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For a number of reasons, I have been working to accelerate my Robin Hobb rereading series recently. It’s not drawing to a close in itself, certainly; I’ve still got nearly three hundred pages of Assassin’s Fate to treat, and then there are the Soldier Son novels and other works to consider, so there’s still quite a bit of work for me to do. I do think I’ve gotten better about doing it as I’ve gone along, and I have plans of other things to address as I proceed along with the series, so, again, there’s more of it to come, and I hope those who have been reading along with me will continue to read along with me as I get further and further into things.
Eh. Close enough for what I’m doing. Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com
For a number of other reasons, however, I’m not able to give it quite as much time as I might like. There are other things going on for me that eat into what would otherwise be rereading time; they’re not bad, but they are demanding. Doing the rereading, I have to allow time for myself to get lost in the narrative/s again; it’s something that has long happened to me as I’ve worked on projects involving Hobb’s novels, ranging back to course papers, and so I know well that I need to allow for it as I compose. Present circumstances, while allowing me some time to sit and write, do not allow me the time to range ahead and contemplate that I find I usually need to do the rereadings. Consequently, it may be a little bit before the next one finds its way out into the world.
Again, things are going well for me, and, again, I have no intention of abandoning a project I’ve spent, what, more than six and a half years of my life addressing since I began it. I’m just saying I can’t address it right now, and maybe not for a few days. But I will again, and gladly, as soon as I can take the time.
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Note that the present chapter contains a scene of torture and the commentary therefore discusses it.
An account of a particular prophecy precedes “Clerres,” which opens with Bee considering her approach to the titular place. The city and its environs are described as she, captive, approaches it, and she muses on her situation and the changes it is making within her. She begins to harden her heart against her situation, and she makes preparations with Dwalia and Vindeliar to disembark the ship that has carried them.
I maintain that Mont-Saint-Michel is an influence… Photo by Denitsa Kireva on Pexels.com
The three head through the city into the stronghold of the Servants, and Bee takes in her surroundings, noting the people she passes. Dwalia’s attitude changes as they approach, growing haughty as they come to the stronghold’s entrance and are, after some discussion, admitted. Bee recognizes her surroundings from dreams recalled, and the three find themselves held aside until they are summoned by the Four, who lead the Servants.
The Four are described as Bee sees them, and they demand a report of Dwalia, from which Bee manages to piece together much. What Dwalia gives is unsatisfactory, and after division among the Four is observed, she is punished for it. Bee considers the punishment and why neither she nor Dwalia had foreseen the eventuality. And Bee alone marks the words Dwalia says after her punishment: “Your turn now” (474).
That the novel hastens toward its end is clear with the present chapter, in which one deuteragonist arrives at the foretold destination. The descriptions provided offer useful exposition, and I’m sure there’s another one of my many scholarly somedays to be found in reading the color-coding of the Four for insights; one thing that springs to mind swiftly for me, despite my assertion that Hobb moves away from the Tolkienian tradition in many ways, is a distorted echo of the Istari in the Legendarium, the five color-coded wizards. I am sure there are other interpretations to find in such descriptions, as well.
The passage in which Dwalia is flagellated at the whim of the Four is of interest, less because of the violence itself (although I do note that torture is something of a regular occurrence in Hobb’s work; I will eventually deal with “The Triumph” in my rereading, which offers one of the more extended examples) than because of the way in which it is prescribed. Each of the Four almost casually asserts a number of lashes to be administered to Dwalia, offering in a matter-of-fact way a punishment that could well prove fatal. The blithe disregard for possible fatality is telling. The easy assignment of a heavily-coded-for-US-readers punishment–whipping is particularly associated with chattel slavery in the US–also works to reinforce the evilness of Clerres, something already asserted in the novel and here made clearly not an exaggeration for effect on the part of the characters who have offered as much.
I remain uncertain how I feel about the matter. That it is as bad as it sounded like it would be seems at odds with much of the rest of what Hobb does, even as it does make sense in context (and, admittedly, aligns more fully with prevailing expectations; people want a clear “bad guy,” even if the “good guy” doesn’t always have to be really good). So it sits…strangely with me. But that’s not a bad thing for a book to do, admittedly, or even a single chapter in one.
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An excerpt from Bee’s journals precedes “The Butterfly Cloak,” which begins with Fitz ruminating on long ocean voyages, not entirely happily, as the Paragon proceeds towards Clerres, passing beyond what reliable charts the ship and crew have. The progress of the vessel and matters among the crew are glossed, and Fitz considers the value of boredom.
Apt, I think. Photo by Quang Nguyen Vinh on Pexels.com
At one point, Lant approaches Fitz to note his concerns about Kennitsson’s interest in Spark. The pair confer, Fitz suggesting to Lant that he leave matters be until and unless he is asked to intervene, and Lant begrudgingly accedes. Fitz finds himself musing on his own history as he considers whether or not he should intervene, himself, and decides against it. He does, however, confer with the ship about it when the figurehead summons him to talk, and he finds himself subjected to the memories of trauma and abuse that the ship has taken in and held for others. How Igrot and his crew died is attested, as is more of what befell Paragon before the ship’s return to Bingtown.
