3. From Golden Host, A Tormitar's Grace

From Golden Host, A Tormitar's Grace


  • "You're a stubborn fool," said Lord Jonah Seyleigh.

    "My Lord," replied Lars Mendarthur, "We can't do this."

    In the farthest edge of Narfell, past the Long Road and through the Nars Pass, way north of the Cold Road lay a military-style camp. In that camp, twenty two battle-worn troops rested, while a handful kept watch. In the center of these soldiers, in the largest tent, by the candlelight and across a table, spoke two men. Jonah Seyleigh wore golden cloth and rings, with blond hair and crystal blue eyes. Lars Mendarthur, the other man, wore battle-armor, was dark-haired, brown-eyed, and bearded.

    "The Golden Host needs cash to buy more soldiers. The math is simple. Or are you too old, now, to count?" spoke Jonah Seyleigh.

    "Ill-gotten funds, my Lord. Ill-gotten funds, paying for ill-moral'd soldiers." Lars Mendarthur's voice was firm, but his eyes betrayed his worry.

    Jonah Seyleigh considered this man, whom he had called 'friend' for two years. Armored for battle, yet unwilling to press forward. He thought Lars Mendarthur a man of strength, of conviction, yet he stood there across the table, across the maps and icons, across the strategic tokens and schemes of war… to do what? To preach restraint? The time for preaching was over. The time for action was now. To accomplish great things requires the will to do what is necessary. After all, were the results not worth the difficulty? Liberating the wildlands from the grip of bandits, barbarians, and orcs, and unifying the territory under the Seyleigh name. Yes, it was imminent. Yes, he was close. Yes, he could almost taste greatness now. And to Mendarthur's protests, he could only scoff.

    "Again, Mendarthur, you ignore the math. We take the funds from here," Lord Seyleigh pointed to a small fishing village on the map. "And use it to buy these soldiers here." He then placed a token representing the mercenary band next to the marker representing their camp.

    "With respect, Lord Seyleigh, if we take the wealth from that village, the Golden Host becomes no different than the bandits it seeks to defeat. Its theirs, not ours. We're not thieves, my Lord," pleaded Lars. He reached stepped forward, and reached to place a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Please, Jonah. I am begging ye now. Don't become what ye swore to fight."

    Lord Seyleigh shrugged the hand off from his shoulder. He could see it: the name "Seyleigh" written over this map. And the history books would write about the Golden Host - his band of liberators. His minor house would become a great one, under his rule, under his watch. He would be a hero among men, remembered for ages to come. Who was this Lars Mendarthur to stop him? A friend? Why would a true friend deny him this chance? No. A true friend would support him, would accept the offer, would help in whatever way he could. A true friend would not be so stubborn.

    "How, then? How do we press forward, with tired soldiers, few in number and with fewer resources still to replenish them? No. You're too naive to see it: we need that cash, and we need those soldiers." Lord Seyleigh was growing impatient. He hated repeating himself, and these past weeks he was beginning to hate speaking to Lars Mendarthur.

    "Those mercenaries are bad men," insisted Lars. "They kill, steal, and rape as they please. The soldiers outside, my Lord, those are good men. Those are honorable men, who fight for ye, because they love ye, sire, not for gold, not for a chance at a woman, but for ye, and yon purpose. Let them rest, retreat if we must. There is always more time to do this the right way."

    Lord Seyleigh's eyes narrowed on Lars. He pursed his mouth sourly. The men outside were, indeed, loyal to house Seyleigh. They were, after all, its official soldiers, pledged and honour-bound to serve the house. In that moment, however, something occurred to Jonah Seyleigh. It occurred to him that although the men marched under the banner of House Seyleigh, of late that banner alone was not enough to motivate their spirits. It may very well be that they marched not for their honour-bound duty to house Seyleigh, but due to the preach and praise of Lars Mendarthur. Could it be that the clergyman was trying to sabotage the Golden Host's campaign? Could it be that his once loyal advisor and friend had now instead become a risk and liability?


  • The parchment is left in Ashena Teroldys' quarters in the divine shield. The lettering and pace of the letter is smoother, with fewer pauses and disruption of the cursive lettering.

