Prologue: Gnomereign
Sir Tollix Twinewinder Receives A Message
The 7th Small Day of Worwen in the Year 638 U
Ulf’s Mantle in the Mountains of St. Vrune
Storm clouds pour over the mountain peaks in great columnar plumes of slate and smoke. On the northern face of the northernmost peak is a lonely watchtower, jutting unevenly from a promontory to lean over the lake far below. Behind the tower’s parapet stands a knight.
Men labor in the yard at the base of the tower. It’s less than a landing, just an especially large stair at the top of a long granite staircase, exposed to the unpredictable gusts and angry white raindrops that precede the storms. The goatmules bray in anxious protest, but the men continue lashing packs to their worn leather harnesses.
The knight opens his hands stiffly, then closes them. His gloves are woven from ironthread, their backs stitched with intricate knot patterns of Mulnarn origin. They are as meticulously maintained as the rest of his garb. His hair and beard are woven into immaculate braids and beginning to gray at the temples. Across his tunic, breeches, and cloak, one will find not a single stitch out of place. No loose threads. For this they call him The Weaver Knight.
The knight clenches and flattens his fists again. His fine gloves do little to deter the bitter wind, and in them his damaged hands sting and smart. It has been long since they swung his axe, longer since they gripped it with the ferocity of unrestrained battle, and still they have not healed. He feels no relief, yet he stands at his post undeterred. On his tunic are sewn three berry colored stars. On his breast is a black badge in the shape of an anvil.
A cloaked soldier approaches on the parapet with tense, abbreviated steps. It’s Baygn the Sodden, the quartermaster at Ulf’s Mantle. Two summers have passed since The Weaver Knight had appointed the disgraced moneylender to the position. In that time no shipments were misplaced, nor records out of order, nor messengers mishandled. Now there is a sealed parchment letter in Baygn hands, its porter newly arrived and resting in the roost. Baygn presents the missive and the knight nods and takes it gingerly with his fine ironthread gloves. He frowns at the seal.
“This arrived on the leg of an Ulfan rockhawk, did it not?” The knight’s voice is all frayed at the edges.
“Aye Captain.” The response is gruff with missing teeth providing a slight whistle.
“A rockhawk as messenger. This is known to be a sign of the The Talon Knight, is it not?”
“That it is Captain.”
“And have you ever seen this seal before Baygn?” The knight points. Stamped in the green wax seal are two interlocked rings, scored to appear as snakes. Each snake sports an owl’s head, each one eating its own tail.
“No Sir, not that I can recall.”
“Nor I.” The knight flexes his hands as Baygn slices the seal with a thin dagger and unrolls the parchment. The wind threatens to wrench it away and the ink begins to run where the raindrops hit the paper, but the quartermaster’s grip is strong. The furrows in the knight’s brow deepen as he reads.
LONG LIVE THE MULNARN, OF ULF SON OF URSNAE
I HAVE CAPTURED THE TALON KNIGHT. HE IS PRISONER OF THE FREE AUXILIA OF MULNAR. HIS BATTALION MUST FORFEIT LUMEWOOD CASTLE.
SIR TWINEWINDER YOUR PEOPLE NEED YOU. I REQUEST YOUR PRESENCE AT IVY LODGE AT FALBERGE. PLEASE ATTEND AT ONCE. I HAVE SOMETHING TO RETURN TO YOU, OF WHICH YOU DESIRE DEARLY.
NO LONGER WILL THE MULNARN LIVE UNDER THE YOKE OF THE HAMMER-PRIESTS. OUR FATE IS OURS TO CHOOSE, AND WE CHOOSE LIBERTY AT THE END OF A SPEAR. LONG LIVE THE MULNARNS. LONG LIVE URSNAE AND HER CHILDREN.
TROU RUNDUR
The knight gives a rigid wave when he is finished and Baygn rolls up the parchment. They observe the men in the yard below. The wind is loud enough to drown out the goatmules now. Soon the stormclouds will reach the tower.
“The preparations appear to be finished Captain.”
The knight nods in agreement, stretching his fingers by pushing his palms together like a steeple.
“Shall I organize the men for your inspection and deployment Sir?”
Another curt nod of approval.
The cloaked soldier begins to scurry back towards the relative warmth of the keep, but after a two moments of thought the knight calls out, and the quartermaster stops.
“Baygn?”
“Aye Tollix?”
A light snow begins to fall.
“Our plans are unwound. The packs must be redone. And more of them, enough for a full warband. Prepare my steed as well.”
The quartermaster looks at Sir Tollix questioningly, but the knight does not betray his doubt.
