>>6364853
Your father, Sodel, and your mother, Eini, are not quite sure they agree with your new decision, but they have no real power to stop you. You know that they would love nothing more than to leave this blighted city and enjoy a nice life taking care of a vineyard in the Esmarian countryside in the eastern Empire, far from Anbenncost and the barren island it stands on. In your mind, you think you might as well try.

Your name is…
>Kertog
>Ulrigh
>Athel
>Write-in

Your dwarf clan is…
>Ironbeard [+1 Wound].
>Bloodaxe [+1 Melee Skill]
>Diamondheart [+1 Wit]
>Write-in (Stat will be assigned by DM)

>>6364854
>Athel
>Diamondheart [+1 Wit]

d6 system

STATS
>Characters have stat values that provide Xd6 to roll when faced with challenges.
>Roll DC is 3*Opponent Skill. To beat an opponent with a WS of 2, the dwarf must roll 6 or better. Auto success if DC = Stat value
>If it's not an opponent, a difficulty is assigned to the task between 1 and X. 3*Difficulty
>Stats are buffed by gear and skill increase.
>Skill increases are rarely obtained after intense training by a master or through epic feats, represented by the Aptitude buff. Aptitude buffs to a stat become exponentially more difficult to obtain as they increase, but are permanent.
>Gear is hard to obtain and can be lost but offers instant increases to stats. For example: A sentient being has a base Weapon Skill of 2. Dwarf A gets a +1 to Weapon Skill due to their inclination for melee combat. Dwarf A equips an iron axe, bringing a further +1 to their WS. Total: 4.
>For example: A sentient being has a base Weapon Skill of 2. Dwarf A gets a +1 to Weapon Skill due to their natural inclination for melee combat. Dwarf A equips an iron axe, bringing a further +1 to their WS. Dwarf A chooses to enter a battle frenzy during the battle for +1 to WS. Total: 5.
>Conditional buffs or debuffs exist. A tired dwarf may see a -1 to all their stat checks. A dwarf that knows how to enter a battle frenzy may see a +1 increase to their combat stats.

COMBAT
>Wounds represent a character's health. A character with 3 Wounds has 3 "health".
>When fighting, a failed roll causes a wound to the player, a successful roll causes a wound to the enemy.
>If a degree of success or failure happens (each +6 or -6 over the DC), 1 more wound occurs in the same round.
>Wounds can be Light (if taken from a non-lethal weapon, like fists or clubs) or Grievous (if taken from a lethal weapon like a mace or blade).
>Reaching 0 wounds means you are knocked out and may need medical care depending on the wound taken. If you reach your max Wounds in the negative (so, if you have a maximum of 3 Wounds and reach -3), you are slain no matter the wound type.
>3 round combat rule to avoid slogs. Resolution will depend on the situation.
>In group fights, the system may vary. Very small groups may have each character rolling individually against their opponents. In larger fights, this may be further simplified to a player + key companions rolling their own skill and adding up 3*Skills of other people involved in the fight (So if your ally has WS 2, you add 6 to your roll). Proper battlefields with dozens of opponents should be rare, and will be handled with another simple system (Leader's command stat, troop quality, morale instead of wounds).
>In group fights, wounds will be applied at random to a member of each group.

ROLEPLAY
>Dwarves are extremely proud creatures and have a hard time trusting other races. They consider themselves hardy, steadfast in their beliefs, and strong of body.>Dwarves have a deeply ingrained grudge against orcs, goblins and kobolds. Their initial reaction to them should always be hostile and cold.
>Dwarves get along with humans, they consider them naive, foolhardy and impatient.
>Dwarves mistrust elves, considering them haughty and weak of will and strength.
>Dwarves consider oaths sacred bonds, of which friendship is one of them. Calling someone a friend is a big deal.
>Dwarves are a martial and materialist race. They like to resolve things and settle dues by fighting or by exchanging goods.
>Dwarves have a deepset belief in the sanctity of their lost mountainholds and worship their ancestors. They inherently trust those who share their clan name (and thus their blood).
>Dwarves develop grudges, usually when someone messes too much with any of their above values, or insults them over it.
>Dwarves hate when someone implies they are short of stature.

