The Barbarians of the High Moor RP Thread

[Amaer]

Vardha Blackfeather had spent the evening watching the tribes of the "civilised lands" argue, squabble and belittle one another over the issue of the approaching Dark Tribe.

Her kinsmen had largely been uncouth oafs, as she had come to expect, but she had not expected the same from the forest children and the stone people, never mind the City tribes.

As she hobbled her way along the wooded path back north, the anger at their foolishness clouded her mind. She was not given to rage often, but the futility of it all blanketed her other senses.

She did not notice the footsteps in the undergrowth.

She did not notice the grunting breaths of the one tracking her.

She did not notice the strain of the bowstring being drawn back.

She noticed, just a little too late, as black-feathered arrows pierced the hide under her cloak.

"Black feathers?" she thought, observing the arrow that had pierced her shoulder as she fell to the ground. "Ironic..."

[Storm Munin]

Lida waited patiently in the grass pasture outside the hideous building of no spirits as the twilight came and went. Nerys the kinless and aged Vardha had passed her by earlier but it was not those she sought nor trusted. She sighed irritatedly adjusting a crease of her veil as the keep doors opened again to let out her kin.

Olaf staggered out onto the courtyard, she couldnt tell if he had helped himself out or whether those guardsmen had assisted more or less forcefully. The grizzly oldtimer stretched out his arms and loudly belched in contentment before continuing his adventure down the path towards the road.

Slowly and gracefully she rose to intercept the old fart before he got to the crossroad. He grunted as he noticed her arrival at his side: - A fine evening Snowraven, aid my feet if you dont mind lass. Them knights brew decent beer who would have thought. He griped his nose, sneezed and flung away whatever he had found in there to the side as she grasped his other arm to steady his walk. - Should I be surprised you still can walk Olaf, I did not know you were this weak or I would have sent a younger man to listen in on the meeting, she chided. The man instantly responded by stepping forward out of her grip to clear his throat and outburst: - I be young enough to do what needed doing and if you be doubting me, He leered and continued: - I could show you lass!. She did not reply but merely snorted before she told him to spill on what had happened in there.

Hours later while walking in silence below the waning moonlight the both froze in their steps as they trampled upon a broken forest path. Something lay unmoving and sprawled up ahead, a dark disturbance on a path otherwise trampled pale. With a grin Olaf drew the massive sword from his back as Lida chanted a quick prayer to that bird bitch she worshipped. The world shifted in his eye as he lunged ahead as the starlight fueled brightness revealed a familiarity or two to the lump on the road. He scrambled to come to a halt as he cried out: -Archers! hunching down to become a smaller target.
From behind Lida calmly responded - we are alone with the dead one Olaf. Her voice held a note of fading surprise. - Sheath that sword of yours and go fetch the coils of what once were Vardha of the Balckfeather then follow, I shall find a suitable spot for the ascent of her spirit.

Dawn came as the aged pile of sagging flesh and bones formerly known as Vardha came to rest upon a flat rock overlooking the north facing of a small forested hill.
Olaf stood silent as Lida performed the last rites for the old witch, the first light of the sun breaking the eastern horison as a chilled breeze from the north touched the faces of the three.

After having made the offering to the North Wind, the Raven and the Fox the lass finally shut up and he grunted before speaking: - I be getting a headache, you got some herbs for it lass?

Thus ended a tale shortened by death itself, perhaps it was just as the witch's Lord of Bones had intended all along.

[Amaer]

((I hope you didn't burn the body!))

A pale moon hung over the trees at the edge of the Woods of Sharp Teeth.

A fox rooted in the damp earth, finding something of interest buried just below.

Gripping the pale human hand in its jaws, it pulled. Much to the fox's alarm, the arm pulled back.

There was a sharp intake of breath as the half-buried old woman sat upright, and the fox bolted for the woods.

Vardha Blackfeather spent some time sat amongst the leaves, wincing at the wounds inflicted by the orcs who ambushed her and the scavengers who found her body. Managing to crawl a short distance, she found some herbs and fresh water that she could use to treat the worst of them.

She could not recall what had restored her life, but a grim bargain must have been made. Even allowing for her wounds, she felt much weaker, slower and more frail than before.

The silence in the woods seemed deafening. As she listened harder, she realised that it was not the woods that were silent, but the silence was coming from inside her head.

She attempted a spell to mend one of the lacerations to her legs, but nothing came. No magic coursed through her body. In fact, she could not even sense the Lord of Bones at all. He had forsaken her.

