Tyranny of Dragons
Characters
In which we meet the castThe Brief History of Donald Tebbett, Warlock by Misadventure (expurgated version)
It’s a widely observed, and often remarked upon fact, that a man who reaches a certain age will look about himself and take stock of his lot. It is commonly further noted that frequently, said man will find something wanting in what he accounts his life’s worth. Having perceived such a deficit the gentleman in question will inevitably conceive a desperate need to purchase for himself some substantial horsepower, perhaps even a hog.
Now, I am not one of these fellows who has struggled all his life to get ahead in the world; I had barely been with The Guild for ten years when I was promoted out of the sorting room. I had a desk of my own and an important job. As Deputy Assistant Consignment Officer (2nd class) I was responsible for ensuring all the paperwork for shipments to both Elturel and Scornubel was completed correctly. I don’t have to tell you the kind of chaos we’d have if that little job had been left unattended!
However I won’t deny that in recent months, I had started to wonder whether I’d truly reached my full potential. What might I have become if I’d been given the opportunities that had been afforded to others? If I’d been born into nobility or had the looks or charm that seem so often to have been the boon of the otherwise feckless? It seemed to me that there were many within the Guild, and without, who had acquired so much more than I through little or no effort of their own.
Donald cooking the books
It was in such a mood, one Wednesday afternoon, that I was passing through the sorting room and saw amongst the missives stacked on the No.3 table (reserved for long distance communiqués), a folded document addressed personally to me. Now, never in all my years with The Guild had there ever been any kind of dispatch with my name on it and I stood for a long moment staring before I was sure of my eyes. I knew, of course, that it was against protocol to pick an item directly from the sorting table but in my current mood I was disinclined to care.
So, ensuring I was not observed, I took the note back to my desk. Upon opening, it turned out to be from a Prince no less! Of where, I can no longer recall, but he had, unaccountably, heard of me and been assured that I was a gentleman of unassailable character. He wrote that he had an exciting venture that he hoped to peruse in our realm but that he needed a vassal at our end to act on his behalf. You see he had, apparently, come up against some bureaucratic red tape at his end and was in need of a small deposit of silver coin in order to release the resources he required to get his venture under way.
I can no longer remember the exact nature of the business he intended to transact but I’m no fool; I knew this to be precisely the kind of opportunity I was looking for; the kind of thing that only comes round once in a lifetime. Fortuitously, the funds he required happened to amount to exactly what I had in my savings and so without a second thought, I went down to the Guild bank and emptied my account. I placed the thirty pieces of silver, along with some inconsequential personal details he required (my star sign etc.) and a lock of my hair, in the return envelope he had thoughtfully provided. Throwing caution to the wind, I tossed the envelope onto the outgoing dispatch table without completing any of the required paperwork nor paying the requisite fee!
I immediately felt that a great weight had been lifted from my shoulders and I travelled home that evening light as a feather. When I told my wife of my exciting news however, well, let’s just say that that marriage lasted about another five seconds! She walked out of the house that very evening and has yet to return. She has, I am told, been lucky enough to find a place of lodging with the local dairyman — obviously a gentleman of considerable generosity.
In the next few days I started to wonder whether I ought to have perused the livestock hobby so popular with other maturing gentlemen, but in eight to ten working days, another dispatch arrived from my Prince, this time, a parcel. Within were this medallion I carry and a note entitled “How to be the best you you can be”. Though I read it at the time, I have since mislaid the note and can no longer remember its exact contents. The upshot was, as I recall, that in return for certain favours my prince would bestow upon me, I would, perhaps, be called upon to provide a favour in return from time to time. I’ll be honest; I did not, at first, feel that this arrangement held much promise and I had half a mind to write to my Prince demanding my money back. However events soon transpired that stayed my hand. You see, apparently, my unauthorised use of the dispatch service had not gone unnoticed and I was called upon to explain my actions. As you can guess, what ensued was mealy a show trial and I was dismissed without further delay.