MENTAL
>The Wit stat is basically Wounds for your mental health.
>Extended adventuring periods and traumatic experiences decrease Wit. It is recovered by taking some time off adventuring, living an average life within a settlement.
>Reaching your max Wit level in the negative (So -2 if you have 2 max Wit), will cause your character to enter a catatonic state and require care until 1 Wit level is recovered.
>Wit maximum can be increased and decreased depending on your current situation. A dwarf that follows a cause, has good friends, or a loving family may see their Wit increase. A lonely dwarf with no goals and no shoulders to stoically be sad on may see their Wit maximum decrease.

SETTING
>It's the world of Anbennar, a fantasy setting created and developed by a community of Paradox gamers for a EU4 mod.
>It will not be a 1 to 1 representation of Anbennar. DM is not a lore erudite of the mod so many liberties will be taken. Think of it more as a platform for adventuring.
>Low fantasy. No healing potions, no easily accessible magic or magic weapons.
>Combination of high medieval into renaissance era. 15th century Europe. Gunpowder is in the early stages and not easily accessible.
>Rule of cool always applies at DM's discretion.

Current Stats:
Wounds: 3/3
Wit: 2/2
Melee Skill: 3 (Renamed from Weapon Skill, forgot to add this to the rules)
Ranged Skill: 1

>>6364854
>Athel
>Diamondheart

>>6364854
>Athel
>Diamondheart [+1 Wit]
Sure, why not? Strike the Earth!

Your name is Athel Diamondheart. Your clan is known for their almost unnatural ability to withstand mental anguish. You’ve heard all kinds of tales about it, that it’s an inherent magical ability of the clan, that it stems from the powers of the ancestor spirits, some say it’s just the culture and that dwarfs are not inherently magical. You’ve indeed always felt that you could keep going when others couldn’t, working in shitty jobs, not breaking the nose of some prick who decided that you should be the objective of their drunken rant, and generally just living in Anbenncost for the better part of 29 years.

You’ve returned home after your last day at your job. Back to the low-roof apartments of the Halfling slums, halflings that weren’t too happy about sharing their already cramped ghetto with dwarf refugees all those years ago. They aren’t happy now either, the situation did not improve much in the few decades since the Greentide. There isn’t that much space within the walls of Anbenncost, and the rise of renewed trade along the coasts of the sea of the Dame is only bringing more and more migrants, while the apartments are just getting more and more stacked.

Your father receives you with a wide smile, his face crooked by the wear of the sun and the ravages of time. He’s not that old for a dwarf, barely in his 100s, but the past few decades have been anything but kind to your parents. His beard and hair is now half platinum, a fixture of the Diamondhearts, rather than greying in the usual way, their hair turns into a sort of shiny metallic grey that may remind someone of the color of diamonds.

Your mother is cooking a pot of mushrooms with old-smelling meat, they tried to have a bit of meat once or twice a week. Hard to come by in the city. You sit down for dinner.

“Are Ulrigh and Kertog not coming?” You ask. Your two brothers were always off somewhere else. They are younger than you, Kertog is 24 and Ulrigh is 20. Your parents had them when they were a little more well off, if this style of living could be called so.

Your father replies as he pours stew in his bowl. “Ulrigh’s at work still. Kertog’s off with his buddies.” He sits down, sips some of the stew, smiles, and takes his hand to your mother’s hand, holding it with love.

“Ancestors save me, what a farewell committee.” You keep your tone to a joke. You know your brothers are busy enough as it is.

Your mother pours you a bowl. “Listen to yourself, Athel. Do you think you’re the High King now? Your little adventure will stay just as that, a little adventure. You’ll get back here, I know it. Just stick to a job, for clan’s sake, and find yourself a nice lady to have children with.”

Children? Bah. You scoffed loudly and caressed your ever more burgeoning beard, it only reached down to your belly button unlike your father’s mightier, wider beard that went all the way down to his groin. “I won’t raise my children in a place where they’ll be bullied and mistreated by manlings.”

