Rise of the Runelords

Standing in the Lumber Mill


I have thought myself a spider
Sitting atop the weave

I have been
To the strands ensnaring me

Descent from the North

Wil -
– and Shaeliss
Chopper’s Alley
Strange corpses
Flesh and ink

Everything leading here
And where?



Haunted by memory

I cannot see
The pattern as I used

Am I not just an observer
In this?

I must recall more

The Lake of Mortal Reflections
A Hyacinth Withers

What was left of the man known as Aldern Foxglove paused, the spittle of his accusation hanging from his lips. Then he twisted and lifted up a strange and hideous thing from beside him. He lowered the carved mask over his own face, its right eye bulging and sagging, its left side draped in scarlet cloth. The face over his raised and looked at me. Then the whole construction melted.

The fool took the face I wore. He thought it mine and so he used his mask to mimic it before he lunged at me, intent on the kill. His talons tore into my chest in a burst of excruciation and I fell back. My eyes found focus on features that even now weren’t wholly familiar to me and I slipped the mask taken from the Spire over their reflection. The wood was dented and scarred with battle and its use as my shield, but its familiarity was comforting.

My violet eyes shone out from behind the holes carved for them and I met my own eyes as Foxglove lunged again. Before the pain, before I could feel my bones grow numb and stiff from the ghoul’s necromancy, I stepped away from that body and retreated back into the mists behind the world. As they closed over me, I saw the flesh fall to the earth.

Silver fog began to flash past as I lifted myself higher through the drifting ether. I briefly watched the green and gold glow which always enveloped my spirit here reflect off the plane around me and enjoyed the idea that the patterns of light held no meaning for me in this place. Swiftly, I came to the flowing river. Souls belonging to hundreds more races than lived on Golarion were pulled through the Ethereal, drawn together by a force I doubt even Pharasma truly comprehends. An angel suddenly passed, the beat of its white wings taking it along the river’s course as it shepherded the stream. The reborn looked at me, my glow intriguing it, but it was assured I meant the souls no harm and did not hesitate.

I stepped/drifted/imagined into the path of the dead. Immediately my perspective shifted and I saw that the river wound its way high above the Boneyard, spiraling around the Lady’s palace and overlooking each of the eight courts. I have seen them all before. Those around me could no more direct their movements than could a drop of water in the creek, and they would be guided to those destinations that their lives had already determined. But I have always been apart here. A fish beneath the descending skull-faced moon.

Neither the gates of the committed, nor the graves of the deniers, nor the audience chambers of the debated were my place. Slipping again from the flow I set foot upon the dust of the Graveyard of Souls. Some of those atheists lay quiet, but others whispered in their beds. Fortunately none near were walking. Where I go cannot be found by those who seek. I closed my eyes and ignored the scattered voices, focusing within until I felt the world around me change and grass again tickle my bare feet.

Here forever dwell the content, but it is not my place. Still I centered myself and a chill at last grew around me. Not the biting cold of winter or death, but the cool of a spring night by the water. Only then did I open my eyes to look across the Lake.

Nothing but the still water can be seen there. Fog rises from its surface and cloaks the land and those few who find its shores. I have once seen another approach the still mirror of its depths and look at it as I do, but they seemed to lack my fear of what lies behind the mist and turned from what they found. The thought again brings awareness of the sound behind me. Something heavy dragging behind the veil around me, always in directions away from the Lake. I have never been able to walk away. I have never tried, but would fear what I might find should I double back from here.

My feet begin the descent down the gentle slope of dewy grass until they find the strangely comforting chill of water and I again wade out. The water rises over my breasts before the hands emerge.

In pairs they break the surface without a ripple, reaching toward me, toward the light that glows around me in the water but never illuminates it. Each pair is different, but those I see are irrelevant, although I recognize the hands of Hyacinth nearby. A different pair, one I cannot see, grasps my waist. All this has happened before and will happen again, so I am not afraid as they drag me to the Brightness below.

I awake on a beach
Beneath a low cliff.
The sun
Is low on the horizon.

My hands are new,
The world the same,
And I feel
The dust I was.

The pattern is
Not yet

I need a name.

