Fantasy Friday
I play Dungeons and
Dragons every Friday. That is to say I run a 4th Edition Dungeons & Dragons
campaign every Friday set in the country of Beniro. As such I've decided to
chronicle the hero's adventures from the perspective of different characters my
friends play. Each week and each short chapter I will rotate the perspective so you
can get a feel for all the characters. I will try my best to capture my
friend's characters and the adventures they go on. I might change some elements
but know I do it for the story.
A lot of the art I will be
using is not credited, so if you know the artist, tell me and I'll label it
appropriately.
CHAPTER 1- Lorafaine
CHAPTER 2- Aramil
CHAPTER 3 - Ryjac
CHAPTER 4- Lucius
CHAPTER 2- Aramil
CHAPTER 3 - Ryjac
CHAPTER 4- Lucius
THE ACTION SOCIETY
BOOK 1
RISE OF THE WHITE SPIDER
CHAPTER 5
NADARR
At the crowing
of the first rooster, Nadarr Thunderstone awoke and climbed out of his
makeshift bed in the mule stables behind a small inn. He looked up at the
darkness hanging overhead and a soft steam rose from his face as he breathed in
the air of an early morning. He shook his body out, morning dew having settled
on his warm scales overnight, the dreadlock-like extensions on his head rustling.
With another breath, Nadarr sat on the stone floor beneath him, in not but a
pair of green long johns, and he cleared his throat with a deep rumble. He took
the chain from around his neck and held the ornament on the end of it to his
forehead and then to his lips, before placing it on his lap. The ornament was a
metal fist holding a lightning bolt. He closed his eyes and began to pray to
Kord.
As he prayed,
the dragonborn relived every vibration of the previous night’s storm. Most of
the inhabitants of Doktham were unaware of it, tucked away under the ground,
safely, protected from the tempest above as they slept. Yet, Nadarr had felt
every lightning strike against the Shale Mountains, and had heard the thunder
shake ever loose stone and coward from where it cowered in the dark. Every bolt
of lightning is a lashing from Kord’s blade, and every roar of thunder is a
roar of impatience from the Thunderlord, as he surveys all below him from his
throne above the world, and finds himself disgusted with all but the most
brave, the most strong and the most honorable. Kord decides who among the dead
are most worthy; worthy of being in his army in the unending battle of the next
world. Nadarr knew this, and so he prayed.
Nadarr had known this since before he knew
anything else, before he was even born. His father, Derrak, and his mother,
Krina, were farmers, raising chickens and cattle, on a mountainside in Southern
Mardunar, just across the border from their ancestral homeland, Arkhosia. The
most important god to the dragonborn peoples of Arkhosia is Bahamut, the Platinum
Dragon; the god who stands in opposition of evil, and protects the humble and weak.
Yet, Mardunar was a land that shared a border with two enemy nations, and had
no patience for the meek. Mardunar was a land of warriors. Most Mardunian
dwarves and dragonborns worshipped Kord, above the other gods, and practiced
their martial skill in all things. Even Derrak and Krina woke up every morning
at dawn to pray to the Thunderlord and, after doing their farm work, spent
their evenings practicing their swordplay in the same fields they had sown. In
a land of warriors, battle is the greatest opportunity to impress their gods.
Yet, Mardunar,
and the entire Beniro kingdom, had not seen a full-scale war in centuries
because the people had beaten back all worthy enemies into submission or death.
The Mardunarians grew restless, but still trained even though, without the
opportunity to prove their mettle in combat, they felt as if they were wasting
their time. Derrak and Krina believed they were being punished by Kord for this
time of peace. They had been married for decades and, despite their efforts,
they had not a child and, because dragonborns live short lives, they feared
they would have no one to carry on their legacy. They prayed every morning for
Kord to bless them with a strong warrior to carry on their name.
Finally, after
years of trying, Krina laid a clutch of dragonborn eggs. But at the same time, Derrak
had visions of a disaster befalling their home and the eggs being destroyed. He
believed Kord had stopped protecting them and, that any day soon, the path of a
war band of savage gnolls or a giant would stumble into their farm’s land or an
ancient red dragon would seek revenge and destroy their eggs. So, the couple
trained harder than ever, in order to protect the eggs from any who would harm
them.