When you say the word manling, your mother shoots a terrible stare to your father, the one who taught you it. It’s how they used to call humans back in the hold. “Manlings this, manlings that. You two are the bloody same, you are!” She serves her own bowl and sits down to eat.

Your father breaks a bit of bread to wet in the soup. “I’ve heard caravans heading east need guardin’.” He says as he enjoys the succulent taste of the mushrooms.

“East?” You say, loudly sipping from your wooden spoon. “Where to? Corvuria?”

“Nay, Castanor.”

Castanor, the manling realm that fell to the Greentide. It used to be a huge empire a long, long time ago, then it broke down into kingdoms, then the kingdoms were broken by the Greentide. Now, after the Greentide broke, it’s full of fledgling realms formed by adventurers and greenskin remnants. “That could be a good place to start.” You say.

“Aye.” Your father says.

“Are you listening to yourself, Sodel Diamondheart?! You’d send our child to die off in Castanor?!”

He looks at her with that broad smile of his. “He ain’t gonna die, sweetheart. Athel’s strong stuff.”

“Four dwarfs and not a single she-dwarf in this household, Ancestors save me, all reason has left my kin.” She eats up one of the bits of meat she left for herself, having given you the lion’s share of it. “You two think more with your beards than with your heads!”

You both caress your beards and look at each other with beaming pride. Of course you do, it’s a he-dwarf’s entire raison d’être, as the Lorentish would say. “Worry not mother.” You straighten your back and puff yourself. “I will bring you great riches so we may leave this accursed city and live in a tranquil homestead by an Esmarian river!”

She starts spinning her soup with her spoon. “May the ancestors and the old gods hear your boast and think well of it, son. You will need it.”

Dinner is soon finished, your mother starts cleaning the cooking ware and shelves bowls for your brothers when they come home. Meanwhile, your father has beckoned for you to follow him. He takes you to their room, where he starts rummaging through an old wooden chest of his. His oustretched arm reaches the bottom and his face lights up. He brings it out and shows you his prized possession. An iron axe of dwarven make.

“From the forges of Khugdihr, son.” He says. “You’re firstborn, so it was to be given to you when I passed. My father, ancestors praise him, had it commissioned before the fall of the hold.” He hands it over to you. You’re no expert in dwarven forging techniques, but as you hold it and swing it once or twice, you think of how light it is, how swiftly it pierces the air, and how well it rests in your hand.

Got [Dwarven Axe] +2 to Melee Skill when equipped.

“I thank you for your gift, father.”

“Sleep well, son. And beware the dangers of the wilds, they are many, even among places some consider civilized.” He puts his broad and callused hands to your shoulders. “And hear me, if you ever feel that the life of adventure is not your calling, by all the ancestors, return to us.”

You nod, but have no intention of returning without something to show for it.

You head off to your room. Well, the room you share with your brothers. Rather cramped for three as it is, the amount of stuff the three of you have laying around removes even more of what little space is available. You lay on your shoddy mattress and think of your life in Anbenncost, the life you will soon leave. You recount the great ancestors of clan Diamondheart and their deeds as a mantra to fall asleep and for good luck tomorrow morning, the few ancestors you do know, anyway. You never did pay much attention to the ramblings of uncle Gamri.

Your eyes open wide, you realize you fell asleep when remembering the great troll-slaying of Orgar Diamondheart. Your brothers are in their own bunks, the room reeks of alcohol. Bloody lightbeards went to the tavern again! What little coin they make, they waste away. Foolish children, behaving like manlings. You raise yourself up and put on your gear, some old leather armor you bought with your savings, a backpack that’s almost completely torn, and all the wares you’d packed into it for a long trip. You look once more to your brothers, it’s not like you were any better when you were their age. A broad smile, similar to your father’s, beams from your face, and you sneakily head out to the entrance door.

You slam a fist to your chest. “By the door of the wolf, Khugdihr-am-rak.” You utter, then open the door and leave.