Though my situation did seem far from ideal, it was in truth, probably better than the retirement plan I had been working on. That is to say, coming in here one Friday morning, not too far off, and cutting every one of these motherfuckers to pieces with the axe I had stashed under my desk for said purpose.
In any case, as you will know, the Dispatch Guild hall burned to the ground around this time and all the members were out of a job — those that survived.
To make ends meet I’ve joined this operation providing discrete specialist expediting services. And while my experience as a Dispatch Guild officer has come in handy, the skills I have gained from my contract with my Prince have proved invaluable.
Now if you will excuse me, I think I hear the dairyman’s house burning down.
Human Warlock
“Mister” Marko Revile
A “Clever Assassin”, once part of a resistance cell of dedicated Wizard Hunters seeking to fight back against the atrocities perpetrated by the Red Wizards of Thay and their Dragon allies. He is methodical and practices constantly.
After an innocent village was destroyed and the death of all the others members of his group hiding there were killed in reprisal from the successful attack against several red wizards. Marko although burnt and badly wounded fled south and was accepted by a group adventurers seeking fame and fortune..
Mister Marko is always ready
Hiding, watching and waiting… Marko still seethes with a cold fury, quietly planning for a moment for revenge….
Halfling Rogue
Ash
Bring it on
Twenty-five years ago and half a world away…
A cold north wind blew as the old man stood grimly surveying the scene of carnage before him. A light dusting of snow had fallen over the charred, still smouldering, remains of village. Scattered amid the buildings were the burned, tortured shapes of the villagers, fused to ground that had been turned to glass.
He spat. “Fucking reds,” he cursed under his breath. “I thought this was where I was supposed to find my student? Guess you got that wrong.”
The sound of thunder rumbled.
“OK, OK, I’ll go look,” the old man sighed. The earth cracked into shards under foot as the last Master of the Order of the Platinum Dragon walked into the village.
A faint sound carried on the wind broke through the crunching of his own footsteps as he reached the edge of the circular village square. He stopped, closed his eyes and listened.
He moved slowly, following the sound, towards the burnt tree at the centre of the square. At its base was the balled, blackened remains of a woman, from which came the faint, muffled sounds of crying.
Crouching, he reached out to the body - it crumbled under his touch. His eyes widened.
“Really? A baby!”, he exclaimed looking down at the soot covered babe in burned swaddling, lying in the ashes of his mother. He reached down and picked up the child, who immediately stopped crying. The old master stood, holding the child at arms length and examining it.
“It’s a monkey!” Thunder rumbled again. “Alright Grandfather, sorry.”
“I’m too old for this,” he murmured, as he removed the swaddling and turned the child over to check it for injuries, it was completely unharmed. He also noticed the vestigial horns beneath the child’s hair. “Ohhhh,” he said, “It’s…he’s one of those.”
The old man gathered the baby close against the cold. The child stared up at him, clinging to him tightly.
“OK child,” he said, “Grandfather has spoken: from the beginning it is. I’m your sensei and we have a long and hard road ahead of us. Now student, we’d better give you a name…”
He looked to the tree, to the remains of the poor woman who had died protecting her baby, then down into the dark eyes of the boy, “Your name is Ash.”
As the old master walked away from the village, staff in one hand, student cradled in the other, the distant sound of thunder peeled again, and the vast shadow of a dragon passed over the land.
Tiefling Monk
Balthazar ‘Bally’ Allan
Handsome
"Again."
“Again.”
The flat of the blade collapsed his fingers time and time. In a real blade fight he would have lost a knuckle, but by the end of the session he had the technique down and had learnt to turn the sword on the required angle and use the hilt to block the thrust.
Balthazar took the water skin out to the sparring circle and gave it to his brother.
“Jo, Perhaps we can take a ride together and do some hunting when you are finished?”