    @86737532e7=Lars:

    Right and Virtuous Lady Ashena Teroldys of Torm,

    It is with boundless gratitude that I thank you for saving my life, and the lives of the others, yesterday at Peltarch's south wall. Without the intervention, it is very likely that everyone there would be irrecoverable and dead. We were barricaded atop the wall, surrounded by flame and unable to move. But then our saviors descended on luminous wings carrying weapons of war and yourself. It is thanks to those very angels and to you, Ser Allestor Hollins, and the Lady Daisy Millern that we breathe today. The descent was like a mighty gavel swung down against the judge's lecturn, overtured by the the clouds parting and a shining beam of light which instilled the fear of the triad and made the demons hiss and squirm.

    To stand and fight beside you in battle is the greatest honour I have had in my thirty summers and winters.

    In many ways, morale is higher now. After the arrival of these new celestials. It is also thanks to the visit of a copper dragon, who is appropriately named "Copp." He answered questions, and brought smiles to people's faces. I think it was also Ser Darvan, Ser Thorne, and Ser Yatagan that fished and arranged to cook a large pot of fish stew which has brought spirits up.

    In other ways, though, morale is low. People sometimes speak of doubts, and wonder about the honesty and trustworthiness of one another. I was never one to wonder such things, and I have rebuked their whispers. I think they are false. I like to see the good in people. I can thankfully say that most everyone I have met since my arrival to the city has been kind and honest. There is good even in someone who has done awful wrongs, who has stains upon their very soul. If there is even a scrap of regret or conscience somewhere inside of them, beneath the denial, beneath the cold and dispassionate calculations that shield them from the feelings of injustice and guilt that guide us away from committing horrid and immoral actions - if there is such conscience or regret, I think they can be forgiven and redeemed.

    I also thank you for your reply to my previous letter. And, after that, I have heard that Lady Lunia has joined the order. This pleases me greatly - both to receive the reply, and to learn that she has joined. She is a good person, and a hard-working painbearer, and I am glad to call her my friend and ally at arms.

    Tidings from your devoted squire,
    Lars Mendarthur


  • One rainy, dark night, on the winding and lonely Long Road, a horse wearing gold colors carried an armored and bearded man towards his destination.

    The man's name was Lars Mendarthur, and his destination was the Golden Host's camp. He was recently sent by his lord, Jonah Seyleigh, to negotiate for supplies and for a loan of funds to supply the Golden Host's campaign to liberate the local area from bandits and thieves. Jonay Seyleigh was lord of a minor house, but wanted his house to do good and great things. Lars Mendarthur considered himself Lord Seyliegh's trusted friend and advisor. Lars was glad that his friend and lord had recently made the correct and moral choice. There was a dispute about whether or not the Golden Host should sack and loot an innocent village, in order to obtain the funds to pay for mercenaries. The idea was Lord Seyleigh's suggestion. Thankfully, Lars was able to convince him otherwise. Instead, Lars insisted, and Lord Seyleigh agreed, Lars himself would ride to the town and ask for their consent to send their able warriors, and their funds, to the Golden Host. This loan would be repaid, of course. This alternative approach might have been harder, thought Lars, but it was a better one.

    Lars Mendarthur was happy that moment, because he knew he served a just and good lord.

    Lars snapped the reigns of his horse, and it hurried along the Long Road ever faster. He could see the Golden Host's encampment, just moments away. However, there was something different about the camp that night. It was one, at first… and then another, and another, and another still. Horses, but not the Golden Host's horses, who wore white and gold. Rather, these horses wore black and brown, and bore strange sigils. These new horses mingled with the old ones, the ones with the white and gold. Also, the total number of horses in the camp was much higher now than when Lars had left it a few days ago. Lars also noted that the horses were all saddled and ready to ride. The camp would be moving soon.

    Frowning, Lars slowly rode his horse into the center of the camp.

    It was then that Lars noticed the men who owned the horses. They wore all manner of armor - leather, plate, and chain - but each of them had the black and brown colors. Lars could only see one or two of the Golden Host's usual troops, and the ones he did see seemed tired, weary, and confused. The rest of the men, those in black and brown, smiled and watched as Lars saddled his horse and tied its reigns to the hitching post. One of them picked his teeth with a dagger. Another one dipped the tips of his arrows into a small bowl of green liquid that Lars could not identify. As Lars hitched his horse, one of the men walked up to him.

    "Hey you," said the man. "You're Lars, right?"

    "Aye, ye stranger," replied Lars. "I am Lars Mendarthur. Humbil servant to Jonah Seyleigh, Lord of House Seyleigh, and advisor to the Golden Host. Who are ye?"

