* * Hello, how doo. It's been a while since I posted something here, but I have a few things in need of feedback. It's important for me to say that these are not stories, not at the moment...They're a sort of, fact file, about the world of 'Kismet' which I've been taking the time to flesh out before I begin writing its stories. With that in mind, these aren't the most...cohesive of pieces; they're written largely ad-hoc, and are probably full of spelling/grammatical errors the likes of which have never been seen before. Also, 'Kismet' is just a working title; I'm not sure how it sounds as a name, so feedback on that would be trés nice aussi.
TL;DR: Sorry for any mistakes, and that these aren't terribly interesting to read * *
Addendum: This will probably be the most interesting of the sections to read, as it's written in a more story-like fashion.
Heroes and Villains
Heroes
Tharadun Thunderhammer
“Standing at a diminutive four foot, three inches, you would be forgiven for thinking of this Dwarf as one of the lesser of his kind; a mistake I made the first time I met him, one he regarded with much joviality and slapping of backs: something which, in itself, marked him out as something of an exception amongst his usually stoic kin.
I was later told that this small, exceptionally cheery Dwarf was Tharadun Thunderhammer, a hero held in high regard by all of the races, and, of course, immediately made my apologies and left.
Over the course of my stay within the Deep, Dwarven capital, whose name, Ardenhaerm, translates roughly into our language as “Earth Home”, I was offered many opportunities to speak with Thunderhammer, and was able to find out a great deal about him.
Born towards the end of the War of Ascension, his childhood was, naturally, one which was rarely touched by the glow of happiness. A natural born Warrior, he immediately upon his nineteenth year signed up to fight against the humans.
Rising quickly through the ranks, Tharadun proved himself to be both and vicious and powerful warrior, and an expert tactician. After the war was over, Tharadun, honoured by the then King Ourden, sought to compete in the Trials of Malbir; the only thing he felt worthy of his abilities.
Seeking to impress the God-like figure of Dwarven legend, Tharadun sought out Forosoth Firebeard, the mighty Half-Dragon Warlord who terrorised many of the small villages around Eastern Europe.
Creeping into his home, deep within the earth, Tharadun challenged the beast to a Duel, and after an epic battle, managed to best Firebeard and disband the army of Dragon-Kin he had assembled to do his bidding.
Returning to Ardenhaerm, and to the priests of Malbir (servants to interpret the whims of the old spirit in the rock) Tharadun was distraught to find that his feat had not been noticed by the Old Dwarf, and he was not, in fact, destined for immortality.
However, a spectre appeared to Tharadun as he slept, a tall figure, standing higher than any dwarf and carrying a spear. Tharadun, believing that it was the spirit of Malbir appearing to him in a dream, remained in his half-sleep as the spectre bent over him, drawing symbols on his forehead.
When he awoke from his slumber, he was surrounded by the Priests of Malbir, who told him that they had interpreted the signs wrong, and that the old Spirit was waiting, in the chamber of ceremonies, to pass on the gift to him.
This is but one of many of the stories he told me about his life; and perhaps the one that I found most interesting: The Dwarves stories of how they gained their immortality have always been of interest to me, as it is a practice that no other race (as far as we know) can participate in.
As a side note, in reference to the “Spectre of Malbir” that appeared be fore him as he slept: I have said nothing to him, for fear of damaging his pride, but the description of a ‘Tall man, bigger than any dwarf, carrying a spear’ sounds remarkably like the elusive ‘Pixie’, a Hero that his fellow immortals speak of with near god-like reverence.
It has been my dream, since I first started documenting the ways of this world and discovered the immortals, to meet this ‘Pixie’ of whom they all speak so highly; one day.”
Shortspike – From the Diarys
“Another of the Heroes who I have found during my pleasant stay within the mighty, underground city of Ardenhaerm was an interesting character known to the locals in the district he resides as ‘Shortspike’.
