Category Archives: Teir'Dal

Dorn B’Dynn


A tall and well-formed dark elf, Dorn B’Dynn is in self-imposed exile in the Desert of Ro, and hates every moment of it. Raised a member of the Cauldron of Hate, the guild of warriors in Neriak, B’Dynn has never been satisified with his position in Teir’Dal society. He has spent his long life plotting to increase his prestige, seeking the status that comes with personal power. B’Dynn took up the study of necromancy, but discovered that even that did not meet his needs. When teh guildmaster of the Cauldron of Hate decided he neded a trusted warrior to maintain a present in the Desert of Ro, B’Dynn saw great opportunity to gain a reputation, so he volunteered.

B’Dynn’s main duty is to ensure various smuggled goods shipped from Faydwer and Kunark are delivered safely to the Dismal Rage in Freeport. He also spies on other forces within Ro and the Oasis of Marr, mtains diplomatic ties to the Scorchfist Orcs, and arranges safe passage of trolls out of Grobb (a service that requires the trolls to serve a Teir’Dal master for several years – a source of many troll guards for the dark elves).

B’Dynn has gone far beyond his stated duties, however. He has forme da close alliance with the dervishes of the desert, and plans to bring them fully under his control in teh decades to come. He hopes to make them the core of his own army, with which he will claim control of all the lands from Freeport to Innothule Swamp. He then intends to take control of the troll lands as well, bolstering his army further. Once he has this level of mastery he plans to make a conerted effort to raid the remains of Takish’Hiz, and any other old elven ruin, regardless of how many dervishes and trolls he has to kill in the effort. He sees the gypsies as his primary opposition in this effort, and never misses an opportunity to make their lives difficult.

Quest: Seakillers’ Heads
Faction: Cauldron of Hate (-1 rank)
NPC: Dorn B’Dynn
CR: 17
Reward: +1 faction rank with the Cauldron of Hate and the Coalition of Tradefolk Underground (maximum +3 each from this quest). 10d10 platinum pieces
Consequences: -1 faction rank with the Gypsies and the Knights of Truth
Quest Summary:
A trio of 3 seafury cyclops brothers called Malquar, Heferus and Querl Seakiller have discovered one of the routes used by the smugglers who support the Teir’Dal, and have been stealing supplies and destroying ships. Dorn B’Dynn has discovered they have a lair in the southern Desert of Ro, but is unwilling to risk himself to find their exact location or to attack them himself. He is more than happy to allow a band of adventurers trying to gain acceptannce with the dark elves to risk their lives in solving his problem.
B’Dynn doesn’t care about the stolen goods or the destroyed ships and their crews, as such losses are inevitable in a smuggling operation, but if the Seakillers aren’t elminated the losses may become too great for him to hide from his masters in Neriak. What he needs is the heads of the three brothers brought to him as proof they are no longer a threat to his operations.
The quest can be rerun with different foes, such as sand giants, Quag Maelstrom and even Cazel

Advertisements

Why We Fight, Chronicle One


This is the book that was given to me by Mistress Jaeta H’arn of the Order of Nektulos. She says this book is from long before the Cataclysm and is one of the first books all Teir`Dal children read

The Teir`Dal were once the rulers of the entire surface and beyond of Norrath. We ruled all the lands and all the peoples contained within them. Even the trees bowed to us. But, we were betrayed and left to suffer.

The evil, vile Koada`Dal and their cousins the Feir`Dal, in their weakness, called upon their frail and cowardly Gods. They banded together and directly attacked us. They broke all traditions of the Gods and came for us because they knew they could not overcome The Prince of Hate.

So good was the Gods’ cover up of their actions that the Father never took action to aid us directly…but oh did he punish them. They were all imprisoned in his plane and made to suffer for eternity. The Father again did not aid us, but instead, to strengthen, us we were given the responsibility of punishing those who dared threaten us!

Now we hunt those elves and their allies. Vengeance will be ours and we will reclaim the lands that are rightfully ours! For the Prince of Hate we will fight! For our honor we will fight! Never will we stop in our pursuit! Take arms young warrior and fight the battle for your ancestors and all Teir`Dal.

War of Fay: The Eve of Battle


This book tells the story of a young sailor aboard a ship bound for Faydwer on the eve of the War of Fay, during Norrath’s Age of Turmoil.
The young Teir’Dal who wrote this wanted to preserve a record of the eve of a battle.
It seems the tale is not yet finished in this volume.
I hope to someday find the rest of it.