One day while
out in the field’s training, a storm brewed overhead, and the elderly couple
did not even stop training as hail began to fall. It had been raining and
sleeting all day. Suddenly, a great warm wind blew from the West and over the
side of the mountain. It was so intense that they had to find shelter behind a
rock from the cutting wind. That was when they heard a sound worse than thunder
tearing down the mountain. The two dragonborns looked over the boulder and saw
the most terrifying sight they had ever seen.
It was more
ravenous than a horde of thousand starved gnolls, greater in size than a storm
titan and roared louder than any dragon imaginable. It was a black tornado that
stretched from the ground, which it tore as easily through as a shovel through
sand, to the dark heavens above, where it seemed to go on and on forever. It
tore great trees from the mountain side that had stood a hundred years or more
and it threw boulders through the air as if they were blades of grass. Nothing
seemed safe in the twister’s path as it carved a vicious path of destruction
across the hills and brought a tempest of lightning in its wake. Suddenly, it veered
to the right and tore through their fields and toward their home. “The eggs!”
They shouted in unison and, without a second thought, climbed over the boulder
and sprinted for their cottage to save their unborn hatchlings.
Just as the
couple made it into their home and, they each grabbed one handle of the chest
they had been keeping the eggs warm in, the black twister pulled the cottage
apart. Krina and Derrak held onto the chest with all their strength until,
their muscles screamed in agony and the chest slipped from their grasp. They
were thrown into the mud below, as the tornado carried on its path of destruction
down the mountainside. Derrak awoke first but did not see where Krina had
landed. Desperately, he shouted her name until his throat was raw and he could
barely stand from the beating he had just taken. He then found their chest. To
his horror, its contents had spilled out and their eggs were cracked and
crushed. He let out one final roar of anguish as he sunk to the mud and
squeezed the cracked shells in his bloodied hands. That’s when he heard a hoarse
croak, “Derrak…?”
Stumbling to his
feet, he dragged himself toward the voice, and saw his wife, curled up in the
mud. Derrak reached to pull Krina to her feet and found that she was holding
something to her chest. It was one last egg, the lone survivor of their clutch,
and it was whole. Derrak pulled his wife to her feet and found them a shelter
in the storm. Krina lay next to the fire he built, holding the egg, and not
saying a word. Derrak walked to the mouth of the cave, overlooking the
decimated valley below, through the downpour of rain that had replaced the wind
and, trembled with fury. He cursed Kord and demanded an answer for why he would
bring such ruin upon him and his wife. His words were drowned out by a crack of
thunder as a bolt of lightning struck the mountain crag. Krina called from
inside the cave, and Derrak rushed inside to see that the lone egg had a big
crack in the middle of it.
Derrak rushed
forward but Krina stayed him with her hand and, lo and behold, a little face looked
up at them from the egg. Krina stood up and carried the infant dragoborn, pale
as milk, to the mouth of the cave. She held the baby up, rain falling on its
head and a thunder crack rolling across them. Yet, the baby did not cry. It let
out a laugh. Derrak held his wife and his infant, as all three of them laughed,
and cried, in the face of the storm. Derrak named the baby boy, Nadarr; the
name of his father’s fathe; the name that in Draconic meant, “Storm blessed.”
The elderly couple then sat with their child in the cave and prayed to their
god-the Thunderlord, and prayed that their son would serve him well.
Nadarr opened
his eyes and uncrossed his legs. Rising to his feet, he stretched his arms and
legs, before returning his holy symbol to its place around his neck. He then
reentered the stable and picked up his breast plate, dusting the dirt off and
pulling bits of hay from where they had gotten caught between the scales. He
pulled on each piece of armor with great care and pulled his shield onto his
back. He then picked up his sword, Gerhester,
Draconic for the very same storm that killed his unhatched siblings, and attached
it to his belt. He stepped out of the stable and began walking to the gate.
At 15, he was
fully grown physically and had been trained by a skilled Knight of the Azure
Sky, Sir Ekkbar. He had squired the knight since he was just a boy. He had
killed goblins and wild men. He had defended a fort, through a siege, against
an invasion of zealous Templars from the south. He was as brave, honorable and
strong as his parents had always hoped he would be and they were proud. Yet, he
had never had a quest; and for a chance to prove his mettle against foes and
struggles worthy of his effort, Nadarr prayed.
*****