Fantasy The Lost Tomb of Longlyre

[sspky]

The Lost Tomb of Longlyre

HymnShark || sspky ​

 

[HymnShark]

DRAZHAN CORENTIN DE ARCHAMBAULT

“I started my life with a single absolute:
that the world was mine to shape in the image of my highest values
and never to be given up to a lesser standard,
no matter how long or hard the struggle.”​

Name › Drazhan Corentin de Archambault - Drazhan after his grandfather, Corentin after his father, de Archambault as his family name
Nicknames › To most is known as Lord Archambault, Lord Drazhan, Sir or simply as Drazhan to his friends. Doesn't tolerate petnames.
When dealing with illegal business' and underground sellers, uses an alias "Crumorn"
Age › Around late-twenties
Gender › Male
Race › Human ; arcanist, mage, warlock, wizard. whichever term you prefer. He's just a man who can use magic, as simple as that

❖

Height › 182cm / 5 ft 11in
Weight › 68 kg / 150 lbs

❖

​

❖​

Drazhan is from an old noble family; a current lord with questionable dabblings in darker magics of olde. The family of Archembaults are not so well known anymore these days; the family died off slowly, and as things are now, it seems Drazhan is the last lord of the family. Some may claim Archembaults have fallen from grace.

This warlock is one of the few practisers of forbidden magics, and he has dedicated his life for searching true immortality and arcane mastery; quest that might also lead him ironically to his early grave.

Years of using black magics has changed Drazhan's appearance more and less subtly. Once so healthy looking man is now a days gaunt and a bit sick looking, only shadow of his former self. Pale skin has taken grayish tone, blue veins shining trough in some places. Pure white hair is long, going all the way to middle of his back but bangs reaches only his collarbones. Eyebrows are thin, also well cared of, same colored - or as colorless as his hair. The most obvious change can be found from his eyes; once rich brown, but now cold and dark.

❖

The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself.

❖​

 

[sspky]

Gideon Blackwell
cutthroat and spell-slinger​

Age: mid-twenties
Gender: male
Race: human

Gideon is a brash young man with a fiery spirit and an unhealthy attachment to spirits and Bitterleaf *. Hailing from the far-eastern nation of Lyenna, Gideon has a quite interest in the occult. Having fled his homeland after some unsavory accusations of witchcraft, the young spell-caster has taken to traveling with little aim, beyond the pursuit of riches and arcane knowledge.

A tall, lithe man with a fine, high-boned face and a nimble, athletic build, Gideons pale, tattooed skin, messy black hair, and dark, wild eyes give him an almost feral aura. He often dresses in light-weight leather armour and carries with him a small satchel filled with all manner of strange tickets and charms.

* Bitterleaf: a sweet-smelling tobacco-like herb that, when dried and smoked, causes a heightened sense of awareness. Often used by spell-casters, consumption of the spice is known to aid the user is channeling their magical focus. Rather addictive, continuous use is known to have many unpleasant side-effects -- both physically and spiritually.

Ashk’nek Redhide
she-orc of the Narrowlands​

Age: Approximately 50
Gender: Female
Race: orc-kind *

Ashk’nek Redhide hails from the fridged Narrowlands in far western Elysia. She’s an honorable, strong-willed warrior who had birthed many offspring before leaving her homeland on an errand of great personal importance.

True to her name, Redhide wears a blood-red cape of dire-bear fur draped over her broad shoulders.

* Orc-kind: descendants of the towering, blood-thirsty race of orcs that live in the untamed lands far west of the borders of Elysia. Orc-kind have enough human blood in their family tree to give them a more civilized disposition and notably more sapien physical characteristics.

* image by Jowie Lim

 

[sspky]

Our tale begins...

The great, walled city-state of Hornwake sits at the mouth of the Ironclaw River. A frontier city built on mercantile fortune, Hornwake sees a steady stream of travelers from all walks of life. The Ironclaw River flows down from the Sydhe Mountains, across the great boreal forests of the Midlands, into the Jarljaw Bay. Desperate settlers and refugees from the south, collectively known as the frontiersmen, have been slowly stripping the wooded shores of the river bare as they establish small, vulnerable communities.

It’s late autumn. The rigid gray teeth of the Sydhe Mountains are capped with snow, and a heavy frost sets itself on the thatched roofs of the settlements with every nightfall. Through winter draws near, the frontiersmen are hardly deterred. They come en masse, aboard tall wooden ships that sail up from the more temperate, civilized world to the south, in search of better lives.

Many such stalwart travelers have congregated on this cold evening at the Stonesmithes Common House - a busy, two-story inn and alehouse near the cities sprawling dock-district. A lithe, dark-skinned ministerial from the faraway province of An’kr plays an uplifting but offkey melody on an old lute, while ale and rich smelling spiced stew are bartered for from the high wooden bar counter near the main door. A hearth crackles warmly as sailors, travellers, and settlers alike warm their bones against the evenings biting chill.

On the wall near the hearth, between a trio of mounted wolf heads and a hanging, dusty tapestry, sits a hastily nailed together bulletin board. Bills and letters of all sorts line the board, from calls to arms and requests of employment to postures lined with the names and descriptions of the missing and presumed dead.

One such poster seems fresher than the others. Hand written in black ink on a stretch of pressed grey cotton, it reads:

“Wanted!
sellswords of desent
honorble repute!
for adventer, glory, gold!
seek Ashk’nek Redhide
near the harth!”​

Though the spelling is atrocious, the handwriting is oddly blocky and neat.

