Keeping Up With the Kestrels (storyline)/saved posts

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Keeping up with the Kestrels!

Category: Cities, Towns, and Outposts
Topic: Wehnimer's Landing
Message #: 10408
Date: 01/05/2017 12:46 AM EST
Subject: Keeping up with the Kestrels!
Set to arrive early next week, Grand Magister Dennet Kestrel and his family will be arriving at the Hendoran Outpost outside of Wehnimer's Landing.

Dennet Kestrel, with permission from Earl Jovery of Hendor and the Royal Magister of the Hall of Mages, has been assigned to the Outpost to help provide assistance during the re-stabilization of the stronghold. The Outpost suffered countless structural damage, both above and below ground during its extraplanar jaunt to the Ithzir valence, and Dennet is a master in earthen magic and will be assisting in providing new wards, magical defenses, and expansion of the Outpost. His assignment may also include other projects that have not yet been made public at this time.

Traveling with Dennet Kestrel, will be his family. His wife Reannah, his daughter Naimorai, and his son, Cyph. In addition, Drandea, his wife's mother, will also be accompanying them. It is not known how long the Kestrels will remain in the region, but it's speculated it could be months, or even a year or more. Sir Michol, the acting Commander of the Outpost after Thadston's leave, is said to already be preparing living quarters for the Kestrels.



Over the next several months or so I will be out and about doing some NPC/Roleplay with the Kestrels after they arrive in Wehnimer's Landing. So I would definitely highlight those NPC names. (Dennet, Reannah, Naimorai, Cyph and Drandea.) My focus here is going to be an emphasis on intrigue, some mystery, and lots of role playing. I have details and history drawn up for each of these NPC's, as well as other interesting facets of their lives, past and present. I look forward to revealing those over time, exploring additional developments, and watching how it all unfolds with you, the players in the mix. Much of this is also open-ended, so let's see where our mutual storytelling takes us as we enjoy "Keeping up with the Kestrels!"

A Letter to the Mayor, The Town Council, and the Town

Category: Cities, Towns, and Outposts
Topic: Wehnimer's Landing
Message #: 10560
Date: 02/21/2017 05:40 PM EST
Subject: A Letter to the Mayor, The Town Council, and the Town
~~The following letter was dispatched to both Mayor Puptilian, The Town Council, and posted to the tree in Town Square Central~~

Dearest Mayor Puptolan, [the name seems almost purposely written incorrectly by the author]

I am both disheartened and filled with regret over your apparent disappointment. I serve at the pleasure and request of the Royal Magister, and Earl Jovery, the Northern Sentinel of the Turamzzyrian Empire. My burden can be at times overwhelming, made only more so when I learn of our trusted allies misinterpreting situations and being led astray by the crippling effect of rumors.

It is no secret that the Brotherhood of Rooks is an enemy of Wehnimer’s Landing, the Empire, and civilization altogether. I certainly never had intended to take any measure of action within the walls of your town without proper channels of communication being utilized. Any rumors of raids are most certainly that, rumors. Gossip. Hearsay. All of which can be just as dangerous as a double-edged sword.

I am however most dismayed about the blatant lack of disrespect and abandonment of any measure of discretion when it comes to actions against our mutual enemies. A penned letter to myself, or even a request for a meeting to discuss this rumor, would have truly demonstrated your decree of trust between our people that you passionately defend and rally behind. Surely you can perceive the wisdom in not announcing potential plans in the center of town, even if only rumors, to the very enemy they may be designed against? In fact, such pot stirring could potentially put innocent people in harm’s way, should our shared enemy, the Brotherhood of Rooks, take up arms or action on the suspicions you’ve tossed about like leaves on the wind.

