Character Vignettes

This is a collection of the short vignettes that illustrates a character’s backstory or broader goals. When the vignette occurred is found in the [] brackets.

Back to Heroes of the North

Agandar: Dreams [Beginning]

As the meditative drugs take hold, he sees it again. It is the strange vision from Agandar’s dreams these past few weeks. Trees dance in the wind, the air is cool upon his skin. He sees his young arms reach out to grab berries from a nearby bush. He couldn’t have been more than 30 or 40 years old. The purple berries are succulent and sweet on his tongue. He then hears the strange voices. Whispers reverberate between the trunks of the tall trees. It sounds like his parents, yes, it is his mother and father. There are other voices talking with them. He hears vague words and whispers from the exchange. “… the defilers of the north. It shall be your duty to the Council…”  He then feels worried, perhaps nervous. His stomach grows tight and a sense of fear and dread take hold.  The scene changes and he feels scared, perhaps lost. He then sees a long corridor of trees ahead of him, like a great cathedral within the forest. There are tall stones in the distance, beckoning for him to come closer.

Suddenly, things change. He no longer feels like a young elf, he feels disembodied, floating. Flashes of light fills his eyes, screams fill his ears, the smell of burned flesh surrounds him. Then everything goes dark.  He then see a white sword flash out of the darkness. It is wielded by an aged half-orc with empty white pupils. The sound of thunder then fills his ears before silence and darkness overcomes him again. Floating in the darkness he then see a small knife, it looks new and well-made. A small red cabochon decorates the pommel. He recognizes it as a hopeknife. For a brief moment the knife spins, then stops suddenly as if pointing the way forward.

Agandar awakes from the ritualistic, drug-induced dream. He sits across from Silvermane, the elderly elven druid who tends the Hopespring of Bolvirk. Agandar has spent the last month sitting with this aged druid to learn the secrets of the Council of Thorns, a druidic order now long forgotten. He has spent most of the time learning to communicate with the old elf through hand signs.

The old druid’s hands signs for Agandar to tell him what he saw. His hands flash in a flurry of gestures to ask Agandar if he saw more of his dream.  Agandar, of course, did see more of the vague childhood memory that has haunted him the past few weeks.  However, the dream was interrupted at the end of the meditation. He had never seen the white sword or the hopeknife before.

Arngeir: Returning Home [Beginning]

The burly man, known as Arngeir, returns all his equipment in the armory of the Longhouse. He says a quick prayer to Hethroth to bless each weapon as he returns each to its place. The Patrol Sergeant has been away from Bolvirk for a couple days, scouting the wild lands outside of town with some young recruits. The warpriest is eagerly looking forward to catching up with his friends, Omast, Rodrik, and Kurst.  He also looks forward to the upcoming celebration, as today is the hopeknife ceremony of Ruby, the youngest daughter of Chief Defender Halgra Blackblades.

As he looks around the armory, Arngeir notices that Omast has not returned his gear yet.  He knew that Omast was expected to return to Bolvirk for the ceremony as well. After returning the last of his gear in the armory, Arngeir heads over to the quartermaster’s office where he finds his brother Svien. The one-armed man nods to his fraternal twin and finishes writing down some notes. He then heads over to Arngeir and gives him a large hug.

Exchange with Svien about the hopeknife ceremony.

Arngeir then heads over to the Sanctuary to pray and to help the sick and needy before the celebration later that day.

Esderal: A Late Arrival [Beginning]

The young Esderal charges into the armory of the Longhouse. He throws his equipment, bit and tackle, on the racks. Before he can leave, however, he sees Omast Frum, his patrol sergeant standing in the doorway. The older man just stairs disappointedly at Esderal.  “Come now, Esderal, that’s not where things go. Work with me, will ye.”

Exchange with Omast about hopeknife ceremony.

Esderal then rushes home. He had been away for a few days on patrol, scouting the surrounding regions of Bolvirk. He rushes over to the small shack-like house in the inner quarter. Inside the meager home, he finds the house empty. Although, the faint smell of something acidic can be detected. Esderal throws his bags upon the floor and heads over near the pantry where a single thatch rug covers the floor. He pulls the rug up, revealing a trap door. The half-elf opens the small door and steps down into a cramped cellar. There are numerous boxes and bags, bottles and vials, and other implements scattered about on crude shelves. He finds one of his fathers, Bhirn, mixing ingredients to make another batch of pesh to sell on the black market.