Giving The Misgivings A Miss, or, The Fall of Foxglove Manor
An Authentic Freemountain Oral History Account

Image"Now here’s what happened, th’whole story’a that damn’t hell-house and what we done t’undo all th’mess it done. Y’see, what it was was an evil wizard—an’ that’s how most terrible tales start don’t I know it. See, this here wizard, he went and ate up a whole lotta’—whatcha’ call ‘em— fairy-tale monsters a’some sort’er another. A snake lady s’one . . . I remember that ‘un fer th’teats on ‘er! HA! So he went and eat up alla’ th’monsters t’make himself more or less immortal, but y’see it went south when his lady wife got herself in’a twist over th’lord husband eatin’ up all’a them monsters and becomin’ undead an’ what-not. So she shattered his whatcha’-call-it box, what had his soul in there or some such, an’ all hell broke loose.

Long story short, th’evil wizard instead’a gettin’ himself some sorta’ immortal zombie body got himself trapped in th’house. So, y’see, it weren’t precisely a haunted house s’much as a evil lich-house. Anywho, he spent his years carryin’ on all sorts a murder’n mayhem in there, what ‘til we come along. See, we was investigatin’ a buncha’ ghoul attacks perpetrated by th’latest in’a long line’a seriously messed up Foxgloves. Me an’ Wil an’ Greel an’ Aggie an’ Hyacyinth . . . well, Askirgie . . . well, at th’time it was Hyacynth—hell, I can’t keep it straight no more’n she can sort her lady parts from her man parts! HA!

Anywho, we busted in there right bold, I saved m’baby even though it wasn’t m’baby, and there was some fireballs and creepy music and what-not. A scarf tried t’off Hyacynth, that was a high-light. So we was investigatin’ when all’a sudden, outta’ nowhere’s, Wil takes up a dagger and give himself th’ol’Freemountain smile! Terrible it was! Blood everywhere’s! An’ the healin’ magic ain’t workin’, an’ he ain’t breathin’, an’ sure as anything he’s dead but just as fast up he sits an’ all’s well.

Or so we thought. Y’see, all won’t well. Sure but we high-tailed outta’ there t’regroup back at Sandpoint. But over th’course’a th’next few days one thing was clear: whatever Wil was, Wil won’t Wil: somethin’ wicked n’wrong was goin’ on in’im. We figured th’only way what t’set it right was t’bust back in that hell-house and settle th’score. In we went, an’ when we did all manner’a bad broke loose.

Seems up on in’th’attic Foxglove’s dead wife was hangin’ around in an awful temper, n’Greel saw fit t’unleash her on th’world, hopin’ she’s bolt fer her hubby. Sure she did, an’ led us down t’th’bowels a’th’whole operation—all but Wil who won’t havin’ none’a th’chase (proof enough it won’t Wil fer me, that boy he’d chase his tail if’n he’d sprout one). Anywho, we run down t’th’basement an’ there was ol’Foxglove turn’t into some kinda’ ghast ‘er ghoul, ’er ghoul-ghast, ’er what have ya’. An’ then th’throes a’battle was on us! Like’a war ragin’ down there in them tunnels: Hyacynth had ‘er face bit off, which won’t too bad since Foxy had himself a mask made outta’ her face-parts already (which, if yer askin’ me, is how he incriminated her in all’a them murders, sure enough). Things was grim, an’ I was all paralyzed with dark magics, but Greel he stepped up an’ saved m’life he did! Saved th’day, truly! A hero, that ’un!

Once th’battle royale was spent, Wil come traipsin’ down stairs, an’ one thing leads to another, turns out th’rotten old bones a’th’original evil wizard was down in th’basement, along with his soul-box-or-whatever with the crack in it from when th’missus threw a fit. Now, Greel’s all investigatin’ while I’m meantime pickin’ over th’bodies, when outta’ no-wheres Wil grabs Greel an’ electrifies him with some sorta’ super-magic!