    The new man wore a brown hood. He had a stubbly face, gray eyes, and a heavy brow. This new man also carried many weapons, including a short-sword and a club on his back. But the two most prominent weapons were the two daggers strapped on the right side of his belt. It was there that the man rested his right hand.

    "Yeah, you're definitely him," smiled the man after hearing Lars speak. It was a slow and deliberate smile. "I'm Tarran Kurtz. I don't have fancy titles. But what I am, is the leader of all these men here around you. We're new hires. A friendly mercenary camp."

    "I see. We are introduced, then, Tarran Kurtz," replied Lars in a quick and short voice. "If ye will excuse me, I have to meet mine Lord Seyleigh to discuss important matters."

    Lars gave a prompt nod. He turned, and began to walk. Lars made his way towards the central tent, where he knew Jonah Seyleigh spent the majority of his time. As he walked, though, he noticed that Tarran Kurtz followed and walked just a few steps behind him. Lars curled his mouth and kept his gaze forward as they walked. But Tarran watched Lars, and held the same smile as before.

    "That's good, that you're doing that," said Tarran. "He wanted to see you anyway. He told me to tell you. You're going to the main tent, right?"

    "Are ye his new herald, then?" retorted Lars.

    "Something like that," laughed Tarran.

    "I thought Lord Seyleigh did not have the funds to buy mercenaries," muttered Lars.

    "We're hired on credit. He promises payment later," replied Tarran.

    Lars and Tarran approached the central tent. Lars pushed aside the entrance curtain made of golden cloth, and entered. Tarran followed closely behind. The interior of the tent was dark, and there were fewer candles lit than usual. Lars could barely see the chairs, tables, and battle-maps. Lars could barely see anything. Importantly, he could not see Lord Jonah Seyleigh. Lars could feel, though, and he felt anxious. Something was terribly wrong, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. Why were there mercenaries in the Golden Host? Why had Jonah hired them? Jonah was a good, and just lord, and Lars had already informed Jonah that the local mercenaries were bad men compared to his loyal troops.

    "Where is Mine Lord? I cannay see him. Ye better not have harmed him!" warned Lars, who kept walking in search of his Lord.

    "You really are stupid, aren't you?" said Tarran. He stopped walking.

    Lars realized that Tarran was now a few paces behind. He turned to face the man, but was interrupted. It was then that Lars heard several wires snap one after the other, and some at the same time. The snapping sound was followed by a whirring one. He felt a sharp pain down below, in his stomach and back. He looked down, and saw the wooden and feathered arrows pierced into his gut. He then looked up, and around, and noticed that there were several other men in black and brown clothing standing in the shadows of the room. They each brandished bows, pointed at him. He buckled down to one knee, but reached for his flail and shield.

    "If ye have harmed Mine Lord, I will be the end of ye!" barked Lars, sputtering the words through the blood in his mouth.

    "Take his weapons, and armor," said Tarran. "And shut him up, already."

    Lars swung his flail at the men, but he was not skilled in combat. The men danced and circled him, waiting for him to slip. When Lars finally stumbled, one of the men stepped forward and brought a hard wooden club on the back of Lars' head. Lars fell to the ground, weary and dazed. He felt the men take his flail and shield, and begin to unstrap his plate armor. Lars lay face down on the dirty tent floor. A small pool of red blood flowed from beneath him, from his wounded gut.

    "Please, do nay harm mine Lord," slurred the defeated Lars.

    "You still haven't figured it out?" laughed Tarran, who was genuinely stunned. "I didn't lie to you. Seyleigh hired us. He's the one who told us to greet you like this!"

    Lars grimaced and squirmed on the ground. The arrows were poisoned, and were slowly putting him to sleep. Or paralysis. Lars was not sure. However, Tarran was right. Lars did not yet understand. Lars loved his lord, and would have done anything for him. He tried to fight it, but the poison on the arrows was strong. Lars Mendarthur's eyelids became heavy. His body became cold. He fell asleep.

    "Alright, that'll do. Seyleigh wants the camp to ride out after its done. Leave him here, alive," ordered Tarran.

    "Why?" said a mercenary. "He's a loose end."

    "I don't know," said Tarran. "Seyleigh ordered it. I think they're friends."

    "Not after tonight!" laughed the mercenary.

    "Not after tonight," agreed Tarran.


  • A ten-day later, another letter finds its way to Ashena Teroldys in the quarters of the Divine Shield. The writing sees a bit of improvement: it is less scratchy, and more firmly pressed unto the parchment. A careful reader notices that there is a lack of flow between certain words - as if the writer wrote, paused, and consulted other works to ensure proper spelling.

