The Wastelands of Albedos

Razmael · November 2016

As the Dreikathi Empire's hold upon the northern reaches of Albedos loosened following their loss upon the continent of Sapience, pockets of resistance rose to overthrow their now weakened masters. Civil war erupted within the city set deep into the caldera of Drakkenmont and chaos spread across the southern expanse in a ceaseless wave. Settlements, towns, and villages collapsed beneath the cruel swathe that the Dreikathi carved in their struggle to maintain control.

The people of Albedos were not so easily broken.

Taking up arms, they fell upon the Dreikathi's brutish overlords without mercy before fading into the wastes as quickly as they had come, becoming little more than legend and myth to the slaves of Drakkenmont.

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Byen shifted from foot to foot as a familiar figure came into the gloaming light of the dwindling campfire, his nostrils flaring as he took in her scent with a grimace. "Good hunting, friend? I smell death upon you." The Caentoi raised a hand in greeting to the Ursal, a slab of stout muscle and leathers, that plodded towards him with heavy footfalls.

The Ursal tossed a dark object with a grunt, Byen taking a quick step back to avoid the projectile. "Scout," she rumbled as the object rolled into the light; a sack stained red with dark, drying blood. "Was quick. Bloody. Quick. Have trophy." She sat down heavily on a log before the dying fire, stirring the embers with a blackened branch before fixing Byen with a steely stare.

"And I've such a trophy as well," Byen jerked his head to the left, indicating the desiccated corpse of a headless Vierkathi hunter that swung lazily in the night air behind him with the telltale creak of a rope. "The Deathwalkers will be pleased with our findings."

"Is good hunting," the Ursal snorted in reply, kicking a dry log into the fire with a savage boot and emphatic grunt. "I take ten trophies this moon. You take, pah, three? Not so good. I console you with good drink from their cellar and fine meat."

"Ah, I've had my fill of vakmut flesh from the Underbelly, madam," the Caentoi replied primly, snout wrinkling. "I heard they have started an orych herd in the old shrine's garden. Orych milk and meat to be had with our bounties collected, hm? Much better than the vakmut flesh you've come to love, my dear."

"Ha!" The Ursal thumped a heavy paw against her belly, raucous laughter filling the night air. "If little Caentoi makes it back to shrine, yes? Deathwalkers not pay dead dog. Gatekeeper not so kind, yes?"

"Harel, please! Your constant 'dead dog' comments wound me so," Byen replied, an upturned paw placed against his brow in mock horror. "You are not wrong, though. Now, where is our third friend?"

"Ahh, Aslinn?"

"He's a name about him, Harel."

"Grees-ka?" Harel snorted as the fire began to crackle to life once more, leaning forward to peer through the haze at Byen.

"Graska, yes," Byen muttered, turning to peer over his shoulder into the dark of the wood.

"Where is he?"

"I asked you, Har--"

A wild, keening shriek echoed from the woodlands as a lithe Aslinn bounded into view.

"Ahh, and here he is now. Our wild one, hrm?" Byen bared his teeth in a grin, yellowed teeth gleaming in the firelight.

"Yesss, see?" The Aslinn chattered to himself in broken Albedi, dropping two decapitated Vierkathi heads to the ground with a wheedling laugh as they bounced across the cold ground. His dark eyes peered down at the Ursal and Caentoi with a feverish glaze. "I kill three, but one.. one get away! He run, he cry blood, leave trail--we find him, yes? We need more trophy for dark kings!"

"Tch.. kings, are they?" Byen turned to glance to Harel, the Ursal already shaking her limbs out and kicking a heavy log to snuff out the campfire with a grunt. "Well, Harel. Shall we?"

"I claim trophy," Harel grunted out, hefting her weapon over her shoulder as she strode into the woodlands. "Blood in the air."

Byen nodded, following after the Ursal with the Aslinn trailing closely behind them. Blood in the air. It was a fine night for a hunt.
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Courtesy of @Hadrak.

