Denizens of Serin,

Find herein the collected work produced for Serin's first lore contest: A
Lorist's Guide to Serin. The scope and breadth of these entries impressed
upon me that there may be some hope for you lot yet. Daring! Intrigue!
Murder! And all, occasionally, before breakfast. You make an old witch
proud, or is that indigestion?

Lores,
Valindra

Near everything in Serin
Is not as first appears:
Whose story are you sharing?
Whose cloak? Whose shoes? Whose tears?

Met Anga at the market
Selling leather wares.
Dragonwing for the target
If you can mind the glare.

Ordered lunch from dear Vikka,
Our hometown bumbling spy.
The burger tasted icky,
But the gnomes are still alive.

Where do you fetch your potions?
From Echuir the witch?
She's going through the motions,
But that cauldron is a bitch.

Then north to old Aruncus,
A Druid now by trade.
He used to cause a ruckus,
But youth and beauty fade.

Take me, for example--
I look older than grave dust,
And though my charms are ample,
They now show a bit of rust.

Serin's tale, bannered clear--
Was it Thera for a time?--
Not everyone is kind here,
But the stories are sublime.

--"Lore," Elgatha Oldstripe

They represent many races, religions and genders but the one thing they
have in common is their naive sense of duty and justice. They read the
scrolls outlining the laws until their eyes bleed. They polish their boots
until they shine like mirrors. They follow the chain of command and carry
out their orders unquestioningly. They sacrifice much in their service to
the great cities. This particular recruit is a rather underwhelming and
less than promising prospect. They hold neither the physical strength,
swiftness of foot, nor strength of mind required to hold the forces of chaos
at bay. It is unlikely they will ever become a full Officer.

Fenril was born to a merchant family that ran the jewelry store in
Seringale. He had a good upbringing and was taught the trade and highly
versed in commerce. He yearned for adventure however, and spent his free
time training with Garbon in the warrior guild. He never had the chance to
go on a grand adventure, given his responsibilities with the jewelry shop
but one day adventure found him. When he was eighteen years old, he was
about to close up the store after a very busy day, when a man came in with a
jagged dagger drawn and a wicked expression on his face. He attacked
quickly and Fenril fell back, drawing his sword and yelling for help.
Within moments a member of the Justice entered and quickly overwhelmed the
man. When a merchant position became available with the Justice, he quickly
applied and secured the job.

Despite his diminutive stature and fragile appearance, there are few more
skilled both martially and intellectually than Thrad. He spent the prime
years of his life in an adventuring band called the Shining Blades. Trained
as a battlemage, he masterfully blended both physical power as well as
arcane to rain destruction on their foes. Comprised of himself, Tir, Iluvim
and Raen, the Shining Blades were very formidable. They took all sorts of
contracts, from venturing into decrepit towers filled with undead to
guarding merchant caravans. They were well known among other adventuring
parties and they were very successful. When they retired from adventuring,
they all settled in Seringale. The camaraderie they had forged in battle
and adventure made them inseparable. Thrad took up a training position in
Seringale. His strength, intelligence and experience made him a perfect fit
for this important role.

Tir was a natural born leader. Tall, strong, intelligent, charismatic,
fiercely loyal and with a strong sense of justice and equity, many people
have been drawn to his presence. So it was with Thrad, Iluvim and Raen when
they forged the adventuring party known as the Shining Blades. Tir was the
muscle of the party and in charge of contract negotiations. The others
could bring possible adventures or offers to the party but it was Tir's
responsibility to consider, weigh, and finally accept or reject them. He
was careful to avoid any unseemly adventure or dirty coin. The Shining
Blades were a reputable company that were both reliable and goodly. They
could be counted on to act fair and compassionately. When the adventuring
band retired, Tir found a perfect position working with the city guard. It
was not long until he ascended to the rank of warden.

Iluvim was already an accomplished priestess, just entering her middle
years of life, when she joined the adventuring party known as the Shining
Blades. Alongside Thrad, Tir and Raen, she delved into dungeons, guarded
caravans, banished demons and filled her purse. It was her job to keep the
others alive. Sometimes they made that task quite difficult but through the
power of Mystra she was always able to pull them back from the brink of
death. By the time the adventuring party retired she was keenly feeling the
weight of age sink into her bones. Her joints creaked with movement and her
body felt exhausted, no matter how much rest she had or how much praying she
did to her Goddess. While the others found exciting jobs, she wished only
for peace and quiet, taking up a position with the Seringale administration.

You wouldn't know it by looking at him now but back in his prime, Raen
was quite a scamp. Dashingly handsome and charming, he was well known among
the women of Seringale. When he wasn't trying to better acquaint himself
with fine libations and finer women, he was serving as a rogue in the
Shining Blades along with Tir, Thrad and Iluvim. Their adventuring party
was very formidable and reputable. Raen would have preferred to take better
paying jobs but the better paying jobs often involved ... Questionable
morality. Tir would have none of this and as the final decision maker it
was simply not to be. So it was that when the adventuring party retired
Raen could not sail off into a life of lavish luxury. He had, however,
accumulated enough wealth to buy a location along the southern road in
Seringale and open up a bar - the Drunken Beggar.

