Report from the Wilds #6

An article Submitted to the Felwithian Sub-council of Knowledge for approval.

The War of Antonica

Steel boots tear into the earth of the Karanas. A blood-red cloud of dust rises over the desert of Ro. From as far away as Qeynos and the High Keep, we can feel the stomping march of Ykesha's army.

Scouts and spies watch the armies as they progress across the lands; one army to the east and one to the west. They see sharp blades in the leather gauntlets of grim and fierce trolls, dark elves, and ogres. They see a shadow on the rocks silhouetted against a burning sky holding a curved blade high. The warlord, Ykesha, shouts orders as he did two thousand years ago. He shouts of blood and vengeance.

Militias mobilize while citizens flee into the walls of their cities.

One by one the cities of Freeport and Rivervale and High Pass sigh in relief as the dark armies cross their doorstep but turn south to the wetlands of Antonica. They turn to Gukta.

An old farmhand of Antonica, separated from the news of the lands, watched in horror as the army marched across his farms. While he and his family hid in a moldy cellar, the armies tore up his crops with their barbed boots. He saw their gauntleted hands gripping the thick handles of wide double-bladed axes. He saw their sharpened teeth gritting in anticipation of war. He knew what would happen to his family if they saw him. He sighed with relief when they had crossed the river to South Karana.

Many Norrathians build up a vision of the troll armies in their heads.

They see large masses of tall and powerful trolls fighting in lines against steel-armored warriors and paladins of the cities of light.

They do not see the details. They don't see those wide-bladed axes cleaving through plates of steel and into flesh and bone. They don't see young men dying of infected wounds under the burning heat of Ro.

They don't see the starvation, looting, and disease of the cities left to die in the wake of such an army.

Felwithe does not see this. We saw our own men dying in Greater Faydark under the rusted blades and axes of Crushbone. Now we read of the wars to the west in the comfort of our homes. Outside, legions of our guards stand watch in shining steel. We wish there were something we could do to help, but we will not send our troops across the Ocean of Tears to help defend those who need it.

Gukta may soon be stomped into the ground with every living Guktan murdered in their streets. The brothers of Marr will fall under the iron gauntlet of Ykesha. Armies of barbarian mercenaries will be cut down defending a people they do not know while we discuss the war with our friends and drink our sweet wine.

We must mobilize. We must call upon our generals to mobilize and travel across the seas. We must defend our allies and ourselves from the armies of Ykesha. We must not sit back and read of Ykesha's victory over Antonica while we sit behind our walls and hope it will go away.

It is time for the colors of Tunare to once again march across Antonica.

- Aluvin Windwhisperer, The Royal Herald

Minister's Note: The preceding article is marked as deceptive, hostile, non-compliant, disruptive, aggravating, and contrary to the words of our king and the council of Felwithe. It has been disapproved for dissemination. Any release, display, discussion, or transfer of this record will be met with the strongest of penalties.

Dalavin Willowleaf - Chief Knowledge Minister of Felwithe

Report from the Wilds #5

The following is inked on a sheet of folded vellum sealed with the wax seal of the agents of the Church of Tunare.

To High Priest Yeolarn Bronzeleaf,

The world seems to crumble under the iron boots of chaos. As horrible as the recent memories of Bloody Faydark, as the criers care to glorify the great orc battles, the battles appear to be an act of misdirection. I know it is very difficult to consider such a terrible battle a simple act of deception, but I fear the elves have fallen into a well orchestrated dark elf plot.

For years the spies of Felwithe have known the connections between Crusbhone and Neriak. No doubt the superior intellect of Neriak could easily send the orcs against our building armies. No doubt Neriak understood what the reaction of Felwithe and Kelethin would be - isolationism. How could we send our troops across the seas to fight for cities they hardly know when elven blood spills just outside our own gates?

The true danger does not lie in the Faydark, however, but on Antonica.

The ancient creature of the swamp, resurrected by a coven of necromancers loyal to Xon Quexill, has turned out to be none other than Warlord Ykesha, the great lord of the trolls from centuries ago.

Dusty leatherbound tomes tell us of his fall in the depths of Guk and the loss of the Grozmok stone to the Broken Skull Clan.

Since his resurrection, Warlord Ykesha challenged all of the competing battlemasters of the trolls to battle on a stone walkway over the center of the hellish volcano of Lavastorm. His curved blade tore open those who opposed him and the rest bent their knee in loyalty.