The day is starting to get busy. Dexterous halfling runners heading from one place to another, human merchants setting up their stalls and all kinds of folks walking to their jobs with grim stares. It does not take long for you to reach the adventurer’s guild, though it is still empty at this time of day, it usually turns into a tavern by midday. A manling, likely your age, is removing and adding postings to the noticeboards outside it.

“Excuse me, good man.”

He turns around, looking above you at first, then down. “Oh, good day, dwarf. What is it?”

You tap your boot, bloody manling looked up then down to you. You will have to forgive this transgression. “I seek work as an adventurer. Best if I could start today.”

“Right. Are you registered at the guild?”

“Indeed, did so last week.”

“Good, good.” He says, then scratches his chin as he checks the new announcements he’s just posted. “There’s a caravan looking for guards here, aye.” He says, pointing to a piece of paper. “It’s headin’ east to Castanor. To the republic of Anbenland.”

You heard of it. Anbenland was formed by a band of adventurers from Anbenncost. It prides itself as the gateway to Castanor proper, some would say the limit between civilization and the Castanorian frontier. “Good pay?”

“Good enough for a newbie.” The man says, moving his scratching hand from his chin to an old scar on the side of his face. “If you’d rather stick around here, or have your own pace while heading to Castanor, which I recommend you do if you want proper work, you could take this one.” He points to another paper.

“What’s it?”

“From a village east of the island, folks say their children are getting kidnapped or some such.” He raises an eyebrow. “It is weird, but the reward’s not big enough for the most able to go and check it out. Good enough for a newbie though.”

You cross your arms. Newbie, newbie, newbie! Accursed manling. But it would be best not to cause a fuss among in the guild.

>”I’ll hop onto the caravan that heads to Anbenland.”
>”I’ll check out those disappearing children.”
>”Who are you calling a newbie, accursed manling?!”

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Map of the current situation. You live in the island, the city where the square is. The X marks the village talking about disappearing children. The line is the path the caravan would take you on.

>>6364970
>”I’ll check out those disappearing children.”

We're very proud, yes, but he's not wrong that we are a newbie. Now if he was wrong...well, he'd be in for a tongue lashing.

Anyways, I say try and take the job closer to home. Stay close to the safety net of our family, should things go wrong and we need succour. If all goes well, then we'll be nearby a metropolis after receiving our pay, rather than isolated on the road, with which we can buy better gear to prepare us to head out to Anbenland and beyond to Castanor.

>>6364999
Let's go. Writing

“I’ll check out those disappearing children. Where’s that?”

He looks at you half-surprised, the good kind of surprised, with a smile on him. “Good pick, honestly. Too many crazy newbies head straight off to Castanor.”

“Didn’t you just tell me to go there if I wanted to do proper work, manling?” You raise an dubitative eyebrow.

“Just a little test, that’s all. Not that’s it a death sentence, I mean, but if you start slow it likely means you’re more cautious than the rest.” He realizes that he’s still lightly scratching his scar and stops. He heads inside and calls for you to come in as well, you follow.

The insides of the guild are like a tavern’s, various tables where adventurers are supposed to gather to discuss going on contracts together. When the drinks begin to flow though, it’s more like a party ground. Athel had been in one or two of those, adventurers were a rowdy, loud, and thrill-seeking bunch which fit in with the dwarven notion of a party.

The man had him sign a paper, locally produced at the Anben papermaker’s guild. He picks up the paper and gives it a thorough look. “Athel Diamondheart, is it?”

“Aye.” You puff your chest at the mention of your clan name. “What’s it to you, manling?”

He chuckles. “You shouldn’t go around calling everyone a manling.”

“I think an adventurer like you can take it.”

He nods. “Well, I might, but not others.” He takes the paper and puts it into a folder for the day which was still empty. “Village’s in the east of Dameced. Very near to Varivar, know of it?”

You nod, crossing your arms once more. Varivar, a spot on the island with many forests, elf-land, granted to them when they arrived on the continent almost five hundred years ago and help beat a lich-king of some sort. You don’t know the details, but the elves are wary of those who intrude in their granted lands. “Aye, you think elves are the problem?”