Managing to use a sharp stone to whittle a fallen branch into a serviceable walking stick, the old crone struggled to her feet. She could not return to her tribe without the Lord of Bones' blessing.

Perhaps one of the other tribes would take her in? She scowled at herself for such a weak thought. She would not want them to.

She needed nobody's charity.

[Duster47]

A small contingent of the Tribes of the Highmoor sat in their camp in the hills north of the great, walled city of the written people. It is a few days since Emissary Nerys and a few others attended a meeting of the local tribes. They wondered if their offer would be accepted. Or would they be mocked yet again as being backwards ... or worst of all... weak?

To their surprise, a lone warrior approached the camp. He stood tall and strong, striding confidently into the camp while his shining armor glistened in the cool day's sun. He went straight to the Emissary since he knew her from the meeting. Nerys was pleased to see this warrior "Honorblade" as she called him, a knight of some sort of Helm. Honorblade was there to request the Tribes join their cause to the defeat the Dark Horde tribe threatening Triel, a small and weak village, barely worth the tribe's scarce blood and treasure.

Lida of the Greyfox and Hilga of the Winterfang joined the conversation. The Winterfang was typically dubious of this visitor's intentions; suspecting the Tribes would yet again become pawns of some bigger power. The Greyfox was more open to the idea. After all, enemies of our enemies should become our allies. Deep in her heart, Nerys knew the Tribes could use all the friends possible now in these trying times; their numbers diminished and scattered across the Western Heartland. After a brief discussion, the Emissary accepted Honorblade's offer to join them on behalf of the Tribes, on condition the other written tribes respect the Tribes of the Highmoor's ways. The Battlesong and Honorblade exchanged the vow of allies. Then the small camp packed up and followed Honorblade to the village of Triel.

Once there, Lida and Nerys were surprised to meet a battered, lone survivor of the Thunderclap tribe named Bronjar. He spoke of an epic battle in the Moor. The Thunderclap where greatly outnumbered. He remembered seeing a few members of the Blackfeather simply watching from a distance as soul after soul departed this realm. Bronjar said the chieftain of the Thunderclap and the chieftain of the Black Horde faced one another at the end of the battle. But the vile enemy used a cursed spear to cause disabling magic on the most honorable chieftain of the Thunderclap Tribe. He fell in battle, fighting to the end. It was an honorable death worthy of song.

Bronjar said he was struck down himself but left for dead. He awoke alone then found his way to Triel. Another warrior returns to the Tribes.

[Duster47]

Story shared in the Skaldic Tradition

The Fall of Triel

Our own Tribes have been fighting a nearly continuous retreat from the Dark Horde since the time of the last summer’s long days of light. We fought and we fell back. The Thunderclap took the battle to the enemy yet failed to return. Surely they died in honorable combat, but victory was obviously not theirs. Our numbers fell smaller after each battle. So we moved and fought then moved again. The land we left behind to the Horde, the land of our fathers and mothers, is no longer fit for the fox and the raven. The cold air of the north winds no longer refreshes our breath. The vile enemy must be stopped.

The soft people of the tribes who hide behind stone walls called for the aide of strong warriors to defeat a common foe; the vile Dark Horde. Our chieftains of the Highmoor Tribes decided it should be in our mutual interest to join with them. After all, the enemies of our enemies should be our allies. Foeclever, Greyfox, and Battlesong members joined the others in their council hall to share ale and plan the battle to defeat our mutual enemy in honorable combat. Members of the Elf, Dwarf, Silver Rose and other tribes were also present.

It was immediately clear the other tribes did not understand the strength of our vile enemy. The members of the other tribes talked and talked and talked some more. They plan this and that or something else. It was all very confusing who would do what, if anything at all… except wait for the fight to come to a village named Triel.

Days later, most of the other tribes were at this small village of Triel. It was only farmland with a simple tree-trunk fort on a hilltop. It was barely worth fighting over except the thrill of a good fight and the food the farm provides. Every warrior knows you cannot continue fighting for long with an empty stomach.

The elven warriors raided the Dark Horde near Triel. Soon the glory of battle would fall upon us all. A few of our people added our strength to their strength; our steel to their steel; though the bravery of our hearts stood evident above them all.

Fire streaked across the sky. The Black Horde charged Triel. The defenders braced themselves for the coming onslaught. The battle was begun. Blades swung. Bodies smashed. Arrows pierced. Rage poured forth from the hearts of men, women and beasts alike. Blood flowed.