We have been preparing for this night for as long as I can remember.
When first I sought to join the Teir’Dal forces, I was told there were no openings for someone of my stature. You see, one of my legs is shorter than the other which makes me appear smaller than I am, I convinced the commander to allow me to join and now here we are: the eve of battle.

I will set this down for future generations, for while the invasion by the Teir’Dal will live on in history forever, the memories of this last night will surely fade.
Whatever happens when the sun rises, I am sure that we will be thinking of the future then and not living in this moment in time, when the possibilities are set before us.

Long has my unit trained in secret. Lest this fall into unfriendly hands, I will not name the place. The training was long and difficult, for not only did we need to learn the management of our new warships, we also needed to build our strength as the journey from Tunaria to Faydwer is not a short one.

Speed is to be our ally in this, so that the Dwarves, upon whose shores we will first land, will see the strength of our force and be overwhelmed.
The Feir’Dal will be simple to overcome, as they are simpleminded.
Once we have made landfall, there is nothing that will stop us.

The new ships are deadly.
They are low and lean, powered both by air and by the strength of our rowers.
When the winds are favorable, a large sail is hoisted and the Cantor will stand behind it and call up further winds with her songs.
Each ship has its own Cantor, to increase the advantage of the winds.

When the winds are still and the sea like glass, the oars are put into the water.
The galleys of the new ships can hold 50 ogres to the oars, In my ship, we have 30 ogres plus 20 of my unit.
Of course, my unit’s mission is simple and straight-forward; we are not pulling alongside the ogres. We are to conserve our strength to cover the ground swift as wolves, silent as the owl.

The Cantor is checking the winds now. She wears a robe of silver belted with a rope of pearls and rubies.
I do not know who she is. When she was assigned to our ship, I asked her name and in response received a look so sharp that her eyes burned into me like a venomous bite.
The sail, which fluttered in the slightest of breezes, is now filling and pulling at its lines.
We are underway.

The Cantor stops beside me.
“You want to know my name?” she asks softly. She is the only one who may walk when the ship is underway, but she pulls me to my feet nonetheless.
“Come with me,” she says, leading me to the deck at the stern.
The winds swirled around us as we stood side by side, the ship slicing through the black waters.
She leans toward me, and I thought she meant to kiss me.
Her lips barely touching my ear, she whispers, “My name is Death.”

Her breath is warm though the wind is billowing the sail is icy.
Laughing then, the Cantor pushes me away, her dark eyes glinting.
I did not stumble, for my training has made me able to navigate quite easily in the dark even upon the uncertain footing of a ship.
I could feel her eyes taking measure of me as I sit down to continue with my writing.
She is looking at me still, I can feel it.

The ships will reach the transport area very shortly. I hope to continue this once we have crossed to the other side.
We are making excellent time; the Cantors have done a good job.
I see the swirling mist ahead of us. It crosses the ship’s prow and coils along its length.
I turn to look over my shoulder; Death is watching me.

War of Fay: Kaladim


This book tells the continued story written by a young Teir’Dal at the beginning of the War of Fay.
There are many stories from the War of Fay.
This one is collected from the journal of a young Teir’Dal soldier.

The Cantor and I run from the ship, our shoulder curled forward and heads down until we pass into the surrounding trees.
My eyes adjust to the darkness and I see the remaining members of my unit.
We started across the Ocean of Tears with twenty. There are seventeen of us now, crouched in the shadows.

“You should not have stopped for him; he was destined to die,” the Cantor whispers in my ear.
It is the first she has spoken to me since telling me her name aboard the ship.
“I did not stop for him, he grabbed my arm,” I whispered back. “You can wait here; once the ogres have slain the dwarves, they will escort you.”
“No,” she says, “I am coming with you.”

I raise a eyebrow at her, but there is no time for further discussion.
I know that we have not planned to bring her along with us. In our training, the Cantor always traveled with the ogre units, primarily to be safe but also because my unit’s mission is different from other missions.
The unit leader will put her into her place; it is not for me to tell her she cannot come along.