Kennitsson joins the conversation, distracting the Paragon into discussion of the plan to return to draconic form, and Fitz absents himself. Returning to his cabin, he encounters the Fool, and the two move towards reconciliation over their earlier anger towards one another. The Fool notes the urgency of sharing prophetic dreams, and they talk together of what the Fool has dreamed until he falls asleep. Fitz tends to him, and then he reaches out towards Nettle with the Skill. She informs him that Chade has died and relates his final days. Fitz relates his contact with Bee to her sister.
After Fitz releases contact with Nettle, he reaches through the Skill towards Bee and finds an echo of Chade in the Skill-current. In the dark, Fitz weeps.
There are some things that attract my attention in the chapter, as might be expected. One of them is in the prefatory remarks, which might well also be expected at this point. In them, Bee writes that “Wasps are more like men [than are bees], able to kill again and again, and still go on living” (423). The simile is of interest; in context, Bee contrasts wasps with bees (meaningfully, given her name), juxtaposing the usual fatality to the bee of using its sting with the ability of wasps to sting repeatedly. Implied is the idea that the wasps do not suffer harm from their repeated stings, although I note that so much is not made explicit, and I read with the fact that Bee is a White Prophet in mind; exact wording matters (something of a theme across Hobb’s work, as I’ve motioned towards), and what is not said is as important as what is. Implied also is that she, herself, cannot kill and remain alive, although this, too, must be read with the fact that Bee is a White Prophet in mind; in that case, it may simply be an acknowledgment that acting in such a way is a death of innocence. Further explication is suggested, and while it may well be the case that many would argue such exercises are of little value, I would reply that they both serve to deepen engagement with–and thus likely enjoyment of–the text so treated and to foster skills in attention and interpretation that are likely to be useful when applied to other media and to the non-media environment. But that’s something of an aside, I admit.
Another matter of interest in the chapter is the reassertion of butterfly imagery. Commonly associated with transformation and rebirth, the insect is referenced more than a few times across the Realm of the Elderlings novels. That it is here juxtaposed both with Bee’s comments about bees and wasps and with Chade’s death (itself foreshadowed heavily in the previous chapter) makes a bit more interesting of a reading; there is a lot of talk of transformations and of moving through stages of existence in the chapter, whether in Bee’s journal and its implications or the liveship’s intention to transform (from parts of chrysalides, no less) or in the idea that something of the person persists beyond death in the flow of those magics which Fitz and other Farseers employ. The imagery, although it does end up mixing with other images, seems to work well, here, and I’m always glad to see such things in what I read.
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Transcribed records of the environmental disaster that ravaged the Realm of the Elderlings precede “Under Sail.” The chapter begins with the Paragon making ready to depart Divvytown in haste, the dragons having departed. Kennit’s son takes ship and is stymied to find himself treated as a common deckhand rather than as an entitled princeling, Brashen and Sorcor having conferred to that effect. Fitz finds himself addressed by name and title and swiftly intuits Brashen’s purposes before taking himself off to confer with Amber. The conversation between the two is strained and interrupted by another summons to work.
Cue Styx, perhaps? Photo by Andrew Dreyer on Pexels.com
A day out, Motley rejoins the group, having seemingly conferred with and been enriched by Heeby. After conferring with Perseverance about the crow, Fitz finds himself addressed by Kennitsson, the younger man trying to sort out the hierarchy in place aboard the ship. Fitz considers the change in his status and the return to working aboard ship. He also continues to marvel at the ease of working aboard a liveship as compared to a more normal vessel, remarking on the attitudes of the crew towards the same. How his companions fare as part of the crew is noted, as well, both for good and for ill.
Fitz is later summoned to Amber to discuss rescuing Bee. Plans for doing so are discussed, and changes to the mission to destroy Clerres are noted. Fitz’s own ongoing desire for revenge is also noted.
Amid the tedium of a slow ocean voyage, Fitz is reached through the Skill by Nettle. She notes having received his written report of events in Kelsingra, and they exchange news. Fitz thinks of Chade and is nearly overwhelmed by the old man’s Skilling. As Nettle and those in Buckkeep move to restrain Chade, Fitz hears Bee through the Skill, and he is thrown from his magics. Although he sorrows for his mentor, Fitz is buoyed up by the certain knowledge that Bee lives.
When Fitz takes the news to Amber, he finds only rebuke, and he contrasts her with the Fool. Fitz takes himself away, leaving Amber angry behind him.
Fitz is roused by Spark, who tells him, with apologies, that Amber has dreamed his death. Fitz considers it and his history with the Fool, and he muses on how Bee will live after he retrieves her. So musing, he dismisses Spark.
There’s a lot going on in the present chapter. The tensions surrounding Kennitsson continue to increase as he takes ship and starts work. As noted, Fitz quickly comes to understand what is happening with the younger man; he is being tested, and in ways he was not expecting to be challenged. I am put in mind of Regal as I read, as well as of Dutiful, and the thought suddenly occurs to me that I need to look at how often Hobb puts forward only sons and how they compare across her works. The thought also occurs that I need to keep better track of all of the scholarly somedays that pop up for me; I seem to have a lot of them, and I despair of ever addressing them all. Perhaps I will luck into being able to do so.
