Unknown logbook: The year 5502 since storms end, 1104 by the Homeus calendar. And it has been around fifty two years since the fall of the last dynasty. Or as it is more commonly called the Orrain Dynasty. It has been a long journey. And not one without hardships. But I will persevere.
A seagull's shriek echoes out across the harbour. An enormous wooden hull sails gracefully upon the cold oceans dark blue waters. Aboard it are a dazzling variety of greedy mercenaries, curious adventurers and a few sailors and merchants waiting to make landfall on the northern island of Rävnäs.
A landbridge is set out from the enormous hull and onto the small harbour town's dock. Down from the ship comes a stampede of boots, pawns hooves and other. The port they have arrived in is old, and cold its stones show both ware and tare carved round by the elements. The town itself is small and lodged in between the islands tall white cliffs. Set upon what was once a sharp stoney beach a labyrinth of wooden houses with carefully built stone foundations now stand. Overlooking it all atop a high cliff is a small stone fort where the island's count resides. This lonely port among the tall cloudy cliffs is called Catlercarn. And the small nation which loosely governs these islands is named Castfel.
Among those who descend is an older man, his race is grass-lander, a creature which stands on two legs, two arms, five fingers on each hand and five toes on each foot, two eyes, a mouth, a nose, two ears, his posture slightly hunched over with a back which tends to ache. He adheres from the Dulveskan culture as seen by the flower tattoos at his lower eyelids.
His coat is tattered, worn, and could be mistaken for rags if not for its rich dark blue colour. He walks slowly with a head held high as if he isn't homeless, without a job and with only a small pouch of coin to his name. Once he was rich, and mighty too, But the years have shaped him like the sea shapes this white coast.
His name is Jakurk Mianta, Jakurk meant second wind and Mianta had no meaning. The island was foreign to him, different from many of the places he had been to before. If anything it was cold, damp and a little bit moist, thankfully his thick coat and wool shirt took care of that problem. He wondered how often it rained in such a place. The lush green grass and yellowish moss growing on most of the old buildings' roofs suggested it to be quite often. He shuddered at the thought, He had never been a fan of rain.
The small town on the coast in which new ships docked everyday, was growing at a rapid pace. New houses were being built all around the smaller and smaller coastline. Guilds like the House of coin, and the Sword guild had already set up shop at the back of town by the market place near the only gate leading up over the hill out of town. The dungeon had been marked as a black dungeon just three months ago at a point when the town had had a population of around one thousand. Now it stood close to one and a half thousand, and it was quickly growing.
It was all a part of what one would call a dungeon rush. New paths were being discovered by the day and people were already claiming it the Black Dungeon of Rävnäs. Named of course after the island. The prospects of such a place attracted thousands, from across the seas.
Jakurk was one of such people. He like many others had his own plans for what he wished to gain from the dungeon. Most people were here to find coin, silver and beautiful jewels hidden within the ruins of the dungeon. While others like Jakurk had set goals for what they wished to achieve. Jakurk had quite a few things on his mind when he first stepped foot upon the large vessel hailing from the great city of Pynt. But his main goal for now was to slay a dragon. So he could fulfill a promise made long ago.
But he could not do it alone. He needed allies, if he had money he could band together a reasonable group of mercenaries but he doubted if sellswords were trustworthy enough for the endeavour.
He might be able to join up with one of the adventuring parties already descending the dungeon but such groups needed trust and good communication to function. Plus most adventurers were rowdy and uncivilized. And being a new addition to a party came with its own problems like finding out how to fit into a group dynamic and figuring out how to do small talk with people less than half his age.
The best option was to have a golem companion. A thoughtless creature which would carry any baggage, and which could both wash one's clothes, make a fire and even cook a meal. Yet he did not possess the funds, the knowledge or the resources to create such a thing. And to most adventurers a golem was a untold luxury so he doubted if one could even find one across the island let alone on this remote island archipelago of Haklem.
In all likelihood he would have to suck up his pride and offer his skills as a mage to a well rounded party. But where should he start looking? The Docks? No, too many of the adventurers getting off the ships were greenhorns and would make for a poor choice of companions. The sword guild? too professional and they're basically sellswords either way. Perhaps he should just visit a local in?
