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Fantasy Worth, a Forgotten Realms Tale (Chi-Makwa and Luffy)

ChiMakwa

The Big Bear
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Worth, a Forgotten Realms Tale
Somoril, the city in the mountains. A fable of the old Fort Glamdring, Foe-Hammer of the North, once a fort meant to keep back the hordes of savage Orcs of those Northern Mountains, now just a steadily dying city in the North. In the long history of Glamdring, they have only had a few fables, none worthy of notice really, none but the mention of Somoril the City in the Mountains.

Down south there once was a people who had prided themselves on their abilities of the arcane arts, arcanists they were called... Netheril was their empire. But almost all their time and knowledge were lost to time... until something called Somoril was heard by one ear or another, Somoril, the City in the Mountains. Lost and forgotten knowledge just sitting there somewhere in the mountains beyond Glamdring. Treasures not touched for a thousand years or more, a prospect that... some would jump at, some crazy fools who would actually believe that Somoril was a place and not some fable of some downtrodden city that is slowly freezing to death in the north.
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Sigurd Arnimson
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"I don't burn so easy."

Sigurd, adopted son of the blacksmith Arnim, the single best blacksmith of Glamdring, not that people buy off of Arnim anymore. Glamdring is an old and superstitious city, if it wasn't for the fact that Arnim was a good man, Sigurd wouldn't have survived that cold night where Glamdring found a devil-child abandoned in the city square. No one else would take a Tiefling orphan in, so Arnim the blacksmith decided to call everyone cold-hearted bastards and took in the kid himself.

Sigurd -in his own opinion- isn't anything special, but according to his father, he's the best blacksmith of Glamdring, if a bit reckless. Sigurd of course learned his talent of blacksmithing from his father, who had a unique way of blacksmithing that you would only find in Glamdring because Arnim invented the technique. Arnim employed magic in his blacksmithing, now Arnim isn't very good at magic, what he's learned about it came from a dusty old book in the even older and falling apart library of Glamdring. When Arnim was younger, he thought he would be a wizard when he grew up but Arnim never got around to making his spellbook. He taught what little he knew to his chosen son Sigurd and the Tiefling took to magic far better than Arnim ever did.

Aside from the scorn and not-so-well-hidden hate against Sigurd and Arnim, the blacksmith shop stayed afloat. Even if business isn't as good as it could be, Arnim and Sigurd are still undeniably the best shop in Glamdring. Sigurd was really good at making the remarkable blades and hammers... if only he was any good at making things consistent. That is the one thing Arnim criticizes his son for, no two of his works are similar. Even if they're good, making every work unique from each other stops the bulk orders that require consistency from coming into the shop.

Sigurd Arnimson learned Wizardry to better his blacksmithing. As a Wizard, he's an amateur at best, but he's learned everything he knows off of one book so maybe there's more to it than he's an amateur.
Elimil Silverfamilia
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"Let us keep it at, I'm the Stranger with deep pockets."

Eli, some rich adventurer from the south, as the town of Glamdring would put it. Elimil Silverfamilia, the stranger named so because at least people from Glamdring recognize him over other adventurers that pass through. Eli's the one to come back the most, so he got the name that stuck as The Stranger. There isn't much known about Eli, he's a noble based solely on his heavy coin purse. People remember hearing about the Silverfamilia, but southern politics play no role in Glamdring so they never bothered to learn the significance of the name. However, Glamdrings a small city, so there are rumours for why a noble kid is up north here... One has to do with how mad he looks. Or that glint in his eyes... it stinks of magic people say, even the ones that don't have a sense for magic will say it stinks of magic. Spell Scarred was tossed around quite a bit too, the rumour has no proof.

Elimil Silverfamilia is a Ranger as anyone could see with the bow and quiver he keeps on his person. He must be good in some way to make it work up in the mountains.


 
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Tulip Vanbuke

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"Enveloping themselves fully in nature, Chloromasters have dedicated themselves to the understanding and use of plants. While they lose the Druid's ability to transform into beasts, Chloromasters make up for it with an even deeper and more personal connection to their side of the natural world. Combined with their formidable casting abilities, a skilled Chloromaster is a force to be reckoned with, their plants turning their enemies into even more food."

"I'll drink till I'm dead frankly."