The Dwarf lived over a dilapidated looking old shop located, oddly, within a residential district of the city. When I asked him why this was, he told me, simply, that he didn’t like the smell of the Merchants.
I found Shortspike to be odd; that is to say, he was very different to the rest of the Dwarves whom I met in the city. Where most of the denizens of Ardenhaerm treated me as a slightly offensive nuisance, some indeed with open hostility, and even Tharadun who had come to be a great friend over the many years we have spent together; Shortspike (whose real name, to this day, I do not know) treated me with clinical neutrality. He was good enough to answer many of my questions, although a great deal, especially those with regard to how he earned his immortality, he simply dismissed.
As it turned out, Shortspike himself was an inventor of sorts; while a practiced Mage, though of what school I do not know, for he refused to tell me, he dedicated all of his time to inventing strange, new devices.
Although one of the many questions he himself ignored, I asked those among the Dwarves who I now considered my friends how it was that Shortspike came across his moniker; according to those who were willing to indulge me, Shortspike developed a defence system for those dwarves who were excavating the network of tunnels between the major underground cities. Apparently, whilst down in the deeps, Dwarves were prone to being attacked by many of the feral beasts that inhabited the spaces under the earth; this defence mechanism, apparently, involved a number of short, retractable spikes that would pierce the flesh of any of the beasts that managed to get a hold of one of the tunnelers. Thus, their inventor was named “Shortspike” by the tunnelling Dwarves; a name he, apparently, accepted without knowing.
In my time remaining here, before I move on to visit the forests of the Elves, I shall attempt to work more answers out of Shortspike, with the help of his fellow Immortal Thunderhammer, I’m sure I’ll be able to make some headway.
…
It is my last week here, and I am already beginning to pack away the great mass of things I have accumulated here. I fear that I have failed to gleam any more details from the increasingly stonier Shortspike, and through my repeated attempts at questioning him, may not have endeared myself.
…
I leave without any more information on the reclusive Shortspike; I have made my apologies to him for my repeated attempts to ingratiate myself enough to be able to question him fully, but I leave feeling that, perhaps, I have made an enemy of the old Dwarf.”
Sharpe
“My arrival amongst the Elves was a much celebrated affair; apparently, the hauntingly beautiful creatures are much in favour of what I am doing, documenting all that I can find within the world of magic.
I was greeted, as I arrived, by possibly the most beautiful woman I have ever had the pleasure to meet. She told me, upon shaking her gentle hand (a custom that is not present in either the Dwarven, or Elvin culture, which she must have picked up amongst us humans), that she was one of those exceptionally rare Elvin Heroes and that her name was, simply, Sharpe.
I have enjoyed my time spent in conversation with Sharpe; a woman who, as her name would suggest, is exceptionally intelligent. According to her, however, it was not her intelligence that earned her the name which she now uses.
Entranced as I was by her beauty, I managed to retain enough sense to pay attention to the stories she told me, many of which revolved around her early life, spent hunting the evil creatures that took up residence within the forests where she and her tribe called home.
I found it hard to believe, at first, the tales she told me; I am not a sexist man, as many of my peers are, but I found it hard to believe that a creature of such grace and finesse would be capable of the acts of brutality and violence she described to me. After a few months of her tales, I brought this up sheepishly, feeling myself a fool for doing so: I, of course, knew that the elves fine forms and extraordinary beauty belayed a great strength and speed, and wondered if I was not right in my mind for believing otherwise in the case of Sharpe.
She acquitted my foolishness with a simple demonstration of her combat prowess; the Elves, who have a surprisingly deep warrior culture, often hold trials-by-fire for those who are training in the martial arts. Sharpe, who I feared for as I looked on at her, surrounded by a dozen armed opponents, was to be one of those trials.
As I saw them all lying defeated, with her standing in the middle of the ring utterly unharmed, laughing a laugh that sounded like the clink of toasting glasses, I most certainly knew that the tales she had told me were true.