    @d1c877c4ec=Lars:

    Right and Virtuous Lady Ashena Teroldys of Torm,

    A month or so ago, before demons began the siege on our city, we had more peaceful times. I was sitting in Peltarch's commons with Lady Lunia Touve. We spoke of the day to day. But, then, Lady Lunia startled and sat straight upwards, her eyes wide. It was as if she was elsewhere, watching something else. While I saw the sun-swept stone buildings of our fair city, she saw, so she says, the suffering and captivity of innocent traders and farmer folk. In the dark, in cages, without hope or comfort.

    Lady Lunia is a soft-spoken girl. I'm sure you've seen it. Her eyes are often downcast, and her tone is lowly and quiet. But, on that day, her eyes were not downcast, and her tone was not lowly nor quiet. Her eyes were fierce, and her voice was mighty. At least, in my perspective, they were. She told me what she saw, and she also told me she knew where those poor souls were. Beneath the crypts and graveyard of Norwick, the town to the south.

    So it was that Lady Lunia ventured down south to remedy what she saw. She was accompanied by myself, and others, including Thrask, a half-orcen warrior, and Lomondra, an elvish sneak. We ventured down into the crypts, and fought against men in dark robes bearing the mark of an Iron Skull. These black robed men had enslaved and captured the innocent folk, and had turned their very living flesh rotten. Through ritual sacrifice, the innocents were turned into ghouls, into the undead. We slew these dark men, and their ghouls, and saved the prisoners. Lady Lunia and myself even prayed together to open a gate that was sealed shut through negative energies. Past this gate was the leader of the black robed men. I am happy to report we slew him too.

    I have come to believe that Lady Lunia's experience in the Peltarch square that day was not merely a vision. Rather, what I believe, is that Lady Lunia possesses the gift of revelation. Through her, I think, some godly force - likely of Ilmater, her God - works to reveal the suffering and plight of those she has the power to save. She used that power, that day, to save many lives.

    It is for these reasons, and many more, that I say Lady Lunia should join our Order of the Divine Shield. She currently is not a member, though I think she should be. It is not my place to decide, though, I do want to express that I hope Ser Allestor will squire her, and if not, then someone else.

    I admit, I am also thrilled at the idea of having Ser Darvan, Lady Lunia, and myself fight together as squires of Tyr, Ilmater, and Torm. It will be as if the Triad itself manifest in your new recruits.

    Tidings from your devoted squire,
    Lars Mendarthur


  • In Peltarch, in the quarters of the Divine Shield, Ashena Teroldys finds and receives the sealed scripture. The writing is blunt and, at times, shaky, though there has been a great deal of care and time put into the letters and words. There was, as far as one can see, a large amount of effort placed into making the document free of any spelling errors and language defects.

    @ad7a34b3e6=Lars:

    Right and Virtuous Lady Ashena Teroldys of Torm,

    These are dire times. As you know, our fair city of Peltarch is under siege. People's spirits were lifted after your valiant and celebrated successful diplomatic envoy, to bring the friendly metallic dragon-flight to our aide. Their assistance will surely be vital in securing the city against the demonic invasion. It is with immense pride that I call myself your squire - you, the hero who secured the cooperation of these new allies. However, the situation remains grim. Trade routes are still blockaded, and any entrance or exit to or from the city is impossible.

    It is under these conditions that Sir Darvan Roth acted. Sir Darvan lead a group of armed and competent city folk down into the barrows and crypts beneath the docks. His mission was a search for a way into and out of the city. The ultimate goal was a way to replenish supplies. I accompanied him, alongside Lady Lunia and others, some of whom I do not yet know. You will be pleased to hear that the expedition was a success. Although we were slowed by cultists and all manner of undead - vampire, wight, and ghoul - we pressed on towards victory. We found a small route that could lead out of the city, though it is only one way: we can likely only use it once, and can not return after we do.

    I want to tell you specifically of Sir Darvan's actions in this expedition. Thanks to his bravery and courage, the group pressed on towards this goal. He showed no fear, and kept the group's spirits shining even in the darkness of that defiled place. It is my belief that his faith to Tyr is proper and true.

    It is also my hope that you receive this letter in good health. I will take the time to wrote more as events transpire.

    Tidings from your devoted squire,
    Lars Mendarthur