Tulip Vanbuke, a once royal nymph in the outlands of the world turned outlander...
Created from the birth of a tree in her home forest, Tulip has always been a sort of saint to the people. Her kindness was taken as a sign of virtue and used to flourish the people of her town. Though the townsfolk weren't around for long, after all, tales of the forgotten city of mountains Somoril caught their attention.
One by one the people of her town began leaving and suddenly in a matter of weeks, she was left to herself. Years of being left a bitter nymph turned her to the idea of leaving her tree.
The outlands she lived in was so far from the humanoid population she didn't have to worry about being destroyed. Walking the humanoid world as a fey creature was said to be difficult, other nymphs in her circle spoke of it in a way that. They spoke of people outside of their town who could be cruel and hurt young nymphs like herself, but looking like a sea elf had its perks.
Even now as someone in the age range of early 30's she's still mastered blending in with the humanoids and took the time to master her plant-like powers. Even with giving up the druidic ability to become an animal though making up with it in her way of becoming one with nature.
Though even after her traveling far and wide she had yet to visit Glamdring, an old city high in the mountains just out of her train of thought. But one night in a tavern where she drank herself to sleep often she heard of a tale. The lost city Somoril is high in the mountains far past the hammer of the north.

"I'll surely challenge myself to those reaches.."
Her call was heard by a gunslinger and after that Glamdring, Hammer of the North was insight.

Rose Rikan

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"Most warriors and combat specialists spend their years perfecting the classic arts of swordplay, archery, or polearm tactics. Whether duelist or infantry, martial weapons were seemingly perfected long ago, and the true challenge is to master them. However, some minds couldn’t stop with the innovation of the crossbow. Experimentation with alchemical components and rare metals has unlocked the secrets of controlled explosive force. The few who survive these trials of ingenuity may become the first to create, and deftly wield, the first firearms."

"Guns are my thing love."

Starting her life as a young girl in a far-off land, Rosyln was destined to rule over her kingdom with an iron fist. Though the war would strike late in her 16th birthday leaving her to be married off to a king somewhere unknown to her to save her people. She was cunning enough to get herself up and out of the kingdom within a month of being there, wasn't hard with their lack of good guards.
She joined the military at a young age to keep herself from being captured and taken back to where she was from, no way in hell she'd go back. Quickly climbing in the ranks, Roslyn, who took on the name Rose was learning the art of gunslinging quicker than expected. Armed with a musket and palm pistol she took on war with no issue.
Until they found the spider legs, the legs on her back that were cursed to her for being the descent of driders. No longer could she have stuck around and left without a word, not bothering to look back. Guns in hand with limited supplies the ravenette spider kin took on the world beyond her home with open arms.
Mercenary work came easy with her talent and skill, though when work was dry and times were tough she spent her nights in a tavern looking for a place to go next.
The words of a drunken nymph heading to the Glamdring, Hammer of the North caught her attention,
"I'll take you there if you need a partner in crime."
That night formed a bond of two unlikely travelers heading to the city of Glamdring with no clue what the future had in store.

 
"I don't burn so east." - Sigurd Arnimson
The Foe-Hammer of the North, Glamdring is an old city. Much older than people would think it to be. Based on size alone, it would seem like a young city just barely out of its infancy, but Glamdring has seen the rise and fall of empires. What kingdom the city belongs to first was lost to time and bad bookkeeping, but it had changed hands so many times, so many times a kingdom forgot that Glamdring was even a city under their rule at all, that Glamdring's folk started to think of the Foe-Hammer as it's own city-state, instead of owing fealty to a monarch and his or her family. The Foe-Hammer folk are hardy and stubborn in nature, endearing to dwarf's eyes and savage to the elf's. The blacksmith's boy is of the same opinion as to the elves.

"Welcome to Glamdring, the Foe-Hammer of the North. Who are the foes you ask? Anyone who isn't human and isn't from Glamdring."

Sigurd's life has never been easy, it's never easy being what he couldn't help but be. Tieflings are scorned wherever they go, they carry the sin's of their ancestors in their own blood. Ten times removed? It didn't matter, you had red skin and horns and fangs and that damned tail. You looked every bit your ancestor and every bit the child of Asmodeus. Glamdring for the longest time was Tiefling free, until Sigurd, damned adopted bastard of Arnim the blacksmith. Arnim was the only reason Sigurd was still around, if it had been any other person that day... in fact, there were many other persons that day that found the babe that would be named Sigurd, they would've left him out there in the cold winter to freeze to death. Those superstitious folk of Glamdring almost did leave the devil-babe out to freeze to death, but Arnim was a good man and took Sigurd into his own home.

"You want to know why you're the best Sigurd? Because you're my boy and I didn't raise a fool or a fiend, I raised a good man, a better man."

The only solace Sigurd ever had growing up, the only piece of his life that he's loved were the times he's spent with Arnim learning how to blacksmith and how to use the bit of magic that's used in blacksmithing. Outside of those times, Sigurd is hard-pressed to even get winter apples or butchered meats, even Arnim who before Sigurd was respected and praised as a good man and the best blacksmith of the Foe-Hammer is now only looked down upon for his choice to not let a babe die out in the cold winter. Arnim took the babe for his own and raised him as if he was his own son, knowing that he was never going to have a son in the first place. Arnim taught Sigurd everything he knew and taught him his morals, the simple teaching of being a good man went a long way. While at first the blacksmith didn't know what he was doing and went through moments of disappointment with the boy he chose to adopt, he still overall had pride in the boy he raised. Sigurd, the kid who took everything his old man knew and made it better.