Surprisingly, the team leader does not care that the Cantor is accompanying us to our meeting place.
She glances at the Cantor and some secret signal passed between them, for they turn as one and fade into the treeline. I fade behind them.
The ground rises and falls beneath our feet as we march steadily onward.

The sun rises. The ogres have done an excellent job through the early light.
From the place in which we hide, I can still see toward the hates. Bodies are strewn about and already there are beasts gathering to feast.
Our arrival has definitely caught the dwarves unaware.
The Cantor sits beside me briefly but I avoid her gaze. Is it coincidence that someone named “Death” had spent time with my comrade, who died so soon after we came ashore?

As though sensing my thoughts, the Cantor leans towards me. She is not smiling.
“He was not meant to survive. Do you blame me for easing his final hour?”
I do not answer, so she continues, “They call me Death for I have the curse of knowing who will live and who will not. You will not die today.”
When I turn to look at her, she is gone.

The sun is high over head and the ogres have finished with the outer defenses of Kaladim.
The dwarves, so proud of their fortress, have retreated into its bowels.
When the skies darken again, my team and I are to move forward, then divide into smaller groups.
We shall not see each other again until we reach our final destination.

I see the Cantor now.
She sits beside the team leader and they whisper back and forth, occasionally smothering smiles behind their hands.
Are they speaking of me and my twisted gait? I shake myself, for such thoughts are foolishness in battle. I am not a child, whose only care is whether someone likes me.
I do not care how the Cantor spends her time. Her name is Death, She makes me uneasy.

As darkness falls, we hear the ogres working hard below us.
They are piling high vast quantities of trees before the hates of Kaladim and will soon set them ablaze. Our until will leave before they light the fire and will disappear into the night.
The team leader comes to me and whispers, “The Cantor will go with you.”

“She cannot,” I whispered back, angrily adding, “This is not part of the plan.”
The team leader’s eyes narrow, but her voice drips with menace: “This has always been part of the plan; we do not tell everything to those in service beneath us. The Cantor goes with you; you will do as she bids.”
The team disperses and I..nod curtly to the Cantor and we too slip off into the dark.

War of Fay: Felwithe


This is the fifth book based on the journal of a young Teir’Dal soldier during the War of Fay.
The journals of this young Teir’Dal soldier chronicle the crossing Faydwer on a mission to Felwithe during the War of Fay with the Cantor, an illusionist.

Our journey takes many days for we are careful to travel as far from the actual fighting as possible.
There is the danger of being killed by other Teir’Dal who are taken in by the illusion created by the Cantor that she and I are Koada’Dal.
There is also the danger her illusion will fail and the Koada’Dal and Feir’Dal will recognize us and slay us before our tasks are done.

We entered Felwithe with no problems, just as in my dream.
The Cantor leads me down various by-ways until we reach an inn. We take a room overlooking the street.
I stand beside the shuttered window, peering through the thick wooden slats. The Cantor paces, nervous in a way that I have never seen,
Across the room I see our reflections in the brass mirror and realize our illusions are gone.

“Stop this,” I say angrily, “You are jeopardizing our mission. I know not why you are here, but I know my task and if you are here to help me you will stop filling the air with the dust of your shoes.”
She stops pacing, perching instead on the edge of the bed.
“Let me tell you why I am here,” she says suddenly. “I saw the deaths of all the others on our ship and that is why I chose you; you will outlive us all.”

Holding her hand to stop me from speaking, she continues: “You look out the window to see if any of the signals are in place; you will not find them. They all perished.
“Of twenty who set forth, you alone are left. You ask constantly why I am here. It is for this: to ensure that you live, though you would not have needed my help. I saw your death; you will outlive us all.”
The room fills with silence. I do not know what to say.

After a moment, the Cantor speaks again: “Long ago, I was cursed with the ability to see others’ deaths.”
“At first, I only saw them when I wished it. Since coming on this mission, I cannot stop it. Everyone we pass, I have but to glance at them to know how and when they will die.”
“Yet I look into the mirror willing it – willing it with all my might! – and I know not when death will come for me. Yet you saw it; you know and will not tell me.”

I remain silent. What I saw that day in Faydark was a dream, nothing more. It troubled me, but it was only a dream.
Still, knowing how the one dream upset me I could understand how seeing such things every day could bring anxiety, even madness.
I sit beside her then and take her hands into mine.
“Tell me,” I say softly, “what is your real name?”