Tension also increases between Fitz and Amber. Both of them seem to me to be talking past one another, failing each to hear and understand the other. Some of that has always been the case, particularly as Fitz regards Beloved; he has always had trouble understanding what the White Prophet says. But then, the Prophet is rarely clear or direct in speech, occasionally making self-aware comments to the same effect, and it is also the case that the Prophet has known Fitz for as long as Fitz has known Beloved; for the Fool or Amber not to realize Fitz will react as Fitz does, as Fitz ever has, seems an oversight. I’ll admit that there are other concerns for both characters; Beloved is still early in recovery from substantial trauma, and Fitz is barely holding onto himself amid his own. Both have reason to be other than at their best. Both may be following paths of recovery that may not and need not be linear. But that does not mean it is not marked that they are at odds as they are in the present chapter.
The issue of Chade’s decline is also somewhat pointed. In some ways, it is to be expected. Chade was already old when Fitz first met him, and that is some sixty years prior; Fitz remarks being in his seventh decade–so his sixties–in the present chapter, and he is around six years of age when he first meets Chade, who was senior to his grandfather, Shrewd. Chade is therefore easily at or past a century old, and it hardly defies belief that so aged a person would not be in full possession of faculties. That Chade has abused himself with drugs and reckless experimentation with addictive magics does not help matters, either. I find myself wondering once again if biographical criticism might apply here, despite knowing how fraught it always is; an author need not experience something to depict it, and there are levels and levels of experience. I spent a lot of time around those who had engaged heavily with addiction, and I have a fair bit of exposure to people in age-driven decline, and what is presented of Chade in the present chapter rings true for me; it lines up with what I’ve seen and, frankly, what I fear.
Again, I find myself remembering why I read Robin Hobb.
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The time has come once again to note the anniversary of my brother’s birth. On this day in 1987, he was cut from our mother’s body, having somehow gotten his umbilical cord wrapped around himself in such a way as might well have killed him had he proceeded along the traditional route into this world. As his older brother, I want to make some quip–and there are a lot of them that suggest themselves to me–about having set a precedent that he has followed for thirty-eight years since, but that would be more of a jerk move than I really ought to make. So I’ll not do that.
I need more candles than this. Photo by Marina Utrabo on Pexels.com
What I will do, instead, is wish my little brother another happy birthday and note my hopes that he’s got a lot more of them coming. So, Happy Birthday!
The topic of games ending has come up in this webspace before (here, if not also elsewhere). I always experience some sense of sadness when I have a game conclude (as opposed to simply stopping, which happens, unfortunately, and has its own issues), and this is certainly true for the most recent game in which I’ve played: Nakahama.
The header for the game in question, taken from a screen-shot
An adventure in another Legend of the Five Rings campaign, the game centered on a single province of a sort of resort planet–so, magical samurai in space. It was my first adventure in the campaign, so I entered it late; there’s a fair amount of history behind it, assumptions in play that I didn’t necessarily catch onto at first but managed to come abreast of soon enough. I’m more or less content with how my character turned out, although there’re always things I’d do differently than I did and thing’s I did do that I wouldn’t again.
It was instructive for me. In earlier comments about forum-based RPGs (like those referenced above), I remark on event design. I’ve discussed as much from time to time since, probably not at the level of depth or with the focus I ought to’ve, but I’ll note that Nakahama was perhaps the single best game for that that I’ve played. There was the kind of straightforward primary metagame mechanic that is to be expected–each “session,” make a particular roll for particular results, racking up those results across the whole game for in-milieu rewards and changes–and that was welcome in its familiarity. More engaging was a series of in-game events that each contributed towards the primary metagame while stretching players’ and characters’ abilities and understandings, each of which seemed to contribute to a Tolkienian “inner consistency of reality” and impression that the milieu exists outside of what players and their characters see. Too, the overall design was not locked into one character type or another, as often happens, but had something for most character types (I say “most” because “all” cannot really be addressed). I’ll definitely be taking some lessons from it, moving forward.
And, yes, it’s “moving forward.” I will be running games of my own, after all, and not only Hanlon (but, happily, Hanlon). I have ideas for a Legend of the Five Rings campaign that’ve been bouncing around for a good long while, now, and I should probably put some more effort into polishing them up. This is the kind of thing that sweetens the bitterness of a good game ending, the promise of a new one that takes lessons taught from it and hopes to expand upon them, making things better for everybody involved.
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Not much less than a week ago, I noted wrapping up my local library’s pilot program of running a game of Dungeons & Dragons for middle schoolers. I continue to think it was a good experience for them and for me, and I continue to think that what the game taught us is worth having learned or having been brought back to mind.
I’m particularly pleased, therefore, that the program looks like it will resume next month. That is, I will continue to run Dungeons & Dragons games for middle schoolers at my local library. I rather expect, based on the feedback I got from participants, that those who have already been at my table will return to it, and that will be good; I have things to do with them (including walking them through character advancement / improvement, which I had meant to do at the end of the last session but which events and time constraints prohibited), and there is value in having stories continue.