"You smell like metal" Just a breath away from his face were two black eyes belonging to a Hound. A black snout a white patch of fur across the middle of its face, two large ears that stretched up into the air. When it spoke its mouth showed one long row of sharp white teeth.
"What?" Jakurk stepped back and quickly realised that while he had been wrecking his head around his companion issue he had wandered into one of the islands new bustling streets. Vendors, stalls and of course Apnir lined the sides of the dusty street.
The Hound in front of him was about his height but far broader around the shoulders and waist. With a leathery armour and both a shortsword and dagger. The Hound was a Apnir as evident by the bleak plank of wood at their side with a meager price listing of one silver.
Hounds were a warrior people, from the south and central east coasts and mountains of Cezen, they closely resembled bipedal wolves in appearance. Jakurk had seen many during his time in service of the last dynasty. A Apnir was a collective term for adventurers/mercenaries who set up shop in towns near dungeons. They would work for a meager wage looking to prove themselves to a party so they might receive a more permanent position. Both due to his own inner pride and his status as a Mage, Jakurk felt he was a little bit too great to ever be caught doing such a thing.
"You smell like iron, like blood, you are a warrior?" The hound tilted their head and their expression remained unreadable yet their grey tail flailed around behind their back. Its face was close, almost a bit too close for comfort. Jakurk realised he could not tell their gender by voice or appearance and he felt it quite rude to ask.
"Yes and no, who are you?" The answer didn't seem to satisfy the hound but it took just a step back in order to give a proper introduction.
"I am Opip, Warrior" They extended their hand in a greeting, Their fingers were larger than his, covered by grey wool and turned to sharp claws at their ends, they also seemed to be a little bit longer and Jakurk couldn't help but notice that there were but only four fingers on each hand.
"Jakurk, Mianta, Mage"
The hound shook his hand violently. And their polite smile seemed more like a threat than a warm greeting. "For one silver a day, you will have the…"
"Stop, not interested" the answer seems to come as a surprise to the young warrior.
"Wait!…" But Jakurk had already walked away. "Tsk, he could have at least listened to what I had to say" Opips' tail fell back down as they readied themselves to hopefully find a villing adventurer before today's end. It would be their third day on the island, and their second day without food.
As much as Jukurk enjoyed the youngsters spirit he was looking for something more professional. Ideally a large group which had already scaled a few floors. At the edge of Lipfish street one of the two named streets in Catlercarn stood quite the fine establishment. A repainted front with just as many drunks inside as outside, the Sour-roe one of the three inns on the island. Jakurk stepped over a fallen drunk before entering the rowdy yet warm inn.
A bard on a table playing a lute, fifty or so half drunk adventurers singing merry songs and quite a few sellswords roaming about. In a corner were a few hooded individuals. Just outside were two guards interrogating a drunk. The tavern keeper seemed nice and inviting and the smell of alcohol was almost as intoxicating as the drink itself. A warm light danced from a bronze chandelier and Jakurk thought the place seemed like the perfect place for the start of an adventure.
Further in the tavern at a nice small table a man kicks back his seat in frustration. Slams down his cards and leaves for the exit. "Is this spot open?" Confidently Jakurk sat down at the gamblers table. It was time to make a few quick coins. The people seated at the table gave him some curious glances.
"If you can play those cards, old man" on the opposing side of the table was a hill-folk, small as a grass-folk child, a bit larger rounder eyes and far larger ears than most. His hair was hidden by a black cloak but a few red locks fell out just above his small nose. On his face was a confident grin, a mask which could never come off.
The cards were awful, two pagans and two bards, two low pairs. One worth four the other worth three in a game where the average card combination was worth ten. "Sure" As the players shuffle their cards, before each places down a pair, facing down of course. Jakurk took his time and whistled an innocent tune. "/-//–o"
The game they played was TwoHorse, Each turn a player would draw a card and place two cards on the table facing down. Once each player had placed down their cards each hand was revealed. The deck itself contained 100 cards, fifty of which were copies of the other half. Different cards had different symbols, meanings and were worth different amounts of points. Some combinations were worth far more then others while some were pretty much useless. One would often only play for one round at a time.