The Cantor hesitated, glancing away then back again shaking her head.
“I am called Death and that is how you will remember me. When you are in your old age and relive the glories of this war, you will remember that Death walked beside you into Felwithe. And you lived.”
She was calmer now and recast the illusions over us both, then sat and held my hand.
“We will wait here, together.”

“Wait for what?” I say, but I know the answer.
Since her illusions have covered me, I find my foresight is strengthened. We are waiting for the Teir’Dal to besiege Felwithe.
Though the others in my unit do not live, we each were trained with one goal in mind.
If it came to this and only one of us lived, the mission would not fail.

As though reading my thoughts, the Cantor says, “No one else has been able to use my gifts as you have. Is this because you have one short leg? Perhaps it makes you more sensitive in some way?”
I shrug, “Perhaps.”
I know that I no longer wish for legs of equal length, for I can run and climb much better than the others.
I know my balance and can keep it no matter what happens.

We sit in silence, our fair-skinned fingers interlaced.
I try to remember the dream – would I recognize again the wall against which the Cantor fell? Could I keep her away from such a place, from her own death?
In the space of a few short weeks, she has gone from nuisance to the most important creature in my world.
The time for my task has not yet come. And so we sit in the growing stillness and wait.

War of Fay: Armies Across the Sea


This is another part of the journal kept by a Teir’Dal, relating experiences during the War of Fay.
Another volume from the diary of one young Teir’Dal soldier, written during the War of Fay. This volume tells of the Teir’Dal ships landing on Faydwer.

The ships passed beneath the teleportation arch.
There is no sound save a soft thrumming that hangs in the air above us. Mist curls up from the surface of the sea, covering each ship in thick draperies.
No matter how often I have made this journey, I am always amazed that no ships have ever collided in the fog.

When my ship clears the mists, I can see the prows of the other vessels breaking through as well.
Behind me, I hear the rich voice of the Cantor rising in song, calling forth the winds again to propel us toward Faydwer.
Was her name really Death, as she had told me? Or was she trying to frighten me, seeing only a youth with one shortened leg?

In many ways, I am surprised that I am on this team, on this mission.
I will not set down our plans in advance, lest something go awry and my thoughts are revealed to the enemy.
When the commander named those who would be in this elite unit, there were sounds of surprise when they chose me.
Yes, I walk with a limp; but I run like the wind and am deadly besides.

The singing stops, and I feel her beside me again.
She crouches down on the narrow plank and touches the shoulder of the Teir’Dal in the seat before me. As she had with me, she pulls him to his feet and walks him to the small deck at the stern of the ship.
I make an effort not to turn my head; what she chooses to do or say to the others aboard the ship is none of my business.
But it is long before he returns to his seat, and he smiles, looking over his shoulder toward her.

Suddenly before us, I see the lead ship raise a smaller yellow flag.
Immediately, the ogres put their oars into the water, joining their brute strength to the winds in our sail. That signals that landfall is near.
Around me, the other members of my team grip their knives. Our task is not to fight upon landing, but we must be prepared.

The Cantors stop their songs and two of the ogres rise to dismantle the mast, which they cast overboard.
Without that weight, the ships skim faster across the sea, pulled along by the strength of our oarsmen.
The ogres are perfect for this task, for it involved only dipping the oar in, pulling, lifting, then dipping the oars in again. This is as much as their simple minds can grasp.

Ahead, there is a dark ling marking Faydwer.
There are lights set at various points along the way, supposedly to allow the fools to guard their shores.
The reality is that they will light our way directly to a good landing. Some of the ships head further north to land closer to Kelethin.
My first destination is Kaladim.

Without their sails, the ships are low to the water.
The slight splash of the oars is masked in the rolling of the waves onto the shore.
We pull our ships up behind us onto the shingle and the ogres knock holes in their sides.
There is only one way home now – through Felwithe. Weapons are drawn. We run up the beach, and they are surprised.

My unit must stick close together; we each have a role in this.
An arrow whistles through the air and spears the Teir’Dal beside me – the one who had dallied with the Cantor aboard ship.
He staggers, then slides toward the ground clutching at my arm and pulling me down with him. Another arrow whistles over my head.
“Her name…”gasps my comrade before drawing his last breath,”…is Death”

“Death? You’re mad!” I hiss, shaking his lifeless hand from my arm.
I crouch, checking my path across the beach to the cover of the trees when suddenly, the Cantor is beside me – and him.
She kisses his forehead and closes his eyes, then grabs my hand.
“Come!” she cries.
We race toward the concealing darkness ahead.

