesn't know that a messenger bird arrived on the morning. The message came from another of Reggie's cousins making his way to Darshire with a Traveling Carnival from the great city of Roth. They'll be in Darshire next week. Conveniently so will Reggie and his barges. There he'll take on a load of fine plateware and silverware which he'll pass on to the Branloth family as payment for the pork.

The job of a master trader is not to buy and sell goods. It's not to move goods up and down the Wash or on the Road. The master trader's job is to know who wants to sell and who wants to buy and how to help those people with their wants. What they want to buy and sell is less important than the fact that they want something. And Reggie will be glad to provide it.

NPC Spotlight: Captain Rodrik Vesash

The head of the Vesash family styles himself Captain Rodrik Vesash. The title remains a mystery to most of the residents of Berador; Captain Rodrik never served in any army, and he doesn't know the port side of a boat from the starboard. Nevertheless, Captain Rodrik they call him. He tends well to the doings of his large family and their massive holdings. Captain Rodrik has quite the reputation as a successful trader, a daring gambler and one with a gentle kindness to those around him. Even those "beneath his station" get proper nods of respect from the Captain.

Fair Trade

Captain Rodrik, a balding and portly man, strides out of the gold fitted double doors onto the balcony overlooking the "back yard" as he calls it. He draws deeply on the carved pipe clenched in his teeth. He pats his round belly in the fine white silk of his exquisitely tailored coat. The balcony sits atop great white marble columns that hold up the roof and provide a cover for the porch that winds around three sides of his manse. The "upper deck," as he calls the second floor balcony, fronts all four sides of the house with doors letting into the library and the great hall on the front and back of the house respectively.

He stares for a moment out over the well-ordered pecan orchard. The perfect lines of the great trees comfort the Captain. The steady movements of the laborers in the fields beyond comfort him even more. As he absorbs the peaceful scenery a rumbling wagon rolls around his home from the front. A team of four heavy draft horses pull the flatbed wagon piled high with evenly cut raw pine logs. Another wagon rounds the house and another. In all seven great wagons line up behind the house, each laden with pine and oak cut from the Vesash lands.

As he watches some two dozen younger men pour out of the surrounding out buildings. Most head to the stables and return mounted on a riding horse. Some mount up on the wagons. Still a handful of others return from the stables mounted on warhorses.

Captain Rodrik's son, Dale, emerges from the massive white house. He barks some orders to the assembled men and waits as one of the grooms readies his great, black warhorse. Dale, dressed in thick riding leathers with a sword at his side, looks fully in control and command. As well he should be. He learned to command at the Captain's knee.

When all is ready, Dale glances to his father on the upper deck. He draws his sword and holds it vertical in front of his face, a salute to his father, the Captain. He barks another command and the wagons creak into motion, one by one. A pair of men on horseback flanks each wagon and men mounted and dressed for war lead the party out of the yard. Another group gathers around Dale, and as the last wagon makes its way out towards the Road, they follow it away.

Captain Rodrik watches them leave with a wistful smile on his face. Not too many years ago he would have led the caravan himself. Now he leaves such things to his oldest son. The boy does well. He'll return in about a month or so leading a hundred and a half head of cattle. The Captain will make the arrangements in town long beforehand, and within a week of his return Dale will be off again to deliver the beef in twos and tens to this farmstead or that. The money will serve them well enough, but the goods they get in exchange will do even better. Such goods can be traded later to the Traveling Carnivals or even traded back to the original owners. Captain Rodrik has a knack for buying low and selling high, and it has done his family well for years. He looks forward to continued success for years to come.

NPC Spotlight: Ulfgar Fireaxe

Ulfgar Fireaxe, the chief of the Fireaxe clan of Berador, lives in the Fireaxe compound on the north side of Berador proper. The clan holds a large parcel of land that straddles the Blue Wash and encompasses the smithy, a great mill and a handful of houses. Ulfgar's stern leadership and strict adherence to family and community values ensures that the people of Berador hold the Fireaxe clan in high regard. The people of Berador honor and respect the Fireaxe clan for their useful contributions to the needs of the neighborhood as well as the dwarfs' honesty and loyalty.

The Carnival

Ulfgar's head jerks up from his work at the sounds of cheering and children yelling outside. Sweat pours off of his forehead and dribbles off the end of his bulbous nose. He drops his massive smith's hammer onto a nearby work bench, and tosses a red-hot horseshoe into the quenching bucket. His one good eye squints behind his monocle, and the puckered flesh around his missing left eye twitches. He strokes his luxurious gray-brown beard from chin to mid chest.

He ambles over to a window and pulls aside the heavy leather curtain. A train of brightly colored wagons rolls into town from the west. A great red boxy wagon pulled by four draft horses rumbles over the wooden bridge across the Wash to settle on the village green. A green wagon follows closely behind along with a yellow one, a blue and more. Children scream in delight, and dogs yelp, as they all chase the Traveling Carnival into town. Even men and women, some of the town pouring from their houses and their shops, and some following on horseback or ox-drawn cart, call excitedly as the Carnival comes to a halt at its customary place.

Ulfgar quickly, but reservedly, discards his thick work gloves and heavy leather apron. He splashes some water on his face from the washing basin, doing his best to clean away the sweat and soot. He pulls on a respectable-looking overcoat and exchanges his work boots for a cleaner pair of soft doeskin. He brushes out his beard and long hair. Finally, he attaches the chain from his monocle to his overcoat and deposits the looking glass into his breast pocket. With the chain exposed and wearing his fine coat he knows he exhibits the proper level of elegance, but his massive arms and wild beard speak of strength. Maintaining necessary appearances is essential to commanding respect.