Hadrak · November 2016

Hemold placed a weathered hand upon the tree, fingers tracing unseen patterns along the gnarled bark before he pushed his way steadily forward into the tangled undergrowth. He narrowed an eye, mouth twisting into an all too easily worn scowl as dark shapes, sinuous and twisting, fled silently before him into the upper eaves of the Karak Forest. Unnatural silence hung heavy in the night air. You knew it wasn't some simple, bloody mark from the village. Koschin..

He scanned the horizon, the towering sentinel pines shedding little of their secrets as he peered into the dark. At the very least, his own quarry was blind. Hemold took a slow step forward, hand pushing outward to ward his way as he plunged ever deeper into the Karak. A branch snapped beneath his boot and the Golban froze with a sharp inhale and eye scanning the dense forest before he took another slow step forward. It was no good to be on a mark hunt during the night, Hemold thought to himself, releasing his held breath. Helba’s need for assistance had faded with the coming of the outlanders: the slavers pushed back into the Clawhook’s depths, the Drakkenmont Forces remaining in their godforsaken keeps to ward off the outlander’s advances, and now only a few Shil’tok emerged from the cursed barrows and tunnels that riddled the Dramedo. For all their luck these past years, Koschin still needed him. The outlanders weren’t always there, were they?

Hemold wrinkled his nose as he emerged into a clearing, the treeline thinning to the north before him. Bloody hand of the Keeper, I’m getting triple for this mark. Dangerous to be this close to the mountain. He muttered a bitter curse, pausing only to peer upwards as he stepped into the midst of the glade. The clouds, roiling with the threat of a storm atop the lofty crag of Mount Helba, blissfully parted and the pale moon shone its welcome light down upon the Dramedo Crags. Thank you, blessed ancestors. One thing’s gone well tonight. The Golban stooped low, free hand shifting to his belt to grasp the haft of his axe and pull it free of its binding. High above, the moonlight danced along myriad strands of thick, viscous webbing that draped the upper boughs in a sickly shawl and the wayfarer knew the source all too well.

As the twig behind him snapped, Hemold spun like a whirlwind with a barely restrained snarl, axes crashing down on the unprotected neck of the sinewy Shil’tok warrior that loomed behind him in a spray of black blood. The Shil’tok seized in a feeble death throe against the trunk of a pine, limbs scrabbling and mouth gaping fretfully as its life bled out into the bracken. Hemold stooped over the fallen creature with a sneer, his eye narrowing as he shifted his grip and brought the axe down upon the eyeless head. A trophy for the ancestors--Koschin be damned. How many more? Hemold stuffed his prize into a satchel at his side, eye scanning the now empty boughs above before hazarding a wary glance down at the headless Shil’tok that quivered fretfully still below him. No, there was no pack of drenak to waylay him. With their master slain, the spiders had fled into the wilds and they wouldn’t be far.

Hemold still had more trophies to take.

Razmael · December 2016

Here's a small teaser for you regarding our upcoming new class: the Wayfarers!

The Wayfarers are a band of hardy warriors that roam the wastelands and wilderness of Albedos, maintaining a constant watch over the forces of Drakkenmont as they strike forth from their lofty bastions in the southern reaches to maintain their iron grasp upon the continent. The Wayfarers are loners by nature, preferring to scavenge what they need and only venture into outlying towns for information and bounties. When an opportunity presents itself, they will cut a swathe through the enemy forces, only stopping when they have claimed their trophies from the fallen.

Brought together by a keen desire for gold for their services, the Wayfarers have little need for a united leadership such as the guilds of Sapience. Scattered across the continent, these men and women come together only to share stories, trade information, and warm themselves by the vigil fires in their camps and hideouts before venturing out once more.

Wayfarers will always be found carrying several handaxes, their weapon of choice, and don leather armour for its freedom of mobility. A fury to be reckoned with upon the battlefield, they'll dive fearlessly into the fray, their commanding shouts inspiring allies and striking terror into enemies.

Stay tuned!