There is some talk, too, of the program expanding, whether to a second session of middle schoolers or to a session of high school students is not yet clear. Either would work well, although each presents different challenges. With middle schoolers, there are more concerns of maturity than with high schoolers, although the ones with whom I’ve worked thus far did decently well being redirected when they needed it; really, the issue was all of them wanting to talk at once, most of them wanting to be the focus of attention. It’s not bad in itself, but taking turns being the star is still something they’re working on; they’ll get there, I’m sure. High schoolers will, in some ways, be easier; there’s more they can do and can be expected to do. But there’s also more concern about their needs; middle schoolers are still largely children, while high schoolers are more nearly adult and will have more things going on that are potentially problematic for me to address.
I know who and what I am, after all, and I am aware that my addressing particular issues is fraught.
That said, I am looking forward to resuming play in and around Hanlon. I’m looking forward to deepening my understanding and insights, as well as to seeing what else from my past experiences still holds up in current play, when I am so many years older and my players do not have the shared experience and cultural immersion–including the (internalized?) shame at pursuing a hobby that used to earn scorn, derision, and an uncomfortable amount of suspicion from religious leaders and law enforcement officials–I shared with my earlier play-groups. Also, to be sure, I’m looking forward to passing on some of the more “academic” parts of what I know about all this; there is scholarship on the matter, in addition to the ways in which tabletop roleplaying games do have educational value. After all, to play, players have to read, they have to navigate rules sets and so learn index use, they have to do quick arithmetic, and they learn quite well that random chance isn’t always, but that no roll depends on the last one made. Narrative theories can be explored, as can philosophies, and it might be that I include some short reflections on why characters take the actions they do or somesuch thing.
There’s a lot to do, and it will be good to do it.
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Unsigned comments seemingly from Fitz about Chade precede “Belief,” which begins with Brashen asking Fitz what Tintaglia wants from him amid a short break from the tasks setting out aboard the Paragon for Clerres demands of all who will sail thither. Those tasks are glossed, and the irritations felt at continued delays are rehearsed. Fitz loses his temper with the Fool.
Sure. Why not? Photo by Sasha Martynov on Pexels.com
After a couple of days, Sorcor, Wintrow, and Etta return to the Paragon, described in detail as they reluctantly allow Kennitsson to travel with the ship and Brashen and Althea’s crew. The matter is discussed, and permission for him to join the crew is given, with conditions applied. Work to ready the ship resumes in earnest, now aided by the vessel. Tintaglia arrives and summons Fitz to attend upon her. She rails against Icefyre, and she confirms that the Servants had done dragonkind some injury in the past for which vengeance must be taken–but she allows that Fitz may kill those in Clerres that he finds before hunger overtakes her and she gorges on Divvytown’s offerings.
Conversation ensues but is disrupted by the arrival of Heeby and Rapskal. Kennitsson falls under Heeby’s compulsion as Rapskal relays additional information to Fitz. Dragons’ eggs will soon hatch on Others Island and will need protecting; after that, the dragons will proceed to Clerres. The depredations of the Others and the Servants on prior generations of dragons are noted, and visits to that place recalled. Rapskal gifts Wintrow Elderling jewelry for his aid with She Who Remembers, and discussion of likely outcomes ensues.
Rapskal excuses himself, and Wintrow attends to him to defuse tempers. After their departure, Etta addresses Fitz with some concern.
The reminder in the prefatory materials that Chade was the brother of Shrewd, something noted early in the Realm of the Elderlings novels, is another one of the touches Hobb includes in the more recent works to remind readers of the narrative continuity at work. The reminder of Chade’s multiple magical talents is also a useful thing, reinforcing to readers the notion I explore in my old thesis that he is very much the Merlin to what Arthur Fitz can be considered to be. Too, I’m put just a bit in mind of Mary Stewart’s Arthurian Saga novels, which I still have on my shelf after having read them many years ago, now. I’ve not done the work to know if Hobb read Stewart (and I don’t think I’ll ever be in position to do so, things being as they are), but I’d not be surprised either way.
I suppose, in terms of narrative structures, that the present chapter is something of a climax. That is, it seems to be a turning point in the narrative, something like the first peak of a roller coaster before gravity takes over and sends the cars hurtling down the track. Matters have been set up, characters put into place, stakes established, tensions heightened, and the necessary course of events suggested sufficiently clearly that progress seems clear. (Too, it’s roughly halfway through the book; in the copy I’m rereading, the present chapter ends on page 399, while the whole novel runs to 846 pages. It’s the place to put such a thing, really.) An increase in pacing might well be expected to ensue in the next few chapters, as the narrative moves toward its resolution and denouement for the novel, its trilogy, and the main line of the Realm of the Elderlings corpus.
I look forward to rereading what’s coming. It’s been a while, certainly, and I have some need for the reminder. Too, it’s pleasant to be carried away by a story again; it used to happen for me a lot more than it does, and I miss it, anymore…
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Yesterday, as this piece makes its way into the world, I presided over the final session of the initial Dungeons & Dragons for middle schoolers program at my local library. (It’s discussed here, here, here, and here.) In it, the party sought to make its way back to Hanlon, its objective achieved; they were sidetracked by player actions and the will of the dice into an unexpected, ultimately successful encounter. I also, in fact, put into practice my player-commendation bit that I remarked upon last week. Even if things do not resume–much as I hope they will, I cannot rely upon it–I’m glad to have done it; I like to set good expectations with my players, even when they are not so young as the kids with whom I worked these past weeks, and I think it’s important to ground children well.