Ulfgar makes his way out to the Carnival.

The Brother

Ulfgar strides hurriedly but maintains his dignity. He nods politely to those he passes and waves to a well-regarded acquaintance here and there. People step aside as he nears his destination, making way for an esteemed elder on an important mission.

Ulfgar marches to one of the larger, and certainly less colorful, wagons. The great brown and green box hulks mightily behind a team of eight great oxen. The portside wall is split open horizontally, providing both an awning to shade shoppers and a countertop from which the proprietor can do business. The proprietor looks up from his work as Ulfgar approaches. His work instantly forgotten, he bellows, "Ulfgar, brother! Greetings and Moradin's blessings on you."

Ulfgar strides over to his brother and extends his right hand. They each grip the other's forearm in the traditional dwarfs' greeting. "It is good to see you, Jalkar," Ulfgar. "Moradin is kind to see you through your journeys." As quick as that the brothers, who have not seen each other in nearly a year, return to business. Jalkar tends to his customers' needs, and Ulfgar pitches in, fetching goods and evaluating trades offered by the villagers.

The Trade

As the afternoon sun dips behind the trees to the west the press of villagers at the Carnival begins to thin. Most of the important trades have been completed and people make their way to the side shows and games. For the next two weeks or so the wagons of the Traveling Carnival will spill forth with laughter and tales and foreign foods and drinks. Some people may come along to buy a new pot or a bolt of silk, but nearly all of the trading ends the first day of arrival.

Even the big trades will close before dawn. Ulfgar and Jalkar discuss matters for some time, dithering over the value of this item and that, but they quickly come to agree on the task at hand. Ulfgar sends his son Bracken back to the Fireaxe compound with thorough instructions. Jalkar's son Rurik leaves to make the rounds to the other wagons.

As the bonfire blazes near the Maypole, and the villagers 'ooh' and 'ah' at the latest extravaganza from the Strake Brothers Spectacle and Variety Show, the Fireaxe brothers meet with merchants from far and wide in the privacy of Jalkar's great wagon. Bracken and others of the Fireaxe clan have led a team of mules with a couple of carts over from the Fireaxe compound to Uncle Jalkar's wagon. Meanwhile, Rurik has brought together the chief merchants and traders in the Carnival to talk business with Ulfgar.

By midnight deals are struck and goods exchanged. Ulfgar offers ground meal and flour from the Fireaxe mill, worked steel and iron goods from the Fireaxe forge and other crafted goods from the Fireaxe compound. The Traveling Carnival will leave behind a great many luxuries and necessaries that the Fireaxe clan will have for their own use and for trade through the winter months with other villagers. Ulfgar knows that he will have items to offer to the needy and for the good of the community in later months. Respectability and honor both come with a price. And it's a price Ulfgar is willing to pay for the good of the clan.

NPC Spotlight: Vardigas Asmos

Vardigas Asmos, an ancient half-elf seer and wise man, gives his advice to all who would seek his wisdom. He helps with birthings and tends to the sick. He putters about the village and to the nearer farmsteads when he feels up to it. When people far from town need his services he will take a ride with Jadestar or some other who will take him. He has lived a long time among the people of Berador and his time with them may soon run out.

Study the Stars

Vardigas looks from his seeing glass to the ancient journal and back to his seeing glass. He stares long and hard through the tube at the brilliant white stars in the night sky. He pans the telescope to the moon and again consults the journal. A quick calculation in his head and he draws the glass lens back to the right. He mumbles unintelligibly to himself and squints in the near darkness as he scribbles a note in the margin of the journal.

He closes the book and puts it into the top drawer of his workbench. He takes the lens caps from the clutter on the bench and carefully places them on each end of the telescope which he then folds closed. Standing, he totters across his laboratory towards the stairs and the lone torch that provides a dim light far from his work area. He always works better in the dark. He sees the stars better in the dark.

He takes the torch in his wrinkled and age-spotted hand and begins the arduous trek down the twenty seven steps of his tower. He calls it a tower. Everyone else sees a prominent and unconventional steeple on one end of his home, but Vardigas calls it a tower. A proper seer needs a tower. All the ancient books say so.

The town folk love the gray-eyed, gray-haired old man, but they pity him as well. His delusions of grandeur grow with his ears and nose as the years pass. His robe falls to ruin until someone brings him a new one. His long gray hair hangs in knots, but he never stops his studies or his research except to tend to the needs of the people. A true wise man tends to the needs of his people. All the ancient books say so.

The Omen

Many years ago, when Vardigas felt his age less and moved about more, he tended to a birth far out from the village. In the dead of winter, under the brightest full moon he had ever seen, a child came squalling defiance into the world. As the child drew its first breath the moon began to grow dark. As the child screamed its fear and frustration the shadow of the world took a great bite out of the moon. As the minutes passed the child shrieked its power and glory, the moon vanished from the sky, and the world grew truly dark. In that darkness the child stilled and softened and grew quiet and slept.

Since that dark night Vardigas has spent every spare moment and copper coin he could scrounge buying and reading books on astronomy and omens and signs. Every spring and fall he buys all he can find from the Traveling Carnivals. Every season he watches the sky for new signs. He spends sleepless nights studying the movements of the planets and the stars.