War of Fay: Death


This is the last in a series of journals written by a young Teir’Dal soldier during the War of Fay.
The Teir’Dal are often considered deceitful and conceited. The perspective of this young diarist provides a different insight into the thoughts of at least one of them during the War of Fay.

Days pass and still the illusions hold. I venture into Felwithe alone, using my stealthy skills to pick pockets or obtain goods which the Cantor and I barter for our room and board. When training for war, this is something never mentioned — the ennui of waiting. And then finally: the battle draws nearer. Our time is upon us.

The Cantor and I have lived for many months under the cover of her illusions; to all others, we appear as Koada’Dal. On this day, we will provide entry into Felwithe for the Teir’Dal units. On this day, we will provide entry into Felwithe for the Teir’Dal units. The Cantor and I know our tasks, though it seems she is enjoying her liaisons much more than I am. If I never have to entertain another stinking Koada’Dal guard again it shall be too soon.

The guards greet us warmly, barely glancing at the gate. The Cantor and I approach and I sense rather than see teh change flicker across her pale features. These men will die and she sees it. I have felt her reaction now so often that I know it instinctively. She smiles coyly at the guard she has been seeing and I slip in behind him to slit his throat. The other guard stares at us, shocked and unable to speak. He meets the same fate.

We open the smaller door beside the gate and in slip the Teir’Dal. The Cantor has released us from the illusion so that we look like them — like ourselves. We head deeper into the city, a thin dark stream of elves followed closely by ogres and trolls, slaying all those who oppose us. The Cantor steers me by the quickest route to the home of the king.

This happens so quickly, the guards fall and we surround the king. I search his face for traces of fear and find none. This satisfies me; I do not like to kill cowards. The Cantor looks from the king to me and back again. She whispers to me, “He does not die this day.” Nodding, I bind his hands with the Cantor’s belt. She has given it the illusion of heavy chains and the king sags from the imaginary weight.

On my watches, I look at Tearis’Thex intently, wondering how it must feel to look one’s death in the face. In theory, all soldiers face their deaths daily in war, but I wonder whether a king would feel the same thrill coursing through his veins. I stare at him so long I draw his gaze, but I do not turn away. He may be king, but in him I now sense the heart of a warrior. He deserves to look into my eyes before I perform the task for which I trained.

Dozens of ogres built the stage upon which the execution will take place. Many times I see the Koada’Dal captives below raise their faces toward this room in which we keep Tearis’Thex. I do not know for what they are hoping. Perhaps that he will spring from the window in the shape of a dragon and escape? The Cantor taps my shoulder and nods toward the king. “It is today,” she says simply.

She removed the ruby and pearl rope from the king’s hands and one of the Teir’Dal guards grasps his shoulder to propel him towards the stairs. From the corner of my eye I sense movement and instinctively react. No one will kill Tearis’Thex in the privacy of a narrow room; his death will be seen by all. Then I realize it is the king who holds the knife. He thrusts.

The Cantor reaches for my hand and grips it, pulling me off-balance onto my short leg. I stagger slightly against her and she grins at me, leaning forward to kiss my forehead. With a slightly puzzled look on her face, she slides to the floor still holding my hand. She says, “It is today.” I stare at the Cantor, realizing her rope of rubies is mixed with a pool of blood. She leans against the wall; it is the wall from my dream.

“Take him down,” I snap at the guard. The king’s knife still protrudes from the Cantor’s robe and I reach for it.

She rests her hand on mine and says indistinctly, “My name… my name…”

“You will not die,” I say, willing for it to be true.

“My name…” she says wistfully, “…I do not remember my name.” She stares blankly ahead, her hand limp and cold.

I kiss her forehead and close her eyes. I say to her, “Your name is Death.”

War of Fay: Crossing the Faydark


This is another part of a journal written by a young Teir’Dal soldier during the War of Fay.
During the War of Fay, many things changed or were forgotten. This book provides one person’s perspective, all the more interesting as this person was part of a secretive Teir’Dal unit during the War of Fay.