The first wave of the Horde was stopped in its tracks; then another and another. But treachery was afoot. Unknown to our most honorable warriors, the others paid warriors to join with them. I know noble listener, the thought of fighting for coin instead of the thrill of the moment, the lust for strength at the edge of a blade should be enough for any man or woman to treasure the moment. But no! Some pervert the honor of combat with the curse of coin.

Two archers stood together at the fort’s gate. One was a skald of the Battlesong. She was there to contribute to the battle while recording for all to know of our tribe’s heroism in combat. The other was an elf of her tribe doing her part with honor and bow. Together they held their post while continually launching arrow after arrow into the fray. Suddenly, there are attackers behind them. Mercenaries paid to aid the defense turned on their former allies. Swords slashed. Metal clanged. Wood shattered. The skald recalls something her mother told her many winters past, "Trust is the biggest liability of all."

The skald was me; Nerys, daughter of the honored dead Taban and Meru of the Greyfox, Skald of the Battlesong and Emissary of our Tribes of the Highmoor.

Hear my words my brothers and sisters. These soft people who sleep behind stone walls and write rules to their advantage may ask for our help. But know this now. They are not thinking of us when they ask for us to contribute our blood and honor to their cause. They are thinking only of themselves.

[Amaer]

From her pitiful camp in the sparse woods south of the River Chionthar, Vardha, once of the Blackfeather, lay down to rest.

As she slipped off to sleep, the dreams came again...

The blizzard raged around her, but she did not feel cold. The snow whirled around her, forming crude shapes in the air... a man's face, or perhaps, a woman... It sang to her in a cold, chiming voice,

"I saved you. I saved you."

Vardha awoke with a start. "Perhaps I am going mad?" she thought.

[omnilicious]

Since their last raid, Torus has not been seen outside the palisades of the Foecleaver.

[Duster47]

A 10-day after the Fall of Triel, Nerys and Elelestre are found by elves of Doron Amar on the River Chionthar near the big bridge. Nerys is invited to return with them to their elven home in the tall wood. There, with their aide, she recovers from her injuries and difficult journey.

Another 10-day later, Nerys departs the tall wood.

Nerys joined the other tribes attending the big meeting by with the walled-one's chieftains. Mostly there was talk and more talk. Blame. Angry words... she was becoming frustrated no one was talking about actually doing anything. Finally, the stone cutters clan offered to lead the way to defeat the Black Horde. Nerys said her people may follow the dwarves since they are generally honorable warriors and trustable when it comes to fighting orcs.

She toils about the walled city of the soft, law-writers earning enough coin to replace most of her gear she lost to the battle or the river. The moon begins to repeat its path across the night sky since the Fall of Triel. Now Nerys must find the Highmoor Chieftains while not becoming lost or worse in the process.

[Amaer]

The whispering in Vardha's head was becoming more and more persistent. Now she had started to hear it while she was awake, not just in her dreams.

"Follow the river tonight, that you may find what you seek." it hissed,

"Listen to me, I saved you! I SAVED you!"

"Very well, voice," she thought, "what harm could it do?"

((apologies for obnoxious, god-mod metagaming but it's the only way I can make it to the event tonight without just turning up out of the blue))

[Duster47]

* A small group of barbarian's attempt to travel north toward the Misty Forest. Unfortunately, their path is blocked by enemy forces. Some of the group retreat towards Baldur's Gate. Others scatter into the forest to attempt the journey alone. *

* The Emissary is greeted by a child of the tall wood named Slade. He says some of the Greyfox found their way to the Misty Forest near to where his clan is camped. She asks what of the others tribes, but there is no news about them. She is beginning to feel very alone. *

* From Candlekeep *

Ches 23

A small group of adventurers ambles into Candlekeep as the sun is setting; their armor bloodied and dirtied from a long day of plundering. They sell some trinkets to Harold and buy many arrows. Then most depart as a late snow flurry begins.

The lone woman of the group, a blonde wearing fur-lined leathers, remains behind. She sits at the Milil shrine in quiet contemplation. Avowed Lawrence asks if she needs anything. She only asks if it is spring since the sun is much higher in the sky. He tells her the equinox was three days ago.

She simply nods and says, "Then I must learn where the cool north wind or songs in my heart will lead me next." She returns her attention to the falling snow, the wind, and the shrine.


The following morning, she is found sleeping in the barn and promptly chased out. She returns quietly to the shrines and renews her vigil. She occasionally speaks to apparently no one at all in her native Iluskan language. She seems to be perplexed ...