Not bad looking… Photo by Stephen Hardy on Pexels.com
There are, of course, things I would do differently if I had them to do again. With a bunch of newer players–and most of those at the table were, in fact, brand new to tabletop roleplaying games–I think it might be good to have a more overt authority in the game with them, something of a mentor figure who can, within the context of the game, offer some guidance. I am aware of the perils of the GMPC, to be sure; I’ve seen it go badly and have been guilty of making such a thing happen. But with a markedly novice group, I think it might be a good idea to have, nonetheless.
I think, also, I would try to work in more non-combat encounters and mechanics. I know, with a bunch of kids, that “getting to the good stuff” is a concern. I also know that combat can drag easily, especially if one or more of the opponents actually thinks through the fight (and if one or more of the PCs gets annoyed at the antics of another and vents their spleen). Perhaps a puzzle or two, going back to the old dungeon-delving model, might work.
Some things went well, though. Having the new players address the non-mechanical stuff is almost always to the good, and my players leaned into it even without much in the way of overt background knowledge; I’ll be doing that again, to be sure. Too, going ahead and rolling with them for (most of) their shenanigans resulted in laughter around the table, and since a large part of the reason to play any game is to have fun, things that promote such laughter are to be encouraged. And, finally, I think bringing together people from different experiences was good for everybody involved; if I can, I’ll do that much again.
In all, it was a good experience. I needed the practice in running a game at a table, and I’m glad to have helped some new gamers begin to get grounded in the hobby. After all, the children are the future, and I’d like to keep having one of rolling dice and telling lies…
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Since I’ve been going on for some weeks now about the work I’m doing running Dungeons & Dragons for middle schoolers at my local library (see here, here, here, and here), and because I’m in the middle of another play-by-post forum game, I’ve been motivated to look back at some of the older materials I’ve kept on file these many years. I’ve put a lot of effort into my gaming across a fairly decent spread of time at this point, and while I’ve had thoughts from time to time of what I could have gotten done had I focused on other things instead, it’s also been the case that I’ve built and maintained friendships through roleplaying games that have sustained me. I value them, and I’d not have them had I not done what I did before, so I’m grateful to have what I have.
The man himself Image is mine from years back
One of the things I found while looking was my record of a campaign in which I played while living in Lafayette, Louisiana. It’s one of those “be the party scribe for XP” things I’ve noted in earlier posts, as well as being practice in verse-forms for me. (I had some need to do so at the time. Perhaps that need persists.) The campaign stopped before it ended, more’s the pity, so the poem is incomplete, joining a number of other records in being so. What I have of it, all thirteen thirty-six-line fitts, I give here, only lightly edited from how I had it before. It shows influences and derivations, of course, but also progression, and I think it might well serve as an example of one of the things roleplaying games can do; being art, they can inspire other art.
Hreðe Clammeshearra, hard is that man, Fierce in the fight, that fiend of the chain. But long before his broadly-known days As champion of chains, when he was a child His father was felled, Fæst Hnæfessunu Who fought through the fire against many foes. He died as was destined, his doom was foretold As sages had said; he sought out the deathlands, His ancestors accepted him after his deeds. He left behind life, lost then his wife, The beautiful Cwenlic who bore him the boy Who would become Hreðe; hard was that day! For with Fæst gone, fatherless youth, Hreðe had not the help of a man In learning the man-lore and living’s best way. Fierce burned the fires fueled by his heart And against all people he often struck out, Making of all folk foes and fierce hate-men; Out he was cast, adrift and alone. Such is the fate for those who fight kinsmen. Better instead to be as a brother To brothers and blood than to bruise one’s own kin. Sorrowful solitude followed his steps; Haunted was Hreðe by mocking home-thoughts. Not strewn with flowers is the far-reaching fate Of men kinless made, no more for the young Than for warriors proven. While Hreðe wandered, Seeking safe dwelling and a seat among men, Some from the southlands sought to take women And men who might fight in manacles cold, To treat them as cattle and trade them for treasure For lust and for leisure of the lazy rich. To Hreðe a dark day was delivered harshly When summer had sped and autumn was summoned; The callow youth cast-out came upon slavers And chains then first met him.
To the wandering youth the wardens of wyrd Were less than good. Not light was the lifting Of chains for Hreðe; they chafed and his chest. The breast of a boy, broad as a twig, Hreðe still had when heavy irons First wrapped his wrists and rattled his steps. At first Hreðe fought against fetters hard, Seeking to slay the slave-binding men. Of knot-ropes and nails he knew the pain then, As soft southern tongues slaver-words taught him. Long was the walk, the labor in lands Where men might own men and make of them beasts. Under stern steel-weights Hreðe grew stronger And wise in the ways of work-forced folk, In the south city he soon knew himself To be a man grown though by manacles mastered. Years of his youth yearned to be free While in pit and peril he performed a craft, Coming to kill in contest and sport For those who fought not but feasted and laughed As slave battled slave and one slew the other. Chains still chafed Hreðe and cheated his freedom, But they also became the best of his tools And gave him his name of Clammeshearra; If Hreðe had them, hard would he fight, Making of men meat with the fetters. Soon it was known in the southern city That Hreðe was highest and hardest of those Who fought for the fun of fat, lazy men. His name became known; none failed to speak it, Yet for all his fame, he still was not free. Not the worst in small war, not the smallest of wounds Did he deliver, of deaths not the fewest From his hand fell, and not the first taste Of free air could find him, fettered as he was. That would soon change.