Over the years he has learned a bit about the dark moon child. The child is nothing special, only a sign of times to come. The times will be light or dark and the child will reflect those times. Vardigas watches the child closely and keeps his secrets to himself. He wouldn't have any harm done to the child. Who knows how the less educated and less wise would take these signs and omens? A true seer reads the signs and prepares, but does not interfere. All the ancient books say so.

A Brief History of Everything

Legends, myth and history come of an interesting weave of tales, written accounts and songs of heroes long gone. Some things everyone knows; and some things everyone believes; and some things everyone hears, but no one quite understands. These tales make up the history of Greyshad.

Before the World

Eons ago the Primordials ruled all. The World did not exist and the Primordials controlled the fabric of existence. For reasons unknown and surely beyond the comprehension of mortal beings, the Primordials formed the Gods, divine beings of pure energy and the World, a place of matter and substance. The Primordials influence over the World caused mountains to rise and fall. Waters appeared and flowed over the face of the World. Lakes of fire and storms of unimaginable fury battled in the World.

The Gods, curious beings, watched as their progenitors created and destroyed at a whim. As the World twisted and turned, grew and fell asunder by the will of the Primordials, the Gods sought to duplicate their forebears' efforts. The Gods tried to manipulate the matter of the World, and in a flash of divine energy and primal matter Life began.

The Gods stared in awe at the beings they had made. Strange, wondrous and terrifying, the many forms of Life wandered the face of the World and explored and lived and died. The Primordials, indifferent to the Life the Gods had created, continued to make, remake and unmake the World. Their every move destroyed the Life the Gods had fashioned until it all faded from existence.

The Gods moved again to partake in the wonder of Creation. Again their influence caused Life to spring into being when their holy essence combined with the matter of the World. Again the Life of the Gods perished under the uncaring power of the Primordials.

As Life faded from the World the Gods turned to the Primordials and pleaded with them to stop their capricious making and unmaking that destroyed the Life the Gods had created. The Primordials, unconcerned with the Gods' needs continued to make and unmake the World.

Before the last of Life vanished from the World the Gods banded together and brought War upon the Primordials. They used their divine energy to destroy the pure matter of the Primordials. The Gods called upon the Life they had created, and it fought in the battle against the ancient beings of eternity. Gods perished, Primordials faded and Life died. The Primordials created Life of their own: great beings of pure elemental power, the Titans and the lesser Giants, to battle Life on the face of the World as the Primordials battled the Gods in the Astral space and the Elemental Chaos that grew around the World.

The wars lasted for time unimaginable, and in the end the Gods prevailed. All of the Primordials were destroyed or banished to some lost realm or imprisoned in the Elemental Chaos. Titans fled the World leaving the Giants behind, and the battles between the Life the Gods created and the Giants the Primordials crafted continue to this day.

Unknown to the Gods and the Primordials, as their war raged, the World bent and twisted under the pressure of their struggle. Warped and twisted reflections of the World appeared over time. At war's end the Gods discovered new realms. The Shadowfell, a dark and twisted reflection of the World, waits for the souls of the Life when it fades from the World. And the Feywild, a magical and wondrous, but no less twisted, reflection of the World, hosts a fascinating Life of its own.

And now these three Worlds exist side by side, ever torn by the struggles between the pure matter of the Elemental Chaos below and the pure energy of the Astral Sea above. The Gods still look down on the World and sometimes show favor to the Life they created. But rarely do they interfere directly with events there.

The Traveling Carnival (part one)

The Traveling Carnivals arrive unscheduled but not unannounced in Berador two or more times a year. One arrives in spring before the May Day celebration and another after the Fall Equinox, but long before the biting chill of winter. The summer Carnivals are less reliable; some years as many as three may roll through town and other years there may be none at all.

First Sighting

Onnys Timmons, called Oni by his friends, sits atop the family house basking in the early spring sun. After a long and cold winter he couldn't wait to get outside and enjoy the warmer days. Well before noon, but later in the morning, he has finished some of his chores and takes what he believes a well-earned rest.

As he sits listening to birds chirp in the new season he spots a wagon rumbling beyond the pecan orchard down the Road. It slips in and out behind trees playing peek-a-boo with the boy. Oni scrambles to his feet and catches a glimpse of another wagon. And another.

"Mama! Papa!" he cries out as he scuttles to the edge of the roof heedless of any danger. He swings his legs out, flips over to his stomach and shimmies off the roof and down a banister on the front porch. A middle-aged woman wearing an apron and carrying a wooden spoon dripping with batter meets him at the door.

"What's the fuss, Onnys Timmons?" she asks.

The boy, breathless from exertion and with excitement let's out in a rush, "The Carnival's come, Mama; I seen 'em coming down by the pecans! I'm gonna race with 'em to town. Get Gale and Ry. Quick, Mama, hurry, before they leave us!"

"Gale! Ryness! You kids come out here with your brother. The Carnival's come to town."

With hurried instructions, Mama hands over some silver stars and copper pennies to the three kids. They will follow the Carnival in to town and be in line early to get the things Mama needs. And they'll each have five copper pennies to spend as they see fit.

to be continued

NPC Spotlight: Jadestar Kaldoran

Jadestar Kaladoran, one of a handful of dragonborn in the area, is the closest thing Berador has to a sheriff or other law enforcement type. She wanders the area, sometimes on foot, sometimes mounted on her griffin and sometimes on a massive dire boar, but always alert. The villagers respect and appreciate her efforts and see to it that she and her mounts have proper food, shelter and care as needed.