Travel by dark, rest during the day. The pattern repeats.
The Cantor and I hear the skirmishes around us but do not become involved; our mission is different.
At least mine is. Or was. The team leader pushed the Cantor to group with me and said it had always been the plan.
If that is so, then no one had bothered to tell me. I resent it.

The Cantor sense my anger. She does not speak with me, communicating only by gestures and glances.
And yet, though we do not speak, we move as one through the Faydark.
Long before we saw Kelethin, we smelled the fires and heard the battle. We woke to find ourselves in a blanket of haze.
She said, “We will need to travel by day past this place; I will change out forms.”

I glance at her. “Change out forms? What, into birds so that we may fly directly to Felwithe?”
With a smile, she replies, “No. I cannot change an actual shape, but I can create an illusion. Look at yourself; I have already done so with you.”
Using the blade of my dagger as a mirror, I realize my skin is now pale cream and my hair is yellow.
I look like a Koada’Dal.

The Cantor gestures into the air, drawing the edge of her palm across her face.
Now she too has yellow hair and sickly pale skin. She laughs at my bemusement saying, “Did you really think all I could do is sing?”
Then she grows more serious and adds, “I know you do not want my company on this journey and that you wonder why I am here. Now you know. I am an illusionist, among other things.”

“What other things?” I ask, but she shakes her head.
“We must rest,” she says softly, “for the journey from here to Felwithe will be even more perilous. Should my illusion fail, all who see us will know we are Teir’Dal. My name may be Death, but I do not wish to die. Not until my task is complete.”
What the task is, she does not say.

The Cantor lies down and immediately falls asleep.
My mind is restless; I constantly pull out my dagger and tilt it this way and that to look at myself.
I am Teir’Dal. I have always had skin the color of the night sky and silver hair. Yet I see pale skin and yellow hair, see this fair being mimic me and yet be me. It is fascinating.
I wonder: would it feel so strange is she had created the illusion that both my legs are the same length? Would that be so difficult to believe?

“You are not resting.” She says, her eyes open, the corners of her lips lifting in a faint smile.
“I cannot get used to this,” I stammer, putting away my dagger, ashamed to be caught in this peculiar vanity.
She pats the nest of pine needles beside her. “Come and rest; you will look this way for many days but right now, you must sleep.”
My eyelids are suddenly heavy and I know I am dreaming before I even curl up beside her.

We walk through Greater Faydark and come to the walls of Felwithe.
The guards step aside to let us enter the city. Despite years of training, I feel unprepared. My hand goes cold and damp.
The Cantor kisses my forehead, then slowly releases my hand and slips into a graceful sitting position against the wall.
I see her staring straight ahead and realize she is dead. The warmth of her lips is still on my skin. I cannot move.

“Wake up, wake up,” she is shaking me, a look of concern in her eyes.
“What did you see?” she demands and there is a note in her voice I have never heard before – fear.
“What did you see, you must tell me!” The Cantor shakes my shoulder again, then sits back on her heels, swallowing hard.
“You must know,” she says in a bitter tone, “I am called Death for I can see death; but I cannot see my own.”

I shake my head, saying, “It was but a dream; you make too much of it.”
As we hide the traces of our makeshift camp, I sense a change in the Cantor. She glances at me now and then, her eyes thoughtful and pensive.
I am not sure if that is what she truly feels or if it is the illusion created by her fair skin and golden hair.

The Storm Shepherds – Darnalithenis of Felwithe


This book is one of the Storm Shepherd series titled “Darnalithenis of Felwithe”. It is the story of a high elf that left his home for the wilderness and his further travels across the world.
Darnalithenis was born and raised in the beautiful city of Felwithe. Though he was groomed to join the ranks of the holy paladins that protected the city, he could never ignore the longing he felt as he stared deep into the depths of the Greater Faydark forest. After much thought, he finally brought himself to steal away in the night and leave for the wilderness.

He would spend the next several decades living among the woodland creatures of Faydwer. He learned the secrets of moving through the trees undetected, on how to forage food from the land itself, or when the winters were hard, to track and hunt down game for his dinner. He enjoyed living his life being free of the constraints of the city, but he also knew that he would not be accepted amongst his kin were he to choose to return. One day, he came up with a plan.

