Hello, everyone. This is where I will be posting the narrative for an ongoing ArcWorlde campaign that I am running. We are using my adaptation of Warp's campaign format. I have posted my adaptation elsewhere in this forum. As the narrative develops, I will post the chapters below.
Introduction
My parents, their parents, and their parents, and ever on, fading into the mists of time, have lived here in the Rimlands. And their stories have wandered through those mists from the cyclical successions of lips to ears until I too have heard them. Now I am old and have no kin to hear these stories. So for you, whoever you are, I will write these tales.
Let me tell you of such a time that can only be reminisced by the fire. When the Imperials still feared the consternation of their arcloques, Gremlins were bogeymen who knotted children' s boots, and Grifflings were treated as vermin. Yes, such a time existed and the map of the world resembled that of today but if you looked closely, the details were different.
On the southern border of Scotstaine could be found the beastfolk clan of MacClachard living in their appropriately named ancestral home of Dunclachard. You might have heard of the rather large stone at the heart of their town. While it is no more than a boulder, back then it was a rather impressive stone. Obstinate and unchanging like that rock were clan MacClachard. When given the option to stay their course or change their perspectives, the clan were wont to say “Nary a blaggard in clan MacClachard” as they kept to their ways, no matter the cost.
Such was their tradition and pride. And with such noble virtues came a proclivity towards insularity. They stayed at home and feared the strange spanses of wilderness and civilization that existed beyond a caber’s throw. So, a story begins with a spark of the strange: a MacClachard spurred to change.
This came to be when a wandering merchant stopped by the clan to peddle wares. This was not uncommon, not new, and the wares were bought and bartered as usual. Auld Moire MacClachard visited this merchant, looking to buy some trinkets, when she glanced upon a strange tubular club at the merchant’s waist. A glowing rock seemed affixed to this tube with an apparatus of metal. Auld Moire asked what that was. Scoffing, the merchant asked if Auld Moire lived under a rock, that the item was an arcloque pistol of great value and fearsome power. Half-listening to the unnecessary lambasting, Auld Moire became keenly aware of the shadow of Dunclachard’s name sake.
Perhaps, aye, she had been living under a rock.
The realization took a while to fester, to gnaw at the comfortable surety of tradition. One day, in the middle of doing some asinine task, Auld Moire stopped. She looked around at her incurious clansfolk. She sighed and then declared: “I am going to learn about this world, outside of the shadow of the rock.” Everyone stopped what they were doing and stared. Then they resumed their tasks. Auld Moire returned to her home and got pished.
The next day, hungover, Auld Moire left her abode to find a means to quiet the galloping horses when she was stopped by Clever Frogatha, an amphibian verman more bold than most. “Me an’ the lads been talkin’, Big Yin, and we’re with ye.” Auld Moire vacantly gazed upon her new disciples: Clever Frogatha with her smiling eyes, Wee Rottwilliam and his panting mischief, Honest Blanco and his restless tail, Sweet Guineavere and her calming smile, and Stroppy Thomouse who seemed distracted. “Alright, let’s go,” said Auld Moire and they left their home.
The world they ventured into is one of wonder, but also of danger. Such a danger was making itself known off the western coast of Njorsevald. The Phantom Corsairs of the Black Atoll have begun pillaging once more. No longer bound by mortal hungers and limits, these Undead Raiders seek to sow fear and terror in all those that have the misfortune to encounter them. A mere ship’s cook in life, Captain Dreadmaw aims to establish his name in death.
Meanwhile, in southern Hobbleshire could be found the town of Halffield Haven. The founders were the married halflings: Henry Halffield and Maureen Butterbean. Their gamble in establishing such a settlement soon bore figurative and literal fruit as Henry brought with him invaluable knowledge from his home of Applegrove. Maureen too brought prosperity to their Haven with her talents in raising cattle for creams and cheeses soon earned the town fame and steady customers, even from her hometown of Buttercream. However, it was their combined talents that brought about the product that would put Halffield Haven on the map: Butterbean Cider.
