an-accidental-testament

[an-accidental-testament]

A run-down bar in the Harbour. The Leaky Dinghy. It’s full of the usual, rich people to get a thrill from drinking in a seedy bar, and criminals who can’t afford any better. You sometimes wonder if any of the “criminals” are paid actors, and wonder if you could get that kind of gig. You certainly look grimy enough. That’s the last time you’ll ever take a job in the sewers, you tell yourself. You know it won’t be, but you’re tired and cold and smell like a trog. To be fair, you probably have bits of trog on your tunic. You debate learning some cold spells, hoping for cleaner kills. You know you never will, as soon as you hear a thunderclap from outside. You don’t know how to give up the storm.

A man sits on a stool at the bar. He has dirt on his clothes, but it’s the swords at his hip that really tell you what he is. Only itchies openly carry that brazenly. You see a eight-prong on his chest, dyed red and silver. The whiskey bottle next to him seems out of place, especially with how he’s drinking it, like he’s not remotely interested in tasting it, just wanting it in his stomach. You decide not to judge him too harshly. After all, if he’s drinking that hard, he may be willing to share.

You sit down next to him, and ask him what he’s celebrating. He looks at you, and you can tell this isn’t his first bottle tonight. “Another successful raid on a kobold gang. You’ll see it tomorrow, but Dol Dorn is sending plenty of congratulations down on me and the squad.”

Of course he’s a sword of Dol Dorn, the arming swords should have been a dead giveaway, but you feel like being tired was enough of an excuse.

He doesn’t seem very happy about this, somehow. You wonder, out loud, if it was because they didn’t put up enough of a fight.

“They fought hard, and they fought to the last apprentice. Surrender is never on their minds.”

You can hear a wealth of meaning in that sentence, but it’s too late. He’s already turned back to his bottle, and you know he doesn’t want to talk about it.

You head home, letting the rain wash what you can off your clothes. You know you’ll clean them with magic later, but you’re sentimental. You remember when you first started, how you couldn’t control it, couldn’t even figure out the most basic of magic tricks. You were sure when you got it right, you could do anything you wanted, you could have your own kingdom, be lord of the sky. You tamp down those memories as you approach the ladder built into the side of a building. You climb up the bamboo rungs and crawl into the little shack built on someone’s roof. The first owners of the house below had built it to be an observatory, apparently not having heard that Stormreach earns its name. At least you get it for free, you think. Your powers got you something. Your stomach is hoping you could get some food with your ‘awesome storm powers.’ When was the last time you ate? Yesterday? Two days ago? You know it could be worse, but that doesn’t make it any better. You spend a few minutes practising what’s growing to be your favourite cantrip, and dry out your clothes and tattered beddings. Then you do one of your favourite combinations of spells, and take a bowl of rainwater, warm it, dump it on the beddings, then magically dry them. Leaves them toasty warm but still dry. You gather them up and look out on the harbour and pretend you’re in a studio apartment, with the same view. If there’s anything that makes this open-air, leaky, broken-down shack worth anything, it’s being able to look out on the water.

You lie there and indulge yourself in the dreams you had as a kid, imagining all the things you would buy when the world finally accepts your dreams. The storm lulls you to sleep, like it always has.

It was almost a week later when you see him again, and this time, you’re in a different bar, the Wayward Lobster to meet a contact. Stonejaw was saying this contact could use an extra hand for a job with one of the minor Coin Lords, and you could use the legitimacy. Could use the coin, too, but you don’t like to think about it. Maybe, you think, if you could impress a Coin Lord in this, you might get jobs of your own, and maybe you could get more consistent pay, even… You cut that line of thought off harshly. You’ve gotten your hopes up too often for that.

He’s fully cleaned up, and you think that it’s a new set of mail underneath the breastplate. He doesn’t souch with the tired drunkenness he had before, nor is he rigid like most people who wear Host marks. He sits casually, comfortably in his booth. You come up to the bar and order a Xen’Drik Daiquiri, which Stonejaw said would be the signal to your contact. The bartender recognizes this, and points you to the booth with the as-yet un-named Dol Dorn worshipper.

The seats have obviously been cleaned, repeatedly, but they never quite get the smell of the ocean out of it. The Lobster is too close to the docks, and the sailors have left the unmistakable scent of sea, sweat, and spirits in every inch of this bar.

“So you’re the firepower I asked for.”

He doesn’t mention the Leaky Dinghy, so neither do you.

“You any good?”

You take some offence at the thought, and explain to him, through gritted teeth, just how good you are. The storm writhes in your blood, and you doubt any simple paladin could understand that feeling.

He raises an eyebrow, but laughs. “More than you might think. There’s an alley down the street, leads to our next job. I’ll be at the mouth of the alley around second afternoon bell. If you think you’re good enough, show up. Oh and you might want to have a light lunch beforehand. Intel suggests there’s a trog or two in there.”

You begin to stand up, getting the sense you’ve been dismissed, but he stops you with a raised hand.

“Have you had supper yet? I was about to and I miss having a friend with me for a meal. My treat.”

You internally roll your eyes, your first thought assuming it’s another idiot thinking you’ll be his ‘ebony princess’, but your stomach reminds you you could use the meal, and he hasn’t hit on you once yet.

You sit down, and he gives a relieved smile. “So this place is best known for it’s seafood, but their wild pig roast is brilliant, especially when I’m missing home.”

You’re listening, but he barely seems to be, lost in his memories. “My biggest problem is it’s often too much food for one meal, and I hate taking my food out with me. It reminds me of all those times, with the Greenspears, saying that if I want to be a real dancer for the Darastrix, I’d have to grow more.”

That certainly catches your attention, and you cautiously ask him what Darastrix means, and why he’d be dancing for them.

“Just what the kobolds I grew up with called anyone who worshipped the Host as extensions of the old dragon gods. I’ll tell you more sometime, if you want, but Uncle likes to say that you shouldn’t talk with new coworkers about religion, sex, or money.”

That seems fair to you, and you admit to a little homesickness as well, asking if they have any alligator. You also wonder out loud if you have to get up to order food here, because it is far larger than most diners you’ve eaten at, and you see no servers.

“It’s a lot easier if you know the cook,” he points out a stout human sitting at the bar, “most people order and eat at the bar, so Mahmoud prefers to sit there, so they can hear the orders themselves.”

“Hey Mahmoud, wild pig plate and a gator soup? And for Balinor’s sake, can you keep the pig plate to the size of a plate?”

The cook chuckles knowingly, as he limps into the kitchen, grabbing a clean apron on the way. You notice his right leg is shorter than his left, and your new coworker follows your gaze. “Damned fool healer on his boat set it wrong.”

You nod-  you know that it takes more healing than anyone living in the Harbour district could afford to fix that.

A few minutes later, a prepubescent of indeterminate sex comes up to the table with a cup of tea for you, and a mug of coffee for your opposite. “Best thing about Stormreach? We’re close enough to so many sugar plantations that you can be picky about your sourcing.” He puts nearly two full spoonfuls of sugar into the coffee as he talks. “The Lobster only buys it from the Twelve-run experimental farm, which at least actually bought the land, instead of just knocking down some jungle.”

You enjoy your dinner, the soup somewhat saltier than your parents used to make, but just as spicy. You hadn't realized how much better having food from home would comfort you. But that could also be because it was the first full meal you'd had in weeks. He looks nervouslyat you as you eat, and you realize he was trying to impress you to some degree. He still hasn't made the slightest of moves on you, romantic or sexual, and you leave the diner full and curious. The rain is down to a light patter and a thick fog, rolling over the Harbour like a blanket. Sleep comes easily in warm sheets.

You meet with Stonejaw the next morning, and he smiles knowingly. "You've got a chance to get out, girl. You should take it. I'll miss having an operative who ain't afraid of heights, but you know I push my people to get better paying jobs when they can." The bear-sized half-orc chuckles into his thick coffee. He grimaces slightly, and you know it has nothing to do with the black sludge in his hand. "You figure out the price yet?" You're confused. Your temporary partner hadn't mentioned a price during the dinner, and you question your friend.

"Everything's got a price, and opportunities like this more so. Sometimes, it's just your skills that are the price. Sometimes, it's to feel all nice cause their bein' generous to a street rat. Other times, it's your ability to be all morally ambiguous, cause you're from the streets. Sometimes, it's just having a friend, and sometimes, it's sex. And you have to decide what you're up for, what works for you. I've done it, and the truth is that it's only different from fighting if you think it is. Some people decide they'll fight for money, but won't screw. Other people pick the other way around. Hells, it can change by the day. Don't feel pushed into anything you feel you ain't up for, but say no ‘cause you don't want to, not cause some preacher says no."

Your eyes harden, and you feel strangely protective. You defend your new friend to your old one, but as you're surprised by how quickly you trusted him, you resolve to ask him what exactly he wants out of you. And, you muse, what you want out of him.

An alley. You smell old scales and returned beer. You see your new.. Employer? Coworker? Friend, maybe? Standing at the mouth, humming what sounds oddly like “Ode to an Eagle,” from your childhood. His swords glean, his armour brightly polished. His eyes light up when he sees you, and you wonder if he had hired anyone else for this.

