The Barrowlands Expedition

[SimplySeo 5183]

THE EXPEDITION BEGINS

[music]

2nd of the Grand Harvest, 110 SA.

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Ser Uther Pendraic's stormy grey eyes scanned the misty landscape before him. The air was cold and damp, and the rain fell in a constant 'pitter-patter', the drops coating his armor and making the ground beneath his destrier muddy and slippery. Somewhere behind him in the caravan, he heard a packhorse slip, whining as it fell, and spilling its contents upon the wet ground, he swore under his breath. Despite feeling the chill seeping into his bones, he lead his company deeper into the heart of the Barrowlands undeterred. Although the conditions were dreary, morale remained high among Uther's company, most of whom had prepared themselves for the hardship that was to come many years prior. This expedition was one long in the making after all, ever since Uther's company had departed from the service of House de Vilain all those years ago, how long was it exactly? He wasn't sure, but wagered it was at least close to fifteen years, if not twenty. Lost and without purpose, Uther and his band had found such purpose here in the heathen west.

 

The Barrowlands had long been considered cursed on account of the restless dead that were said to make their haunt here, and while that was partially, and undeniable true in some respect, Uther believed that foe far less numerous, and far less formidable than many had made them out to be. He was, after all, Templar. Even if they were here in their multitudes, he'd be unperturbed, but thus far, they had encountered few supernatural happenings as they wandered deeper within that place. The occasional figure was seen by lantern-light atop the moors and some reported faint mutterings, and bells in the distance, but beyond that, nothing genuinely posed a threat to his band. Truth be told, Uther was more concerned with more worldly threats... Until the first stones of Barrowton and Caer Pendraic were raised, they would be at risk of facing raiders from the west without a wall, and while that troubled him, there was little and less he could do to address that concern for now, and so, he put it from his mind. This was undeniably a dangerous undertaking, some had called it a foolish one, but all the same, Uther was willing to undertake it. As the old saying went, fortune favors the bold. 

 

The Chieftain-Knight cast a quick glance over his shoulder towards the company behind him, the rest of his expedition was a motley band, but loyal to a fault every single one of them. They comprised chiefly of the remnants of the Harren'hil, the tribe from which he sprung, and now had claimed the mantle of leadership of. There was a time when they were all Godless save he, pagans who preferred the company of Elves and Nordlings to good, pious men of the Canon, but that time was some decade and a half in the past. Uther had not been popular when they came to him, he was their last resort, and this he knew, for he had left them years prior on account of his faith. Yet, pious as he was, he was still one of them, and furthermore, the most accomplished warrior that brood had e'er sired, especially since the death of Old John. But their years in the Heartlands with him as their chieftain had done much to bring those fellows back into the light of GOD, and, if nothing else, that was Uther's proudest achievement. 

 

They were not the only members of his band however, Uther gave little regard for the divide of race, if not faith. Alongside his tribe rode Heartlanders whom he had befriended during his time out east, and had chosen to follow him in search of better fortunes, the oldest among them, some were even Acreans, from back when Uther and his Hedgeknights guarded the Kingswood, though truth be told, they were the fewest among them, the years had not been kind. Father Tonito, who he had taken up as his court-chaplain, fought with the reins of his donkey everytime they encountered a deep well of mud, and of the Glennmaers, only Ser Alwyn rode with him in those days, his son, Garen, who now sought Knighthood himself had been too young, too green when they faced the threats therein. That was when the first whisperings of Serheim had been heard, and before the mustering of the Undead... In truth, part of Uther mourned his departure from the Heartlands, where he'd finally found comradery, kinship, and love. But in the mire that was Aaun and Petra, there was little room for a rising power that was not a slave to either, and of his choice of masters, Uther found all deeply lacking. Such, along with his piety is what drove him to this place. Others felt similarly, outcasts seeking a new life, or zealous crusaders wishing to cleanse the west. Both had rode with him and his tribe, and were now his own.

 

He looked down the caravan, scanning those behind him. Arnarra was the first convert, GOD bless her, and though she had struggled much in life during the reign of the Marsyrs, she made up for it now with the fierce piety she bore. She yearned for Knighthood, and Uther was inclined to give it to her, but not yet. She was still too green, though not for lack of trying. Once she'd bested a worthy foe, he found little reason not to knight her. Garen was the opposite, the younger of the Glennmaers was a fierce warrior, but lacked in the other knightly virtues, at least for now. Behind them rode Oliver and Ser Calahan, both Adunians, both Templars, though only the latter was trained. Once Oliver was baptised, and once he took up the knightly virtues though, Uther would conclude his training. Of Ser Calahan, Uther's thoughts lingered on him warily for a moment. Some described Calahan O'Rourke as a mad-dog, and that was only partially an exaggeration. Ser John (the master whom they both shared in Old Cartref) never taught the man temperance, never taught him restraint- It was hardly Calahan alone's fault that he was the way he was. He and Uther were brothers in arms, he would not let a man languish in undeserved infamy, and so he'd taken the other up as his Sheriff, he who would keep the peace, and train his levies to safeguard his people, that, he believed, would teach the other some patience.