Now our boy Wil, he ain’t much fer magic. Truth be told I think it might give ‘im a nosebleed even t’try it. So now we know fer sure it ain’t Wil, an’ Greel—too clever by half—reckons its th’evil wizard himself what was possessin’ th’house has possessed Wil instead! Now, I don’t know much about evil liches. I’ll tell ya’ that true. But Greel seemed t’think burnin’ th’bones and smashin’ the little box would do it. So he set t’burnin’ while I had t’face down Wil. Now, he come at me all steel an’ lightenin’ lookin’ t’murder me straight—but I couldn’t dish him th’same courtesy: see, I won’t about t’maim m’boy Wil—th’lad was innocent a’what his meat-suit was doin’ while th’dark wizard was in’t, y’see. But he kept comin’, an’ Greel was desperate t’smash th’little box what Wil had pilfered, so me I had m’self an idea. Y’see, th’priest’a Sarenrae he’d sold’t me a potion what he said would protect ya’ against evil such-an-suches. So me I took up that potion, lunged m’self through th’hellstorm’a steel and lightenin’ what was Wil, and crammed that potion down th’lad’s gullet!

Down he fell, smash went th’box, an’ up in flames went th’bones, an’sure as Deadeye’s shootin’ th’deed was done! Seems th’house was on toppa’ some sort’a Urgythoan graveyard or some such thing. So we done away with them altars, t’boot, an’just like that th’Misgivin’s was purged a’evil an’ we was able to bring Wil back from th’dead right proper. Hyacynth, too, but she come back as a devil monster instead. Can’t say’m surprised. Oh, an’ Aggie’s moltin’ after! Fit t’ride, soon, I warrant. Lich-killin’ puts th’vinegar in ya’. An’ that’s th’true story a’how The Retainers saved th’day. Again." -M.Fmt.

A Man, A Plan, A Mushfen
An Authentic Freemountain Oral History Account

Image"Now’s been on seven year’n so since I been down through Wartle way, but there’n is good mudders’n fine fen folk what don’t pay two neverminds t’y’neither way s’long as y’mind yer own business and stick t’yer own carryings on. Men after m’own heart they were, but Wartle ain’t much’a a place t’be settlin’ on, an ain’t much’n th’way’a small business opportunity there. But, me bein’ m’self I come on a way t’set m’self up real long-term; a real venture’s what I was on ta’.

See, them swampers’ make most’a their coin up outta th’swamp gamein’ and pete-boggin’ an’ what have ya’. An’ it come t’my attention they had themselfs a flooded out trail down t’deep swamp what was outta’ commission on toward three’r four year. So what’s a dwarf to do? I tell ya’, I decided t’build me a bridge.

Th’Freemountain Freefen Bridge she was! Portion’s Toll th’sign read, and by Folgrit’s hairy nip she was a beauty of a thing! All rope ‘n vine an wood I dredged up on th’cheap. So I set m’self up on th’Wartleward end, and prepared t’rake in th’reward’s of a hard few hours bridge-buildin’. Now after a few week’s a’bridge-keepin’ I’d had me two or three southward bound customers, but no takers on the return. As y’know this cut profits ‘bout in half. But I counted m’self lucky one night when a big damn band a travelers come trapsin’ up outta’ th’south, lookin’ half drown’t half dead and half lost.

Shipwrecked they said they was, comin’ up outta Chellyaxe, an’ lost in th’swamp, an’ beset by trolls! Th’tale they told! Now, trolls ain’t t’be joked on, but me I always come prepared in them swamps with ample barrels’a stank t’throw’em off scent and lure ‘em outta’ harms way. These here Chelly-achers (HA!!) was beggin’ fer relief, an’ so I set to provide. I struck ‘em up a fine camp, an’ fed ‘em rashers round, an’ even patched and bundled a wound ‘er three, and by Droskar’s itchin’ fingers I was makin’ me a killin’!

The problem come when I was tendin’ t’some’a th’half-eaten up halflings what was with ‘em. See, most’a th’band was made uppa’ halflin’s; a fair folk usually, but these ‘uns was mostly starved and afraid’a their own fuzzy feet seemed. Now, I’m a free man born of a free folk from a free land fulla’ freedom ‘an sensible self determinism as y’know me t’be. So it never come on me the truth’a th’matter ‘til one’a them tiny halflin’s looked me in th’eye and says t’me, he says, “please set us free,” he says.

By the gods! They was slaves! Half a score’a halflin’ slaves washed up off’a black bellied barge fulla’ halflin’ slaves! An’ th’Chellyaxers with ‘em was their slavers they was. Now. Now, I don’t ken no slavers. None of that! I won’t stand by on it while another man’s freedom is took out from him: its call’t th’Freemountain for a reason, lads, that’s ‘cause we come out from under the tyranny a’wicked men to raise it up! An’these devil-blooded bastard’s had tricked me, BRIBED me into offerin’ ‘em aid. Oh no. Y’know me better’n ’at by now, lads.