The entrance and the warren are familiar to you. You might not have been in this one, but you’ve been in a hundred others, and every kobber’s hole is the same. It is strange how deserted it is-you’re used to being greeted with threats and the pay for a job, not doing a job on them. You shake off the vague sense of wrongness about raiding the kind of people you usually work with, because you know they’d do the same if they could. You’re sure they would. You begin to remark on how quiet it is, but you see him cooing over a totem-carved torch on the wall. It looks like the usual to you-big teeth and scales, but your companion turns to you and gushes. “Look! Every tribe in cities, so far away from the Elder Wyrms, has to find their own way to venerate their Progenitors. It’s the easiest way to tell tribes apart. They’ve decorated this welcome-totem with their own scales, to imitate an Elder’s leg. It’s a brilliant idea, and whoever placed it was a true artist-they must have completely taken it all down and rearranged it every time they wanted to add more.” He continues to jabber excitedly for a few minutes, as you two walk deeper in. When, finally, you find a fortification manned by kobolds, your employer hisses at you to sheathe your weapons, and to put your hands up, like he is. His hands are open in front of him, but near the centre of his chest, pointed out, with his thumbs touching.

He speaks Draconic to the kobolds, but it sounds more like the yipping that they tend to, than the lower, rougher Draconic you’ve heard others speak. The kobolds respond angrily, shaking their weapons, and he seems to sigh, looking more like he did in the Leaky Dinghy than ever since. His hands drop to his swords, he asks whatever question he had been asking one more time, though it sounds like he already knows the answer. With one more angry yip from your targets, he grits his teeth.

Suddenly, he kicks out the support for the scaffolding they were standing on, and his swords are barely out of their sheaths when they catch a kobold in the armpit, nearly shearing through its chest. The left-hand sword draws open its throat, and one enemy is dead before the others can respond. You recover from the shock far faster, pouring a bolt of lightning into your first target-the one with a skull on its head and a staff in its hand. Only a mage really appreciates how dangerous they are. To be fair, that shaman probably appreciated how dangerous you were after it fell to the ground seizing. There are seven more that you can see- actually six, you remark as an enemy loses its spear, and the hand with it. You almost wince. You’ve seen a lot of nasty injuries, but rarely this much blood. Your next target is one that steps too close for your comfort. Too close for its comfort, too, as you place your hand on its head, and will a blast of lightning to bridge the gap between your thumb and pinky. Through the kobold’s brain.

His style is brutal and symplistic. He allows a spear thrust to splash across his breastplate and cuts twice-once to the elbow, once to the knee. The kobold screams and falls to the ground, wailing in pain. He spares a second while fighting another to kick the back of its head, knocking it out. You’re not sure if he was merciful or vicious. He has a smile on his face, wicked and broad. He raises a sword and cheers, “Dol Dorn watches! This War Wyrm fights!” As he does, you see a glow burst from his octogram, and feel a certain calmness and power in your chest. You see a spear coming for you, but the struggle to bat it aside is not as difficult as it should be, almost an instinct in your head to let it thrust past your face, and your hand comes up to the owner’s chest muscle memory pulling your strike exactly where it needs to be. You smell the burnt flesh before you realise that you cast a spell. Your blood seems alight with energy, and it takes almost no effort to call up old memories of stormy islands. You remember the feeling of your arm hair rising, and channel it at one of the remaining enemies with a thought. In the piece of your mind not occupied with the battle, you realise that you landed it perfectly on the heart. A quicker death, then. You hear no screams as its heart is fried.

You take a moment to revel in the feeling of power and control that you’re now feeling. One assumes that it is coming from your new partner, and you consider hitching your horse to his just for this power.

Power that is suddenly cut from you, and you are surrounded. Everywhere you look there are enemies-kobolds and guards alike, the Deneith soldiers that took your uncle away, and even your mother, tsking at your stupid dreams. “You’re always dreaming, child. Running away from home? Trying to use powers you don’t deserve? You’re about ten minutes from a corpse in a ditch and you deserve it for leaving us alone like this.” Stonejaw is in front of you, and he’s smiling - that cruel smile he gets when he’s played someone, and you know it’s you. “What? Did you think you would get out of this ramshackle life? You’ll always be a street rat, and you’ll never belong anywhere but the roadside we’ll drop you for thinking you’ll ever be better.” And you know this was your chance and you lost it. You didn’t impress him, and you’re gonna lose everything. The man you thought wanted to hire you walks up to you, that wicked grin on his face, and he’s laughing. And he’s grim and concerned. And he’s laughing. And he’s reaching out to your shoulders. And he’s raising his sword to finish you off like the trash you are.

“Breathe.”

You’re back in a warehouse. You’re on your knees, and they ache from the hard floor. Your new friend is holding your shoulders and looking into your eyes, and you realise his are a bronze, flecked with silver. You get to your feet, shakily. That was a mistake. You barely manage to turn to a wall before you taste the crocodile soup from last night. It’s nearly a minute before you feel like you can breathe without hurling. You feel a small canteen pushed into your hand. “Here, when you’re ready to wash out the taste.”

You are halfway through your sip when you realise it isn’t water. You’re not entirely sure what it is, but it was clearly not made for humanoid consumption- it burns your mouth worse than that cheap Gnomish baijiu Stonejaw tricked you into drinking when you first joined him. You ask what in the Hells it is, and hear a chuckle from beside you. “Wound cleaner. Most people don’t waste their time, but Atiya always used to drill in our heads that it heals better if you clean it first. You can drink it, too, if you’re desperate. Won’t kill you, but it’ll hit you faster than they usually do.”

You take a hard swig, coughing after it. You need something to calm your hands down. When you turn to him, he’s looking sympathetically at you. “First time fighting a shaman? First time that spell hits you is always the worst. You’ll never be immune to that incapacitating panic, but next time, it won’t be so shitty after.”

You nod, more out of reflex than any understanding. When you stand up straight and look to the rest of the storehouse, he seems to want to say something, think better of it, then gird himself up and say it. “If you want, you could stop. I’m reasonably sure I can take it on my own, and there’s no shame in going home after being rocked like that.” You shake your head, and tell him that you can still do this, that you’re fine. He knows you’re not, but he respects your decision.

The rest of the raid goes relatively smoothly. You stand at the back a little more, and blast the shaman you see as soon as you see them, spending more energy than you likely should, but the lightning in your veins is reassuring. You realise, sitting in the personal treasure room of the leader, that it was like he had said. They fought and died, down to the last apprentice and wyrmling. You do notice there aren’t any eggs, and ask why. He smiles wryly, “little agreement between me and the gangs. I only raid places being used as staging grounds for crimes. As long as they keep the brood nests away from these hunting bases, their eggs are safe. Not sure if my employers know about it, but I like to think they don’t care. As long as I keep any tribe from having enough power for more than small raids, they’re happy.” You admit you’re curious how a human even came to an agreement with the various kobold tribes of Stormreach, but you remember that in a way, Stonejaw and operators like you have done the same. The idea of kobbers working with any smooth-skin seems weird, but they have problems they can’t handle too, and that tends to be jobs for people like you.

“As per our agreement, you’re welcome to any loot in here you want. I’ll collect my pay from the Harbourmaster, like usual. You’ve now seen the risks of my job, the pay, and I can promise you about one raid a month on average. You’ve impressed me, and if we keep going, you’ll probably impress the Harbourmaster. You do that, and you could join me on my rounds, if you like. That point, you’ll essentially have my job too, and we could start on you getting paid the official way, and splitting the loot. But I’m getting ahead of myself. My name is Sakhesh and I’d like to hire you on a more permanent basis. How would you like to be an adventurer?”

[an-accidental-testament]

This is not working, so I’m putting a placeholder post so that everything’ll remain chronological when I do manage this chapter. Promise I’m gonna try to do the next chapter soon. While I'm here, might as well think about a little baby-thought. Throughout eberron, various elves, especially drow, who were raised in Hafgar and thus raised clanless go by the clan name Ihejikira, which means 'the one I have is greater'. If you know who to ask, you can find one or two from the 'clan' in most major cities

[an-accidental-testament]