With a pile of burned and flayed bodies behind him, Warlord Ykesha traveled back to Neriak's Foreign Quarter and began to prepare his army. He sent agents to the leader of the Broken Skull Clan, Spiritseeker Natox, in Gunthak. The Spiritseeker agreed to an alliance with Ykesha and more surprisingly declared that Ykesha was the Grozmok, the god-king of Trolls on Norrath.

Now Warlord Ykesha's armies march in the Commonlands. Dark elves, ogres, and trolls all march under the banner of Ykesha. They speak of revenge against Grobb but Freeport marks itself as an easy target.

Whatever they choose, I fear no city militia can stand up to such a powerful force.

Again we must look to the mercenaries and adventurers of Norrath to break down the walls of this army. Their undisciplined approach to combat, attacking on the flanks in smaller groups rather than a line war in open fields, may shatter the pillars of discipline within this eclectic army.

If they cannot, no one can say what can stop such a force.

Many of my agents have paid for this information with their lives. My spies travel to the shadows of Neriak, the scorched hills of Lavastorm, and to the open planes of Antonica. Many have spilt t heir blood for the good of Felwithe. They risk torture, mutilation, and death for the good of a city they can never enter. Whether their skin was dark or light or green, they served our people and should be marked as heroes.

May the Mother protect us all,

High Priest Loral Ciriclight
The Hand of Tunare

Report from the Wilds #4

To Ciric Azilebane, High Priest of Quellious,

Dearest Friend,

War has found the Faydark. We always knew the shadow of Crushbone's jagged axe lay north of the elven nations but not until the past few nights did we truly know the danger. For centuries the elves have used Crushbone as a trial by blade and by blood of the merits of those sent into the wilds. We had no idea of the forces the orcs had built up in the caves under the citadel of Crushbone.

Until last night.

I received word from the criers of Tanaan that elven rangers had spotted powerful orcs and even an orc warlord north of Felwithe. I returned to the Greater Faydark to learn the truth of these reports.

The elves had mobilized. Rangers, paladins, and spellcasters prepared under the guidance of the battlemasters of Kelethin and Felwithe. All bureaucracy was tossed aside. They were ready for battle. They wore suits of shining steel armor and white silk embroidered with the ancient elven glyphs.

For three days these armies waited and prepared. Mercenaries from all over Norrath traveled to the lands. Some waited with grim determination on their faces, their hands gripping the leather-wrapped hilts of their enchanted blades. Others treated it like a celebration on the beaches of North Ro, drinking and singing bawdy tavern songs.

I traveled with a scouting party to hunt down the orcish warlord. In the north east of the forest we spotted him and two of his elite guards. He was huge, scarred from a hundred wounds and eyes blazing red as hellfire. He wore a cloak of soft elf-hair and a boiled leather chestguard of thick dwarvish skin. His eyes burned with the fury of centuries of oppression under the elvish cities but they also spoke of calm and logical strategy. He would not rush into the hail of elven arrows as the other orc warlords had. He knew his enemy and we did not.

On the evening of the third day, war finally began.

The ground opened up. The armies of Crushbone poured forth from the hidden entrances to underground caverns. They rushed in waves, too close for the elvish archers to thin them out with steel barbed arrows. Scouts and messengers cried out as heavy axes hewed into their backs.

The lines of the elves broke quickly into smaller units of elvish spellcasters and blademasters. I saw an elvish general cleave down five orcs in five strokes of his jeweled greatsword. I watched a beautiful elvish enchanter command one dominated orc to cut open another with his jagged sword.

Chaos filled the forest. Mercenaries began to turn sides, splitting the armies into threes and fours. Bands of dark elves, ogres, Iksar, and the traitors of the elflands turned their own weapons and magic upon the elf commanders. Others were crushed between the armies of Felwithe and those of Crushbone. My mind reeled in horror.

The worst had yet to come.

I felt a burning flair across my back as a blade pierced through my armor and sunk into my side. I turned to defend myself, my hammer held high. I met the burning green eyes of a young paladin of Felwithe. His mouth had turned into a snarl and my own blood dripped down the keen edge of his sword. Illusions of dark domination or deception flew away; this elf knew who I was and planned to kill me. I was in shock.

All of the prejudice of the elvish nations, all of the ill-favored looks and street-side whispering manifested itself into murder in this inferno of battle. What had been a joke among the young paladins of Norrath now became a killing stroke of a sword.

He would have succeeded. Instead, an arrow exploded out of his throat in a shower of red blood. The green-eyed paladin fell into the mud next to me. The arrow's owner, a half elf in dark chainmail, wrenched the jeweled sword from the paladin's dead hand and tore two rings off his fingers. He winked at me before running off into the woods to continue his plunder of the dead.