Before parting the Elvin forests, I met with Sharpe to discuss a matter which has been eluding me since I began writing my tomes on the magical world: the earthen deity known as ‘Pixie’. Although hesitant about the subject at first, she later began to tell me a little about him; unfortunately, while she knew a great deal about him, she refused to tell me much of what I wanted to know because, as she explained it “Pixies stories are his own to tell, and I wouldn’t betray his trust simply to tell you tales for your book”. It seems, as I have gathered from the Dwarves, that Elves regard stories with the same quiet reverence.
I apologised, and thanked her for her time, and her hospitality; she couldn’t have been more pleasant. I think I will return to her company once I have finished my book.”
Arch-Mage Sebastien DeFoe
“I had rather hoped, that my time spent amongst the Dwarves of the deep, and the Elves of the forests would embolden me enough to write a small, interview-based biography of my former tutor in the art of Wizardry; I was, sadly, wrong.
Within moments of arriving at the Arch-Mages office, I was being bawled at like a schoolboy: Consenting to give me the benefit of his years, one of the few Immortal humans who has fought on the side of Good, sat me down opposite him and began to tell me tales of his life whilst scribbling away at paperwork and shouting instructions to the various lesser magi who came his way.
When I asked the Arch-Mage, whom I often found myself referring to as ‘Sir’ during my questioning (for those of you who aren’t aware, Sebastien DeFoe was the mage who trained me, and a class of my fellow magical cohorts, in the arts of Wizardry) how it was he came about his immortality, he simply glared at me and said “Hard Work” before once more returning to whatever piece of magical theorem he was working on.
Spending time with the Arch-Mage was, other than Nostalgic, almost entirely useless. Whilst I do respect the man fully for his achievements, he is as arrogant as the day I stepped into his classroom as a young man, and his tales tell me nothing new about either him, or the elusive ‘Pixie’ whom I still seek.”
Villains
Banks and Wolfsson
“Moving on, from the company of the Arch-Mage, I felt it was necessary to delve into the murkier side of magic, and indeed those who battle with the Heroes of the forces of Good; those ‘Villains’
I started with a family; the ‘Banks’ family, to be precise, those unfortunates who are born to be the keepers of the beast Wolfsson; a great and powerful Werewolf who is much older than many of the heroes whom I have enjoyed the company of for so long.
I found the Banks family to be the keepers of a large estate in the moors of northern England, and was accepted into their midst with a graciousness I had certainly not expected from those tied so closely to such a murderous, blood thirsty beast.
The Banks’ told me little of themselves, saying only that their family was bound to the creature, Wolfsson, by magics so old that they could not be understood by anyone who lived today.
Instead, they told me a great deal about the beast itself; Of how it was pursued through the wide and endless forests by the hunter, Sharpe, and how it escaped into the flatlands and hid with the original Banks family, who promised to serve the creature in exchange for wealth and power; which it provided in droves by plundering towns and villages, returning the spoils to the Banks family.
This, they said, was how they came to be in service to the creature; they explained that their forebears did not know that this deal would apply to all of their descendants, until the creature itself lay dead.
The Banks, however, seemed to be a happy and relatively content lot; perhaps due to centuries of accompanying such an evil beast, they themselves had developed a taint, of sorts. Thankfully, I was able to conclude my business there quickly, as the Banks family assured me that many, terrifying unpleasantries would befall me, should I be there when Wolfsson returned from his daily roaming.
Perhaps it was the air, in that place, but I was all the happier for leaving their magnificent abode behind.”
The Brothers Grymm
“Apparently, my visit to the Banks caused quite a stir within the, I hesitate to use the word, but for want of a more appropriate alternative; evil community. No sooner than a week after I left the Banks, in their magnificent country estate, I was approached as I sat in a wayside inn by a tall man, clad in thick garb of deep black. He told me that his name was Baron Arlington Grymm (the spelling of which he assured me on later) and that he was there to speak to me on behalf of his family, who wished, like the Banks, to be featured in my book.