His father overheard, “Joachim will be busy sitting in on the Village Council today - he has to learn how to deal with his people. You go ahead - ride, cook, whatever.”
Joachim arched his brow as if to say “I wish…”
Balthazar would train as well but he had no instructor. He would drill with the militia. It was a lot rougher but got the job done - no extra techniques but things like how you get a spear out of guts before someone spears you.
Over time Balthazar fell into a semi-routine of invisibility. Too good to drink with the locals, too low on the pecking order to be with father.
One for Lordship, One for the Church, One Spare.
As the third son Balthazar was under no illusions but even he was surprised to find a pack and his favourite horse dressed for him one morning. Father was also ready for travel.
They rode with little talk but headed to the tavern set at the crossroads - from there the whole world could be reached.
His father grabbed his reins within sight of the tavern. “We need to talk.
“Bally, I can’t offer you a life. Joachim will inherit and Ishmael will become the local Bishop. You have a proper shield, a sharp sword and a good horse which is more then most. Inside the tavern we will meet with a man who does work in WaterDeep and will teach you how the world really operates - he does the work others do not seek. I think you will learn somethings that you will wish you could unlearn, but the world sometimes needs such men. Good Luck and remember there is a warm fire at home for you. I hope you never need it.
Who knows, you might become a man of renown, almost as well known as your brothers…”
Human Fighter
Martmaal the Fair
Whoever said there was honour to be found in war was a fool. Despite all the pretty speeches, those strutting generals think of their men as nothing more than pawns on a board to be sacrificed for their own greater glory.
Returning from service as a field Cleric in the useless Northern Wars, Martmaal met a man more honest, in his own way, that than the lot of them put together - Donald Tebbett.
He carried a simple truth that needed no eloquence or art: the people called out for champions to defend them, to avenge them, or just to amaze them - and they were willing to pay. And lest the snaking vines of politics return to complicate the battlefield again, Martmaal found in Jorin Benchman a man who could not but help to simplify any situation.
So Stormwatch was founded, beholden to no-one. Martmaal would lead a band of simple adventurers for hire, far from the intrigues of palace courts, or the world’s great powers. Surely a good retirement for an ex-soldier.
Human Cleric
Jorin Benchman
I always thought I was destined for great things. Or at least greater things.
I mean, it’s not that there was anything terrible about life on the farm. It’s a nice place. I guess even nicer when I look back at it now. But I didn’t enjoy the first bit. You know, being the youngest in a big family on the farm means you get a lot of shit – the shit jobs; the shit food; and there was plenty of pushing me around. At least until I got bigger.
It’s not that everyone was mean. It wasn’t personal like that. It’s just the shit was passed down – each brother got it, and it was kind of like I was just next in line.‘Course I never got my turn, being the youngest. Not that that was a problem or anything.
But there’s one thing I will say. Being the youngest of seven meant you had to fight for your place. Actually, you had to fight for everything. Not in a mean way. Just if you didn’t say anything I reckon you could have just disappeared in a family like that – never to be seen again!
I guess that’s why I’m not backwards in coming forwards. And when I think about it, it’s probably helped me in this current line of work. You know, being a hero.
This Stormwatch thing is great. I reckon this is what I was born for. Uncle Varin always said I’d go far. Big strapping lad like me. If there’s one thing I really miss it’s Uncle Varin, up there in his cave at the foot of ‘ol Haughty. It’s a funny thing, him being the youngest of seven as well means he knew what I was going through. And it was him who helped me find the touch, to bring out the magicks he said was my birthright.
The farm was never big enough for little ‘ol me. And so it was straight to Waterdeep I went as soon as I could. There’s not much left but memories of the farm now – the youngest ain’t never gonna get hold of any of the land.
But I’ll show them. Little Jorin’s a big boy now. And he’s gonna be a hero. A real life, honest to goodness hero. And people are gonna stop in the street when I pass and say, there goes Jorin of Stormwatch. You just wait and see.
Human Fighter