The Watch

Jade pulls on the reins, not unkindly, and calls out, "Down, Chalgra." The massive beast leans to the right and begins a long circular descent, wings beating with a great whoosh every few seconds as it glides downward. Jade's excellent night vision may prove useful again. She spotted some movement and the tell tale glint of metal in the pale moonlight far below, and she must investigate. She doesn't normally patrol the area at night, but sometimes she likes a change of pace. And it's an absolute thrill to give in to Chalgra and let the griffin rush through the night air on the hunt. Even the sudden jolt of impact when the great bird strikes a deer or wild cat gives Jade a rush. Jade was born for this.

As she nears the ground Jade spots three man shapes leading a handful of cattle through the trees. She doesn't even try to sneak up on them. Chalgra is not the most stealthy of beasts and Jade would never reach them on foot unheard in her plate armor battle dress. Besides, subtle never was her style.

Tying the reins off on the saddle horn, Jade hefts her shield up into position and draws the massive bastard sword she wields one handed. She guides Chalgra in with her knees and softly called commands, approaching the poachers from behind. She waits for them to clear the copse of trees and get into the open ground. A few feet from the ground and some thirty yards behind them she calls a guttural battle prayer to Kord and Chalgra adds his screaming voice to the charge.

The Hunt

The seven cows break in seven different directions bellowing at the death come among them as the would-be-thieves scream in terror and drop to the ground. Several hundred pounds of griffin and dragonborn hurl just over their heads and dig furrows in the earth scant feet beyond. The griffin's claws rip at the ground as the beast turns back on the prey. Jade calls a command to the great bird, and it halts its charge its beak mere inches from the head of the nearest miscreant.

"Do not move and you may live to see the dawn," Jade speaks quietly and with the quiet command of one who is used to having her orders obeyed.

The men tremble in the dirt and alternately mumble prayers and beg for mercy. Jade dismounts and jerks open the face guard on her steel helm. Her eyes shine brightly in the moonlight, but the rest of her face is hidden in shadow. Chalgra steps back from the prey and surveys the three, all within easy reach of his deadly sharp and deadly quick beak and claws.

"Now, stand slowly and show me your hands," Jade instructs her charges. "Don't make any sudden moves. You'll spook Chalgra, and I won't be held responsible for what he does to you if you spook him." There's a hint of laughter in her voice as she gets a clearer view of who she has captured.

"Aw, Jade, do we really have to go through all this," the closest man whines as he gets to his knees. His hair is a greasy brown mop above a broken nose and two pig eyes. "Just take us in."

The Interrogation

"Shut up, Raynor. I'm of a mind to send you running with Chalgra on your tail. What the hell are you doing out here?"

The three men are all on their feet and gathering in front of Jade. They all wear ragged tunics and breeches and worn out leather boots. They have the look of common laborers and ragged ne'er-do-wells rolled into one. Obviously close kin; they all have squat, rounded faces and tiny, squinting eyes. Pug noses rest above narrow mouths with thin wormy lips. Well, except for Raynor's which has been broken half a dozen times.

The fellow on the left, a bit taller than the other two, answers Jade, "Well, it's been awhile since we had some beef steak. So, well, you know, we thought maybe we'd help ourselves to a bit o' this here."

"Dallin, you're as stupid as you are ugly. What were you going to do with seven cows? You couldn't butcher them all and store the meat. And you got nowhere to keep them. What were you thinking?"

"Well, we thought maybe we could sell them as we didn't eat right away," he replies.

Jade laughs quietly. "Yeah, I can just see you walking them in to town and offering them up to the highest bidder. You don't think anyone would notice Greyski's brand on them, do you?"

Glances pass between the three brothers, and looks of consternation come over their faces.

A hot, red spray washes over Jadestar's face as the wicked point of a broad head arrow explodes from Raynor's throat.

The Battle

"Get down!" she shouts as she leaps backwards, turning to her mount. The griffin is already on the move and as Jade's foot touches the stirrup she swings instantly into the saddle and Chalgra takes to the air. The two remaining thieves drop face first in the dirt again as massive wings beat the air a few feet above them.

"Find them, Chalgra; kill them all," Jade commands her mount, and the griffin answers with a shrill cry. Head panning left and right, eyes darting ahead both Jade and Chalgra search the tree line beyond. Jade spots a glint of moonlight on metal, but not before the griffin has already turned and begun a headlong charge towards the nearest goblin.

The massive talons shred into the shoulder and neck of the creature, nearly ripping its head from its body. Chalgra drags the poor creature from the ground and drops it from a height of some twenty feet. He turns in a tight circle, chasing after the others.

They are in a tight group of about a dozen. They clutch spears, clubs and swords. One struggles to reload a great crossbow. Chalgra bears down on them again, crying out his fury. The shock of the blow sends a thrill up Jadestar's spine as the griffin strikes down another goblin. A couple of thrown spears clatter harmlessly off of Jade's armor, and she dives into the panicked goblins shield forward. The goblin's face and skull shatter under the force of the shield and Jade collapses in a heap on top of her now dead foe.

She lumbers to her feet as three of the braver, or stupider, goblins make their way towards her. The battle is over before it even begins. With surprising grace for one encased in metal from head to toe, Jadestar thrusts and sweeps with her great bastard sword and in a matter of seconds three goblins are dead at her feet; one without its head.