* * * * *​

Elysia: a continent of extreme climates and environments. It is host to nine separate kingdoms and various independent holds and city-states.

Hornwake: a powerful but remote city-state. It’s ruled over by the mercantile Riverguild, and hosts settlers and frontiersmen from across the width and breath of Elysia.

Sydhe Mountains: a rocky spine of snow-capped mountains that stretches from the brutal, untamed northern wildlands, down into the more civilized southern colonies.

Midlands: a heavy forests territory between Hornwake and the Sydhe Mountains. Frontiersmen have been slowly stripping the woods and establishing new colonies along the shores of the Ironclaw River

The Ironclaw River: winds its way through the Midlands, from the Sydhe mountains, out into the Jarljaw Bay. The shores of the river are slowly but surely being settled by the tenacious frontiersmen.

Jarljaw Bay: along, narrow bay that bleeds out into the Lockelyre Sea. The shores of the bay have been heavily colonized. Hornwake is the largest settlement along the bay.

 

[sspky]

“Aye, lady-bard. Sing us something lewd-like. Give us a dirty limerick.” the wild-man heckled. To his annoyance, the bard skillfully ignored him. Behind him, another drunkard slapped his shoulder affectionately and said, “She’s a classy sort of bard, ya’ sneak, and this is a classy sorta establishment.”

The table laughed, and Gideon laughed alongside them. He’d pocketed the fat drunks purse a few moments earlier, while he’d been distracted with his came of cups, and finishing off his stout ale, Gideon bade his new friends farewell and pressed back into the throng of patrons.

He meandered awhile, listening in to scraps of conversation and pilfering unminded trinkets from the rowdier, late-evening drunkards that gathered around the fire, before finally making his way back to the shabby notice-board by the hearth. He’d circled it three times now, and each time paid a little more mind to the notion of a sprawling adventure.

In truth, the hard-hands from the local smuggler's crew - a brutish band of rogues known as the Riverdogs - had been asking around for him as of late. Their boss, a bright fellow named Urrek, had put the word out for a ‘healer’. His favoured lass had come to find herself pregnant, and Urrek was attached enough to her to seek out a solution that would leave him the lover, and without the child.

Gideon had answered their call, and prepared for them a concoction of herbs, charmed with a spell, and presented it to them for a not inconsiderable cost. Three days later and the Riverdogs are seeking him again, and Gideon has no desire to find out why.

Rolling his shoulders, the tall, dark-haired man turned to the hearth in search of this Ashk’nek Redhide character. One of the orc-kind, he’d guess, from the far west. It was always impossible to tell an orc-kinds gender from their name alone. In fact, it was difficult enough identifying them by sight.

The only orc-kind sitting by the fire was a nearly seven-foot-tall creature with long, dreaded brown hair, gray skin, and a pair of breasts sizable enough for Gideon to safely assume that Ashk’nek Redhide was indeed of the female persuasion.

 

[HymnShark]

It was a cloudy, but windy day in Hornwake. Darker clouds one after another were rolling in; but no rain yet, even though it would surprise none at this point. Such a weathers were not a new thing to the citizens of Hornwake. This seemed to be city's default state; grey and dull; with occasional thunderstorm or sunny day.

Drazhan wasn't usually the one visiting such an establishments. Instead of drinking cheap ale in a seedy company, he preferred drink expensive wine in his own company; hence it was a weird sight to see sharply dressed man stride down the cobblestone street. Straight down the street to the old tavern. Once perhaps it had been really expensive and popular, but Drazhan was sure it had been long time ago. Above the heavy wooden door was a sign; 'Grinnin' Wench' painted in it.

With a sneer Drazhan dodged a stumbling drunkard, and stepped in the tavern, taking a moment and letting his eyes adjust to the darker atmosphere, but with merry music and drunken singing and hollering. Drazhan stood out like a sore thumb.

Warlock had seen the notice board, with a poster that had raised his interest; if only a little bit. He subtly asked around to find what one Ashk’nek Redhide was seeking, and the answer had surprised even him; an old chalice that was rumored to carry the secrets of long -if not immortal - life. A chalice that was believed to be destroyed, for it had not been seen in centuries. Drazhan did not know why one of orc folks would seek such an item; but they had competition now, whatever the reasons were.

Drazhan scanned his surrounding area, thanking the gods he didn't believe in for opting to leave his best shoes back home.
He stepped forward, continuing further in the tavern. After a while he finally spotted a orc; fitting the description given to him, by the fire.

"I believe you are searching for adventurer? Might I bother you a bit?" Drazhan raised his voice a bit, once reaching the brown haired orc- just to be heard over the loud racket.

 

[sspky]

Redhide gave the slender man in front of her a quick once bore before downing the last half of a copper tankard of bitter ale. After bleching into her forearm, the she-orc replied in a thickly accented voice, “Come, annoy me as much as you please.”


Gesturing for the man to join her at her table, she continued, “This about a job? Because I’ve got work aplenty as is. Reckon I can squeeze you in, so long’s the work you need doing won't stray me too-far from the work I have now.”


She flagged over a serving lass with a sharp whistle and a wave of one large, muscular arm, and then looked suddenly back at the stranger. Her gaze sharp, as if she’d just forgotten something important, Redhide added hurriedly, “I’ll beat folks for you, sure. But anyone who told you I kill ‘kin for coin is a bold-faced liar. I’m no assassin. Not of men or elves, least.”