“Everyone spreads tales about elfish kidnappings, but nay, I wouldn’t say that. The elves of Varivar get along rather well with humans.” He accompanies you to the exit. “You know which gate to take?”

“Aye.”

“Want some company on the way? There won’t be much movement today, I feel.”

You shrug. “Do as you wish.”

The main streets are now beginning to see the hubbub of daily life. Stall merchants crying their good wares out to the folks coming in to buy the day’s produce, children running about playing before they begin whatever jobs they may have. The main streets have all manners of folk in them, plenty of humans, of course, but also many dwarves, halflings, even a few gnomes and elves walk about and do their daily tasks. One thing you never think about that much is just how colorful the people living in Anbenncost are, it’s a center of trade, and you heard there’s textile factories and dyers not so far off in the sea of the Dame.

“Are you from the holds, Athel?” The man asks, interrupting your thoughts.

“Aye, well, I was born in Anbenncost, but my parents were from Khugdihr.”

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“Oh, Khugdihr!” He says. “Balgar the Builder was from there, was he not?”

“Yes, about two thousand years ago, when the dwarf lived.”

“What a dwarf, have you seen the white walls of Castanor? I hope you will one day, they are crafted beautifully, grand in height and width. I wonder how they made them withstand the ravages of time so well.”

Stone upon stone, no sturdier way to make something, you smile and nod. “And you, human, where do you hail from?”

“The Reach, far to the north. There are cities there living under the yoke of an orcish kingdom, I wanted none of it, so headed south through Gawed, took a boat at Vertesk and wound up here. The trip took me a long while, I was doing the odd adventuring job along the way, trying to make ends’ meet, tried to live in a few places for a bit. It was a rough couple of years. It’s where I got the scar, goblin ambush while I was out guarding a hunting party in Gardfort.” He seems to recall the events fondly, though the scar seems quite terrible. “They thought I was dead and gone, but an apothecary at the fort was able to take care of me.”

“Must’ve cost you a fortune.” You say.

“The lady of Gardfort was fond of me.” He replies. By the wry smile, you can imagine what he means. Stupid manlings, only thinking with their loins.

There was the gate. “My name is Patrik, by the way, of Alencay.” He says.

“Well, you already know mine. Athel Diamondheart.”

“Thank you for the introduction, dwarf. I wish you good luck in your travels.”

Hard to call this a travel that needs good luck, you think as you walk along the farmlands and hills of the island’s interior. The Damesear was not the most fertile of places, but it was very lived in, towns, villages and homesteads abounded around the city of Anbenncost, feeding it with whatever it may need. You see a party of riders bearing the emblem of the Magisterium pass by at full speed. The Magisterium, a grand council of mages based to the north of Anbenncost, at the other side of the island in a town called Old Damenath. Their power indirectly extends all around the empire as they are the lawmakers when it comes to magic, but these lands they own and tax directly themselves.

You hoist your backpack to a comfortable position as you head further and further inland, getting a few odd and curious looks from the locals. Dwarfs are urban creatures to them, oddities here in the countryside. Some of the children run along the track with you and ask you uncouth questions and you swiftly bellow for them to get out your way, which they do while laughing and mocking you. Accursed manlings! Rein in your devil spawns!

As you approach the border with Varivar, you notice fewer and fewer people and fewer and fewer settlements. You passed by the town of Dameced and headed further inland, away from the roads connecting the east and west of the island and into rural trails. It is not long until you arrive at the village that posted the quest.

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It is a small and unassuming town of woodworkers and subsistence farmers. Things are deafeningly quiet here compared to the constant noise of Anbenncost. You realize just how accustomed you had grown to your home city.

A few young men with axe and seax of varying qualities approach you. “Who are you, dwarf? We do not want trouble.”

“I come from Anbenncost. Regarding the disappearing children.”

They relax when they hear your words. One with a full brown beard takes a step forward. “Only you come? You have not brought any friends?”

You scoff. “With the reward you offer, manling, be grateful that a dwarf has come at all.”

His face twists, taking offense at your comment. “Whatever. Come with me.”

So you do, you are brought to the eastern homesteads in the village. The men and women eye you warily, bringing their children in at the sight of the stranger walking about so close to their homes.