Darnalithenis began to make as many arrows as he could shove in his quiver. When he was done, he gathered as much food as he could, then hiked to the western edge of the forest. Continuing through the foothills of Butcherblock he avoided the roads, and in turn, the dwarves that guarded them. After skirting by Kaladim, the city of the dwarves, he traveled for several days. Finally, he reached the docks that would take him to other lands – and possibly others like him.

The first place he came to was the great trade city, Freeport. Though it was not as clean or beautiful as his home, Felwithe, it still was larger than anything he had ever seen. He spent some time there, but not caring for the ever-increasing brutality of the guards, decided it was time to move on.

He continued to head west, traveling though dark forests, craggy mountaintops, and endless plains. Soon enough, he reached where the land came to an end. Choosing to follow the coastline to the north, he eventually found a glade populated with people just like him.

Darnalithenis knew that his journey was now at an end, for the people of Surefall accepted him for whom he was, not what he was expected to be.

Darnalithenis spent many years living among the tenders of the glade he now called home. He would spend his time educating those who journeyed to outlying forest on the ways to respect the wilderness. At one point, he even joined with a group of people who were trying to stop an army of gnolls that were assaulting a nearby village.

With him leading the party on a direct path to the village, they arrived just in time to join the fray. It was a bloody battle, and many people lost their lives, but the gnolls were driven back. As Darnalithenis left to return to the glade, he spied the party he was with killing hundreds of woodland creatures for nothing more than their skins. In a fit of rage, he slaughtered every last one of the poachers. When he returned to the glade, he knew that it was time for him to return to the solitude of the Greater Faydark. Darnalithenis traveled across the continent to the city of Freeport. Someone calling himself the Overlord now ruled the city and demanded an exorbitant fee to travel across the ocean.

Darnalitenis had no plan on paying this man any fee, so in the dead of night, he stole a ship and began to sail across the ocean. On the fifteenth day out his ship was attacked by a fleet of ships sailed by his dark cousins, the Teir’Dal. He leapt into the ocean, swimming for a nearby island he spotted.

He would spend the next several hundred years trapped on this island. He lost all hope of rescue, for the seas roiled with a fury that he had never seen before. To make matters worse, the cyclopses that lived on the island with him were beginning to overpopulate. Soon enough they would know that he lived there, too. And one day, they did.

As he gathered water from a stream, he heard the sound of the large rock flying through the air just a moment too late. As he lay there, back broken from the impact of the rock, he watched as the cyclops lifted his foot in order to crush Danalithenis’s skull. A moment later, the Cyclops fell to the ground with a thud. Standing over the cyclops’s corpse was a human, pulling a sword from the monster’s back. The man said, “It looked like you could use some help.”

The Hammer of Below


The Hammer of Below begins amidst the conflict of the unworthy. It is a relic whose path led through the abyssal lair of the last child of the Ocean Lord. It is within that hold, a prison of Prexus some would say, that the omega did vie with the intellect. This battle of egos will someday begin the mortal quest of Stormhammer.

Deep sixed within an oubiette, many adventurers have perished. He is the last of his kind, the last of the Norrathian children of Qisallis. With a physique formed of fish and Dal, the omega guards his keep. Those who enter find themselves eternal residents of this deathly realm. What was once a city of deep learning has become a memorial of a race long forgot. The omega allows no departures from this ancient place. Here by his side the creatures of Qisallis flutter and float and incarcerate those who seek what is not theirs. No one escapes, but the intellect defies this law.

A great power of the abyss meets a legendary intellect. Such a confrontation is made for the ages. It all began with a threat of knowledge, a release of a secret… a taunt of the highest power. The great intellect that hailed from Mount Erudition delved into the ancient ages and uncovered the reason for the omega, the hidden force behind an extinction of the children of the Ocean Lord. Entering into the murky ruins, he entered armed with only this lost truth. It is all he needed.

With a threat and a boast the intellect defies his host. The one from below is enraged and mad that his secret is released, a secret of great sadness. To the one that did taunt, death would have arrived if it were not for the supernatural stalemate. A power that was the unwitting end of a race is also wielded by a highman. The intellect directs a threat of destruction if his demands are not met. The power that could destroy an entire race within the blink of a titan’s eye could be unleashed by one who has studied and mastered the many circles of the arcane. The omega must comply and the great intellect wins the day.