The wardens of wyrd watched the young exile, Fallen Fæst’s son far in the south, Captured kinslayer, captain of slaves. Winters fifteen when he began wandering The boy had seen. Seven slave-years In pit and in peril paid for his crimes; The gods ask no more, those givers of gifts. While Hreðe warred as lazy men watched The earth masters made a mighty thing happen, Great work of gods; in the ground a cleft Opened beneath all the unmanning walls Where lazy men watched slave-warriors fight. Stones came to stand where staring men were Before they could be in a better place. The walls fell to waste. Men watched no more. The hand of Hreðe held death aloft When the walls fell. He wasted the stroke, Dealt then no death as did he before, Bowed to the blessing of the bounty-lords, Stayed the hard stroke and strayed from the pit. None could now keep him from knowing free air. Chains he took with him, champion fighter. Hreðe tight-held to hard iron bands, Solid fight-servants in his slave-days long. Not long did he linger in long-hated place, But went into the world where he could find deeds Of warrior-glory, the work that he knew. The fiend of the chain found before long Fighting-man work in freedom to do. For weak men he willingly waged a hard battle Between the slave city and a seemlier place. He traveled the trails, truest of fighters, Forgiven his faults, the folly of youth. The last joy of Cwenlic came to the coast, Saw there a city, strode to its doors. He went then inside.
The domain of Dockston did Hreðe enter, Gathered with Guildsmen for glory and honor. Hreðe the Hall of Heroes entered; A summons had sent him to that city’s heart To face a fair test and his fate to measure, To find in the Fever Glades of fen-roads the best. East went the eager one and even companions When next the sun rose, a good road to seek Through fens of Fever Glades, the fiend of the chains, Where flowed the water upon the world’s face. They traveled not silent, but spoke many words, The fiercest of fighters and his dear friends, Pious Dwarf prayer-man and pointed-ear sage, No less the little man on rapid-step legs. Their speech then was split by a scream in the fields As the fiend of the chain and his friends happened by. Lizards had lashed against little people And so they were slain and sent out in fear With fire and chain and one well-flung stone. A help to the Halflings Hreðe became With his worthy friends, a weal for the good. A stain on the soil was spilled Lizard blood When wounded by Hreðe, one left this life, And fire and stone slew yet another. Old Orchard Meadows opened its arms To the wandering warriors and welcomed them in. The citizens spoke of slinking new troubles; Them Hreðe heard and his wise companions, Sought out the source of the new sorrows. Fens then found out the fiend of the chain. In muck and mire, the man and friends trod Until the attack of oversized vermin Halted their haste. It hindered them little; Their fate was not fixed to fall in that time But that of the beast was bound to its end, And for the scale-men at the mill.
Life had left lizards at the mill. Hreðe and his folk hiked on the path; Slow was the swamp-way as they slogged along. To the place of the peatcutter the party soon came And faced a new fight on the fen’s edge. In a fan made of flame a foul plant-thing died, But a beast of bile battled them then, Spitting foul speech, sputum of death; It, too, was slain, served no stout fight. Rich was the reward and real was the joy Orchard Meadows felt at the fiend of the chains And for his friends from what they had done And had yet to do; hard work was ahead. The swamp-way was sought by soldiers again, Foul-smelling fenlands. In faith they worked To make Orchard Meadows for men a good place. As the group went to gather together A spell suddenly on the select fell; His friends had to hold Hreðe from leaping Into cool currents– compulsion befell him. A spell after slew the sprite who had made it And they then went on into the wood. A spider sprang out and sought to attack. Daggers and chains and a dart well-placed Suddenly slew it. The spider fell quickly. After spider was slain, the seekers came To the lizard lands, where lived the scale-folk. An elder of egg-born escorted them To know Nanami, the name of their leader. Words then were passed and stories woven. Foul deeds came forth and found redress. The evils of office were all undone In Orchard Meadows. Applebottom had Worked foul in the fens and fathered deceit. And end was put to it, and to him as well. There are worse things in the world.