The men stop and the one with the beard points at a house. “Awen and Reanna lived here with their two daughters. Their daughters up and disappeared one night, then they went after them and never came back. Then more children from around the village were gone over the next few days. The Dame have mercy on their poor souls, I fear they may be dead.”

If they haven’t come back in so long, they likely were, but you do not want to feed the man’s fear. “Have you found anything that may help me track them?”

“Only folks from the east side have disappeared.” He says. “There were tracks, but they headed into elf-land. We cannot cross the river that separates our land from the elfs’, but you may.”

“You may cross it in my company, if it is to search for your missing kin.” You say, that much they taught you in the guild. Always good to bring the locals with you if there’s a fight to be had.

“Sorry, dwarf, but that is the reason we’re hiring you. My boys and I will keep the village safe and our numbers are bad enough as they are. I want you to find out what happened to our folk, and put an end to this curse.”

Well, not much more to it. “I will go, if I am not back in a few days, send word to the guild of Anbenncost, if you please.”

“We will.” The man replies. “And thank you, dwarf. It gives us peace of mind that a stout one such as you is here to help us.”

You give a stoic nod, which the man returns, then march into the woods.

The tracks are old, turned into unrecognizable smudges, but they’re clearly paces, some shorter, likely children, some longer, likely adults, some freakishly long, at least so they seem so to you, perhaps an unusually tall man. It is not long before you reach the river that the man mentioned. It is more of a stream, likely descending down from the northern face of the Moonmount, the lonely mountain in Damesear island. You find some hollow part with good stones that can let you pass while only slightly wetting your boots. Likely set up by some locals many years ago.

As you cross into the forest, you can’t help but feel observed. The tales of stalking elves kidnapping children who wander into the forests resonate now in your mind. A few hours pass as you continue to track what little remains of the footsteps you followed up until now. Soon, they seem almost invisible to you. But you must rest your legs, you’ve done nothing but walking for many hours already. Perhaps it would’ve been best to spend the night at the village and tracking during the dawn, though you doubt the locals would’ve agreed to this. Time is of the essence to them, after all.

You settle down to rest for at least half an hour, to drink some good water and have a meal of bread and a pot of mushroom stew your mother had kindly saved up for you this morning. As you were untying the rope that held the pot closed, an arrow whirls to your side, you spring up, unholster your axe and take cover behind a tree. Ancestors! That was far too close for comfort. You check again and another arrow breaks the air heading towards you, you are able to dodge it at the last moment and also see the silhouette of a tall figure covered by a cape and hood bearing the bow, in its belt you also see an angled short sword.

By the ancestors, if it wants a fight, it will have it!

>Roll 3d6, first roll taken. DC is unknown.

Rolled 6, 3, 6 = 15 (3d6)

>>6365086
Naive manling! They dismiss elfish treachery too easily!
>>6365089
Awen and Reanna both sound like feminine names? A pair of widows splitting rent maybe? And it sounds like only females are being targeted? Either a pervert elf, or someone who hates the gentler sex perhaps? Could be a village issue, some woman-hater trying to disguise his killings as the doing of elves. Probably not even a real curse. Or it could just all be coincidence, have nothing to do with women, maybe just wolves.
>>6365091
Die fool!

Roll a further 2d6, forgot about the axe!

Rolled 6, 5 = 11 (2d6)

>>6365112

>>6365114
Total roll: 26. Pretty crazy

Difficulty was 15, so it's a success with a further 1 degree of success.

“Everbeard guide my axe!” You bellow as you come running out from behind the tree towards the figure. It reacts strangely, as if surprised by your words, but redresses itself to fire one more arrow towards you, another miss. But not an opportunity you would let go! Your foe only has time to bring out its short sword and ready itself for your incoming blow, but it will do little against the terrible might of a dwarf , your father’s axe delivers one hit after the other and your opponent can do little more than defend itself. Its posture wavers and you deftly push their sword hand away and deliver a blow to their guts that they are just barely able to dodge, though you hear leather tear and the wetness of warm blood spraying onto your hand.