The other goblins flee and Chalgra pursues, ripping them down one by one.

The Rescue

Jade makes her way back towards the brothers Salmon. Raynor is surely dead, but Dallin and Densin will still need tending to. She arrives to find them still in the dirt, but having inched over to their dead brother. They are arguing between themselves about what to do as Jade approaches. Dallin wants to run, while Densin thinks they should stay put.

"I told you you're stupider than you look, Dallin. Listen to your brother," Jade says to him as she steps up to them.

"I was just, well, ah," Dallin stammers.

"Shut up and come with me. We'll need to put a litter together for your brother and you two are going to drag him back to town."

She oversees the two of them as they pull together limbs for a litter and load their brother on it. Chalgra returns and Jade mounts up. She motions for them to move out and positions herself behind them. It's going to be a long night. Her patrol would have had her home by midnight. Now it'll be after dawn before these boys can drag their burden back to town. Well, there's nothing to it. She has to deal with them. It's her duty. Berador is her territory and she will watch over it always.

NPC Spotlight: Caer Branloth

Caer Branloth, the elder matron and leader of the Branloth family, has earned the respect of the Berador community over the years. The Tieflings of the Branloth manor have long held a great deal of influence in the area owing mainly to their wealth. Lady Caer's wisdom and resourcefulness have proved her particular value to the locals as she has dealt directly with numerous problems in the past.

Calculation . . . Correction

Lady Caer checks her look in the hand mirror and approves. With her blue-black hair pulled back in a tight ponytail and her makeup accentuating the angular lines of her jawbone and the slight tilt to her eyes she has the desired imperious look of the disciplinarian. Her eyes glow with the hint of red-orange embers in deep black coal. The ebony spiral horns above her forehead reflect the candlelight, splintering it into dozens of points of light.

She lays the mirror on the desk among the papers and sundries and looks to the dark oak door across the way. Without rising from her soft leather chair she waves her hand dismissively. The door creaks open. "Come!" she calls; it is clearly a command, not a request.

A tall, dark-haired man pads into the room cautiously as if afraid to disturb its occupant. He has eyes of ebony. The tiny nubs of his horns emphasize his long, angular face. The family resemblance is unmistakable; the man is Lady Caer's close relative, likely a direct descendent. The Tiefling's sharp tail slashes left and right behind him in agitation as he approaches Lady Caer's desk. He drops to one knee, bows his head and waits in silence. The door closes silently behind him.

"Rise, Glathro, and report," Lady Caer sounds almost bored.

Glathro Branloth stands, clears his throat once and straightens the lapels of his tailored overcoat.

"Yes, well, the goblins will no longer trouble Bull Emmet's homestead. During the last attack I managed to sneak in behind them, and I grabbed one of the lieutenants. After some, ah, persuasion, he gave me the full particulars of what they were doing. Using that information I managed to track down and approach the war party leader."

Lady Caer leans forward one elbow, clearly interested, but trying not to show it on her placid face, "And? What did he have to say?"

"He told me who paid him to make the raids. He told me that he would destroy the Emmet farmstead and holdings. When they finish their work the goblins will return to the hills, and we will never hear from them again."

"You offered him payment to stop the raids immediately?"

"Of course I did; and exactly as you predicted he refused. When I told him who offered the payment he called his lieutenants together and they immediately began to strike camp. I watched the rear guard leave before I returned."

"So, what have you not told me? Who paid him to make the raids?"

"Lady Caer, we agreed, no you insisted, that I would not reveal that information to anyone, including you. 'Take it to your grave,' you said. And I intend to."

"Excellent," Lady Caer purrs and smiles lazily. "You're dismissed, Glathro. Thank you."

Glathro turns towards the door. His grandmother, Lady Caer, rises behind him and lifts a black metal rod from the desk. Glathro hears the soft mumbling as Lady Caer calls on the power of the rod. He leaps to his left, hoping to tumble away from the deadly blast. He is not nearly fast enough. Black tendrils of fiendish energy spring from the Nine Hells through the rod in Lady Caer's hand and strike the young Tiefling in the back. His muscles convulse, and he stands frozen in motion for an instant and then he crumples lifeless to the floor. Faint wisps of acrid smoke rise from his ruined form.

Lady Caer puts the rod back onto the desk. Lifts the mirror and examines her features again. A bead of blood runs from her nose, and she wipes it away with a tissue from the box on her desk. She motions to the door and it opens again.

"Claudius, could you come please dispose of this mess in here? And bring in some flowers from the garden. The odor in here is . . . irksome."

Into the Wild: What Terror This?

The Wild hosts many strange and fabulous creatures, many of them dangerous. Strange beasts, inhuman wildlings, faeries from a wondrous realm and death from the shadows each call different parts of the Wild home. To journey beyond the bounds of civilization is either very brave or very foolish . . . which often depends upon the success of the journey.

As extraordinary and bizarre as some creatures of the wild may be, one of the most horrible is all too familiar and yet terrifyingly different . . .

The Reavers

For the last several generations journeys between the towns and villages of men has become more dangerous and less sure. As the Wild encroaches upon the civilized lands the terrors of goblins and wild beasts, giants and faeries have grown. A more recent and wholly more disturbing danger comes not from some monster from the other side or a demon from the deep but from men gone mad with bloodlust.