They departed for Dockston in dourness none, Reached their rewards, new robes among them. The stealthy small one, swift-handed Milo, The talented Taren, tall and wise, Priest great in praise-work, the preacher called Mott, And heart-strong Hreðe, hero of chains And fiend in the fight, found a new name. Explorer Acolyte all later called them When they had returned from whence they set out. Great was the glory given them then. Their journey to Jesric was joyous indeed; All knew their names with no small pride. After the accolade the Acolytes new Were bound for Blackston for battle again. Zarlag had studied, searched for new lore, Then left it alone. To look for it then The fiend of the fight and his fellow-searchers Were sent for success. All seemed well at first. The seeming soon ended; others sought out The hero of chains and hand-swift stealth-man, Praiseworthy priest, and practitioner arcane. The beasts of the barrens bore down on the group, Surrounded the seekers, sought a new meal. A griffon descended, grabbed at the horse That Hreðe had brought to haul all the things That serve success well— save for great valor, For that the four had in full-hearted measure. The worker of woe on wings dropped down, Tore at the ties, the tethers of life; Great was the grief the griffon found At the attack, which Acolytes gave. It fled in fear; its fury was spent. The horse had been hurt; healing came to it By workings of wyrd against woe untimely. The party packed up, pressed on steadfastly. There was much yet to be done.
Gone then was the griffon and gathered were they Together at trail-head. They took up watches And waited as wardens while others slept. Ants made attack in early-dark morning; Mott and small Milo, they met the beasts bravely. Taren then took up a titan’s struggle And Hreðe, the hard man, was hero that time; The Fiend of the Fetters flung chains about him, And with a loud whirling went ants to their deaths, To graves after grappling with the ground-near small man. Hreðe Clammeshearra helped Milo live, Ended the argument with iron and thew. When after, at noon-tide more ants appeared, Besetting a brave one who bestrode a stone, The Chain-lord charged in, the child of Fæst, Rescued then Ralgor from rage of the creatures. The Great Forge was grateful, and grand was his welcome Of Hreðe and Mott, and Milo his kinsman, With Taren the tall. He took them with him To seek out his sleep-place, their stories to hear. When they arrived there, thieves awaited them, Halflings half ant-folk with hardened red skin; The mark of their maker and of Mithril Fort They bore on their breasts before they attacked. The fight was a fierce one, but fate was not with them Who had the Halfling hoped to despoil. They claimed that their queen would come and redeem them, Bring sorrow to stout hearts and seek all their dooms. The boasting was bombast; they were beaten well. The wardens of wyrd wanted no more To permit the pair to peer at the sun. Hreðe then halted the lives of the Halflings, Sent them to seek what solace they could, Then turned towards his own and went to the table. The Great Forge’s graces went to groundhog stew; It was a fine meal.
Morning must come to men in all lands, And it came upon Hreðe as is expected. Rightly did Ralgor set their feet running To the old tower to which they were sent. Tall, in two stories, the tower stood there, Old home of the asker who ancient lore sought, Bleak then and barren where once banners hung, And sealed was the stonework of Zalgar’s old home, Riding near ridges. Right so Taren saw Emerging far off ants from the ground And making for the east, unaware of heroes. They moved to assail them, the Acolytes new. Milo did much to mask their advance; The small man was skilled in stealthy arts. Into the earth all four of them passed, The great ones, the bold ones; they feared no peril, But pressed ahead proudly as princes of cities. Ants would assail them, and ants would then die To fire and dagger and doughty-swung mace, But the Chains’ Champion as chaff from the wheat Severed the six-legs from seeking their prey In whirling death-windmills. They went from life quickly. Through tunnels and trials, they trudged ahead, Ridding the ridge-lands of rambling vermin Both new and to come; not for long after Was wariness there where they had fought. Soon then the ant-queen came into their view, And as with her children, the mother to chains Fell in the fight; the fetters collected life From one who had owed it. It was soon done, Hreðe a hero and his folk the victors. A test for the true-hearted, a tunnel remained Which in heroes’ haste had not yet been taken. They wound their way to it, the war-mighty ones, Made progress up it. Powers awaited. More fights were coming.
In divergent directions the ant-delving wandered. The tunnel not trod the heroes then took, Searching for secrets and seeking the tower, For they knew that formian foes as yet held it. The Champion of Chains a charnel-house found Full of the dead and food no good to them. Tunnel turned away, taking them forward. A giant half-ant guarded the gate to their goal. Milo thought him mighty and made to attack; Though worthy and wily, wood swung by giants Is no easy thing to endure in arms. To Milo Mott soon made with his healing And Taren took aim at twin-headed peril, Solemn war-sorceress sought its undoing. The fierce son of Fæst entered the fight, Brought down the beast and battered it greatly; When it would seek to rise, it wound up on the floor, Tripped, taken down, and of treasures stripped. The door bore a device the ettin died before; The ant-mark appeared there, and so they went on, Opened and attacked against the foul there. More of the man-ants made as to slay them, But they were unworthy as warriors for life; They failed in the fight. So may all our foes! The brave ones sought beds after that battle, And when they woke it was to more war. As happens so often, the hardy were given In war by the wardens of wyrd the victory; Such was their skill that few stood before them And those not for long. Of such things come legends And glory and gold, gifts of all kinds. Much yet remained, though much had been done By the explorers in tunnel and trial. No foes frightened them, fast in their valor, And eager in heart, they moved ahead. Heroes should always act thus.