But let us make no mistake. There is no jurisdiction conflict when it comes to the Brotherhood of Rooks. You cannot expect your town to claim them and their tunnels, any more than you would enlist giant rats onto your town’s citizenship registry. Because we can agree, can we not, that the Rooks are exactly that. Rats, dwelling in the underbelly of the town, protected only by the ease of tolerance versus the tenacity of justice. They have murdered your townspeople and murdered imperials. They have stolen from your town, and stolen from the Empire, and most specifically the Hall of Mages. Were consequences for their actions sought after as ardently as the volume of voices in their defense, we would likely have never endured this unfortunate miscommunication in the first place.


Lord Dennet Kestrel of House Kestrel
Grand Magister of the Hall of Mages
Acting Commander of the Hendoran Outpost

Keeping up with the Kestrels - Interlude

Category: Cities, Towns, and Outposts
Topic: Wehnimer's Landing
Message #: 11211
Date: 06/20/2017 02:17 AM EDT
Subject: Keeping up with the Kestrels - Interlude
OOC Note:

The attack on the Hendoran Outpost the other night was my last main/big storyline event for a few weeks. I’ll be in-game occasionally as I finish up some final prep work for Frontier Days, EG, and more storyline events for the Kestrels. But most of all, I’m going to take a little bit of time off, spend it with the family and new baby, etc. I may spy from time to time, but if any questions, hit me up in email or on the forums. In the meantime, continue to plot, speculate, and buy deeds.

To hold you over…see below.


Pools of churning ink bled across the sky which stretched as far as the broken grey dirt of the wasteland. The occasional streak of blue glowed in the night as a huge vulture circled overhead. Dust and ash swirled about, carelessly rising and falling on the hot winds of the area. The towering black constructs marched behind him, moving effortlessly and unhindered by the ravages of the remnants of Talador, now known as the Bleaklands.

The man with the mismatched eyes stopped in his tracks, squinting against the grit in the air.

“Here will do.” said Dennet. “Yes, here will do quite nicely.”

The Grand Magister raised his hand, and with the mere furrow of a brow, the fragmented grey earth submitted to his will and walls of blasted stone rose high overhead, stretching wide to slowly form a huge earthen dome. Dennet gestured, and a wide opening in the stone dome appeared. A handful of blue-robed mages moved out before Dennet, disappearing through the doorway. The golems soon followed, dozens of them, and two of them carrying a large black strongbox in their clutches.

Dennet looked back into the distance of the Bleaklands, where a speck of red light of his portal was still visible.

“I’ll be back soon enough my love. But first…”

The Grand Magister turned and stepped inside, and just as the opening began to seal up, a deep amethyst light began to glow from within the earthen dome.


She sat with her back to a wall, her face not far from the glass of the window as she watched the summer rain drizzle down from the sky. She could still smell the fires from the night before. She could still hear the screaming as both soldier and thief burned and bled all around that great outpost. She sighed, and her hand instinctively went to the silver locket around her neck.

She sighed again, turning the locket around in her fingers, eyes never removed from the darkness of the sky and the darkness of the forest. She slowly rose from her perch and walked across her room, snatching her green cloak that hung on a rack above a harp and a zither, both of which had been carelessly abandoned on the floor.

She moved like water through the hall, down the stairs, and amongst the armored knights as they clamored about at the feast tables, some still wearing the wounds of the recent battle. Some paid her no mind, others watched her movements. Both received her icy stare equally, as she stepped through the steel door to enter the dungeons below.

Finding the crack in the earth, she pressed through and found herself once again alone, standing before the cold dark waters at her feet. She slowly undressed, tossing her cloak onto a stone ledge nearby and lowered herself into the cavern’s waters.

It was cold.

It was comforting.

She submerged herself, sinking into the icy depths of the water, surrounded by darkness and left wondering if this was indeed home after all.


“M’Lady, do you require anything else for the evening?” the squire asked.

Lady Reannah did her best to sit upright in her bed, but the pain in doing so was clearly evident upon her face. But with every grimace, she fought hard to twist it into a smile. A futile attempt, but a courageous one nonetheless.

“No, that will be all. My watchers are coming soon enough this evening, should I need more.”