“Baygn you will be taking command of the tower. Maintain the watch, preserve the guard. Do not offer haven to the rangers.”
<><><>
Ulf’s Mantle is located strategically on the western ridge above the mouth of the massive alpine valley known as the Coldhorn. The tower’s garrison is charged with protecting the Mulnarn plains to the north from all manner of threat that could crawl, slither, roll, soar, or march out of the Mountains of St. Vrune in the south. The most imminent hazards are usually the heights and the cold, though it is possible to have especially deleterious interactions with the gnomes.
Firelight is flickering from the eastern ridge on the other side of the valley. It must be quite a large fire to remain visible despite the oncoming squall. Sir Tollix knows it is tended by the rangers. The Ulfans arrived in the Coldhorn this summer past, led by a seasoned oaf named Clomp. He claims they were sent under orders from The Talon Knight to take inventory of resources, which includes an investigation into the loyalty of Sir Tollix and his men.
The rangers quickly soured on the sparse hunting and rugged terrain of the Coldhorn. They were devising their exit when Clomp found the ancient kenesa nestled in the hills further to the east and decided that it was in the best interest of Ulfland to stay. Twice Tollix had advised the Ulfan rangers to leave the sacred kenesa alone. First he cautioned Clomp to keep the doors shut and unmarred, beautifully tiled though they were. Then he warned the rangers to leave the kenesa’s treasures undisturbed and secrets unlearned, once he saw that the doors were open and colorful tiles plied away.
Sir Tollix’s misgivings compare poorly to the allure of untold wealth and power, and the rangers’ delves have not ceased. Tollix’s duty is to ensure the safety of the Mulnarn within the limitations of Ulflaw. If the rangers are committed to uncorking an ancient abomination from its prison beneath the rock, then Sir Tollix is determined to be there to stop them, or at least to mitigate the consequences.
The Weaver Knight strides into the yard, sage-thatch cloak billowing in the inclement storm. His black battleaxe is slung over his shoulder and his heavily-battered buckler is fastened to his forearm. He holds a unmarked ceramic disc. When the soldiers see the disc they hold their breath and try to catch each other gazes with awe.
The knight quietly greets The Orchard Mare in the middle of the yard. The Orchard Mare is speckled amber and white, her mane woven in fine braids like the hair of her rider. Her snout is oddly long and sharp, an otherworldly pointedness suggesting an uncanny sense of smell. Her rider flexes his hands, pausing, then mounts the saddle lithely.
Sir Tollix’s watchmen have less than half the experience of the rangers, though they are twice in number. They follow the knight’s movements with the kind of rapt attention only available to those who lack crucial information. They’ve remade their packs with additional clothes and rations and removed the delving gear, though not the weapons. Supplies for a longer journey with a different destination.
Sir Tollix Twinewinder addresses the garrison. A dozen will remain, the old and the young and those with no training besides that provided by Tollix himself. He commands them to persevere in their duty and defend their posts at all costs, reminds them that the safety of Mulnar is in their hands. Then he turns to go, motioning for his mounted guard to follow.
Hoof-clops echo out from the rocks as the goatmules descend the carved stairway winding down the mountainside. Baygn and his garrison watch the warband until they are gone. A quiet minute passes, then another. It is an interlude in the gale, a chance to take stock of the empty space left by those just departed. Then Baygn spies lightning overhead and the garrison at Ulf’s Tower withdraws into the keep.
Background information for the audience:
Welcome back to another foreboding episode of Gnomestones! Prologue: Gnomereign is the final preparatory step in our ongoing Mythic Bastionland solo roleplay campaign. Now that the scene is set, we’re finally ready to play! You can find the other installments here.
Prologue: Gnomereign is the opening scene for our story. The chapter was written with the help of the dice. I’ll detail some of the more pertinent rolls below.
By far the most significant result came from our Events Table. I rolled a single d6 to determine if the scene would include an unexpected event, and the dice were bold and returned a 1, triggering a roll on the Events Table. I rolled two d4, and both resulted in a 1! This incredibly fortunate roll (fortunate for the Mulnarn if not Sir Tollix) means that the brand new knight has already joined the side of Mulnar. I rolled a 3 and 11 on the Mythic Bastionland Knights page, summoning The Ring Knight to the field.
Harsh Worwen weather determined by our Fall Hexflower.
Names of Baygn the Sodden and the Coldhorn interpreted from The Sandbox Generator results.
Other names with guidance from Fantasy Names Generator.
I can’t think of anything else to prepare. It’s possible that I’ve actually done enough worldbuilding for now. Time to play some good old-fashioned Gnomestones (old fashion not included).