When rest and relief the righteous ones found, The praiseworthy priest had prayers intoned, The solemn sorceress centered her power, The small sneaking one settled his blades, And Fiend of the Fetters fight-ready was, They looked for the leavings of looters now dead. A hard fight and Halflings held as slaves they found, Breath-of-pain beetles and beating-wing flier Attacked and assailed them. All of those died; Broken and battered, the beetles fell quickly To priest and pocket-scout; a powerful leap Sent Hreðe in hatred at high-flying ant; He bore it to bottom of tunnel and beat it. The Halfings were happy that they had been saved; Walnuts and wine went off in their joy, And four went on forward with fighting to do. Ascending and searching, they scouted on forward, More formians found and fought them to death, Then reaped the rewards for rightness in valor: Gemstones and jewels and the journal sought. Taren then took it and told of its words, The black blood-writ volume; the book they sought told Of death-god’s devices and deeds to attain them. Words then of worry were spoken among them, Of fair and of foul and feats yet to do, The tome they had taken, their task had fulfilled, Yet formian foes remained to be fought Who sought to make slaves and so deserved death. Mott who was holy and Hreðe agreed; Such evil should not survive in the world. The priest of great praise and pit-fighter knew That in this as one, they would work well. One door remained. One door was closed, And on would they go, the excellent four To finish the fight and leave no foes living. Such is the way of the worthy.
The closed door was opened, and in went the heroes. There they saw sights strange and uncouth. In a wizard’s workroom, a weird scene appeared Of shelves and substances, and strapped to a table, A dark deformed ant-thing in depraved guise. Near the board-burden, on the floor beside, Stood a strong challenge that spoke to the four: “Leave now my love, and laden with treasure You may go freely. Give her no pain; She has had enough of harm in this place.” So spoke the ant-man as stood the four, But still from the burden blood-potions came And slaves made of small ones; such is not meet Save for death alone. And death came then to them. Fierce was the fight, but it finished quickly, And the warriors worthy won then the day. Yet one more fight remained to them then; They searched out the high-room, striving by stealth, Then with hard hits, to halt the advance Of unfit dominion and unclean control. The mother of misery and her last minion Were sent to the sunless, sorrowful land; One was redeemed, though without comfort, From that fierce fight, fought against magic And a queen who assumed unsolid forms. The last of the tower was taken as treasure And those who survived the slavers’ attempts Were gathered together and led to their lands. The travel was smooth, and swiftly they went From tower to tunnel to treading under heaven. For Mithril Fort, they followed the path Until, stained by smoke, the sky ahead showed Where wrack and ruin had razed the strong place; Orcs had attacked, and abomination Of size supreme and scarce to be believed. A new threat arose to be faced.
The Fall of Fort Mithril found some relief From Mott the most worthy and Milo the deft, From Taren the titan of terrible lore, From Hreðe, the hard man, the hero of chains. Young, yearning knights, the yore-heroes’ heirs, Gave word of Gheydalin, a gathering-place Soon now to suffer the sorrows of war. Mott then to mercy, and manful deeds Hreðe, Were moved and moved on to meet the new need. Swiftly they strode across silent lands, Seeking to succor the sylvan-land folk; Before the brave heroes a barking then sounded Of orcs and their orders— an awful sound. A patrolling orc-party, apart from the horde, Warg-riders and wagon-men, waited to die. The heroes then helped them; Hreðe cut their wait short Along with the others in all of their skill. Then, too, there came to them a thing not foreseen, Beast-man and beast to battle the orcs; Tekk, who transformed to tear at the throats Of enemy orcs, and his own companion, Greeted them gladly, gave them his pledge Of friendship and faith; they followed his words And gained then Gheydalin in the green woods. Walls tall and wooden wound around the village As Mott the merciful and mighty Hreðe Called up the council and cautioned attack: “A beast of soul-blackness bears down upon you; An army of orcs is after your land. Gather your good-folk, your goods leave behind, Flee into the forest before the flames come Of war and of woe. The warning please heed.” At Mott’s mild words and the mean eyes of Hreðe The people, not panicked, proceeded along And fled their fair village before the flames came. Gheydalin still perished.
With Gheydalin gone and given to ruin, The heroes for Haarston hastily traveled. The night-watch showed nothing. The next gave them rest; Watersong wound through woods to their ears And bars stood before them, man-barded guards. Their lord, Ludovico, was loath to hear counsel, A drunkard debauched, no diligent man To rule a right people against ruin coming. Milo went merry to make him to hear; The lord, Ludovico, listened then not. Hreðe then held him with hand-grip on throat As Taren the talented his teeth held closed. Ludovico listened, and led were the folk, The Haarston home-dwellers, hardly away Before came the beast to break all the town. To Linham the lost-folk led then would be; Hendrix thanked heroes and heard their words, But Milo and Mott and mighty Hreðe, Taren the talented and Tekk the wood-wise, Gathered together would go thence to Jowston; The city yet stood in sorrow’s intent. Two days they traveled until at the city They arrived in honor and opened the court. The warden would stop them, wished to deny The power and promise presented to him; Still heroes sought to say their new tidings And wake with new warnings the warrior people. Their message was made and magistrate said, “Gather together in glory the folk; Secure the city against sorrow oncoming. Tend to the tasks where your talents lie And all thanks and honor for all of your deeds.” The heroes then headed, they heard the good words, To do then the deeds to deliver Jowston. Night approached newly and nothing remained Except to face the beast.
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