The small town evolved from the family business into a veritable prosperous community on the rimlands of northern Mildaark. Time collected its tithe as it is wont to do, and Henry and Maureen left their businesses in the care of their sons: Hugo and Horatio. They continued the family business, tweaking recipes and altering practices in such ways that everyone benefitted and the town continued to grow. However, all sunny days must in time give way to night. And so it was for Halffield Haven.
The depths of Mildaark hide many wonders but they also hide many terrors. Some terrors can be reasoned with, others have no pity and will act on their whims no matter the results. Unfortunately, Halffield Haven caught the attention of one such pitiless terrors: the Mildaark Lurker. This is not the only story of the Mildaark Lurker that I can tell. And I fear none of those stories have happy endings. She’s a capricious beast with an envious heart. Perhaps she ensnared a caravan carrying Butterbean Cider and acquired a taste for the brew. Perhaps she had heard stories of the town’s good fortunes and wished to humiliate them. Who can know of such a creature’s reason, I know I do not. They say she took her time wending her way to Halffield Haven. The forest darkened around the town and slowly over time the nights grew quiet. Then one still night, when the darkness was deeper and thicker than smothering webs, the Mildaark Lurker struck! Her chittering brood swarmed the town and as the lights of torches and fires were extinguished, a large terrible shape approached the town. In the midst of his friends and family being wrapped up in webs, Sheriff Hugo Halffield rallied the remnants of his guard and released the trollhounds from their kennels. The battle was hard fought and too many halfling fell, but the foe was driven back at the break of dawn.
The town they loved was in ruins, its brewery, bakeries, and dairies ransacked and plundered. Its people were broken, some in body, others in spirit. But Hugo did not give into dismay. He had seen that horror and did not back down. Enkindled within him burned two flames: the burning desire to restore Halffield Haven to prosperity and the fire of vengeance against the Mildaark Lurker.
To the east, the Von Malias Vampires of Castle Schloss were dealing with a different threat. As with all Vampires, the Von Malias partook in the internecine politics of their people. And they traditionally have succeeded. Like a proud nail, the Von Malias have stood out while other lineages have risen and fallen in the region.
But circumstances have changed. Victoria, the clan’s matriarch, had grown bored with immortality and over the recent centuries has taken a more martial approach to the games that Vampires play. And she was good at the art of war and personally had a hand in quite a number of Vampire lineages falling. But warfare, even for the undead, takes wealth and resources. Unfortunately, the Von Malias coffers have finally emptied.
Normally this would be bad news. A problem to solve. However, a messenger that had been sent out to a rival clan had recently returned to Castle Schloss, minus a body and in a neatly wrapped box. With such a disagreeable statement, having no money turned out to be terrible news. Badder than bad. A true spark for a powderkeg kind of situation. Victor, coincidentally Victoria’s partner, suggested that they go for a midnight stroll. It would be good to get some fresh air, drink some fresh blood. Clear the head and ponder the situation. Their doom was for sure nigh but it was not quite now.
They needed money.
They needed resources.
They needed a plan.
Surely they needed to prepare quickly, for in the south Arch Duke Valerius rules as a tyrannical Dark Lord, commanding his forces from the imposing Onyx Citadel and daily sending the heads of interlopers back to their masters. Driven by a desire for absolute dominion, he has mobilized vast dozens of hobgoblins to act as the instrument of his conquest, aiming to subjugate all of Arcworlde under his iron rule.
However, Valerius's power rests on a fragile foundation. While his hobgoblin minions outwardly prostrate themselves in worship, they secretly despise their oppressor and pray fervently for freedom. This hidden dissent creates a volatile dynamic where the Arch Duke’s greatest weapon—his army—is also his greatest vulnerability, waiting for the right moment to break their chains.
Each of these individuals have their parts to play in the coming tale whether they wanted to or not. But I have found that these are the types of people who are the most compelling actors in our world. Their actions and words may be small, but the consequences shall be large.
The story you are about to read will be retold in the generations to come as the Tale of Five.