The grandfathers among men and any full grown elf or dwarf will tell of times when the Reavers didn't harry men's travels. Approximately seventy years ago, as the roads became more dangerous and people less traveled, a sudden terror struck from the Wild without warning. Caravans and rangers, families and soldiers all fell victim to the terror of the Reavers. Any who would travel the vast distances between Berador and Roth must travel in force or face the certain torture and eventual death at the hands of the almost human killers.

Over the years people have learned to avoid them . . . usually. The Reavers strike only in certain areas of the land, at times that can almost be predicted, and only against unarmed or small troops. Their crimes against their victims are beyond imaging. Rape, torture and cannibalism merely begin to catalog their atrocities.

No one knows where they come from or why. Their victims do not live to speak of them and no one escapes them once attacked. They never surrender in battle nor do they retreat. The few that have been taken unconscious from the battlefield soon kill themselves in captivity.

They are a real live bogeyman come to haunt the traces between the civilized lands of men . . . and they wait for the unwary travelers between the cities.

NPC Spotlight: Serra Bennigan

Serra rises from the saddle, standing in the stirrups, and stretches her left hand across her forehead shading her eyes from the red glare of the afternoon sun as it sets far down the road. Her right hand brushes the pommel of the sword at her waist, and she considers her situation. With only two hours until full dark she'll never make it to a suitable campsite before nightfall. With no cover in any direction nearby she knows she can't stay here. She glances over her shoulder, looks down the Road behind her and scowls.

Short cut, dirty blonde hair peeks out in several spots from under Serra's beat up, wide-brimmed leather hat. Squinting, her pale green eyes peer out over a nose too large and a wide mouth given to deep frowns and few smiles. Serra is tall for a woman and a bit too muscular for many men's tastes. She doesn't consider men's tastes to be particularly important at the moment. She wears her riding leathers and mail with the ease and comfort of long use.

Serra jerks the reigns, and her massive black warhorse turns with a belligerent snort. She's not likely to outrun any danger riding Nightbreaker, but the first hostile that approaches will end up a red, wet smear beneath the beast's iron shod feet. Not that Serra will have time to celebrate or even consider her foe's fate; any serious danger she faces out here in the Wild will come in screaming packs and will likely overwhelm her. She briefly reflects on the wisdom of bringing Nightbreaker on her patrol run. Maybe a faster, less combative horse would suit her better in the future. As she turns towards the dubious shelter of the Greywood far behind she hopes she gets the chance to test that theory.

Patrol Gone Bad

The problem started two days ago . . . or ten days ago . . . or maybe it was five years ago. It all depends on how you look at it.

Ten days ago it was Serra's turn to make the run from Berador up to Dalton's Camp. It's a simple patrol: five days on the Road; three days resting and getting a feel for Dalton; five days to ride back home. For years out of memory the Greywood Wardens have patrolled the Road and the Wash, watching for signs of trouble and helping travelers in need. Sometimes they find trouble and deal with it. Sometimes they find travelers they can help. Sometimes they don't make it home.

Serra Bennigan joined the Wardens five years ago. Goblins raided her family's farm while she and her father tended to business in Berador. The vile creatures slaughtered the men and the elderly and took the women and children for slaves. When her father disappeared a week later on a counter raid into goblin territory Serra found herself alone for the first time in her life. The Greywood Wardens took Serra in and gave her a purpose in life.

Since that time she has served the civilized peoples around Berador faithfully and quietly as is the Wardens' way. When it came her time to run up to Dalton's Camp she thought nothing of it. She had made this trip, and others, dozens of times over the years. So, she packed and loaded her gear, mounted up on Nightbreaker, and headed out to see what the news would be this month.

The trip up to Berador was uneventful. She kept an easy pace and stayed overnight at the rangers' campgrounds between the two villages. On her fourth night out she met with a dwarf family out from Dalton's Camp making the trek to Berador. They had it their minds to visit the halfling camps at Berador and maybe to take a trip down to the Palantir if their coin held out. Serra passed the evening in their company swapping stories.

The Trouble

Serra found Dalton's Camp the same as always. Filthy, sweaty miners mingled with whores and peddlers and haggled over the value of beer, ore and a night in the sack. There had been no notable trouble of late, and the regular ore shipments for the month would leave town as scheduled. It was around noon on the second day out from Dalton when she sighted the crows.

A great cloud of black birds circled and dived some distance south of the Road. They couldn't be more than a mile away, and Serra set out to investigate.

to be continued . . .

Into The Wild: Unfriendly Neighbors

Beyond the bounds of the village and its outlying farms the Wild beckons with tales of forgotten treasures, fearsome foes and fame and glory for those brave enough or foolhardy enough to face the challenges. Some few travelers may journey from Berador to the nearby towns and villages or even far beyond to the great city of Roth, but they stay to the roads and well known paths, and even then they must beware of great dangers. But for those willing to take even greater risks adventure waits off the beaten paths in the forests and hills and mountains of the land. The lucky few will return from their exploits with wealth and tales and glory . . . most will never return at all.

Unfriendly Neighbors

Some dangers come easy to the mind. Goblins and their kin infest the foothills of the White Mist Mountains all about Berador. They fear to tread in the immediate environs of civilized lands, but woe to the unprepared who wanders too far from the shelter of town or village. Sometimes even the outlying farms will fall victim to goblin raiding parties, warg hunts or hobgoblin pillagers. Mostly the goblins stick to their own lands and avoid stirring up too mischief among the villagers, but they will not hesitate to capture, kill or steal from any who wander from the road or take their rest out of doors at night.

