Jon's Campaign

Hallgrimur's Rimur

Blood feuds, clan feuds. I’m well versed in these battles, these conflicts of blood and history and anger and vengeance. My family has been on the winning side of several, though not always the right side. I understood this Johnstone fellow, busting into our tavern (yes, our tavern – regardless of the cool reception the locals gave myself, Asher, and these 4 other odd types, any tavern I drink in is my tavern) recruiting strength, aid in his clan affair. Still, who was in the right in his conflict – his family, losing an uncle to an abrupt hanging, or this other family, the family of Mehall, and whatever may have led to this conflict?
This Talius is a talker. He smartly carries his magic components, easily accessible on his person and armor. To his credit, his talking averted unnecessary bloodshed that night, cooling this Johnstone fellow and allowing us to rally the local lord, Elliot. Mighty fine great sword he has; his belt and armor brim with power as well. An angry fellow, but focused on law, order, peace. We accompanied him to the family of Mehall’s fortified home, headed off the violence for the night, took Mehall into custody and prepared to accompany Elliot in taking Mehall to King Henry’s court for a trial.
Elliot gave us food and shelter for the evening. Asher, the little one and I took the opportunity to speak with the jailed Mehall. I wanted to hear his side of the story, what injustices his family has suffered, what principles they are upholding. He seems a worm. No principle. Just vengeance. Small-minded clan conflict. Asher and the little one, I’m not sure what they were looking for with Mehall, but he deserves to face justice. We joined Elliot the next day in taking Mehall to the city for trial.
Elliot regaled us about this Champions’ Tournament on the uneventful road, the bloodless (or at least blood-minimizing) tradition for challenging the king. Many challengers – 14 – fell to the newly-returned King’s Champion, a powerful woman wielding a great sword in gleaming white plate. Graceful, powerful, lithe. Her last challenger, in a weapon-less and armor-less duel, she had trouble with, eventually getting pinned before a sudden surge of strength – perhaps a spell or charm? – leapt forth from her and she crushingly dispatched her foe, leaving his manhood shattered. Her partner – an attractive green-eyed brunette we met at the bar – may have played a role – was that a spell she cast from the stands, or just a prayer to her Gods?
A victory for King Henry, until this Champion turned her sword to challenge him. Henry; he’s limp. Soft, weak, no fight. Raised his pathetic blade for a moment before succumbing to his own vapors.
A new King for this land. Not what I expected when I came here. Still, we have already had an audience with her, thanks to the knocking of a pair of giants bashing through the city wall the very next morning. Our poet, Luther, calmed the giants, pausing what would have been great destruction, perhaps a great, bloody battle filled with the screams of the terrified, the clash of brutish giant swords smashing through puny town guardsmen, the crackle of my beasts winking forth to grapple these mighty giants, the yells and orders of the brave, the… but I forget myself. Poet Luther calmed them, allowed us time to seek an audience with the new King, release their kin Ian Moore, Jr. and his betrothed, Henry’s sister. A modest wedding, poorly performed by they sycophantic King’s advisor. But a wedding nonetheless.
We’ve returned to World’s End for the evening, and will see where the winds blow tomorrow.



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