The Grymm family popularise themselves under the moniker ‘The Brothers Grymm’ in reference, he explained, to the tellers of children’s tales. He did not explain why.
An imposing man, the Baron stood at a rough six foot, seven inches and had a skin of drawn, pallid grey. This last detail I noticed only after he had drawn back his thick, overshadowing cowl.
He explained to me that it would be within my interests to keep the Grymm family happy, and I, of course, agreed that fact. Their reputation as one of the most violent and vicious sects of murderers for hire proceeded them in such a manner that I had fully intended to keep well out of their way during the course of my investigation into the dark side of magic.
However, with their leader sitting in front of me, I wouldn’t have dreamt of turning them down.
Despite the effort they must have gone to in the act of tracking me down, the Baron said decidedly little about him and his family. Telling me simply that, some time before his death, and rebirth as a vampire, he had been the Baron of a small area in Northern France, and that his family had banded together largely out of necessity rather than any particular want.
After a time, the Brothers Grymm began to hire out their services as murderers of note, and through bloody combat and silent assassination, rose to become one of the most powerful factions in the dark underworld.
At that, the Baron bid me adieu and left; leaving me feeling more than a little disturbed, and put off my search for those who battled against the forces of Good.”
Noctum
“My meeting with Noctum was, without a doubt, the most disturbing of all those I have endured throughout my campaign to document those areas of magic that are not discussed in polite society.
Noctum, who invited me into a house so stained by the taint of decay that it was almost impossible to make it out of the forests edge upon which it sat, seemed at first to be a pleasant man, late in his years, who kept his face covered with strips of linen cloth due to an accident shortly after his birth, one that had caused him some unpleasant disfiguration.
At first, I was not certain why it was Noctum, who had introduced himself to me as a Mr James Moss, (for, if I had’ve known his true identity, I would most certainly have gone no where near the man) had invited me into his home; although it all became clear to me after a time.
Leading me deeper and deeper into a home that was much, much larger than it appeared to be from the outside, we came to a room whose entrance was securely barred by a large, wrought iron door that must have been erected at great expense. Unlocking the door, and showing me in, I was greeted by a collection of creatures and artefacts so utterly foul that I almost turned tail and ran there and then.
Drawing closed the Door behind me, and lighting a candle, the man I knew then as James Moss simply laughed as I called forth one of the spells I kept prepared for my defence, should I need them. He motioned for me sit down, and told me that he meant me no harm.
As I sat, I took in the room around me in all of its ruination. Stood against the walls were creatures comprised of vague masses of flesh; several of them hinted at humanity, but whatever they were they were certainly not of this world. In my time spent viewing the hideousness of the room, my host had removed the mask of linen that he had been wearing when we met.
My first reaction was one of sheer horror; the mans face, decayed and rotten, clicked and rattled as he began explaining to me the truth of the situation into which he had lured me.
As soon as I heard the name Noctum, I knew that I was in for what could only be described as, ‘an experience’. I had heard that name, or title if you will, for in the old languages it means ‘Lord of the Dead’ from those heroes who I had met with before: Dark tales surrounded the man, and he was certainly held with respect in the eyes of his enemies.
Noctum told me tales of himself and his doings, all of which are far too heinous to mention, and also introduced me to those creatures he had lining his walls. He called them his sons, although they were clearly not related; the creatures were Homunculi, beasts cobbled together out of random assortments of flesh and bone. Some of them, as I had initially thought, were human in nature; some could even pass amongst humans with little to no effort. What it was Noctum hoped to achieve by displaying to me this carnival of the macabre, I do not know, but after he offered me the chance to study each one of his creations he bid me a hearty farewell, and allowed me to leave with no further instructions other than not to record the location of his home.
While, as I have recorded it, this may not sound like the most terrifying of meetings, I will most certainly never forget the evil contents of the room that lay beyond the wrought iron door.”
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