Two days of walking up a mountain later, I was allowed to see a secret. There was a storm on top of Trumpet mountain, but when I asked Garth about it, he laughed it off, saying that I’ll see why it’s not a problem soon. One of his moments of sudden sobriety happened, and a man stood before. He was not like I had ever seen him before. He wasn’t the Undying Warrior, memory of long dead. He wasn’t General Garthumnal, right hand to Galifar. He wasn’t Uncle, smiles and kindness. I found out later who it was that stood before me then. He was Forgiver. “I’m going to ask you to not to write about what you’ll see today without permission from those you’ll meet. They’ve earned some privacy, if nothing else.” As soon as I agreed, he was Garth again, and he slapped my back as we climbed. We were just reaching the edge of the storm when I stumbled into a wrought-iron post that had something attached to the front. With shaking gloves, I uncovered a skeleton, slouching against the pole. At my revulsion, Garth came over and introduced the skeleton with a smile that had me worried for his sanity. “Onyx, this is Creak. Creak, this is my new friend Onyx. He is sworn to secrecy and I vouch for him.” At the word vouch, the skeleton suddenly animated, springing from the snow. “Forgiver! Welcome to the mountain of lost souls. I will open the way.” As Creak whispered words of power, a tunnel cleared in the blizzard, and a set of broad stairs were carved into the stone. “Forgiver show us the path when we are lost, Forgiver give us choice when we are bound, Forgiver grant us rest when we can continue no longer.” With those prayers, Creak crumpled back into a pile of bones against the pole. Seemingly sensing my questions, ‘Forgiver’ raised a hand and bade me hold, to ask those we would be meeting today, and that Creak dislikes talking and prefers the chosen role of sentry. While walking up the stairs, I wondered what pronoun one should use about sentient undead. Does gender exist as a reanimated corpse? If so, is it the same gender as the one their body’s soul was before? If not, does one use they, to indicate personhood without gender? Does one use it, to indicate that they see themselves as identity-less? One assumes by all this that sentient undead have free will after their creator dies, but do they have identity? Are names as central to them as they are to us? I had never been so excited to see undead. Eventually the tunnel opened up to a massive area, apparently at the peak and the middle of the storm, much like the eye of a hurricane, where no winds or snow fell. The ground fell off into a huge pit at the horn of the Trumpet, where I could see, much to my slowly-diminishing surprise, a small city hanging on the rock walls, and a figure floating above them all, glowing a pale cold blue. They seemed more a spectre or shade than the solid undead I had seen so far, and tendrils of snow and wind flowed from them. We descended the stairs, and were greeted by a zombie, who had stopped rotting in the frigid environment, dressed in a riotous outfit of colours, green doublet and orange hose, a navy blue vest and a magenta scarf. His shoes were fancy and pointed, with buckles on the tongue. The zombie spoke, a strangely flowery prose, for all its rasp. “Forgiver! We, your kin and servants, greet you and your guest. Welcome to the City of the Storyless.” That name struck me immediately, and I began to understand Garth’s reason for inviting me. But I was getting ahead of myself. “My name is Onyx, of the Brightscales, and I tell the Elders stories of the scaleless.”

Excerpt from Uncle: An Accidental Testimony by Onyx Brightscales, Chair of anthropology and Sociology at Morgrave University

[an-accidental-testament]

I belatedly realised that we were passing very close the eastern mountain as we moved vaguely southwards. “Does Uluruk live in the mountain?” He smiled back, before looking hopefully forward. “A cottage close by, but you’ll see when we get there. I want to spend the night there” We stepped up the pace, as the sun was already in mid afternoon. The forest cleared, and an ornate entrance to the mountain came into view, with a small stone and thatch hut off to the side. The sound of stone-carving came from past the stone pillars and carved lions. Garth shouted into the light breeze coming from the darkness: “Who you on today?” “Ashur, but he won’t mind waiting another night.” From the entrance came a wiry man with a proud smile and carefully-pulled dreadlocks. He was almost as dark as I was, but with rich purple undertones, a polished mahogany to Garth's darkly lacquered white oak. His hands were covered in a thick dusting of stone, and he had a worn chisel in his right. He embraced Garth warmly, before clasping my forearm roughly. “Any friend of that old bastard is a friend of ours. Welcome to Shutur Eli Sharri.” He gestured with a calloused hand to the cave. “Not a very lively town, but a proud one all the same.” Garth cut in and nodded to the shack. “Onyx is an anthropologist, and I thought that if he wants Hafgar’s story, he should ask you about Shutur Eli Sharri’s.” “Of course, we’d love to tell it. Edith dropped by earlier with a present from her father. By the way did you give her that new pet of hers?” Garth stopped at the entrance to the hut. “Pet? Did she adopt the thing I sent her to track?” Uluruk was pulling out some basic sweetrolls from a cupboard when he laughed. “Not just any pet, a damn white dragon. Little thing, but it chased off all the deer when she got here.” I couldn’t hold back at that revelation. “Are you sure, sir? An actual dragon? There hasn’t been a bonded pair in these parts in centuries!” “Aye, and don’t call us sir. Makes us feel old. But seriously, it was eating out of her hand. Couldn’t talk yet, but hums loud when you scratch it under the jaw.” I was stunned. What kind of adventurers did this village put out that not only was that possible, but Uluruk seemed to treat it as a passing interest? But no matter the shock, I remembered my training, got out my notebook and asked him the story of Shutur-Eli-Sharri Shutur was nestled between two rivers, and the flood plain left them bountiful. When the war started, they happily provided the army with food, but none of the young men joined. Cyre never had a draft. Shutur’s greatest joy was a story. A song so old that no one remembers when it started. According to Uncle, it was in Old Lhazaar before, which means it was translated since, which implies it could have been translated before this. The song was about a young man who was blessed by the gods, but was lonely and afraid of mortality. He met another man, strong as he was, and they travelled across the lands, to distant kingdoms and impossible places. He fought a giant who ruled over a garden in which the flower of immortality was grown. He and his dear friend had a tea brewed from this flower, and they were granted what they wanted. Each other’s company and battle forever. They travelled to Shavarath, where they still fight against demons and devils from out of Khyber’s darkest pits. The song tells that the greatest gift of Eberron is that if you are powerful enough, you don’t have to do what you’re supposed to die. You don’t have to die. If you have the power, you can decide your life. An inspiring philosophy, I admit. Uluruk was so happy that someone would hear about Shutur, that people would remember who they were. Uluruk is a revenant, a walking monument, a memorial to the fallen. They generally exist purely for vengeance, and are invested with all the memories and souls of those they represent. With no clear perpetrator of the Mourning, the souls turned on eachother, and the hundreds of overlapping voices make thought, much less conversation, difficult. Garth found him wandering, killing every living thing that crossed his path. After a spectacularly one-sided fight, he was able to talk with Uluruk, using simple questions and patience to get through to him. It was then, that they discovered a way to ease the burden. When Uluruk is talking about one of the villagers, the rest of the voices quiet. Garth then took him to this cave, which is filled with huge stalagmites, that they started to carve into the shapes of the villagers. This was almost ten years ago. The village is nearly done now, and Uluruk has had to start thinking about what he’ll do afterwards. When I asked him what he’s come up with, he laughed, and said. “Maybe I’ll be one of those kids that Uncle is always adopting. I always wanted to go adventuring.” We stayed the night, and the path took us up the Trumpet Mountain when we left in the morning.

Excerpt from Uncle: An Accidental Testament by Onyx Brightscales, Chair of Anthropology and Sociology at Morgrave University

[an-accidental-testament]

I wasn’t sure how to treat this man. He would seem so distant sometimes, others, he would focus with an intensity that scared me. He woke me early the next day, and there was the slightest hint of dread in his eyes. He was pushing me to leave early, muttering something about songs and false idols. He had a hiking frame that was designed for a dragonborn, but this one seemed well-worn. It smelled like raspberries and sandalwood. Holding it, he had a sad smile on his face, and he was somewhere in the past. “The reason I always liked walking places is that it’s simple. There’s a direction, there’s the path, and all that’s left is to walk it.” He was speaking in Draconic, and he sounded like my sire’s sire, muttering about the homeland. “Who said that?” “A young thief, a black-scale who loved walking. No matter how lost he was, he’d always find his way back home. Near the end, he learned how to get anywhere just by walking. I guess he couldn’t walk out of Khyber” His eyes looked old and tense, but he suddenly let go of the tension, and his mouth crinkled into a wide smile. “But that’s why I kept his stuff, he’d be happy that someone else’s finding good use out of it” It occurred to me that everything Garth owned was likely like that, some memorial to a dead friend. I would have pitied him if he didn’t seem so chipper about it. Instead, I changed the subject in Common. “Where are we going first?” His face lit up, like I had asked him what pastry he’d like for dinner. “A friend of mine, Uluruk. He lives a bit away from the village, cause social interaction is a little difficult for him.” I wanted to ask what happened, but I’ve learned that he loves being cryptic, and it’s better just to ask the person he’s talking about, so I got him to help me finish tying the pack. Garth looked nervous as we walked through the empty dawn streets of Hafgar, but when a child saw him and went running back into her house, he let out a tired sigh before straightening his back and adopting the most regal look he could. We were not even halfway out of the village when the villagers started coming out of their houses. The kids of the town looked sad to see Garth’s back, but their parents simply smiled knowingly. A few sang a song at the sight of him, but each one used a different language. I didn’t speak enough Orcish to know what a one-armed tusked man and his less-Orcish children, but I could tell that their guttural hymn was about the same subject as a halfing’s lilting tones, accompanied by his tri-horn’s humming. One razorclaw actually managed to copy the dual-voiced throat singing of an elder dragon. I couldn’t imagine where a softskin would have heard it, much less practiced to that degree of perfection. His accent was flawless, and his song, just like the others, was that everyone leaves, but that everyone comes back, in time. When I responded with a chorus about the strength of my blood and my breath, the song became about hatchlings leaving their nest, proud of their small wings and their acid spits. Nearing the edge of town, I sang about old ones, with tattered wings and dead scales, falling to young dragons, full of youthful vigour. The last sound before the trees swallowed us whole was a laugh, high and surprised. “Sorry about Abuza, she hasn’t had the chance to sing like that in years.” I filed away the thought that sex is harder to guess with shifters “Where in Eberron did a shifter learn how to throat-sing like that? Most dragonborns don’t know it that well” “She spent a few years with one of the servant tribes in Argonessen. She was impressive enough that she is the only other person in Hafgar to see the Face of Eberron, probably the only other person in all of Thrane.” “You saw the Face? What was it like?” “Just as big as described. Almost an entire league from snout to horns, carved out of one huge piece of redstone. Her head looks unlike any chromatic or metallic dragon, and every day, they sing a greeting to her, awaiting her eventual awakening. Every year, one non-dragon sings that greeting, and it once was Abuza. After that, she decided she peaked, and came back home to Hafgar. She sings at some of the festivals, but it’s rare she gets a response. I never mastered the double-voice part.” I thought about that as I lifted a large branch which crossed my path. I had never heard of an ending to a great adventure without combat. Not only was Hafgar the birthplace of heroes, but of a very different kind of hero. The rest of the walk passed in amiable silence, broken only by leaves underfoot, and Garth’s staff pressing into the ground.