The keep of the abyss has been compromised and the great intellect threatens to return. But the omega strikes back in silence and within a vision granted the eyes of the intellect shall be redirected. A vision is given of a great relic of below, a hammer of the gods that once lay in the hands of the first kind of Kaladim. This vision was granted to an unscrupulous stout by the name of Duskan Hammerhand. In the vision, the hammer is secreted beneath the great cauldron, within a barnacle-encrusted tower. Here it is guarded by goblins of the abyss. Here is where Hammerhand shall find it.

Duskan recognized the holy relic of the dwarves. Delusions of grandeur lead him to a foolish attempt to retrieve the hammer. The witless bandit dives into the cauldron and locates the citadel of the abyss. His entry depicts his great skill, but the halls of water are not gracious to guests. The goblins of the abyss are quick to spring to action. Their movements were as fluid as the tides. His dreams of being the lone hero are in vain, his mission into the barnacle citadel, futile. Barely escaping with his life, the stout rises to the surface. He knows he must return to Kaladim and lick his wounds. The glory of rescue shall be a joint venture of rogue and guard.

Crawling along the short, near death and barely coherent, Duskan manages to convince a party of passing trotters to escort him to the kingdom of the dwarves. There, Duskan is brought before King Kazon Stormhammer and explains his vision and his ordeal. The king organizes an expedition to recover the hammer. At the lead of this assault are three dwarven champions; Boric Stormhammer, Kalek Orefinder and Fenric Ogrebane. These three heroes are aided by guard and trotter. Trotters have a tendency to fall into the ventures of the ancient empires. What it is they seek is not glory, but riches and power. Their mettle is soon tested as the mission to retrieve Dagnor’s Fist begins.

The march to the cauldron is long and hard. The heroes of the kingdom reached the shores. Battling back the vanguard of the abyss was done at ease. The battle continued into the murky depths of the cauldron. The heroes breached the barnacled-keep and cut down the forces within. The final defender would not be so easy, or alone. The goblin Tide Lord faced the heroes in a battle for the hammer. Although the Tide Lord was powerful, the heroes found an advantage. When victory was near, Phinigel Autropos did appear. With power unmatched, the omega stymies the heroes, driving them back. Then without reason, he vanished. The heroes are victorious, so it would seem. The hammer is won.

The victory march back to Kaladim is interrupted. A Teir’Dal hero and his dragoon raiding party appear and a violent battle ensues. In the skirmish, the heroes are outnumbered and each falls against insurmountable odds. Valkis D’Vinn, leader of the dragoons, carefully seals the captured hammer in an enchanted chest, and orders his group to march to the nearby kingdom of the orcs and ally to Neriak. But Fenric is not dead! His ability to feign death is unrivaled. Through words heard upon the field of defeat, he heard of the destination of the hammer, Crushbone Keep. When the evil army is departed, the injured hero crawls back to Kaladim and with him comes the location of the hammer.

A final operation to reclaim the hammer of Dagnor Butcherblock is undertaken. An army of Stormguard and trotter is organized. No force could keep them from reaching the doors to Crushbone Keep. While Stormguard warriors battle Crushbone centurions a band of heroes enters to find the chest that holds the hammer. The sealed adamant chest of Thex passes into the possession of the heroes. The victorious force returned to Kaladim to deliver the chest to King Kazon. Unfortunately, the chest was impregnable, a stolen device of gnomish invention. The hammer was locked within.

Within the borderlands of the Teir’Dal Empire the key of the chest awaits. Such a place is unfamiliar to a dwarf, but not to trotter. The trotters are hired to retrieve the key. In a long expedition into the Ashlands of Tunaria, the final heroes do find the owner of the key. Captain Na’Var and his dragoons are met. The struggle for the key is long, but the trotters proved their strength. The key is taken and makes its way across the Ocean of Tears to meet the hands of the king of Kaladim. The heroes are honored and the Hammer of Butcherblock has returned to its home.

But this is not the artifact behind these words. In this tale of the hammer of the first kind of Kaladim, the riddle of Stormhammer rests. What once restrained the glorious radiance of the hammer now reveals the riddle. Through a path of a divided key, it will lead a hero. Listen well to whispers of champions and the journey shall begin. The Stormhammer, hammer of below, hammer of the thunder lords, hammer forged in the Underfoot and lost to all. This hammer shall wait beyond turmoil, beyond war and beyond cataclysms. Within Destiny it awaits.