//// This is updated to reflect some earlier activities culminating in the vigil at CK. ////

[Maverick 40]

[Duster47]

Nerys surveys the town below from her perch on the hill. She says speaks to the wind in her native Illuskan; "Where will Shaundakul's winds guide my feet next? Where are the others? Am I the only one?"

[Maverick 40]

"A New Destiny?"

Hilga made her way south, half of the remaining Winterfang spearmen in tow. Seven barbarian people of the north, moving farther south than ever before and unsure of what to expect in this land they written ones call Amn. They would never have traveled but for the desperation their people now faced.

The Barbarians of the High Moor were now all but a pittance of women foragers and children. Not but the Foecleavers maintained their warriors after the travesty that was the Battle of Triel. Their people had been used by the written ones, fodder before the great maw of the dark ones and fools to be stabbed in the back by the written ones of some other walled place.

The Barbarians of the main camp knew that if drastic measures were not taken, they were not only not strong enough to hold their lands but that they were too weak to survive within that unforgiving Moor. That is when Hilga heard the rumors and she took it as a sign. Her Goddess festival, to be held within the land of Amn, a southern place she did not well know atoll but what else could be done, this was not the time for cowering in fear, bold action needed to be taken.

So, Hilga convinced her father to let her undertake this trip with half of their spearmen. They traveled through lands of grain and fields of corn near the walled village of the written ones. They traveled the rocky coastline while waves crashed like thunder beneath them. Then they came to the town of Nashkel, their dried meat stuffs had all but run out and the last of the Dire Bear they had killed and taken fresh was now rancid with maggots.

While they stood before the bridge and looked about others moved around them. She asked in a broken common as politely as her own spirit would permit her, "Vhere is de temple of Auril?". Some gave strange looks to Hilga and scurried off but finally an Amnian soldier had answered in a condescending tone, "It is up there, but that is not a place for you". Hilga, weak with hunger still managed to offer the man a scowl but send nothing in return. She motioned to her warriors, who were already eyeing the fruit stands.

They began the climb up a winding path and while the spearmen began to complain, their legs aching and cramping, Hilga began to grow stronger. She could feel it, the cold breeze and a bluster around her that called to her. She had never known this manner of climate and she had heard the elders of her village speak of the old lands. She reveled in the falling snow and steps grew quicker despite the rift growing underneath her tread.

Then she saw it, the Temple of her Queen and there standing before the Temple's entrance was a woman with white hair and eyes which glared like crystals. Hilga new then, this was the place of her people. Winterfang had found a new home. She would call for her father and he would grow well once more. Her people would grow strong here and she would be the one to lead them. No man would dare challenge her within this place of bitter cold, for her bitterness was greater than any!


Hilga baring witness to the power of the High Priestess Irini.


The coming of the great Wyrm as Hilga stared on with Awe.

Hilga swearing her allegiance and making her offering before the great creature.

[Duster47]

The lone blonde haired woman sits quietly on the shore of Ulgoths Beard. A fishing pole is propped up next to her with its line lazily floating in the river. A small note book lays at her side. There are numerous crossed-out lines of text on the paper. She gazes blankly at the water, then pulls a pendent from beneath her fur-lined leather armor. It is a pendent of the Battlesong Tribe, crossed axe and sword over Milil's harp icon.

She inspects it in her grimey hands then mutters to herself in her native Illuskan, "Why are you silent to me? Where are the songs worth singing? My heart is empty..." She glances around then up at the sky. "Why are you quiet to me? Where are our people? Did I fail you also?" She removes the pendent from around her neck then gazes at the water. She clutches it in her hand, looks at it, then at the water... then puts it into her backpack.

Last, she picks up her handaxe, "This is all I clearly understand... but, why is there no fire burning in my blood? What would you have me do, Tempos? I'm only one girl... and not particularly one strong at that."

The quiet around her is interupted by the fishing pole suddenly jerking. She drops the handaxe and grabs the pole. She expertly works the pole and quickly reels in a fish. She mutters again to herself. "At last, a small victory."

A few minutes later she gathers her few belongings and sells all but one of her catch to the merchant. She trudges quietly through the small fishing village then up the hill above it to her lonely tent. She cooks her catch over a small fire as the sun dips into sea. An hour later, she lays gazing upward as the stars begin to reveal themselves in the darkening sky. She says to herself, "Who will heal my heart?"

[Duster47]

The stories continue for a handful of barbarians with The Survivors of the Greyfox Tribe.

Who knows what other tribe members may find their way to the Sword Coast?