Haub the goblin smuggler is one of the authorized dealers on the
underground black market of Serin. He is situated not far from his taller
and stronger hobgoblin cousins, who are constantly being assaulted and slain
by adventurers for their possession of purple potions. But Haub is not a
hobgoblin, and years of being roughed up by other members of the black
market have made him stronger and meaner than any ordinary hobgoblin.

Not every denizen of the Greginsham area has been negatively affected by
the presence of the orcs or the attempts of the elves to rebuild from the
ruins. In fact, the squirrels seem to be doing well with the bountiful
supply of nuts in the area. Judging by how fat they are, these rodents have
no problems finding food!

Wherever there are cities, there are people who provide food within them.
Quite often, different cities have unique cuisine or manage to adapt to
their surroundings. Here in Darkhaven, a grubby baker has set up shop to
combine the local seafood with his knowledge of pastry to make a rather
unique shop.

Reconstruction of Greginsham is underway, in large part thanks to
Savanti. He is keeping the orcs at bay while the construction is undertaken
near the ruins. As construction proceeds, Greginsham is looking less like a
ruin and more like a place of habitation. His kin are hard at work
transforming the ruins at this time, with the enlisted aid of the storm
giants.

Thaellor was once the town smith in Thalos. He was initially successful,
and procured a loan from Hoan the Investor to expand his trade. But then
Iben came into town, and started stealing Thaellor's business. Slowly,
Thaellor started to have interest compound upon his loan until he could no
longer afford to rent the building where Iben now resides. He now lives
above Dann the barkeep's inn off of Dann's generosity, hoping to get scraps
of metal from people to ply his trade.

Young, bold, and hoping to one day be a hero, this child is the son of
the fierce mercenary. He has dreams of becoming a hero, and spends his time
near the entrance to the Faction of Steel, as his father has instructed him
to not go further within. The ancient fighter has such a bad temper that
this kid chooses to stay where he is, fantasizing of the day he is the hero
who saves the world.

Within the dungeons of the Fortress of Gasteride, prisoners are regularly
tortured and beaten to death. Especially cruel recruits who gain the
attention of the Master Torturer may eventually become torturers. These
recruits spend six months in a probationary trainee stage, which is a phase
in progress for this torturer.

Within the dungeons of the Fortress of Gasteride, prisoners are regularly
tortured and beaten to death. Especially cruel recruits who gain the
attention of the Master Torturer may eventually become torturers. This one
is fully trained at the craft.

Among the most brutal and seasoned soldiers in the Fortress of Gasteride
is the master torturer. He is privileged enough to possess his own private
chambers within the dungeons. His subordinate torturers and their trainees
pale in comparison with his knack for brutality, as he wears gloves freshly
soaked with the blood of prisoners. He also wears cloaks made from the skin
of dead individuals (prisoners, failed subordinates), and carries a
particularly nasty whip capable of dispensing a strong beating upon his
foes.

Contrary to his rather burly looking appearance and his fearsome
reputation for bloodthirst, Gasteride is actually a well-intentioned
intellectual man with a unique take on the prison system he manages. Over
many years he has developed a regime that he believes can rehabilitate
unruly criminals into an eventual release of an upstanding member of
society. His methods are two-fold. First, to ensure that hymns singing the
praises of the powers that be are being sung and listened to by every single
prisoner, all the time. That is intended to indoctrinate the prisoners to
eventually understand morality. Second, the inhumane torture his guards
inflict on the prisoners as punishment for any wrongdoing inside the prison.
Between spiritual cleansing and physical suffering, Gasteride developed an
approach to incarceration that results show has been deterring future crime.
Perhaps more out of fear of being ever in the prison again, but prisoners
are known to never return to his dungeons. Many think Gasteride an evil
man, but in his heart he genuinely believes what he does is good for
society. However, he does have an exceptional cackle, as every
self-respecting villain should.

Most storm giants lead simple lives and find their natural strength makes
things easy for them. They have simple dreams, generally speaking, and some
join guilds. Baetram however wanted to be a knight in shining white armor
when he grew up. His own kin laughed at him initially, asking him why he
wanted to pursue such a path. He shrugged and said, "I want to be one of
those heroes who is clad in white armor who saves the day." They kept
laughing at him but Baetram eventually left Storm Hill for Valour and became
a templar. He survived many battles, and retained his coat of mail upon
finishing his service.

Born in Gnome Village to the Gorplesnort family, Garbon the Trainee
always shunned tradition and the magical ways of his forefathers. His quick
wit and sharp tongue made Garbon particularly effective at slinging insults
which in turn made him especially prone to throwing punches. Unfortunately
for Garbon, he was never the biggest or strongest amongst his peers and his
brawls often ended with Garbon bloodied and bruised of body and ego.
However, his mind remained sharp and his will never wavered. Garbon
undertook an extreme training regime and quickly outgrew Gnome Village. He
decided to join the Warrior Guild of Seringale and eventually became a
Warlord. While Garbon had a glorious tour with the Warlords, the wounds
from his countless battles eventually caught up to him and he returned to
the quieter life of training in the Warrior Guildhall where he remains to
this day.