Excerpt from Uncle: An Accidental Testament by Onyx Brightscales, Chair of Anthropology and Sociology at Morgrave University

[an-accidental-testament]

The leaves were scratchy. My tunic was too hot. Octantis poked into my back, where it was strapped. My backside was getting sore from sitting so long. I loved it. I was sitting on a particularly long branch of an old oak near the watering hole. I was a mighty huntress, watching her prey. A stag kneeled at the pool, and I could see it sniff the air, searching for predators. When it failed to smell me, I felt the cold rush, like ice in the veins. There is no escape for my target anymore. I felt it, like Uncle always told me it would be, a sudden feeling of confidence, of knowing that it is dead, and simply does not yet know it. It closed its eyes for the briefest of seconds, when the water splashed up into its face. There! I leaped down at it, Octantis unsheathed, a war cry on my lips. It was gone before I touched the ground, and when I did, my legs hurt terribly from absorbing the fall. I tried to roll, but I just bruised my back on the roots. Damn. Another one. I’ll make it work someday, and then I can roll into town with my prize on my shoulders, and get my present from Uncle. I sat down by the stream, my tunic now stained with mud and my body battered. I should be heading home soon. Father doesn’t mind my hobby, but does prefer me to be back within a week. It had already been a few days, and it would be almost as long to get to Hafgar. I’ll make camp nearby and wash my clothes in the stream. I walked back to the tree, and pulled down my pack. I had tied it around another branch, hoping that the animals of the forest would not find my snacks and hardtack again. That had been a hungry week and a very sad Edith had returned home. I had nearly quit my hunting then and there. My mind went back to that day, almost two years ago, as I sat in my room, crying because I thought I would never get to hunt as a profession. Yes, I knew I could leave it as a hobby, but it just wouldn’t be the same. I had wanted to hunt since I was a little girl. When Uncle told his stories, it wasn’t the great battles that excited me, nor his musings on love (and lust, though that didn’t sound too horrible now that I had worn my hair up and chosen my circlet) It wasn’t the great magic that Garrick and a few others had fallen in love with. It wasn’t even the power that comes of being so influential with so many rulers. What excited me most about Uncle’s stories was the journey. The campsites in lands long since abandoned. Hunting for dinner and cooking it over a fire that night. That freedom and independence is what truly made my blood rush. So I had spent my childhood learning to walk the woods, to follow the game trails. I became a skilled tracker, but simply could never manage to get the kill, and I was so discouraged. And so there I sat, crying because my dreams would never work. And then came Uncle. He brought me a little present, a broad, flat knife, almost as long as my forearm, and heavy, and he told me a story. He told me a rare story, one that he didn’t normally tell. Polaris, who had defended Uncle with sword and spell, had used a blade just like this, but he called it Polaris. The truth is, Polaris’ birth name was Octantis. He called his blade Polaris, but as they travelled, everyone just called him Polaris. At the end of the journey, he had grown to prefer his new name, and before his ascension, had given Uncle Polaris, and asked that he would call the new star Polaris, explaining that Polaris is the name of the protector, and Octantis is just a man with a sword. He looked at me then, and I was reminded that despite all our games and friendship, Uncle is much older than any of us. The melancholy look disappeared and his usual brilliant smile took over. He told me then about one of his favourite nieces, who chose to be a weaponsmith in Thranehold. He had told her the story of Polaris, and many years later, she crafted him a copy of Polaris. Not infused with the old wizard’s magic, but strong of spine and perfectly weighted. He had decided that if the sword of the star-child should be Polaris, then the sword of a good man should be Octantis. “Octantis used to say that power and glory are really overrated. Feeling like a good man is worth much more.” My mind was wandering again, and letting your mind wander is dangerous in the forest. As I sat by the water, I noticed that the reeds were spread apart weirdly, like someone had been there. When I looked closer, the reeds had been wilting, and in the mud was a large footprint, like that of a lizard. I had barely pulled my pack on before I was running back to the town. When I got there, there was a black dragonborn visiting, here to see Uncle as well. After telling him about myself and finding out that he was an anthropologist, I walked with him to Uncle’s house, remembering Jonn’s lesson of patience. Once Uncle was done having his fun messing with the visitor and was ready to talk to me, he pulled me into the advising room. “So, you beat my challenge yet?” “No, Uncle, but I found something you might be interested in- I found a strange track while out hunting, and I’m a little worried about it.” “Can you draw it?” He pulled a piece of parchment and a quill from the desk. “Er, not very well. I don’t think it would help.” “Okay, give me a moment…” He rummaged around the desk, humming a tune that I’m sure I’ve heard before but couldn’t place, until he found a jade beetle sculpture that he placed in the center of the parchment. “Now, try to remember what the track looked like. Think about the mud and the plants nearby and hold that image in your head.” I tried to picture it, and I heard Uncle whispering something in an old language, and then the skittering of something along the parchment. When I opened my eyes, the beetle was no longer on the parchment and instead, there was a perfect reproduction of my memory, in charcoal. “How?- Did the beetle do it?” He smiled knowingly, with that twinkle that said that he had a story to tell. “Scarab, and yes, he did. One of the many things I found in the ruins of the old Giant kingdoms of Xen’Drik” “Someday, old man, you’ll have to tell me that story” “Well kid, I got an offer for you. Go talk to Wilhelm and Wolfgang. You all are at that age, and it’s time for an adventure. Your task is to follow the tracks, and find this creature. Find out if it is a threat to the village. Report back to me and you each will get a story. Any story.” His voice had deepened, and slowed down. This was not merely a suggestion from our Uncle, it was a pronouncement. He was charging us with a Quest, like in all his stories. How can anyone say no to that? Wolfgang I already knew pretty well, because his father is the miller, but Wilhelm I could only remember vaguely, as the scrawny kid dancing like a madman at the Harvest Feast. I decided to get Wilhelm first, as his mother’s lodge was in between Hafgar and the farming area. As it happens, he had grown up. He had grown up a lot. The short boy made of skin and bones had turned into a monster of a man, taller than me, and covered in muscle. Covered in hair, too, as his open vest showed me when I found him outside the lodge, chopping firewood. “Wilhelm?” “What does Uncle want?” I hadn’t expected the rudeness, nor the silkiness of his baritone voice. “To follow some tracks for him, he said you might want to come with. How did you know?” “He sprinkles honeysuckle into his sugar pot. Smells different when the tea is steeping. What are we hunting?” “Don’t know. He says if we find out, he’ll tell us any story we want.” “Give me five minutes.” He walked into the lodge, and I noticed that he had chopped nearly enough wood to last a winter. What did he need such wood for? After he walked out, wearing a small bandolier of knives, a small wood shield on his back, and a gnarled axe on his hip, we followed the path towards the wheat fields. As we left the forest, we heard the sound of many stringed instruments, tuning. “Ahem.” The tick-tick of someone tapping a stick against wood, and the instruments began to play. The melody was light, playful, until a wrong note suddenly sprang up and the sound of venomous cursing filled the field we were walking into. A young blonde man stood, looking at the wand in his hands and wishing it either a flesh-eating disease or a weak bowel movement in Elvish. His inflection was all over the place with the shouting. It was Wolfgang. He had never told me he was a wizard, nor that he was working on a project like this. I’d have to make him pay for not telling me. “OH WHERE OH WHERE IS MY WOLFY? OH WHERE OH WHERE COULD HE BE?” I made sure to be as off-key as possible, just to piss him off. His reaction was as immediate as it was hilarious. He tried to strangle me. A few minutes later, we were panting on the ground, but he was in worse shape than me. “So- uph- why’d you interrupt my practice session- hoo- you stupid cur?” “ Well, you bald-faced farm boy, turns out Uncle gave me an adventure. Want to come with?” “The kind your dad used to give you? No thanks, I don’t need the Great Quest for the Muffin Pan again” Little bastard, he knew I meant a real adventure, but he just had to wind me up more. “Nah, this one’s the Great Quest of Following Huge, Creepy Tracks.” “Well shit, I’m in, come visit the house while I pack. It should be around dad’s tea time.” I don’t know if he just wasn’t acknowledging Wilhelm or if he just didn’t react when the gigantic man followed us to the millhouse. Tea, small talk (Martin, Wolfgang’s Father, is so funny after he splashed his tea with moonshine) small confections, and packing later, the three of us were on the road. Now, here is where the story gets a lot more anticlimactic. It took us all of two days of camping before we found the source of the tracks. Seriously, either it was not trying to hide its tracks at all, or we’re just that awesome, which is a definite possibility. Between my practical experience, tracking game, and Wilhelm’s terrifyingly accurate senses, we never lost the trail for more than a few minutes. Whatever it was was wandering around, and took the time to strip a tree trunk of its bark. Where the story gets a whole lot more climactic is that it was a dragon. An actual white dragon, it’s angular head reaching around Wilhelm’s, and an icy mist coming from its nostrils. I will fully admit that I nearly ran away screaming. I would have, if it weren’t for Wolfgang’s hand on my shoulder. He was holding onto Wilhelm, whose eyes were wide and body panicked. Somehow, his excited smile calmed me down. Why was I running? There’s no need to run or fight this thing if we can just talk to it. I breathed in slowly, and focused. Then, I stepped out of the bush and looked a white dragon in its eyes. To this day, I forget what I said. It was totally unimportant. What was important was the voice. I was calm, like I remember Ragnar once did for a wolf who had wandered into town. Hands out and open, I got closer and closer, talking to the wyrm. I think I asked it if it was lost, and if it needed a new home. I don’t think I could have stayed so calm if I didn’t see Wilhelm right behind it, ready to protect me if the thing decided to attack. Then, I heard the quiet whispers of flutes behind me, and the dragon’s head began to sway in time with the music. I kept our eyes locked the whole time. I could feel something, curling up into my soul, and felt a different song. One of fangs as cold as ice, of hunts in the snowy skies, and of the inevitability of winter. We are one, cold and hot, ice and life, the sky and the trees I reached out and Isgoroth let me pet him. The scales were so much colder than I expected, but strangely soft. I scratched the dewlap of spines beneath his chin and knew what story I would ask Uncle for. I would ask if he knew any dragon riders