Healing warmth filled the deep wound in my back. Juror, the barbarian mystic and my greatest friend, picked me up on his massive shoulder and rushed me south. A camp of mercenaries loyal to the elves had formed near the ancient Combine spires. There, half a league from the bloody battles of the north, our spells healed the wounded and recovered their strength.

A report came in that Warlord Mish, the leader of the orcish forces, had been slain. The mercenaries cheered into the night. I did not cheer. The vision of the murderous glare of the elven paladin made my heart cry. Tears filled my eyes.

I would not remember this day as the day the orcs and the elves met in battle. I would remember it as the day the elves battled each other.

May the Mother guide our hand,

Loral Ciriclight
High Priest of Tunare
On the Fourteenth Day of the Month of the Silver Moon, 3201 PD

Report from the Wilds #3

To Loral Ciriclight, the Hand of Tunare,

Your murder of Warlord Bormar has sent the trolls into a frenzy. They continue to arm themselves and spread word of your attack from their town crier. They cry for a new leader to retake Grobb.

However, your attempt to create a wedge between the trolls and the dark elves has partially succeeded. The trolls quickly blame your assassination on the weak guards of Neriak. A dark elf agent propositioned me to murder the trolls of Gunthak to further enrage the troll legions. It will only be a matter of time before the trolls learn of this treachery.

The weakness of Neriak's internal guard became clear when Tier'Dal troops marched on Freeport from the west. Adventurers banded together in the tunnels of the East Commonlands led by a powerful general named Eromreven of Shar Val. The adventurers fought bravely but they ended broken on the rocks of the Spine of the World.

I found the body of a decapitated Tier'Dal scout, one torn apart by Eromreven's warder and a warrior named Rebelwolf. On him I discovered a potion of illusions. When I took a sip I was horrified to see my beautiful visage transformed to look like you, a high elf.

From within Neriak itself, the High Necromancer, Xon Quexill seeks the bodies of Frogloks, both live and undead. He is unclear of his motivations but one can easily assume his intentions and research.

Even my own composure was shaken when I saw the flayed corpse of a young Froglok straining against leather bonds with death in its faded milky eyes.

All throughout the kingdoms of Norrath the criers call of war. So eager are the nations to press their propaganda that they now give the news away for free. They speak of a battle between high elves and the natives of Guktan over a ritual performed within the swamps of Innothule. They speak of a horror torn from the depths of the fetid ground, a huge horned creature with lidless eyes and enveloped in a cloud of green noxious gas.

It appears, under the illusions of their strange potions and the direction of Xon Quexill, the dark elves attempt to create a rift between the high elves and the guktans as you have done between the dark elves and the trolls. It will take much to restore alliances once word of this unholy beast reaches the frogloks.

You should be pleased to know that the council of Felwithe has heard your call. Troops of Felwithe mobilize in the forest of Greater Faydark with sun shining off of silver armor and steel weapons. Let us all hope that the silver shine does not soon turn red.

I expect thrice my normal payment delivered to my account by noon tomorrow.

Your servant,
Xarrak, Eye of the Shadow - Master of Spies

Report from the Wilds #2

* The following is found on a note of tanned vellum written in black ink in small economic handwriting *

High Priest Yeolarn of Tunare,

Though unable to defeat Ithiasor, the black dragon of the Swamp, I learned that others had faced and defeated this great wyrm. I was correct in my assumptions of this Veslin Savok. It appears he was an agent or mercenary of the trolls of Grobb. Veslin accepted this chest from the proud slayers of Ithiasor and promptly delivered it to the troll instigators of Grobb.

Our Felwithian spies are not the only ones in search of information.

Froglok agents of Gukta also watch the shadows to protect their new and unstable city. One of these agents sought adventurers to recover this chest from the trolls of Neriak; no easy task.

I accepted.

I traveled through the dark forest of Nektulos to the doors of Neriak itself. The Tier'Dal Dragoons have grown weak in recent days and I was able to easily dispatch them. I used to question such actions but in this age of war, such actions come easy. I met with five fellow adventurers, old friends I have hunted with in the far lands. Canerit the monk, Lord Garmok the Warlord, Yridian the Vah Shir Beastlord, Amril the elven warrior, and Kanadrix the mage. Amril was critical in learning of the Guktan spies and acquiring the layout of the troll stronghold inside Neriak.