Exchange with Bhirn about the hopeknife ceremony and having Esderal help him.

Duke & Kiltro: Unfortunate Roommates [Beginning]

The old wizard, Duke Embercleave, sits in the Ramblehouse. It is a sprawling structure constructed as a collection of rooms that seemed to have been added organically with no real design in mind. The tavern portion of the inn sports many long tables where a few out-of-towners, like himself, and local folks sit to enjoy the afternoon.

Duke sits at the table, enjoying a mid-day meal and drink, while reading over his notes. He and his student have only been able to visit a few of the Jotun ruins in the area and had found little of interest for his research on Jotun runes.  He and his student, Kiltro, have spent the past two months working with mercenaries in the region to help deal with bandits and gain safe access to the ruins, where these bandits often dwelt. However, there seemed to be few mercenaries lately and Duke was growing worried as his coins have greatly dwindled. He knew he could send word to his brother, Armrin, to send him more funds for his expedition. However, he did not want to resort to using the family’s wealth. He wasn’t sure if he was ready to speak with his brother or father yet anyway.

Additionally, the student, Kiltro, was becoming a bit troublesome. Duke was finding Kiltro completely unmotivated and found it hard to get the half-orc to be of much use. It was only the threat of withholding Kiltro’s graduation from the Hopesdawn Academy of Arts and History that got the half-orc to follow any orders.  What little magical instruction Duke had provided, Kiltro seemed to show little interest. The half-orc had a natural talent for magic, sure, but the half-orc showed little effort in expanding his abilities with study and discipline, as Duke had done. With their coins becoming more limited, Duke has recently been forced to cut down to sharing a room with the half-orc, which has only made their relationship more tenuous.

Kiltro then descends into the Ramblehouses tavern, having slept most of the day away after Duke can only presume was after a night of heavy drinking.  Thankfully Duke was sound asleep when Kiltro returned to their room. As Kiltro sits down across from Duke, a halfling woman comes over to the table.

Exchange with Cham Larringfass about the hopeknife ceremony and celebration that afternoon.

Nyyrikki: Piqued Interest [Beginning]

Meanwhile, across the tavern, sits a hulking, large man wearing the hides and furs of a wandering trapper. His body is covered in ritualistic tatoos. The nomadic wanderer has been in Bolvirk for only a week, using the last of his coin to secure a warm and safe bed, something he considered a grand luxury. The hunter wears a sad expression as he sits staring at his bowl of porridge.  When he overhears word of a celebration, he perks up and looks towards the others.

Exchange with Cham Larringfass about the hopeknife ceremony and celebration that afternoon.

Dark Dreams [Battle of Bolvirk]

Each character had restless dreams during the Battle of Bolvirk.

Agandar: Again you see your young arms reach for the sweet berries. The taste on your tongue, sweet and sour. The voices echoing around you, reverberating on the trunks of the tall trees.  This time things are a bit clearer.  You see your parents standing and speaking with the elders of the village, the leaders of the Order… the Council of Thorns.  They wear elaborate headdresses of horns and bones, with flowers and ivy draped over them. One of the acolytes turns towards you and smiles.  You recognize that smile… it is a younger Silvermane.   The scene changes again, like in previous versions of the dream, but things are still more clear than before. You feel your fear of being lost. You clearly see the long corridor of trees to a circle of stone menhirs, each shaped like a large thorn of stone.  The runes upon the stone glow with a green/blue light. You touch the stone.  You then see yourself standing in a large chamber surrounded by strange plant life, light seems hazy and indistinct.  An elder stands before you.  He steps up to you and opens his mouth…. But you awaken.
Arngeir:  Orcs fighting, screams of Kayla.  Svien dead on the street.
Esderal:  Orcs fighting, screams everywhere, Urnsul laughing as she cuts Bhirn’s throat, drowning in a river of his blood.
Nyyrikki:  Orcs fighting, grand battle, seeing Grodmord slaughtered in the chaos and being overwhelmed by orcs.
Duke:  The city’s burning, standing their bumbling over forgotten spells, Kiltro dead on the street, guilt for bringing him here.  Orcs overwhelming and destroying the city.
Kiltro: The orcs overwhelming the city, running past Kiltro, ignoring him.  One of the orcs standing before him, offering him his blade.  Kiltro uses it to slice Duke’s neck. And sees himself as a full-blooded orc warlord.