First Interlude from Uncle: An Accidental Testament by Onyx Brightscales, Chair of Anthropology and Sociology at Morgrave University

[an-accidental-testament]

I did not know how much later Garth came back to his cushioned chairs in front of the fire, but he sat down with a weary sigh, and said: “Let’s start simple. Five questions. I’ll answer them completely, and then we’ll talk about how you plan to do the rest of this field study.” “I admit, I was simply expecting to come and find that you were some forest spirit, or a myth, not actually real. Since you are real, I’ll ask the best question I can think of: Where are you from and what was it like?” He smirked at the thought of being a myth, and then looked melancholy, like the old man he apparently is. “I grew up in a small human town in Southern Breland. My father was a hunter, and used to be a soldier. Breland, at the time, was split into a series of city-states. Ours was called Wessem, and we were much like this area, very heavily wooded. This was before there was quite such a demand for wood, like today, so it was a pretty small city-state, and made most of its money off of selling pelts and meat. During the winter months, my father taught me to fight. Swords, axes, spears and staffs, even training with wearing his old armour. I was good, too.” There was more to that story in his eyes “What happened?” He let out a long sigh and looked me directly into my eyes. “I was twenty-three years old when the goblins attacked. He was old and sickly, too weak to fight them off. I was on a hunt, and when I came back, he was dead, a dozen goblin arrows in his chest and the house looted. His armour was gone, the weapons were gone, even his favourite down pillow had been taken. I came after them with a vengeance.” “And then you saw their children” “And then I saw the younglings. Their hate and fear was just like mine. How could I make someone else who was like me?” His head was in his hands, hiding a shame that he apparently still had. “So you then met met some people and joined each other on a big adventure, where you became immortal. I’m sure I’ll hear that story later, so I’m more curious about people. What did people think of the Silver Flame when the church started?” He was shocked by my disregard for the story, but his face lighting up made it worth my curiosity. “Finally, something happier than sad memories of revenge. I was a little over a thousand when it happened. They were so excited, so happy to have something that was about them. To commune with the spirits is to let go of the self and be one with a being older than time. To worship the Host is to prostrate yourself in front of the literal manifestations of civilization. Until the Church started, there was no celebration of individual people, of people’s souls. And then, in the fight against demons and monsters, a light was born. Not the pale light of Il-Yannah, not the piercing light of the Host, not even the raging fire of the spirits, but the pure light of life that was Tira Minon. The Church will tell you that she was so pure , so saintly that she joined with the Flame, and I suppose they’d be right, but not the way they think they are. She wasn’t always pure, and she did have hate and fear and pain and everything that makes a human, but in the face of the worst evil a being gets to see, she felt nothing but hope. For just a moment, she was so pure, so made of hope that no demon could touch her, and she walked through the land of flame, and communed with the ancient coatl who had long since sacrificed themselves to hold back the demons, and it was that story that all of Thrane loved. It was that story that gave hope. And wherever the monsters would come, they would fight. Where people would fall, in despair, at the sight of these monsters, they stood and pierced the dark with the light of hope. I have never been so glad of a religious movement as I was of the Flame.” His face had such hope, such joy and such belief, until it darkened, and his eyes looked tired, like he was feeling every one of his long years. “And then, well, you know what happened. The lycanthrope hunt. The Church became so obsessed with purity that they forgot why Tira Minon was so powerful. They forgot hope.” “You said the Flame was your favourite religious movement. There were others?” “Aye. I remember the Draconic Host movement. Have you ever seen an old one, hatchling?” I bristled. I knew he was calling me a hatchling just to rile me, and it worked. “They are so mighty, so huge. Their minds are so different from our own that it is nearly impossible to even converse with them, much less understand them. Even I feel like a hatchling in front of one. The old stories say that our land is the flesh of the elder dragon, as are the starry entrails of Syberis and the fiery depths of Khyber.” He smirked. “I believe them. And it ain’t unreasonable to assume that the gods that we’ve never seen direct also take the form of these ancient beings. More important than the religious implications is that it’s why most urban areas in the Five Nations are so tolerant of your own people. People stopped being so scared of dragons and instead just saw them as beings, powerful, worthy of awe and maybe even prayer, but not the boogeymen that they were before. That comfort with draconics stuck around even after the movement died out.” That was something I had never heard. It made sense, but it had simply never occurred to me. One supposes that my draconic features should be rather intimidating, and that Sharn had been oddly accepting of me, but I had assumed that it was simply the nature of cosmopolitan society that a dragonborn was nowhere near the most interesting thing they had seen that day. That, of course, leads to a new question. “I noticed that your own village is not just accepting of my heritage but it’s as if they barely notice. Is that your work?” He gave a small smile, as proud as a father, watching his child succeed. “First thing to understand, Onyx, is that it ain’t my village. I’m just it’s Uncle. But yeah, it might be. At this point, it’s hard to tell what parts of our culture are natural or are cause of me. Yes though, I do push people to always wait and think before coming to conclusions, especially about race. You’d be amazed how much my sayings get around this place. I’m always telling my nieces and nephews that ‘folk is folk’ and that people aren’t much different just because they have scales or horns or pointy ears or dark skin. It warms my heart to see my family so accepting.” How desperately curious. I knew then that I would have to stay in this village as long as possible, to try to dissect this culture, and puzzle out which aspects are Garth’s beliefs and which are the villagers, if there is a difference. “I believe that that was my fifth question. I suppose we must plan our future now.” “Yes, we should. I love this game we’re playing, but we can only put off practicality for so long. So, what do you want?” What do I want? “I want to stay. I want to keep observing your village’s culture, as well as your own perspective on histories and cultures of Khorvaire.” He smiled then, with far more intelligent-seeming eyes than he ever showed before, before it was gone, and his polite gentleman face was back. “Then stay you will. However, I have an offer. Would you like to walk the bounds with me? It is a harssh walk at times, often uphill and occasionally perilous, but it would give us a better chance to talk more.” I wanted to instantly take this opportunity. How often does one get the chance to talk to a millennia old man? I wanted to jump at this chance, but I held myself. I had never walked a very long distance before. I had never been in real danger before. I have always done studies and collected research in safer environs. I had to ask myself if I was ready to be in danger, if it was worth the risk. I breathed slowly, to calm myself, and decided. “I will walk with you, General Garthumnal.”

Uncle: An Accidental Testament, by Onyx Brightscales, Chair of Anthropology and Sociology at Morgrave University

[an-accidental-testament]