Without further word, the squire nodded and left the chamber.

Reannah sat there for a moment, maintaining her composure as if someone might visit any moment. But no one did. Those moments passed, and the lady collapsed the rest of the way into her bed, her breathing getting heavy as she stared up at the ceiling. Her legs itched, a sharp fiery pain seeming to return at that moment. She lifted her arm weakly to scratch it, but her strength went out.

She sighed, shifting uncomfortably in bed, trying to rub her leg up against her other leg, then against the sheets. But it was all to no avail, the itching and pain remained. She thought she would have become used to it by now, but it never got easier.

She was able to inch her hand over slightly, grabbing a letter that was on the bed next to her, and held it awkwardly up with two fingers as she tried to read it. A summer breeze drifted in through her window from time to time, and with each time causing the parchment to twist in her grasp, so reading it had become challenging.

Regardless of her pain and struggles, Lady Reannah smiled with each word. It was the last love letter she had received from her husband, dated now 5112. She repeated the contents in her mind, over and over, remembering that night, remembering that moment, and remembering a time when there was no pain.


The old woman slowly closed the door of the chamber. She had only briefly peeked in to see her grown daughter in bed, fingers curled around a letter that kept threatening to slip from her grasp. She tightened her jaw, her eyes narrowing as she cursed Dennet beneath her breath. She ambled to her room, the tip of her cane tapping on the ground as she moved.

Soldiers in the hall walked by her, many of them giving her a wide berth as they passed. She studied their faces as they went by, half out of habit, half out of reminiscing of her deceased husband. She moved to her small quarters, where nearly a third of the room had been set aside for storage of food and clothing for the Outpost. She knew that Dennet had done it to slight her, but she hadn’t cared, and certainly wouldn’t show it if she did.

Drandea closed the door behind her, and dropped her cane to the ground. Crouching to the floor, she reached beneath her bed, pressed on a wooden plank and slid open a small cubby hole. She withdraw a small black velvet bag and tucked it within the folds of her greatcloak. She moved quickly to her door, drooping down grab her cane and headed out.

It was not long before she had traversed the tunnel beneath the kitchen and slipped up through the grate, rising to stand beneath the shadow of Melgorehn’s Reach. Moments later she was at the shore of the Locksmehr River, nestled among the thick brambles of the area.

A whistle sounded nearby.

She whistled in return.

An elven man stepped out of the brush, half in shadow, half in moonlight. He said nothing. Drandrea pulled the small velvet bag from her cloak and tossed it to the elf, who deftly caught it. The old woman nodded, and the elf emptied the contents into his palm. Two faceted, polished gemstones.

“One for you for the delivery of the message, one for her should she reply. I’ve a dozen more should she agree to my request.”

The elf nodded, slipped the brilliant gems back into the bag and slipped off into the night


They were fishermen. Butchers. Dockworkers. But through it all, they were fighters for the freedom of their town. Without fail, they had answered the call time and again. Their faces shrouded by the silver beaks of their masks. By day, their hands had been raised to help the welfare of the town. By night, their hands had been raised against the imperial aggressors at their doorsteps.

Now, chains bound their hands and feet, and the dull throb of pain rippled out from the large bruises and cuts on their bodies. They could feel the hot, heavy breath of the Hendoran soldiers on their necks as they were escorted into the depths of the outpost. The door opened with an eerie creek, and they were shoved into the room before thrown down onto their knees. The chains dug into their skin, but what was another sting of pain when they had felt so much already.

“These were the six that we captured alive.” A soldier’s gruff voice said.

“That will be all.” A voice from the shadows spoke.

The Hendoran soldiers nodded, looking a bit uneasy, then wasted no time in leaving.

The prisoners looked up as the shadows along an earthen wall peeled apart, revealing a tall Tehiri man with slate blue eyes staring out over a cotton greyish-green veil. His burnoose was black as night, and seemed to twist and move as if woven from living shadows.