Arngeir: Brother’s Lost  [River Journey]

We see a young Arngeir in the Longhouse. The boy is no more than ten years old perhaps, tall and lean, without the muscles he’d gain later in life. His eyes have a fiery determination in them as he grabs items from throughout the room and stuffs them into his satchel, continuously muttering under his breath as he does so.

Another young boy of the same age stands there, it is a young Svien, still possessing both his arms. He has both arms crossed as he stands at the doorway with a pouting frown on his face.

“I’ll tell father…” he threatens.

The young Arngeir turns to Svien with a fire in his eyes, “He’s NOT my father.  He’s not yours either. He’s just a liar… a liar!”

Svien shrugged. The boy was not nearly as distraught about learning that Jagrin Grath was not his real father as much as his twin brother. To Svien, it made little difference.

“Don’t you want to know?” Arngeir said as he hoisted the over-full satchel over his arm. “Don’t you want to know if they are really dead?  What if they are out there?”

Svien just shook his head. “I doubt it, brother. It’s dangerous out there… you know what Fath.. err Jagrin says about the wilderlands.”

“Probably more lies… all he says is lies…  They are probably lost somewhere still looking for us… I’m going to find out what happened to them.”  Arngeir then pushed Svien aside as he stormed down the hall.  In front of him stood a young Rodrik Grath.

“Brother… I can’t let you run away,” Rodrik said, blocking the hall. He had a sad, but determined look on his face.

“You’re not my real brother!” Arngeir screamed as he charged headlong at Rodrik. It was a warrior’s charge.

The two quickly tumbled into a wild tangle of wrestling, grabbing, and furious slapping. Svien tried to pull them apart, but it only caused him to take a few unintentional slaps in the face by both assailants. Eventually, Svien succeeded in pulling Arngeir away from Rodrik.  The three boys laid there on the ground catching their breath.  Kurst appeared at the end of the hall with a dumbfounded look on his face.

Arngeir began to sob and wipe away tears that dripped down his face. Rodrik scooted over and put his arm around him.  “You are my brother, Arngeir, no matter who your parents were. You can’t run away.. cause I don’t know what I’d do if you died…”

Duke: The Artifact [River Journey]

We see a much younger Duke Embercleave. He sports a short beard and a defiant grin on his face as he stands upon a spire of rock that juts out thirty feet above the furious sea. A violent storm rushes towards the sea-cragged rocks along the western coast of the Southern Peninsula. The wind claws at his face and hair, sending the tail ends of his dirty robes blowing behind him.

For Duke, this was simply his summer break, an expedition between semesters as a fresh and eager professor at Bluecrater Academy in Kulderon.  He had been continuing his study of rune-lore, particularly the ancient magical runes used by the ancient Xaya people. He had discovered the location of another lost artifact that could further his knowledge of this ancient magic.

His studies had led him far from the comforts of the Academy, but it was these adventures and the promise of new spells and arcane knowledge, that drove the scholar onward. He had traveled far on this journey, with a new band of adventurers that he had convinced to join him back in Viana. Now three of them were dead, their bodies drifting to the bottom of the sea, perhaps eaten by sea creatures in the depths. Duke and the elven ranger, Fastomir, were all that remained.

They each stood upon a spire of rock, separated by a fifty feet or so. Below each of them, the gangly bodies of strange fish-like humanoids climbed and clawed at the rock, trying to reach them. Fastomir was blasting them in the face with arrow after arrow, keeping the onslaught from reaching him.  Duke was doing the same, blasting the fishmen with powerful spells.  The creatures unrelenting in their pursuit.. their desire to have the gleaming, ancient artifact returned, the one that now bounced in the depths of Duke’s backpack.

Duke cast a particularly powerful blast of flames down the sides of his rocky spire, evaporating the fishmen into ash and steam in an instant. For a moment, his spire was clear and he could catch his breath. He turned and looked to the elf, who was almost overwhelmed. He saw as Fastomir reached for another arrow in his quiver, only to find it empty. The elf gave a desperate look to Duke as the fishmen tore into the elf and pulled him into the furious sea below.