The warrior in front of you holds its belly, fearful of the blood and clearly confused. Hark, this manling has chosen the wrong opponent! But your task is to return the children to safety, so you choose to avoid killing whoever this may be and rather question them regarding their hideout. You deliver a mighty backhand blow to their face and they fall down with a scream. A rather high pitched scream, which sets you aback at first, but you redress yourself and put a boot at the female’s right shoulder, at which she delivers another yelp.

“Foolish manling!” You yell, spit at your mouth. “You thought you could deliver death unto a dwarf? The proud lineage of Dagrin Everbeard and Goren Diamondheart does not fall so easily!” You bring your axe to the woman’s hood and remove it. “Let us see the face of the criminal!”

You’re slightly taken aback again, as most people are when they see a face such as this one. A beautifully crafted chin, wide emerald eyes that shine with the rays of the sun that filter through the tree branches, a short but thick hair of the brownish red color of autumn leaves. An elf! A she-elf! You seethe at the thought. The elves are behind this?

“She-elf!” You spit out with venom.

Her voice is low pitched and smooth as silk, though the girl’s worn clothes and cape do not give off the same feeling of refinement. “Bastard. Where are the children of my kin? Have thrown them into your mixers to forge runes? I will have your head, and if not me, my folk will, by Falah!” She twists and turns in an attempt to spin back up, but your foot presses down further at her shoulder and she grits her teeth in pain.

“What?!” You utter in rage. “It is you who stole away the children of the men past the river, and you will return them to me!”

“Man-children?” She says. “Could it be? They too have lost kin?” She says. “Who are you, dwarf?”

“Athel Diamondheart.” You proudly boast. “Of the Anbenncost adventurer guild, hired to rescue the children of the manlings.”

“An adventurer?!” She says, she then uses her free hand to rummage through a bag.

You point your axe to her head. “What are you doing?! I will cleave your head without a second thought if you bring out a weapon!”

“It is no weapon.” She says, and brings out a crest made in thick cloth in the shape of a circle. A tree and various moons surrounding it stand on a cyan background. One of two golden swords stands at the side of the moons, the accepted symbol of adventurers in the Empire and its guilds. “I am Merialeth of Moonhaven, a Moon-ranger.”

“Moon-ranger?”

“Elves dedicated to maintaining the peace in the elfrealms of Cannor, those that are descendants of Munas Moonsinger’s remnant fleet.” She returns the crest to her saddlebag. “The Empire has accepted us as an adventurer guild not so long ago.”

You remove your foot from her shoulder and kick away her sword, keeping your axe at a short distance of her head. “Up with you, elf.” You say. “You say you are looking for lost children as well?”

Merialeth gets up ever so slowly, her hands raise to deter you from rash actions. “The elves of Varivar denounced lost children as well. The lords of Wex are far away and will not send their men-at-arms to deal with elf troubles. The headmaster of the Moonhaven chapter has sent me to investigate this matter.” She brings her hands down to her bag once more. You grip your axe hard. “Please, let me bring out the contract for you.” She pleads.

You let her, mostly because your axe is one small swing away from slicing her throat. She brings out the letter written in Imperial Common and shows it to you. “You think me a fool to just read a letter while you stand there? I know elfs are cunning. Read it aloud for me then show me the signature.”

So she does, while the prose is more flowery, the issues depicted are eerily similar to that of the manlings that hired you, it is signed by one Ivrandil Starseeker.

“Please, dwarf. You must believe me. Our cause is the same, we should aid one another and seek out the true culprit.”

Your eyes dart around. You know elves can be cunning and excellent liars, but either she rigged some excellent proof, or she is telling the truth.

>”I believe you, elf, but one wrong move and your death will swift.” You will let her accompany you in your quest. You need a tracker, after all, and elf rangers are reputedly good trackers.
>”I have no need for companions, elf. You go your way, I go mine.” You will let her leave and do whatever she wants. This is a task that you alone will deal with.
>”I do not believe you, elf. Your trickery ends here!” Kill the elf. You will find the children yourself.
>Write-in.