Quinshon stepped forward, the shadows of his burnoose coming alive as ribbons of darkness began to thrash about hungrily. He slowly released his breath, causing the greyish-green veil to ripple. Beneath it, he smiled.


The brass walls of his personal hell were blackened and rippled, as if subjected to an intense heat. The smell of the sea and the din of the active dock nearby drifted in through the window. His pale grey eyes twitched endlessly, always watering as he blinked uncontrollably against the throes of anguish that wracked his body.

He had never felt such pain.

He had never felt such pleasure.

For a few moments, he felt some relief. Those flashes of peace came few and far between. The rest of the time he was trapped in an endless cycle of misery and ecstasy. He slowly crawled to the center of the tower, his dirty clothes only being further stained as he dragged himself through puddles of blood and excrement/ He propped himself up against a wall, and pulled his knees to his chest.

He rocked back and forth.

Back and forth. Back and forth.

He kept murmuring to himself, rambling over and over and over. Not his. Not his. Not his. The words echoed in his mind like the ringing of bells. Not his. Not his. Not his. His eyes widen for a moment, as if he is about to say something else, but then his jaw tightens and his scarred face distorts into a pained grimace.

Carenos falls to the ground, curled up in a ball, squirming as a flood of agony washes over him.


Amidst earthen walls, a youthful boy with unruly brown hair sat deathly still within the opaque confines of the crystalline coffin. All around Cyph’s vessel, silver wards had been carved into the walls and ground, and many still glowed with a faint light. A handful had lost their light, depowered during the recent conflict.

Nearby, some piles of rubble had formed, and periodically the ceiling groaned as specks of dirt tumbled down the walls. But the crystalline coffin stood firm among the wards and displaced rocks.

But the walls still trembled from time to time, after effects of the massive explosions that had shaken both the outpost and the tunnels beneath town.

Then, ever so faintly, a small wisp of blue energy seeped up and out of a tiny crack within the coffin.

Keeping up with the Kestrels - Epilogue

Category: Cities, Towns, and Outposts
Topic: Wehnimer's Landing
Message #: 11267
Date: 12/21/2017 12:14 PM EST
Subject: Keeping up with the Kestrels - Epilogue
I had about 8 ideas but I cut some because I want to explore them more naturally in-game without the cart before the horse so to speak.

I also decided to shorten the length of the epilogues a bit this time around, just because, I think they get my point across without a bunch of extra flare.



The tattered end of his grey cloak swept across the floor as he approached the bar.

The hour was late, and only a handful of inhabitants sat at various tables or corners within the bar, some of them watching as he entered.

He sat upon the stool, setting his dented helm down on the countertop and nodded as the barkeep slid him a bottle of ale. He looked up, steel grey eyes staring coldly into the bartender’s face and suddenly the tavern grew quiet.

“Where is she?” Thadston snarled more than asked.

The barkeep furrowed his brow, “Where is who, sir?”

With a blur of speed, Thadston smashed the bottle on the counter and lunged forward, driving the jagged and broken glass bottle into the barkeep’s face with gruesome results. He leapt up to his feet and kicked back with one leg, sending his stool flying towards another man who had now been encroaching on the commander. The stool broke against the attacker and he stumbled away.

Thadston grabbed his helm and hurled it at another attacker who came from his left, the side of the helmet breaking the man’s nose and dropping him to the ground. Thadston growled as an arrow arced across the room and bit into his shoulder, but he simply grabbed the arrow, pulled it from his flesh and flipped it around and charged the archer. His assailant was caught off guard by the man’s speed, and Thadston drove the arrow into his throat.

Effortlessly, he drew his sword from its sheath and had it to the neck of the last person in the room.

“Where is she?” He snarled again

“Up…upstairs…” the younger man whimpered, before suddenly having Thadston’s sword cleave him from neck to groin.