Duke looked upon the surging water where the elf disappeared, “I’m sorry, my friend,” he said solemnly. He then looked down below his own feet, and saw more fishmen climbing upon the spire towards him. With a dour sigh, he raised his hand and shaped a circle in the air while murmuring an incantation. He stepped into the shimmering circle he created, finding himself, in an instant on the distant shore. He then took a few minutes to perform another powerful spell, creating a more distant portal.  He stepped inside to the dry, quiet chambers of his Academy office. He sat his backpack upon the nearby cluttered desk, water dripping upon the papers. He pulled from its depths, the artifact. It was a bronze scepter with a large jade on the tip. The artifact was covered in magical runes and arcane glyphs.  Duke smiled at the scepter, “I think you were worth it.”

Agandar: Adventures Past [River Journey]

A slightly younger, perhaps a decade or two earlier, Agandar sits upon a log in the forest. A roaring campfire is before him, crackling and popping in the otherwise quiet night. Sitting across from the aged elf is another elf, a beautiful Thunmar woman with braids of long red hair and fierce eyes. She is an elven ranger named Shenarah. She too stares at the fire, quiet and full of thought. Occasionally, the two elves exchange tender looks and furtive smiles across the dancing flames. Then a burly Noradrie man with a long braided, blonde beard sits near the fire with the others.

“You elves are all too quiet!” Bragan jeers. “We should be celebrating! Tomorrow will mark our grand victory when we finally ambush those orc defilers.  Hethroth will have an honored table for all of us in the hallowed halls of Valholl.”
“I think you are far too eager for battle, Bragan,” Shenarah replied. “We should be wary of these orcs. They may not suspect our attack, but their numbers are great.”
“A warrior fears no death.” Bragan replies stoically.
Agandar then turns to the warrior, “No, we do not fear death, friend. Rather we fear failure due to overconfidence. These raiders have ravaged many villages in the region, we should not underestimate them.”
“Pah! My blade thirsts for orc-blood.”
“It must be mighty hungry then,” says a mischievous female voice from behind the warrior. A grinning halfling steps into the light near Bragan. “In that last battle, I don’t believe you struck a single blow.”
Bragan was clearly blustered, his face turning red, “That’s because Agandar and Shenarah felled them before my sword could reach their necks!  Arrows and magic are not the way of a noble warrior.”
Carmen, the halfling, replied, “Perhaps not, but you have to admit it was effective.”
“Aye…” Bragan replied, grumbling.

Shenarah stood up, throwing the braids of her red hair behind her back, “Enough of your jocular antics you two, we must discuss the attack plan.” She leaned down near the fire and began to draw in the dirt with a dagger.  She looked up to gain Agandar’s attention, which had drifted for a moment.  He was worried about the next days attack, particularly about losing one of his companions. The two elves locked eyes upon each other, both knowingly worried about the other.

Little did they know, this would be the last time the four of them would all sit together.

Brango: Bury the Emotions [Deadlight Marsh]

We see a young-adult version of Brango as he stands across a sparring room from an older dwarf who has a long gray beard. The old teacher is the famed warrior, Granindorf Strumbaard, a renown solider of Grimholdur. He has also been Brango’s teacher and master for many years. Brango was only 7 when he had lost his parents in the Battle of Storvo’s Pass. After their passing, Granindorf had been the only parent-like figure to Brango.

Now, Brango stood across the sparring room, his helmet on tight and his head low.  He stood in a row with the other cadets of the Sparidain Amalat [Sword Champions Academy], the elite military academy that trained the warriors that would go on to lead strike forces in the Grimholdur military, the Grimholdain.

Brango tried to maintain his composure, to stand firm and resolute.  In truth, his entire body ached and his head was pulsing with pain.  There was a fighting competition the previous day, and Brango had won. He had defeated all the other cadets in various bouts of nonlethal hand-to-hand combat.  To celebrate his victory, the other cadets had taken him out to the taverns.  He had a long night of drinking, singing, drinking, dancing, drinking, and more drinking.

Brango had barely returned to his quarters when the early morning bells were rung. He had managed to climb into his armor, but he felt he could do little else.  Now Granindorf was walking down the rows of cadets scolding them for crooked armor pieces and their red-eyed expressions from too much drink.