"They are all petty and vindictive Sigurd. Pay them no face, just do the work and prove them wrong, even then you won't be their friend but at least you know you are better than them."

Sigurd himself had no love for the place he called home. His father was the only reason he was in Glamdring still, he had heard of cities down south that are more accepting of his kind. Waterdeep came to mind. Waterdeep is one of the oldest cities in Faerun, a place where it was what you did that made your name, not what you were that made it. That city is a place he would love to move to, to go down there and set up his own shop there and become world renown for his blacksmithing ability. Renown, it's something he would never get in Glamdring no matter how much he tried, they were all too set in their ways of hating anything that wasn't human or wasn't from Glamdring. Arnim thinks the same way as Sigurd, but he is not confident in his ability like Sigurd is. Arnim thinks Glamdring has been closed off for so long, that what makes him a great blacksmith is only because Glamdring is so backwards. Something in Sigurd knows that is false, that if they did go down to the south, they would find success, but Sigurd decided to listen to his father on this. Arnim never led him astray before.




"Let us keep it at that, I'm the Stranger with deep pockets." - Elimil Silverfamilia

The Stranger, also known as the adventurer who's come back to Glamdring enough to get a nickname. Where most adventurers only ever use Glamdring as a stop along the way of the search for Somoril, for some odd reason or another the Stranger, Elimil Silverfamilia has come back to the Foe-Hammer of the North more than ten different times. Even on the return trips, some adventures would choose to simply skip over stopping at a Glamdring tavern in favour of making it down south more to stop. No one could blame them, Eli certainly doesn't, Glamdring's a shithole with mediocre food and worse people. But Eli finds some comfort in all the shit that is Glamdring, it's a very nice change of pace from where he came from.

"Same as always Stranger?"

Now, where you can find some fun in Glamdring is at the Inn called Nightingale... It's an inn that you can find in the run-down part of the city called the Gale, which calling it the run-down part of Glamdring really gives you the idea of what kind of place it is. Based on context clues, Eli can only assume that they meant the name to be Night in Gale but they weren't literate enough to realize there's no space between the words, but nowadays it sounds like the old Fable that isn't even from this part of the world the Nightingales, a Netheril group of Assassins. Oh, but they pretend it was definitely meant to be that, and that the Nightingale story was surely stolen from Glamdring and not from down south. Anyway, onto Nightingale the Inn, it's a shabbily built two-storey building with whitewashed walls, something that makes the building stand out from all the stone masonry homes and buildings that make up the rest of Glamdring. Down south, whitewash is common because it's just something that makes building walls cheap, given that you could make the walls out shit and mud and thatch instead of stones, before applying the whitewash to hold it all together and protect it from the elements. Up north, however? Nightingale is a creaky and drafty building that hardly protects you from the extreme cold of Glamdring, if it weren't for the fire pits in every room of the Inn. But it's the life of Nightingale that makes it a fun Inn, not the experience of sleeping through the nights in it, if it didn't have the lively environment, Eli too would be skipping over Glamdring in favour of the Inns more south.


"Same as always. An ale that isn't watered down and some... stew."

Now Nightingale's life is when all the pent-up aggression of the city comes back home for the night. That is the best way to describe it. You'd be hard pressed to even find a Dwarven Ale House as rowdy as Nightingale and that's saying something. There isn't a night where the hardy folk of the Foe-Hammer don't come down to let out their aggression on the first fool to give them a reason. The night always ends in a brawl. Now that was shocking the first night Eli had experienced it, he himself got caught up in all the violence when he accidentally gave someone a reason, that reason being he looked at them too long. But the second time he experienced it, after his quick pack up and go look for Somoril didn't turn up anything, he didn't find it as shocking. The mountains... god the mountains of the north are reason enough to make anyone aggressive, so you know, he got it, not that he liked it at that point, he just got it. Now it was around the third or fourth time where he got into just watching the carnage of the end of the night brawls of Nightingale. In Eli's opinion now, there's nothing like watching an end of the night brawl at Nightingale.

"We don't water down our ale like you southerners and all we serve is stew."

Oh, well people would want to know about Somoril wouldn't they? Eli has not found Somoril, no one has yet actually. There doesn't appear to be any flying city in the mountains that you could see for leagues around... no devastated looking ruins that had seemed like they fell from the heavens themselves... so there's some part of Eli that wonders of Somoril really was its own nation not related to ancient Netheril. If it is... then the Fable somewhere got something wrong about Somoril. Maybe it isn't the City Above the Mountains... or the City On the Mountains... maybe it's... just hear Eli out here. Maybe it's Somoril, the City In the Mountains. Aye?
 

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