The players each revealed their cards one by one starting from the left. A pair of knights 12 points, A pair of kings from the hill-folk 20 points, A farmer and a lord which combines to a Feudal card 14 points. And finally Jakurk revealed his hand, a King and a general which combined to a Army card worth 21 points.
The other players were of course quite shocked. The hill-folk got off his seat and without as much as a question searched the sleeves of Jakurk. "Its Elven work quite fancy wool, I'd appreciate it if you kept your hands of them"
Slightly angered, the Hill-folk retracted his hands, "How did you…" And then he remembered the whistle. "You're a mage"
Jakurk leaned back into the less than comfortable wooden chair. "Yes, and?"
"You cheated with magic!" The hill-folk's voice was light as befitting of his race's childlike appearance. Yet there was something slightly shallow within it, like it came from the voice of someone used to lying.
"I cant have, I'we got no light" It was true no matter how much the hill-folk scanned the mage's beggar-like cloth he found no torch. No magicians ring and only a normal tattoo on his right hand. He had no light or so it would seem. The hill-folk frantically looked around the room as Jakurk collected his winnings.
There wasn't anything unusual within the tavern except for one of the lights on the chandelier. The fire on the candle was spinning, it was the only way he could explain it. A perfect circle at the perfect speed. it slowly lost momentum and returned to a normal fluttering light. Not wasting a second The hill-folk practically flung himself onto the table causing it to topple over. He quickly drew the cards the mage had played and saw with his own eyes a bard and a pagan. Useless cards for a useless hand worth at its best only seven points .
"You cheating bastard!" He stumbled back up on his feet and looked all throughout the tavern in desperation and rage. But Jakurk was nowhere to be seen.
"He just left" The other man pointed towards the open back door. Before the hill folk could rush after him the other gambler stopped him by grabbing his sleeve. "Let it go Tristin, he's a mage of greater skill then any other poor sap ive seen in this tavern, You'll die"
Tristin Daehult was the boy's name ,by Grass folk age he was fourteen, by Hill folk age he'd be twenty two. He stopped for a moment in that now very silent tavern and swallowed his pride. Before dragging it up from the depths of his soul alongside any small glint for bravery he could muster before leaping out of the door into the buzzling street.
There, Just a few metres ahead he saw the smug old mage tossing a silver coin up and down into the air. "I guess I don't have to find a party immediately, especially when the pockets of my fellow gamblers run so deep" Self satisfied and more confident than ever. His old eyes were too slow to see the small hand of a hill-folk snatch it from the air. He could only stand dumbfounded as the hill-folk from the tavern defiantly blocked his path.
"My money, I want all of it back, I wont accept a game with cheating" It took a moment for Jakurk to realise the young lad had actually stood up to him. He chuckled and smiled and softly said "okay" and handed him around fourteen silver. it wasn't a big sum in comparison to what he got from the others.
Quickly to check it was all real and not another illusion Tristin bit into each of the fourteen coins. Hard, it didn't matter if his teeth would shatter, he would just grow new ones. "What's your name?" The young man was interesting and Jakurk made it a point to remember the names of those who would one day become someone important.
Still checking the authenticity of the coin, Tristin gave him a muffled "Tristin, Tristin Daehult" After checking all the coins. Tristin put them safely in a pouch attached to his leather belt hidden by his black cloak.
"Is that your real name?" Jakurk didn't know why he said it. Maybe it was just a bit of his mind rotting in his old wrinkly head. But for some reason the young man before him didn't feel like a Tristin.
"Of course it is, what's yours?" Just as Jakurk was about to answer a terrible scream echoed out over the village. The two turned around towards the docks. What they then saw was a cloud of dust kicked up by a four horned goat the size of a small building. Enraged, it ran straight towards the town's north gate which just happened to be right up the street from where Jakurk and Tristin were standing. In its stampede it knocks down stall after stall. A tent became attached on one of its horns as it charged forward up the street. It flew like the flag on a ship within the wind.
On its other large horn a hound had attached itself with a sword unable to do anything except to hold on as the beast raged. The hound seemed somewhat familiar to Jakurk for some reason. People ran to the side, threw themselves into alleyways or climbed the poorly made wooden buildings to get away from the enraged creature.
Tristin was just about to do the same until he saw the old mage beside him take off his coat.
"--(/)k(-)k(\)--"