Granindorf then reach Brango.  He looked hard at the cadet with a stern look under his bushy gray eyebrows. Granindorf then grabbed Brango’s helmet and pulled it off, seeing the drunken look upon the young dwarf’s face.

Granindorf grumbled. “Spar with me, cadet!” he ordered. Giving an unfriendly push to the younger dwarf.  The action made Brango nearly fall over.  Brango reached for his sparring blade, but Granindorf was already upon him.  The old master was slicing and cutting furiously towards the cadet with a sword.  Brango stumbled out of the way, and the other cadets all headed to the sides of the room to avoid the old dwarf’s wild swings.

“Come on Brango! You have me shown your weakness, you have shown me your vulnerability!”

Brango scrambled back, holding his sword in front of him, but it did little good, as Granindorf hacked at Brango.  He sliced Brango along his leg, then his arm.  The cadet noticed that Granindorf was using a sharpened sword, not a sparring blade.  Brango panicked somewhat as Granindorf seemed to be not holding back his strikes, it seemed as if the old dwarf was aiming to kill the young dwarf.

“I yield! I yield!” Brango cried.  But Granindorf did not slow.  In a quick moment, the master’s blade struck into Brango’s side. The dwarven cadet screamed in pain as the master pushed the blade in deeper.  The other cadets stood there with their jaws open in astonishment.

Tears poured down Brango’s face as Granindorf pulled out the blade. “That,” he said, pointing to the tears rolling down Brango’s cheeks. “is weakness.  A true warrior has no emotion.” He then dropped the blade to the ground and spit in Brango’s direction. “Don’t help him”, he then growled as others tried to help the cadet to his feet.  He turned to Brango, “Quit your crying and crawl to the infirmary.”

Agandar: The Council of Thorns [Deadlight Marsh] [Approaching the Ruins]

You all walk towards the stone menhir in the distance. It is surrounded by a circle of standing stones. All covered in thick vegetation.

However, Agandar’s mind seems to shift between his memory and the present.  While the others only see the long procession of ancient trees, cracked with age, missing chunks and branches, covered in suffocating vines, Agandar sees how things once were.  He sees the tall trees, vibrant with life. Druidic runes carefully drawn upon the trunks, glowing with a soft light. The pathway between the rows of trees appear as a beautiful garden path of tight-fitted stones surrounded by an understory of flowers and herbs, butterflies and bees fluttering between the flowers.  The others, however, see only a tangle of wild growth between broken chunks of rock, weeds run amok and nothing but buzzing flies and mosquitoes in the air.

As the heroes approach, Agandar see the central menhir covered in carefully placed Druidic runes and sigils, glowing with an inner magic, pulsing with energy. The circle of standing stones are smooth and also bear various runes and magical writings. The area seems to hum with primal energy.  The other heroes, however, see only a layer of thick and thorny vegetation covering the cracked and featureless stones.  Three of the stones have crumbled and partially sunk into the swamp’s soggy floor. There is no hum of energy, only a sense of destruction and devastation.

Esderal: The Tinkerer [Vault of Thorns]

We see a much younger Esderal, he is perhaps eight years old, sitting upon the floor of the small, modest home.  Gathered around the young half-elf is numerous small parts, metallic gears, spools of wood, yarn, and various tools and implements.  Esderal is carefully tinkering with the pieces, trying to put them together.  Over by the fireplace, Bhirn and Karguk sit near the fire, each sipping on some warm tea as the chilling winds rattle at the wooden window panes.

“What’s he playing with over there?” Karguk asks his husband.

“Just some various trinkets and discarded parts I found in an alleyway.  He seems to enjoy playing with them.”  Bhirn smiles looking over, as Esderal is actively tapping small nails to connect two pieces.

Karguk looked over and smiled as well. “Perhaps he’ll make a good blacksmith some day.”

Bhirn grinned. “Or perhaps an alchemist?”

Karguk’s eyebrows lowered. “I don’t wish the boy playing with those foul concoctions of yours.  I accept that we need the money and you don’t do it out of malice, but you know I don’t approve of your business.”

“Worry not, my love. Let us see where the child’s interests go as they will.”

Karguk only snorted. “I suppose…”

At this moment, the young Esderal walked over to his fathers with some bulky object in his hand, “I can fix it!” he says excitedly. 