The grey-eyed man charged up the stairs like a rampaging bear, door after door splintering into a thousand pieces with each kick. He reached the final door and bashed it open, only to find a half dozen bodies scattered about, their blood painting the floor and walls like a crimson tapestry. Standing near a wooden chair and some frayed rope bindings, stood a woman with wide hips and curly bluish-black hair. She twirled two polished daggers between her fingers before placing them back into her baldric. Her dark brown eyes regarded Thadston and she smirked.

“What took you so long?” Casiphia smiled.

Thadston did not.


The air shimmered before her.

She watched helplessly as the caverns began to fade, the others watching her, many of their faces twisted in anger or scorn. She reached out with her hand and her mind. She tried to grab one of them, any one of them, to try to latch on and not be left behind. Then, in a final desperate attempt, she tried to twist one of them, any one of them, to try to pass along one final strike.

Then just like that, the plinite cavern was gone.

Naimorai stood for a moment, frozen in disbelief over what had just happened. Her mind raced with a thousand different thoughts, calculations, and she dare not admit it, but fears. She heard the stomping feet of the Chastonian soldiers approaching to where the ruckus had been, and so she quickly slipped into an alleyway, tucked away into the shadows. She held her breath as they passed.

Just then she turned to leave the other way and she bumped into a young man who had been reading through a thick tome and paying no attention to his path.

“Oh! I am so sorry!” The young man said as he fumbled and dropped his book. Naimorai was quick to bend and pick it up. She flipped the tome open, viewing its inside contents and a scribbled name.

“Peter?” She asked.

The young man nodded, taking back his book.

Naimorai smiled, “I’m going to need your help.”


The faint light of a torch cast shadows in the divot of the scars along the man’s scalp in the shape of a crown.

He marched silently, dragging a body behind him, before hoisting it up and tossing it onto a pile of other corpses. “These are all we’ve collected for today.” He then turned and positioned himself along a wall within the earthen chamber.

Shambling out of the shadows came an old woman, her back gnarled and bent, her fingers long and twisted, with her eyes green and glowing, like two swirling pools of acid. Her hair was frazzled and her scalp speckled with blisters. Raznel cackled at the sight of the corpse, “Oh, that will do just fine my boy, that will do just fine!”

The old witch sifted through the bodies, running her jagged fingernails along their arms and faces, muttering to herself, and at times licking her lips. “Yes, these will be fine for now.”

The young man turned to leave, but the witch stopped him.


The young man nodded, his eyes cold and solemn.

Raznel smiled, “I’m going to need your help.”


The pool of blood began to bubble as the blue-eyed man slowly emerged from its depths.

Two Tehiri women approached, carrying a long red robe for the man and draping it over his flesh as he ascended from the sanguine pool. He nodded to them both before crossing the chamber and pausing before a smooth obsidian wall covered in archaic sigils. Hovering in the air beside him, was a red orb. He held out his hand, and the orb floated down into his palm. His eyes went to the sphere, regarding it, as if studying something within.

One of the Tehiri women interrupted the silence, “As the harvest comes closer, what will be done now, lovib o keke?”

Grishom Stone grinned from ear to ear, as the scarlet glow of the orb bathed his face in a crimson light.

“We will make the heavens bleed.”


A cold wind passed through the woods, stirring the deep blanket of brown fur needles covering the ground. Snow continued to fall, gradually blotting out the earthen tones of the forest floor. Heralded by a heavy snort, a large brown boar slowly moved south across a moonlit valley, approaching an expansive black forest.

Stretching out like a blemish against the natural surroundings, the black forest looked foreboding, resembling a tangled nest of huge black roots, twisted and coiled over one another like a gnarled black ribcage.

The boar sniffed at the ground and then suddenly paused, as if on alert.

With blinding speed, a length of thorn-covered black roots burst out of the forest and speared the side of the boar! The animal squealed and frantically tried to charge off, but the roots pulled the beast to the ground and dragged it into the depths of the black woods.

Shortly after, the dying cry of the beast was replaced by the silence of night.