 

Behind them rode Rohir and his woman, Laurelai, and Uther chanced a small smile. Rohir was a man stricken by great guilt- Although rightfully so, no man deserved to suffer alone.  She was kind and understanding, more-so than Uther could relate to, and so he was happy for them. Rohir was Ser John's right-hand man, back in the old days, and he wore the stresses of time on his face. Uther made a mental note to make use of the man's talents without burning him out, though how to do that as of yet, he hadn't decided. After them came the Witch, Alara Camian, a Shaman in truth, but few of Uther's band were educated enough to make that distinction, and truth be told, Uther hadn't cared to. She was a woman of the sciences as well as sorcery, and so Uther had charged her with educating his daughter and heir, Morrigan, so she was less ill-equipped than he. She could read, that was a start, Uther hadn't managed that until his forties. Though he'd made Lady Camian swear to not expose the girl to her rituals, truth be told, Uther found having a witch in his service to be an advantage few Lords possessed. Considering the likely alternative was being burnt at the sake, doubtless Lady Camian had done well by herself. There were others, Ser Aemon, who was once his squire, and Charles Varoche, who was his new one, the younger Glennmaer has his entourage of friends he'd brought with him as well, but their names escaped Uther.

 

Uther rode on for a time, pondering all this and more as he studied his surroundings. They were deep now, surrounded by old graves, ancient cairns, some sealed, some not... And all about them, on the hillocks above and valleys below, the landscape was dotted by the ruination of a civilization whose name had long-since been forgotten. There were restless things here, it was true, and even as he rode, Uther felt unseen eyes upon him. But he did not fear them, he pitied them. Hopefully, with this land deconsecrated and resettled, those who lingered would finally know peace. Uther knew one thing for certain.

 

He would conquer the Barrowlands, or die in the attempt...

 

Uther rode down the line a-ways, past the wagons and packhorses that made up their baggage-train, until he eventually found the wagon sporting his colors, gold on red, a wyvern rampant upon a radiant star. Within was his squire, the young Varoche, who was at work polishing his helmet. He looked up as Uther approached, and the elder spoke.

"Fetch a quill, lad, and ready a raven. We've letters to send out..."

 

 

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[!] A flier, borne across the breadth of the lands by bird and courier, finds itself posted in the various cities and towns of Canondom
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CALL TO THE BRAVE

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To second-sons, repentant sellswords, prospective adventurers, and pious Canonists seeking new purpose.

 

Are you willing to risk life and limb in the pursuit of fame and freedom? Do you aspire for new lands and good, fresh soil to till, and provide for your family? Are you a pious Crusader seeking to carve out a new realm for Canondom? Then read further. The Barrowlands Expedition seeks to carve out such a place in the long-haunted west, to take lands long-since abandoned, and fill it with bounty once more. We seek to defend Heartlands and Highlands of Canondom from western incursion, and purge this place of the evils that dwell within, so that they might be home to more than grief. We are ready and able, and need only hearty folk, true and brave willing to colonize these lands with us, and make them our own. If you wish to be part of this noble-mission, join us at the campsite of our expedition while we await the masons to raise our holdfast, and know that in spite of all risks, the reward will be great, for together, we shall etch our name into the history books, by sword, cross, and radiant star. 

 

Pagans, dragonkin affiliates, and darkspawn sympathizers need not inquire.

 

Signed

Uther of House Pendraic, Chieftain of the Harren'hil, Lord of the Barrow Marches, Templar of Archangel Michael, and Knight of the Realm

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Spoiler

If you're interested in moving a persona into the Barrowlands, or making a persona to join us, feel free to contact me in game or over discord! (MalchediaelVult/MalchediaelVult#7670 ) If you're looking to RP with us, come to our camp at cords at X -1271, Z -1043

 

[Andustar 2115]

Ser Arthur de Lyons scanned missive with intrigue, a satisfied grin now set upon his visage.

"Perhaps I ought to travel there on some occasion. Get the measure of these knights-errant!"

[UnBaed 8910]

They emerged during the twilight hour, the reddening sun having dipped beneath the horizon by this point and leaving hues of pinks and lavender in a sky slowly becoming more freckled in stars.  The distant glow of bonfires of that camp could still be seen, Ilaria found herself unable to clear that disgusted feeling from herself as she eyed them; now regarding this whole venture of sight-seeing as soured by the foul acts she'd witnessed there.

 

"Nothing but a facade, falsehoods surrounding those fires.  They desecrate the resting places of the dead, spitting on their very memory, and claim to be heroes."

 

Even despite the wretchedness that elf felt, a hint of pity crept into her mind and brought out a sigh for her.  As her and her travel companions turned to resume their travels, she couldn't help by spare a final glance to that distant campsite.

 

". . . May they at least one day reflect on their place in this world, and learn to find compassion through their introspection.  May they walk The Shore."

[Cloakedsphere 1462]

The Rex, Willy of San'Velku, would read a note that was fetched for him by his many couriers throughout the lands. The note would then be folded neatly before he'd go to stand. "Fetch mi my zult n' bring mi grub n' grog. Mi muzt pay ah vizit tu deze zhara." he'd say to his men before heading off in search of the camp.

[Crymson 481]

A son of Oliver Black read the missive with a melancholy smile. Once, he had butted heads with Ser Uther and though they parted as friends, he stayed behind. Now, drinking in the Minitz tavern, he wondered if he had made the right decision. His gaze went to the fine blade at his side, a gift from the very same Ser Uther, which had served him well. Ultimately, he raised his tankard and muttered to himself. “Fair winds and good fortune, Ser. Keep my parents alive, eh?”

[Josh3738 1712]

Ser Alwyn sits atop the crypt beside the camp, overlooking the preparations at hand. The dull scrape of stone on metal sounds from his perch as he sharpens his battleaxe, preparing for the trials ahead. "GOD willin', we'll purge these lands of th' beasts an' darkness within."