Now, there was too many fer me t’take at their part. So I waited ‘til th’night was on us, an’ I cracked me open th’old barrel a’th’Old Father’s stout. I passed ‘er round, an’ them Chellyaxers got nice an’ toasty. An’ while they gargled out somethin’ what must pass fer music t’slaver types, I rolled m’store’a stank over th’bridge, and wait for th’stout-sleep t’take ‘em. Then I cracked th’casque, gave ‘em the full dose, and set off cross th’ bridge with them poor halflin’ folk in tow. Now, just as expected, ‘bout half way cross’t th’bridge th’watchers they’d posted started hootin’ alarm, but it didn’t make no matter since they was all on the south’a th’bridge. An’ it made less matter when the shakin’ and roarin’ and stompin’ a’trolls started echoin’ up through the southfens. See, a stank’a that proportion only occurs naturally when y’got yerselfs a matin’ crush goin’ on. An’ them big ‘uns from the deep swamp hate t’miss ‘em a matin’ crush.

So them drunk slaver sods was tryin’ t’rally, an’ me an’ the halflin’s kept truckin’, and we made it clear t’th’other side. But damned them devil-worshipin’ fools they was rushin’ half drunk cross m’damn bridge. That’s when I done it. Strike th’torch, smile the smile an’ let ‘er rip. They said I was daft t’bind th’planks all t’gether with pitch. Daft they said! But as she went up like a pyre th’joke was on th’nay-sayers it was!

Men was screamin’, halflin’s was cheering, bridges was burnin’, an’ from cross th’river I seen th’trolls was arrivin’ so me an’ m’new freedmen friends we beat us a hasty. An’ that, lads, is how a Freemountain deals with slavers! I do miss me that damn bridge sometimes. Least th’Wartlemen never did catch on who lit th’pete fire’a ‘97. I made m’way north just the same, HA!" -M.Fmt.

Dwarven Defensive Training
An Uplifting Primer

and your friend BUCKY THE OTTER present:

Fighting Giants with “The DoCTToR”:
The Five Kings Method for Battling the Big-Boned Menace


“Hello! So you’ve been wondering, ‘what if giants attack my holdfast?’ A good question! Giants are a constant menace. Though slow-witted, feral, bad-smelling, and incapable for sensible stonemasonry, giants are fierce beasts that can pose a threat to even the heartiest clan holding. That is, unless you follow these five sensible steps to preparing for battle against these grizzly sub-human abominations!

Trust “the DoCTToR”s orders and you’ve got a prescription for success!"

“D” is for Dodge
Giants are big and stupid, and their blows are slow and clumsy. If a giant is attacking you, dodge quickly to the left and right to confuse its aim!
“C” is for Crazy Ivan
Giants are stinky and ignorant, and unable to grasp complex tactics. Legendary dwarven general ‘Crazy’ Ivan Stonebreaker innovated the anti-giant tactic of feigning complex tactical repositioning to throw giants into confusion. When under assault, pretend to execute a complex maneuver to disrupt the giant’s targeting!
“T” is for Three-Point
Giants may be murderous non-people, but they are very tall. When a giant attacks, adopt a three-point stance to maximize your innate dwarven center of gravity and turn the giant’s exceptional reach against him!
“T” is for Topsy-Turvy
Giants are slow and lazy, but dwarves are diligent and industrious. Use your superior athleticism to tumble to and fro, and the giant will soon tire in its attempts to strike!
“R” is for Roll
Giants have poor senses, a result of their hideous deformities (deformities that bear witness to their unnatural essence and sub-beastial natures). Famous dwarven siegesmith Baran Boulderbearer pioneered a study of dwarves in motion. He discovered that a dwarf in motion must invariably come to rest; a giant’s slow senses can seldom perceive where. When faced with a giant, roll from west to east whenever able in order to confound the giant’s accuracy!

“Now you’re ready to face down even the deadliest giant the FIVE KINGS way! And tell ’em your old pal BUCKY THE OTTER sent you!”


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