Recent rumors speak of a gnoll enclave that lies not too far north of Berador. It has been many years since the gnolls attacked the villages of men, but recent tales of assaults on the Road and the Wash speak to a potential danger that people cannot ignore. Should the gnolls rearm themselves and decide to attack the civilized lands Berador seems a likely starting point. Any who would wander north should be prepared to contend with these bestial creatures.

Farther afield, but still in the neighborhood, lies the dreary wood of the Silverine Forest. Hundreds of years ago the elves fled a terror in the wood. None would speak its name, and tales diverge wildly regarding its nature. They speak in turn of a demon lord or a fairy prince or a foul beast from the heart of the earth. All of the stories agree on one thing: the elves abandoned their mighty towers in the Silverine Forest and have never returned. What force could drive an entire nation from its haven? What wonders did the elves leave behind in their haste?

NPC Spotlight: Gerry Woodcote

Gerry Woodcote is the local holy man. He follows the tenets of Pelor, but acknowledges the power and significance of all of the major deities. He makes rounds of the village and the outlying farms on a regular basis tending to the spiritual needs of the region. He leads regular services for all of the major holy days as well as tending to weddings and funerals in the region.

Good Morning

A bright yellow beam creeps across the dusty wood plank floor, gradually making its way to the misshapen lump of a brightly striped and multi-colored quilt covering the bed on the far side of the room. The beam lights on the smooth and kindly face of a peacefully sleeping man. Brow furrows and eyelids flutter, but only for a moment before the bright blue eyes flash open to greet another day.

Sitting up Gerry casually brushes his fingers through his shoulder length and board straight sandy blonde hair. He splashes a bit of water on his face to wipe the sleep from his eyes, drops his night robe in a heap at the foot of the bed and moves to the wardrobe.

He takes his time choosing his dress for the day. He selects a finely tailored, bright white tunic with a bit of embroidery on the breast. As he pulls it over his head, the bright yellow sun resting over his heart, the blouse swallows his thin frame. He tucks the long tails of the tunic into a pair of doeskin trousers. A heavy brown cord tightly cinched at the waist accentuates his lithe build. A pair of brown leather boots laced to mid calf completes his outfit.

Gerry Woodcote, servant of Pelor and all of the gods, is ready to face the day . . . and the ladies.

NPC Spotlight: Tamil "Tam" Rivers

Tamil Rivers is the owner and operator of the Maple House, Berador's only public ale house and rooms for rent. The villagers and farmers from nearby frequent Tamil's place to trade gossip and tales, slake their thirst on a hot summer day and to discuss important "town business." This last item occurs rather rarely.

Where Everybody Knows Your Name

The afternoon sun beams into the common room of the Maple House through the two large windows flanking the stout oak door, providing the only light in the otherwise dim drinking hall. Motes of dust sparkle and swirl in the sunlight as the door swings inward to admit a slim fellow in clean, well-kept tunic and trousers.

"Gerry!" several of the patrons call out in a delighted chorus, and the newcomer's sharp blue eyes and easy smile brighten the dusky room just a little more. The heavy door thuds closed as Gerry makes his way to a bench near the bar. Two roughly dressed and somewhat dirty field hands scramble to make room for him, and a blonde beauty with laughing green eyes plunks a mug of maple beer down as Gerry takes his seat.

The general buzz of the place, briefly interrupted by the priest's arrival, resumes as ten different conversations pick up where they left off. Gerry sips his beer and listens politely as the sweaty field hand on his left complains of the drudgery of digging potatoes and the mess of dirt under his fingernails and the heat of the late summer sun.

The Proprietor

"Heat?" a well-known voice calls out with a hint of laughter and more than a hint of bravado. "You don't know the first thing about heat, Kerry Wakefield!" the voice growls and grows in volume as its owner moves from behind the bar.

Tamil "Tam" Rivers deposits an empty beer mug on the bar and tosses his gleaming white towel over his shoulder where it rests as he shuffles out towards Gerry's table. Tam is a bear of a man, fully six feet four inches tall, barrel-chested and a bit round in the belly. The streaks of gray in his shaggy brown mane and thick brown beard tell the true tale of his age. He wears a white apron over his workman's coveralls. As he shambles to his spot the room grows quiet in anticipation of the tale. Everyone can see he's favoring his left leg a bit more than usual. Everyone in the joint recognizes the walk; Tam's going to tell the Dragon story again.

The Dragon Tale

Tam jerks his bone pipe from between his teeth and tosses it on the table. He takes a pull from the heavy clay jar sitting on the table and drops it back in its place. His right eyelid flickers and his eye looks a bit damp as he clears his throat and inhales the hot, sweet flavor of the whiskey. "Seems when I was your age, Kerry, I felt a bit o' the heat myself," Tam grumbles. He's just loud enough to be heard throughout the room and quiet enough to draw his audience to him. They've all heard the story a hundred times before, but Tam's quite the entertainer, and he knows well the power of his voice.

"Aye, was 'long about thirty five, maybe forty years ago when I had a mind to see the world. 'Venturin' they called it. Well, I had me a ‘venture or two." Everyone leans in, listening intently, sipping their drinks and paying well for the refills as the blonde hostess makes her rounds. Tam tells the tale well, and everyone is rightly impressed with size and majesty of the beast. They imagine they can feel the heat of its breath themselves as it barrels over them, fangs dripping flaming death. As the hero lands his crashing axe blow to the serpentine neck of the monster the crowd cheers.

