After a brief rest, the band of heroes set out towards Guyarde, not really knowing what to expect. Not too long ago, they themselves had dispatched with the ruling lord of Guyarde, when he and his allied Orcs had attacked Espoir. Now the prince and his son were both dead, and they were headed right towards their home town.
Several hours of riding later, nearing the time to set up camp, they spotted a group of rough-looking men on the road up ahead. They spotted a second group too, halfway hidden in the shadows from the nearby trees. As the party approached, a dwarf stepped up and ordered them to halt, declaring half-heartedly that this was a robbery, asking for their food.
Continue reading “The Beggar Bandits”
Here is what the heroes found on the scrap piece of parchment in The Black Tomb. It is assumed that this was in fact written by the “lich” encountered inside the tomb itself.
It should be noted that Draven Blacksword the warlord, currently is on a personal quest to find out what happened to the family heirloom from which his last name is derived. His family is gone and he is convinced the sword holds the key to their fate.
The Eight combined their powers through some unholy ritual that seemed at once new and ancient. They used their magic to turn my own powers against me until I was nearly destroyed. Only then did they hold off, just enough that I could speak. That was when the Paladin stepped in. I knew he was different, I sensed the blackness of his soul as he spoke. For hours he asked me about secrets of old, about the Orcs that live nearby, about the looters and intruders that have come before. About ancient secrets of death. Yet he did not seem interested in attaining the eternal life, as I have. His destiny lay along a different, far more sinister path than mine. So I pleaded and bargained, as anyone would do when faced with such a powerful enemy. And I handed him the black blade, which had only recently come into my own possession. It was a good match. The magical blade took quickly to its new master, and the Paladin stuck to his word and let me live. I fear now that the damage is too deep. My tattered soul flickers now, having weathered the divine storm of the Eight. I curse you, Krogar Shadowsting, for leaving me in this pitiful condition. Were it not for the Essence of Death, I would have fallen prey to the ghouls. They would be delighted to gnaw my old bones after having served me for centuries, ungrateful and savage beasts that they are.
This is about the absolutely greatest influence on my life, as a person and an artist. Though we do completely different things, this guy taught me many of the fundamentals of what it means to live for your art. For good and bad. The man I’m talking about is my father.
Gert Rasmussen is his name, and these days he works mainly as a blacksmith, using his long time artist name Grasart. It’s a return to the roots for him. As a teenager, he was a blacksmith’s apprentice for a while, before being lured away by working with glass, painting, sculpting with clay and porcelain and working with precious stones and metals. You might say he has come full circle. You might say he has come home. Continue reading “The Man of Steel”