The young half-elf then walks over to the rattling window and attaches something to the side of the window.  He then works his tiny fingers into his pocket and pulls out some nails and raps them into the side of the window and to the rattling shutter.  His fingers grow white as the cold wind seeps through the cracks.  His fathers then watch the boy with astonished interest.  Esderal then finishes his work and slides a small crank into the slot of a strange gear-like assembly now attached to the window and shutter.

“I fixed it!” the boy says proudly. He demonstrates by rotating the crank, which sends the shutters open bringing in a gust of the cold winter wind.  He then rotates the crank in the opposite direction, which pulls the window shutters tight to the frame with a firm seal. He then flips a locking switch over the crank, locking the shutter shut.  The cold draft was mostly eliminated.

Karguk and Bhirn looked at each other, absolutely stunned with amazement and pride.

“Well done, my boy,” Karguk said.

Bhirn smiled as he looked about the other shuttering windows. “Can you make more?”

Brango: Parents Lost [Resting in the Vault of Thorns]

As Brango lay sleeping near his comrades, a peaceful serenity falls over the dwarf and his mind begins to wander, wander into a more simpler time.

We see Brango playing in a field of high grass. The young dwarf is no more than 6 or 7 years old, leaping and stumbling over the high grass with his stumpy legs.  He seems filled with an unbridled exuberance and infinite energy. He yells out for his parents to come play with him.

Averg and Engra Nargrymkin smile to each other as they lay comfortably upon a wool blanket on the meadow-covered hill. A small picnic has been set out for the family and the two sip on a flask of Kalvarian fire-whiskey. Engra says to her husband, “Such joy he has. I pray his life is better than our own, free of war and struggle.”
“Aye,” replies Averg. “It seems it could be so. If warrior such as ourselves are free to holiday like this, perhaps the days of battle are truly behind us.”

Darkness fills the scene, then we see Brango and his father practicing with wooden toy swords, swatting the dull sticks at each other with wide grins.
Brango proclaims to his father, “Arrggg, matey, I be a pirate from the Inner Sea and I be sendin’ you to the depths by day’s end!” Brango knocks his father’s sword aside.
Averg jabs back, “Oy! Don’t ye be countin’ yer chickens yet, scallywag!” He then rushes in, dropping his sword as he grabs the boy in his arms and swings him about.  They both collapse into the high grasses, laughing and giggling.
Averg looks to his son, who now had a sour expression. “What’s wrong Brango?”
“You cheated. I wanted to train… so I can be a warrior like you.”
“Now, Brango. Don’t be in such a hurry to grow up.  Enjoy the little things in life.  There’s plenty of time for training when yer older.”

Darkness fills the scene again. We see Brango laying in a bed in a small cottage, his mother Engra leaning over the tired Brango.  She tucks him in and kisses him on the forehead. “Goodnight, my little Brango.  Say your prayers to the gods above and fill your heart with kindness, joy, and love.”

Blackness again.  It is now midday and screams echo through the small village of Storvo’s Pass. A score of hill giants descend upon the dwarven village.  Rocks slam into buildings, sending splinters and shattered wood through the air.  Fires erupt and spread as the giants charge in.  Averg and Engra have slain one of the hill giants and they try to stay together, to form a defensive wall to protect their son.  They know it will be some time before the nearby garrison can arrive.  Brango then climbs up the hillside to see his parents standing there, there weapons drawn and ready as a massive stone giant charges towards them.  Young Brango watches as the stone giant raises his hammer. The face of the giant forever burned into his memory.

Brango screams, “Noooooooooo!”  But it is too late.  His parents dive and dodge, but eventually the giant’s hammer slams into his father’s body, crushing his bones in an instant and sending the dwarf sailing into a stone wall, cracking his head off his neck and sending his brains battered across the rock.  Then a hill giant slices a massive greataxe through his mother.  Engra is cut in two as a fountain of blood ejects outward.  The young Brango watching it all.
Brango awakes with a thunderous holler that would send chills down the bravest of souls’ spines, followed shortly by the muffled sounds of weeping.