We took little time in our small but powerful attack. My companions, experienced in battle against the Muramite legions and demons of the lower planes, took little time in cutting down the guards of Neriak's foreign quarter. We traveled quickly to the south into the slums of the trolls. It was there we realized how powerful these troll usurpers had become.

They fought with a fury never seen within the walls of Neriak. They fought with strange weapons, some not seen in thousands of years. The weapons and magics contained within that ancient chest were powerful indeed. The blades of the trolls cut deep. Three times the trolls sent us running back into the forests of Neriak.

Our fourth attack, however, delivered our victory. Using chaos as our own weapon, we managed to separate the overlord of the troll resistance, Warlord Bortar, from his advisor and personal guard. We battled him at the gates of Neriak.

Even alone the warlord fought like ten men. Bortar smashed Garmok, an ogre of nearly five hundred stone, against the ebony walls. He cut deep gashes into the stone floor with his enchanted axe. Only with our combined strength did the warlord fall. Garmok's runed blade spilled black blood from a deep wound in Bortar's side.

We returned the chest to a Froglok conspirator outside of Neriak and received little more than a word of thanks for our efforts. The spy network of Guktan keeps its lips as sealed as our own.

I do not know if the slaying of Warlord Bortar will prevent the troll uprising. A people can only be repressed for so long before they grow strong and vindictive.

I will continue my search for information and continue my actions towards the safety of Felwithe. Many others have joined in our cause. While it is my greatest hope that the council of Felwithe will see to the defense of our city, I will not depend on it. The mercenaries and adventurers of Felwithe have saved us before, once again they are our greatest hope.

Loral Ciriclight
Hand and Eye of Tunare
Seventh day of the Month of the Harvest Moon, 3202 PD.

Report from the Wilds
* The following is found on a note of tanned vellum written in black ink in small economic handwriting *

High Priest Yeolarn Bronzeleaf of Tunare,

War is upon us. Six months ago we lost the port of Firiona Vie to the forces of Lanys T'Vyl. Two weeks ago, our own city of Felwithe came under attack by Tier'Dal terror troops. I watched our shop owners bleed to death on the cobblestone streets of my home.

Never more than now has Felwithe faced imminent danger. It is all around us. Rifts tear open between worlds. Holes break open to the lost lairs of beasts from the old ages. Yet for centuries the council of Felwithe chose to remain passive.

It is clear that we must move on our own. I begin to gather information and I begin to plant the seeds within those who will act on Felwithe's behalf. I have sent my spies to the far reaches of Norrath in search of information. They already begin to return with dark and sinister plots. It is these plots that I will report to you over the following weeks.

Last week one of my troll spies traveled to Neriak and listened to the trolls who reside there after the fall of Grobb. The trolls speak of battle. They speak of murder. It is clear that they no longer consider Neriak their home, if they ever did. They speak of a lord, one Bortar, who may lead them in battle against Gukta.

A rift opens between the Tier'Dal and the trolls. We can exploit this rift and perhaps aggravate a conflict between our two enemies. I will seek to learn more and if an opportunity reveals itself, I will act upon it.

Many of my agents travel through the city of New Tanaan, the new hub of travel for the adventurers of Norrath. One of my agents discovered a human named Veslin Savok who sought adventurers to recover a chest for him from a dragon named Ithiasor the Black in the Swamp of No Hope.

I spoke to this Veslin, an untrustworthy fellow if I ever saw one, and I accepted his task. I do not know if he is an agent of Rasp's Wayfarers or perhaps of the Ebon Hand. After a failed attempt to learn more of this black horrid beast, I enlisted the power of Vinceremo. This powerful band of mercenaries and hunters traveled to the Swamp and faced the great wyrm, Ithiasor. The battle did not go well.

I have yet to learn more from this source but I fear the great wyrm will return unscathed to whatever dark hole it crawled from.

Lord Yeolarn, I will continue to send these reports to keep you informed. It is my hope that you will succeed in stirring the council of Felwithe into action. I saw your actions on the bridges of Felwithe. I saw you wield your staff like the warrior elves of Takish Hiz. I know fire burns in you as it burns in me.

Should you be unable to stir the unmoving rock of Felwithe's council, I will do what I can to enlist the aid of the hunters, adventurers, and mercenaries of Norrath. They do not fight for the protection of Felwithe or for the word of Tunare, but with the right motivation they can serve our purposes.

May the Mother watch on us all,

Loral Ciriclight
High Priest of Tunare
Hand and Eye of the Church of Felwithe
Nineteenth Day of the Month of the Amber Leaf, 3201 PD