Standing on the paved town center, I could see the home of a man older than some of the dragonmarked houses. It was just as large as I expected, with porches and wings seemingly added on at random, without the neatness that the other houses in village had. There was a massive mural story, like the others, painted across the white-washed walls, depicting what looked to be Garth. It started with a young Garth, unscarred, and with short hair. He was walking a large, open road, wearing huge padded hide armour and carrying a quarterstaff that could pass for his current weapon if the steel bracings had been removed. He fought short enemies of indiscriminate race until he came upon what looked like the children of this race, crying in terror. There was a large image of his shocked and horrified face, and then the open road. Next was a man and a woman, set upon by a group of humanoids wearing relatively low-class garb. The woman was gorgeous, with the iridescent purple eyes of the Kalashtar. She fought with a sword and shield, and her fierce gaze was terrifying. The man was a half-elf, wrapped in rough leathers. He used a druidic totem, and one could see the bandits wrapped in thorny vines. There was a humanoid sneaking up on the pair, but Garth was behind him, preparing to strike. The next scene was of the three in what seemed to be a wizard’s study, talking with an old humanoid and a young goliath. They then looked into a crystal in which swirled dark purple energies that I could make no guesses at. The four were then on the road together, and then there was a long series of images that seemed to be them adventuring, and growing in power. The goliath seemed to care runic patterns into the air. They were green, and considering what I remembered, seemed to be defense or possibly healing, if worded strangely and almost archaic in design, like overly formal diction. The druid would either summon or train animals to fight with him. The kalashtar (who I assumed was the ardent, Sorashana that Garth talked about earlier) at one point grabbed an opponent and seemed to be draining visible energy from them. Garth, on the other hand, began to wear heavy plate armour of constantly changing designs, eventually settling on one that looked oddly similar to his harness. Many of the images seemed to be the stories of various injuries that Garth sustained, a bear claw here, a wraith’s touch there, spears, swords, goring horns. As the images neared the end, the four heroes seemed to change. The Goliath’s skin seemed to lighten, and a brightness seemed to emanate from him. The Kalashtar wore a floating topaz on her forehead, like a diadem. The druid’s body changed little, but each time the scene changed, he was wearing an entirely different style of clothing, sometimes wearing armour or even wielding weapons. Garth, however, did not change, except that the wounds he began to sustain were more and more egregious, including a split hand, disembowelment, and what might have even been his brain, visible. Their enemies also changed, from the varied easily recognizable enemies of most adventurers, into humans or humanoids with dark purple eyes. Eventually, there seemed to be a portal that they passed through, where they did battle against the swirling purple energies from the beginning of the story. Sorashana seemed to be pushing them out of the portal without her. A large portion of the wall was dedicated to a portrait of her face, severe face not softened but warmed by a smile. The next image was of the Half-Elf, melding with a tree, and he, too, was given a portrait, a gentle smile, one of the regrowth of spring, graced his face. Next was the Goliath, on top of a mountain, with Garth sitting next to him. His head was tilted back in ecstasy, and his skin was shining brightly. His portrait was of his protective smile, and the night sky dancing in his eyes. Finally was Garth, shoulders hung low, walking towards a village by a lake that was unmistakably Hafgar’s lake, Lehmos. The mural ended at the front door, having wrapped around the entire building, I had circled it in search of this story. “Enjoy the story?” Garth’s rough voice shook me from my musings. “Quite a bit, ‘Uncle’” I replied, with slightly more venom in my voice than I truly felt. I was oddly hurt by Garth not telling me that he was my target when we first met. “I really am sorry about that, lad. I just don’t like to tell people about it until they’ve had a chance to form an opinion of me. Don’t you ever wish someone could meet you without the presumptions of rank and race clouding your first introduction?” “No. They are as much a part of me as anything else is. To deny them would be to deny myself.” “I suppose. Maybe you are right, Gods know I don’t have the monopoly on that. Either way, I would like, then to introduce myself anew. I am Garthumnal, the Wandering Staff, Hall-shield to the Mror Holds, Storm of the Athelgas Valley, Scion of Red-Dragon Style, Dragon-foe and Dragon-friend, labelled as blood-brother to Fengarulas - Underlord of Skull, Free Lance to the Peaseblossom Feyspire, counselor to the Undying Court, honorary member of the Blood of Vol, He Who Touches The Devourer, Captain of the Argonium, General to Galifar the Great, Trench-Digger, Raging Tempest, Burning Fist, the Eternal. It is an honour to meet you.” What kind of being was this, that was friend to the Khyber city of Skull as well as the Feyspires and the Undying Court? How much history had this man touched? I confess, I was stunned, dumbstruck by imagining the sheer amount of world that this man had seen, affected, caused. “This is why I don’t open with my full name. I could probably think of a few other titles I could use, but these are my most ostentatious, so y’know, thought I would have a little fun at your exp- Are you okay, professor Brightscales?” I snapped out of my stupor. “Yes, simply shocked by your apparent achievements. I have a thousand questions, and am not sure where to start. How many languages do you speak?” “Most of them. Including a few of which that I might be the only one who does speak them anymore. Did you know that what you now call Old Lhaazar used to be spoken throughout the land? It was Galifar-great man, loved his drive- who pushed for unification under Common, which originated here in Thrane.” I switched into Deep Speech, which I mastered during my assignment on the Island, a floating city of ships, woven together, with a surprisingly large and peaceful illithid conversation, and nearly all residents, no matter the race, spoke a pidgin of a half-dozen languages, including Deep. “You knew him personally?” He answered back in kind. “Of course (roughly translates to young one, but might be closer to podling) I served with him on occasions, and he promoted me to General as thanks when I convinced an elder dragon to leave the kingdom peacefully.” Draconic then- “You talked an old one into leaving his hunt without fighting?” His draconic was nearly perfect, despite not having the correct mouth for it. “He left peacefully, but the conversation definitely wasn’t. We beat each other until I had nearly tore open his eye when he decided to cut his losses and run.” He had beat an ancient dragon on his own. “Hope the old bastard healed a’ight, eye injuries are miserable. Hopefully, no hard feelings. He was strong, and I would have had no quarrel with him if hadn’t decided to make a new nest where we had a city. Anyway, we should go inside, but first, there’s something you should check out. You’re a wizard, right? Try a magical vision spell” I was curious, so I cast it and saw arcane constructions covering the entire house, and a few reaching out to cover the village. A word of warning first. I will be attempting to describe magic that I was perceiving with the sixth sense that this spell grants, so I will be using various sensation words that do not quite correctly describe the nature of it, but are close enough. The house itself, though glowed and hummed with vast power. They looked to be largely defensive spells, strengthening material and buttressing walls, but there were some curious spatial-temporal parameters deeper in the house. Most importantly was a strange pattern I found in the spell designs. They seemed rough-hewn, with the worn texture of sells as they were nearing their end, but these ones had somehow- not. These spells should have been  falling apart, but whenever a piece was wearing out, it was somehow replaced with energy that should not have been able to join with that structure, energy that felt so different from the ecstatic purple brilliance of most magic. In one piece, a conjuration spell that supported the floor above it that should be so far removed from the wild magic of druids and shamans had the same earthy, oaky texture to it that the Primal Spirits always seemed to have. In another spot, that helped regulate the temperature, was the energy that smelled almost angelic, of power that we should not be able to perceive, much less control, contentedly replacing a spell cast by a wizard millennia prior. However, for the most part, the energy seemed to be curiously mundane, as natural as the sunlight and the wind, with a strange quiet joy that reminded me of Garrick’s family as they wordlessly would move the food or condiments that another would need closer to that person. I had never seen magic quite so overwhelmingly diverse as this. “How? That energy should never commit to such structures and parameters. How did you force it to do so?” “I didn’t. I long ago had a dear friend cast a variety of wards along this house, just in case, but when his student’s student came to check on the quality, he came up with a theory that the villagers themselves were repairing the magic. See, when people stay at the house, or just feel like it, they often help fix things around the house. He theorized that when they help fix something, they imbue the same ‘reparative focus’ into their energy, and that it somehow repaired the wards, even in some cases adding on more. I remember that there was a young man who lived here for a few years because the comfort of the house seemed to remove his absolutely terrible night terrors. You see, Torstein had been kidnapped by raiders as a child, and they hurt him in ways that he was slow to recover from. Ever since he left the house, I have never had a guest suffer from nightmares. I believe that it was this completely untrained young man’s utter faith that he was safe here that made a ward which no other mage could ever make. He never showed any magic abilities since, and gave no suggestion that he actually used magic, except for the effects. Even I have nothing but pleasant dreams here, and I have had my share of inspiration for nightmares.” “I- I need to sit down.” “Of course, I’ll make you a drink that I doubt you’ve had the chance to try before.” As we stepped through the front door, and into the main hall, eventually finding plush seats by a massive fireplace that was on fire but was at no point unbearably hot, no matter how close. I absently noted some kind of magic around the hearth, not protective but regulatory, never letting the heat grow too great. “I’m sure you’ve had Sarlonian Coffee, but have you ever tried Hot Cocoa, from Xen’Drik? It’s simply delicious, especially with honey, or powdered sugarcane mixed in.” When he realized that I would need some time to digest everything, he turned to Edith. “What’s wrong Edith? You look worried. Is it something that needs to be private?”