The Reason

Tam's eyes lighten. He smiles knowingly, nods to a nearby patron and winks at one of the pretty young ladies in the crowd. He appreciates a good audience when he tells his tale. And he loves it when they spend their money on his fine maple beer.

Starting Small

While getting ready to start up my own D&D 4th edition campaign I came across James Wyatt's Dungeoncraft article. I liked it. So, I'm stealing some of his ideas.

Berador

Introduction

Nestled on the western side of the White Mist Mountains just north of the Palantir River, Berador is a small farming village populated mostly by humans. A smattering of all of the common races of the world call Berador home. The people of Berador eke out a meager existence among the shattered ruins of a once great but nigh forgotten kingdom. The farmers live hard, mean lives struggling to feed themselves and hold back a bit each autumn to see themselves through the winter. The lucky few manage to squeeze a bit of surplus out of the land to trade with the brave souls of the Traveling Carnivals that make the rounds every season or so.

Beradorans have little love for change or surprise. It is hard enough to feed a family and survive the winter while dealing with the vagaries of weather and the common pests of the lands. Anything that upsets the natural order of life is at the least regarded as untrustworthy and usually is considered dangerous. Outsiders should not expect a warm welcome or a kind word in Berador.

The Neighborhood

Berador is a clear patch of farmland scraped out of the forested hills of the White Mist Mountains. It lies at the intersection of an ancient road and the Blue Wash. The Blue Wash flows out of the Silverine Forest far to the north and southward into the great Palantir River. The Road, as the villagers call it, runs from the mining town of Dalton some days northeast and goes as far as the great city of Roth to the southwest. Other villages and towns dot the countryside, none closer than several days’ ride along the Road or a similar distance up or down the Blue Wash.

The Village

The village proper consists of a handful of houses and the businesses of the local tradesmen encircled by a crude wooden palisade. A great millhouse straddles the Blue Wash on the north side of town. The southern edge of the village abuts a tiny lake formed by a natural dam in the ‘Wash. The Road bisects the town from east to west. No gates protect the entrances to the village at the Road. In times of need the people roll wagons into the road to close up the openings in their wall.

A tiny temple dedicated to [the locally acknowledged gods] sits in the center of the village. Gerry Woodcote leads local religious services including weddings, funerals, and annual festivals and holidays. The people of Berador are not particularly religious, but they do acknowledge the power of the gods. They make the expected offerings and perform the appropriate rites to avoid any undue wrath of the gods. The people of Berador look to Gerry as a counselor and advisor as well as spiritual leader.

The Maple House serves as a public gathering place and the local watering hole. Tamil Rivers, the proprietor, maintains a handful of rooms for the rare traveler or the local farmer caught in town by the dark. The people of Berador hold Tamil in high regard for his personal wealth, renowned prowess and worldly knowledge. Tamil traveled the lands as a lad, and as he will tell all and sundry given the time and a bit of beer in his belly, he once slew a dragon in the Craggy Pass a way west of Old Oshland. While he holds no official position of authority in the village, Tamil’s opinion is much sought after and his approval is a must for any significant decision.

The Farms

Beyond the pitiful protection of the palisade dozens of farms dot the countryside. The family farms grow over time as weddings and births increase the mouths to feed and the hands available to work. Most households span several generations and include several adult siblings and their spouses and children. The most common wedding gift in the region is the key to a new bedroom added on to the family home. On occasion a very large household will split into two or more nearby dwellings as the logistics of managing more than two dozen or so people in a single house becomes unmanageable. Very rare is the “loner” couple who leaves the family home to start a new farmstead without at least two or more adults or near grown children to help carry the load.

The Goods

The people of Berador survive on their own with little trade necessary between the village and outsiders. The farmsteads of the village provide the necessities of food, clothing and shelter. Trout from the Blue Wash and catfish from Lake Callie supplement the cattle, grains and greens from the farms. Most families provide for their own needs, but some minor crafted and manufactured goods come from the village craftsmen including a blacksmith, cobbler, tailor, miller and baker. The seasonal arrival of the Traveling Carnivals brings limited metal goods and exotic fare to the village in exchange for furs, foodstuffs and forest goods.

The People

Humans comprise the vast majority of the farmers and villagers of Berador. From the grizzled veteran Tamil Rivers and the village priest Gerry Woodcote to the farmers in the farthest outlying homesteads, most of the people in Berador are human. Twenty or so dwarfs, all of the Fireaxe clan, live inside the village proper and fill several craft roles in the village. They own the smith and mill. Another clan, the Stonejaws, holds a large farmstead several miles from the village. The Stonejaws raise goats and sheep. Berador’s tailor is an elf by the name of Gemini Starseer. He and his wife make their residence in town with their children. No other elves live inside the palisade. Three enclaves of elves live in the forests around the village. They trade their woodland wares with the rest of the village and are accepted as integral members of the community. A single halfling troop lives on the south bank of Lake Callie. They live in a chaotic mix of burrows in the higher hills, houses on stilts, mobile wagon homes and raft houses that ply the river north and south of town. For the most part they are fishermen, but some make a living providing travel and cartage services on the river and on the Road. Many more halflings come and go with the Traveling Carnivals.