Droja’s Prophecies

Agandar: Lost Daughter: You may feel that your quest to revive the strength of the druids is of utmost importance, but it is not why you are here, believe it or not. There is a piece of you missing, perhaps you can feel it.  Something you have always suspected, but have let the ignorance of the facts not burden you with sorrow. I speak of your lost daughter. Yes, the offspring you never truly knew you had, but always suspected you might. The daughter of Shenarah. Your daughter has lived a decent life without her father, but now she needs you, more than ever. She will suffer, there will be much pain and fright, but you can relieve her of this sorrow.  If you stay on your path, if you accompany your new friends on this quest, I see the two paths intertwine, you shall find her, and you can free her of this pain. I see that she is the key to the future of the Council.

Arngeir: Chosen of the Gods: Fret not your lack of bravery, for what you lacked as a teen, you have gained as an adult. Your fear of fear has become bravery itself and you need not fear the past, as your future is valorous. You walk the path of the gods, they smile upon you, Forsoti, Hethroth, Dagda. They watch joyfully as you follow the path of righteous virtue that will save the lands of your people from certain destruction. You must find that courage within yourself and lead this band of would-be heroes, keep them together when times are hard, keep them focused on the greater dangers ahead.  All of the north-lands are yours to protect now, you will draw the line between the small folk and the Jotuns that wish to claim the glory of their lost empire. There is a power inside you, a divine power to cleanse the worst evils of this world. Destiny has a dark and dangerous path set aside for you, but you must be brave and determined to follow it.

Duke: Lost Memories: You have forgotten yourself, old man. You walk and breath and live in this life, but you forget where you came from and your travels before.  You were once mighty and feared, the paragon of wisdom and arcane power. You can recover this life of yours, but first you must remember how it was lost. I see the black hand that has taken your life from you, it is vile and most wicked. It haunts you still, watching and waiting with baited breath to strike again. But there are great powers in this world, there is a way to restore your memories and strength. You already walk this path, without even knowing it. It is destiny. This grand quest you walk, this is your path to regain your strength, fight with your new friends and you will reforge yourself anew. In a quite literal sense… seek the giant’s forge, in Gelmira’s Temple, you will confront yourself.

Esderal: Mother’s Reunion: While you may feel your family has been torn apart, that born by spirit continues to dwell in your heart, watching and smiling at you from the hallowed halls of the gods. But the other family, that family born by blood, beats and thrives. I see your birth mother… she seeks you out. Her name is Ferana. She has recently learned of your continued existence and seeks to arrange a reunion. She will find you and you will learn of your true heritage, though the truth may not meet the expectations you have imagined over these many years. There is a vein of evil through your bloodline and you must be wary of this reunion.

KiltroFather ‘s Fate:  You have ever feared that your father chose to leave you. And I can confirm that he did.  However, he did not choose to remain absent in your life. He was called away, to bring strength back to the tribe that he abandoned to start his family. But things went awry, and your father never made it back to his home, or to his family. But worry not, your father yet breaths, though his breath is hot and parched. He spends his days in agony and hardship, but his mind sees only you and your mother. It blinds him to the pain of these many years. He wishes for death, for he knows not that you seek him out. He knows not that you have the strength to save him, if you choose to embrace your potential. You will find him in time, you must not deviate from this path, for it only intertwines briefly with your father’s.  Devote yourself to this quest, slay the giants and free the small folk of tyranny. By doing so, you shall be reunited with your father and also learn the secret truth inside you.

Brango: Thirst for Revenge: I see what you care about most, Brango. You are a man of honor, who follows a moral code that resides higher than oneself. But you carry with you a great weight, a weight for those that have wronged you. I cannot rendering your emotions as obsolete as they once were.  But I foresee a way to bridge the pain. Your parents were taken from you by a mighty giant, a great leader of the Jotuns. This giant has grown into a far greater threat. My dreams are haunted by the rise of his power. His name is Urathash, a stone giant of great renown… and you will have the opportunity to find him. If you choose to remain loyal to your new companions, to follow their quest through to the end, then your paths shall cross and your chance to avenge your parents death will be within your grasp.

Nyyrikki: Unrested SpiritI see my recent visions have proved true, Nyyrikki Kynsiä of the proud Pronssi-Lohikäärme tribe has fallen. The mighty warrior walked with a dragon’s heart and a dragon’s fury inside him. But something is wrong. His spirit does not rest, he is tortured and pained. He stirs, he hungers. The dead has been disturbed and the dragon-man will walk again.

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