Uncle: An Accidental Testament by Onyx Brightscales, Chair of Anthropology and Sociology at Morgrave University

[an-accidental-testament]

Beatrice lead me into the village center near midday. As we walked, what I noticed most was that every house had a mural, if somewhat crude and amateurish. When I asked Beatrice about these murals, she explained that when a house is built, the family living there starts the mural. As important events happen, they are painted onto the wall. With the visual aid of the mural, she can tell the story of each house. Common important events that occur, such as births, deaths, marriages, and families moving in are given symbols. A birth is shown with a dove, and the child’s name written on the wings. Deaths are a raven and the deceased’s name on the beak. Marriages are a ribbon with the two newlywed’s names, and when a new family takes ownership of a house, because either there were no blood-heirs, or those that were chose to live somewhere else, or, for specialized buildings, if the apprentice is from another family, then a door is painted, large enough to separate the previous family’s mural from the new one. I asked, of course, what happens when a building runs out of room, and she did not know. It would seem that buildings either are destroyed or renovated often enough that it is not a problem. I made a mental note to ask Garth (or, I suppose, “Uncle”) about this when I get the chance. As we walked through the main street, we met various villagers. With rare exception, they all knew Beatrice well enough to refer to her by her shortened name. After she told them that I was an “anthropolologist” and I explained that I wanted to hear their stories if they were willing to tell me a little about them, they were happy to introduce themselves and their histories. I will try to record these individuals now: Jonas, the shepherd, in town both to resupply and to pick up an order he had made to Magdalane, the loom-hand who lives near the square. He’s getting old, and is starting to worry about what will happen to his herd when he dies. He never married, and so has no children, so has come to town to talk to Uncle. “Actually,” he adds, “part of that order from Magdalane is a new scarf for Uncle. He likes practical gifts” Next was Willem, who was the apprentice to the Butcher. His mentor, Garrow, sent him to visit the various cattle, pig and poultry farms that are a part of Hafgar, to check the stocks and ask how large the deliveries are expected to be, when slaughter time comes. Willem is sixteen, and has just moved into Garrow’s house, as part of his apprenticeship. Garrow’s young daughter Sora has taken to calling Willem “Big Brother Billem” and it seems that Willem has essentially been adopted, as if he had married into the family. When I made that comparison, he laughed, and said that he has his eye on someone already, but being an apprentice takes too much of his time already, and it wouldn’t be fair to be with someone when half his mind would always be on his chores. Next was Edith, daughter to Haytham, who likes to take walks in the woods, and on her most recent one, found tracks that she doesn’t recognize. She wants to talk to either Garth or one of the hunters who might be in town. She, like most villagers, wore a tunic, basic and slightly worn, but this one had its sleeves cut off, exposing her remarkably strong arms, with particularly toned forearms, as if she were a sword-fighter. We were both moving towards Garth’s house, so we decided to walk together the rest of the way. Near the center of the village, we met an old tiefling whose horns were long but flaking. The normally frightening visage of a “hellspawn” was soft and almost charming. He seemed to be showing the first signs of dementia, but was one of the fortunate few whose dementia turns them happy to watch the last years slip by. “Good day!” Apparently, he noticed me looking at him. “Good day, sir. Please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Onyx Brightscales, and I am an anthropologist from Morgrave University.” At my reference to Morgrave, he seemed to perk up, as if remembering. “Morgrave? Did young Ilya ever advance?” I assumed he meant Ilya d’Cannith, High Master of Morgrave. His memory was at least sixty years out of date, but the question was whether or not it was because he was even older than he looked, and was already elderly sixty years ago, or if he was suffering from the mental deterioration that typically follows the flaking and damage of the horns on tieflings. Either way, I did enjoy the more formal conversation. Educated and intelligent as the villagers of Hafgar are, they treated me more like a distant relative than the chair of an entire department at the finest magical university on the plane. “Yes, he led the charge for the connection of our university and the artificers, especially the Maker’s guild of Cannith, and it won us a great deal of funding and renown. In recognition, when Farthelus retired, he took the position. Forgive my curiosity, but did you study at the University?” His face was at first wistful, then suddenly ruinous. His voice drew cold. “Once. I was frustrated with my growth, however, and took a shortcut for which I paid nearly everything.” “You’ll forgive me, Professor Brightscales, but I am very tired. It is nearly time for my mid-day nap.” A polite nod and an apology later, and I was on my way. There was a short period of walking without meeting any new villagers, and I took it to ponder why these villagers seemed so eager to share their stories, far beyond what almost all cultures are willing to share with a newcomer. Did they somehow all understand the concept of an anthropologist, to the point that they were willingly giving me any information I asked, and more? Were they secretly commanded to share everything with me? Or was this community so open and so focused on stories that they would happily tell their life story to anyone who asked? I hope that I can understand this puzzle soon, because it seems less like a field assignment and more like an elaborate prank. The last people that I was introduced to were the two healers, their clinic on the town center. One, who I later found out was Aethelstan, was dressed in a simple brown robe, with a rough outline of the symbol of the Silver Flame stitched into the front. His tan skin was paled from hours of study indoors, and his right hand had the ink stain of a scholar still. His hair was long and chestnut brown, pulled into a low ponytail, and he was quiet and composed. His companion, Ragnar, was larger, both in stature and in presence. He wore leather and hides, with druidic tokens and animal trophies sown in. His eyes were a piercing blue, with a deceptive intelligence behind them. His dirty blond hair was woven into a broad braid, and the dappled leather of his tanned hide had intricate knotwork, some tattoos, some paint. His body and stance were boisterous, but his voice sharp and curious. Both of their smiles were confident and comfortable, and they greeted Beatrice warmly. As all the other citizens of Hafgar did, when I explained my profession and my purpose here, they gave me a brief summary of their story. Aethelstan and Ragnar both were apprenticed under the village healer between the ages of twelve and sixteen, whereupon they decided to leave and learn how to heal in a different way. Their mentor, Alfred, had taught them surgery, poultices and first-aid, saying that even if they learn a supernatural method of healing, that setting a bone before magically mending it uses a great deal less energy. Aethelstan was always religious, and spent what time that his apprenticeship left him working with the village’s priest of the Silver Flame. Eventually, with the help of Garth, he served as a monk at Flamekeep, and became an ordained cleric. Then, at twenty-two, he moved back to Hafgar when the priest died of old age, to serve as the new pastor, and to bring his newfound power to help Alfred, who himself was approaching old age. There he met Ragnar again who had went on an entirely different path. Where Aethelstan went to church, Ragnar wandered the woods, and shortly after Aethelstan left, he saw a baby bear, lost and alone. As he approached that cub, it ran away. Curious, he chased it until suddenly, its mother sprang out from behind a tree. Considering this was a full-grown female brown bear, he ran. After nearly a mile, he realized that the bear was going to catch up to him just as he was approaching a farm. Hearing children playing, he knew he had no choice. He stopped, turned, and prepared to take on a brown bear with his hands. Just as his fist and the bear’s claw were about to meet their targets, the bear pulled back. It stood up, and looked at him with surprising intelligence. It was a bear spirit, and it respected his desire to protect. It offered him a chance to channel her power, and to be a shaman. Rather obviously, he took it, and has since been using the Protector Spirit’s ability to heal wounds to augment his talent for surgery. “When Aethelstan came home, we clashed. I was angry at him for abandoning me, and he was angry at me for changing so much. Of course, we didn’t realise that that was what we were angry about, but Uncle could make a dragon shut up and listen to him. Actually, he did. You should ask about it. Anyway, we made it work, and found that while we had changed a lot, the part of him that some gawky healer’s apprentice fell in love with was exactly the same.” In the back of my mind, I wondered if it was “Uncle”’s presence that is making so many of the villagers find more power than most ever even see. It seems like almost one in every four citizen had magical training or communion with the primal spirits, or even simply a great deal of weapon training. I thought about what would happen should this village be attacked, and shuddered. After passing Ragnar and Aethelstan, Beatrice, Edith and I continued walking, and I remembered what Ragnar had finished his story with. “Doesn’t the Silver Flame have rules against relationships between men?” Beatrice looked aghast “Daddy says there’s nothing wrong with two men loving eachother!” Edith chuckled slightly, and explained that “while the Church may hold a dim view on relationships between men, there is no official law against love, only taking one as your spouse, and that sex outside a marriage is unholy. Uncle had to educate a few more ignorant farmers on the concept of asexual relationships a few years back.” This was possibly the greatest surprise I’ve felt about this village. Social justice movements that were just now beginning to gain traction in Sharn, the most progressive city on Eberron, were taken as read here. This small town seemed to be in a bubble, culturally separate from the rest of Thrane, the most conservative of the Five Nations of Galifar. Then again, I suppose that both the town and Garth were older than both the Church and Galifar. That leads to the question: “if this town, older by far than the Nations is so progressive in its understandings of social class and gender/sexual constructs, then are we developing a new understanding of sex and how to live, or are we rediscovering an old one?” I suppose that this is the true reason why I am here. Not to study a strangely different community, but to ask this sort of question to one old enough and connected enough to the common man that they could answer them. And as I was lost in my ponderings of social change and ancient memories, we came to the center of town, and the great house facing it

An Accidental Testament by Onyx Brightscales, Chair of Anthropology and Sociology at Morgrave University

[an-accidental-testament]

I woke at dawn, as is my habit, to find Garrick’s family breaking their fast. Mary had laid an extra setting at the table, and when I came downstairs, offered it to me. I was seated between a wrinkled man who introduced himself as Wolfgang, Garrick’s father and a young man, who said he was Garrick’s older brother, Ulric. They were polite and somewhat deferential, like many cultures with an emphasis on hospitality, but with a strange kind of casualness, as if I was not a stranger, but a distant relative. Mary and I had a conversation that led to a curious revelation: She was explaining that Wolfgang was a fisherman, and that his father had as well (no great surprise, in most small towns, children inherit their father’s profession) but that “Hagar and Lagertha, Wolfgang’s older siblings, had no hand with the skimmer, so Lagertha decided to work at the logging mill over east, and Hagar learned how to be a trapper.” I was surprised. Not because the eldest son had chosen his own profession, or that a woman had become a logger, but by the naturalness of this in her words. She had said it as if it was strange that a son would choose his father’s trade. “Is it common at Hafgar for children not to take up their parent’s profession?” She seemed confused, as if she had never truly thought about it, “Of course. Children learn their parent’s craft, but when they come of age, they talk to Uncle and choose their own path. Is it not like that in the city?” I admit, I was too shocked by the progressiveness of this town to keep my tongue as polite as I should, nor did I notice the curiosity of this Uncle. “It is that way in the city, yes, but most villages and towns are not that willing to allow children their own way” It was only then that it occurred to me that she had said “Uncle” like a title, given to one in power. Perhaps this person can guide me to the ancient being I was searching for. When I asked who this Uncle was, and that I’d like to meet them, Beatrice threw her head back and laughed. It was Mary who explained, an amused smile on her face. “You already have. Garth isn’t my uncle or even related to me. He came here almost two thousand years ago, and adopted the entire town. We all keep a room for Uncle in our homes, even though he owns that great big house by the square.” At my shocked expression, she apologized, “I would have told you, but he likes to surprise the visitors who come to the town, says that people don’t act like themselves when talking to someone they think has power.” “Think? Does he not lead the town?” “Not at all. He refuses to take any form of leadership over us, saying he won’t be our parent, just an Uncle. When I was young, I thought that he would lead us better than any of us could, but he told me” it was here that she seemed to be reciting a teaching rather than a memory, “that the great thing about mortality is that it means all of us, from the greatest wizard to the lowest farmer, have to pay homage to the gods, to our own mortality. Just like Galifar, no matter how great your empire, no matter how much power you amass, you’ll lose it all eventually, so we tend to be kind. He will never die, and so has no fear of the Gods. Therefore, he can never rule anyone but himself” I had never imagined that any being would show such restraint. I needed to meet this man again. I had a thousand questions. Mary must have seen my excitement, because she offered Beatrice to escort me into town. She also offered the garden, saying that Garrick always preferred to memorize his spells for the day in the garden instead of in a closed room. Despite my excitement, and my habit of memorizing spells in the closed top of my tower while at Morgrave, I decided to take her offer, as the best way to understand a culture is to join it. I’ll also admit that I’ve grown to love the abundant greenery of this village

Uncle: An Accidental Testimony Onyx Brightscales, Chair of Anthropology and Sociology at Morgrave University

[an-accidental-testament]

The village proper has only vaguely marked bounds, more a large collection of houses, with no discernable order, except for what appeared to be a town square near the center, visible mostly by the massive building in front of it. Garrick's family house is near the Southern side of Hafgar, on the edge of town, so I did not see much of the village proper. When I expressed my disappointment at this, Garrick and Garth promised to take me in tomorrow, promising that Haytham (who had a bakery near the square) loves spoiling visitors with pastries. Garrick's house was similar to others immediately visible, two-stories, with a wooden framework, stone base, and painted with daub and lime-wash. When we came up to the front door, an older woman was hanging up laundry on a string by the windows. She was being assisted, very reluctantly, by a small child of indeterminate gender, and a young woman who was singing a song to try to cajole the child into helping. The song was in Elvish, and was a popular work song throughout Thrane, about two lovers, separated because the woman could not control her wanderlust. The child, upon seeing us, dropped the tunic she was holding and rushed over to embrace Garth, but did not recognize Garrick. After hanging up the tunic with a sigh, both the young woman and the elderly woman who seemed to be her mother slowly walked to our group, greeting Garrick warmly, but were strangely formal and respectful to Garth, almost reverent. He utterly ignored the formal atmosphere and gathered up both woman into a large embrace, with a laugh. After inviting my group inside for tea, the young woman introduced herself as Mary, her daughter as Beatrice, and her mother as Lenora. Garth would refer to them, while the water boiled as Trixie, Mary, and Nora, and complimented Beatrice on her long braids, as well as Lenora on the lace pattern she had picked up as soon as we sat down. The sitting room of the house was past the main hall, in which stood many coat-and hat-hooks, and had a small fireplace. Beatrice barely touched her tea before setting it aside and saying she wanted to be 'a psychic, like aunt Sora.' Garth laughed and explained that Sorashana was an ardent, whose magic came from certainty. "Sorashana was always so sure, of herself, of us, of everything. The only time she let herself be uncertain was when she danced. What's the lesson that Aunt Sora teaches us?" Beatrice responded, like a call-and-response song, "to know when to hold fast, and when to let go!" "That's it Trixie. Whether you decide to be a warrior like me or an ardent like Sora, or a wizard like your uncle Garrick, you need to take breaks. If not for your body, for your mind." The tea arrived, and Garth thanked Mary wholeheartedly, saying that the road makes you miss good tea. As it steeped, Mary and I discussed my project, and she showed a greater vocabulary than one would expect from a fisherman's wife, and knew to ask me about my previous fieldwork, which is always a safe topic to get an anthropologist talking for hours. She seemed not to be bored or confused by any part of my stories, even when I began to talk about the curious beliefs about deception that the halflings of the Talenta plains hold. It was almost an hour later before I realized that none of them reacted to or commented on my dragonborn nature, and it was that casualness that drew me into talking more than I normally would. Nightfall had come before any of us had realized, and Garth began to get up. He explained that he had business in town, and that he would be staying there. Mary then offered Garth's room if I wasn't going to stay in the village center with him, and I accepted, as I wanted at least one night on the outskirts of the village before I saw the large house

Uncle; An Accidental Testament by Onyx Brightscales, Chair of Anthropology and Sociology at Morgrave University

[an-accidental-testament]

My first interaction with the family-based culture of Hafgar was as I came to the boundaries of the village with my guide, Garrick. Garrick was born and raised in Hafgar, but had since moved to Morgrave to further study magic. He is a war wizard, trained by the Thrane Magic Corps. He expressed an interest in returning home, saying he'missed the habits and rituals of home.' As we came to the boundaries of Hafgar, made visible as a wide dirt road, with a strange absence of ruts, we met a middle-aged man walking with a long quarterstaff by his side. He was very toned, with short-cropped wavy black hair, let loose in a shaggy mane. His face was scarred, with both deep worry lines and a powerful crinkle at his eyes that deepened when he smiled, which he did often. He wore a worn tunic and cloak, that seemed more patches than original fabric. On his back was a simple leather pack, with a length of rope and a bedroll which was strangely high-quality and new-looking. His left hand hung in a thumbloop from the harness, and what seemed like a coinpurse, tied to the loop. His weathered right hand held a quarterstaff, six feet of oak, with iron rings banded to the ends. He walked with a comfortable gait, as if he had been born onto this road and had walked it every day since. As soon as Garrick saw him, his eyes lit up and he ran to embrace this traveler warmly. I will attempt to copy their conversation: "Uncle Garth!" "Is that little Garrick? Back as the conquering hero, I see" "Not yet, Uncle, I just missed home, and brought someone interested in Hafgar to see how we live out in the sticks" "Speaking of sticks, how did that wand you borrowed work out?" "Very well Uncle, it helped me pass the entrance exams. Unfortunately, the Fourth Wizard Legion insists on using tomes. But at least this means I can give you your wand back." This perked my interest and served as an appropriate time for me to introduce myself. "Excuse me Master Garth, but I couldn't help but overhear. You are also a practictioner?" "Please, just call me Garth, or Uncle Garth, Master Garth makes me feel old. And no, I'm not. I just had it lying around. You'll find most families around here have a few magical odds and ends, from when they or one of their relatives went adventuring. Many decide to keep the life, but most decide that one or two adventures is good enough for them, and settle back down. The influx of gold helps the economy somehwhat." It occured to me that despite not being a mage, he seemed remarkably well-educated. Garrick chimed in "Uncle may be relatively accepting of my choice, but my parents will spend the entire time of our visit encouraging me to stay here, raise a family, maybe marry that nice girl Katrina who I grew up with. I'd appreciate it if you kept the conversations with them about yourself, Chair" The pair, uncle and nephew began to chatter about the goings-on in the wider world, and Garth seemed to show a particular interest in how the Nations' investment in Stormreach is paying off. I appreciated the chance to observe the comfort that the two had, and wonder if it was common throughout Hafgar for relatives to be so at ease.

Uncle: An Accidental Testament by Onyx Brightscales, Chair of Anthropology and Sociology at Morgrave University

[an-accidental-testament]

It's amazing how much can happen in a few thousand years. In the last millennium, Khorvaire has seen the fouding of a nation that lasted almost nine hundred years, the birth of multiple dragonmarks, the creation of an entire new religion, which has taken over Thrane and is popular in all of the Five Nations, many wars, including thee Last War, which ended with the obliteration of the Kingdom of Cyre. More importantly than these, are the changes in people's lives-how many musical, artistic and linguistic movements have changed the shape of culture in those thousand years? How much socio-economic change? How has the common man grown in the past millennium? By these may we wonder at how much they will grow in another. What new wonders will grace our world in the coming centuries? How will we, as humans and dwarves and elves and dragonborn and tieflings and halflings and orcs and goblins and a hundred other sentient races learn to live amongst one another in the coming years? This was the thought that drove me to seek out the ancient beings of the world. I am an anthropologist, and who would know more about the cultures of yesteryear than those who lived in them. I have riddled with a sphinx, seen the Brass City, and wandered both the Feyspires and the halls of the Undying Court, asking for their memories. The problem, however, is that these beings are so removed from the daily life of most commoners that they have no knowledge of cultures in days long past. I travel today to confirm rumours of a being in Hafgar, a small town in Northern Thrane, that is almost two thousand years old.

Introduction to Uncle: An Accidental Testament by Onyx Shimmerscale