Aerin the Banker has long been one of the wealthiest and most influential
denizens of Darkhaven but this was not always the case. In fact, Aerin was
born in Solace to pauper parents. Frustrated by her family's station, Aerin
set out as a mere child to find greener pastures only to wind up on the
darker shores of Darkhaven. She lived as a street urchin initially but
through guile, skill and sleight of hand managed to come into a life of
comfort she had not known before. Aerin was such a successful pickpocket
that she eventually managed to accumulate the gold to branch out into loan
sharking. Now she reportedly spends her days counting coins and exercising
influence over various corrupt brutes and the town guard. Rumor has it that
Aerin has even developed dark ties to the Unlit City.

A man of relentless ambition and cunning, Mogu moves like a shadow
through the twisting alleys of Seringale. Renowned for his unmatched skill
in subtlety and subterfuge, he became infamous for hoarding legendary wares
and always striving to perfect his mastery of scrolls and arcane texts.
Yet, his name is forever etched into the annals of infamy for one singular,
audacious act. On the fateful day of the Eclipse Wedding, as the sun and
moon aligned to bless the union of Khylandra, the radiant bride of Equinox,
Mogu struck. Amid vows of eternal unity, the shadow assassin pierced the
veil of celebration and ended Khylandra's life with a single, silent stroke.
His blade's edge severed not only her life but the fragile peace she
represented. Before he could fade into the darkness that had always been
his sanctuary, the Immortal Odoacer descended upon him, wrath incarnate.
With divine fury, Odoacer struck Mogu down in a clash that shook the sacred
ground. Some claim that Mogu has no remorse for his deeds, only a grim
satisfaction in knowing his name will echo through eternity. Others say he
plots his next great act in the shadows, sharpening his blade and honing his
skills for the day he dares to rewrite fate once again. Wherever he treads,
the shadow of his legacy clings to him like a shroud of midnight.

The large minotaur yawns as he stands guard outside the city. He looks
wistfully over his shoulder as clangs ring forth from the training grounds
inside. Minotaurs aren't made for times of peace.

He grips his axe a bit tighter as a lone figure summits the hillside but
hope fades as quickly as it came when he sees the pristine white robes. He
groans. Just another priest of Diocletian on pilgrimage most likely.

"Halt," growls the minotaur. "State your business."

"I come to inspect the prisons," declares the Man-in-White.

The minotaur snorts. "The prisons are strictly off-limits. Off with you."

"Very well. I come to be imprisoned. I surrender."

The minotaur blinks, jaw open, as he ponders this confusing response.

"You cannot volunteer for prison?"

"I see. Then I come to... shop?" replies the Man-in-White.

The minotaur scratches his head. "Very well. Welcome to Mahn Tor."

Children swarmed through the square laughing and snorting. They spread out
in all directions, some sneaking, some stomping hooves. The crowd mostly
ignored them. Adult minotaur reactions varied as the children jostled by
them. Some glowered, some scowled, most grinned. Kids at kids games,
nothing more.

A particularly small child eyed raked his hooves on the cobbles as he
prepared to charge the back of the older minotaur girl skipping through
the crowd just ahead. Then three things happened nearly at once: First,
the child began his rush. Second, the girl twirled in his direction.
Third, a course hand yanked the child by the scruff of his neck enveloping
him in a hairy mass of chest and arms and cloak.

"Not yet lad, not yet. You don't want to die unblooded do you? That
devilish elf will see you. Wait for the pack. Wait for the moment."

CLANG!

The sound of pick upon stone rang out throughout the mines.

"Request denied!" a voice shouted in the dark.

CLANG!

"Fetch for yourself if you see merit" the voice mocked from the shadows.

CLANG!

"Artificing is not meaningful research!" the voice mimicked from around
the bend.

The two bounty hunters looked at each other in confusion. Could this truly
be their quarry?

"Even... ", CLANG!, "If... ", CLANG! ", "I copied...", CLANG!, "a relic",
CLANG!,
"of the Grand Mistress herself!"

CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!

The bounty hunters peered around the corner at the little gnome huffing
and puffing in the near darkness. They shrugged and rushed him with nets
and gags at the ready.

"Oh hello...mmpppffhhh"

The clock tower rang out. The uniformed minotaur unrolled a scroll.

"Daily report," the minotaur intoned. "The work continues. Stay vigilant.
Stay ready. Push to your limit as you train. The time is not now. But it
approaches. Be ready."

The guardsman rolled up his scroll. His eyes remained steadfast. If it
bothered him that none of the passersby paid him any mind, it did not
show. His eyes smoldered behind a frozen visage.

Thump, thump, thump. The rotund chef sways as he chops a rhythm on his
board. Another day, another potato. Thump, thump, scraaaaape.

The Chef stops and frowns as a man in pristine, white robes nudges open
the door. He does not like being disturbed while cooking.

"We're closed," says the Chef. "We're always closed. Not a shop."

"No, no," replies the Man-in-White. "I believe I am in the right place."

With that, he plucks a potato from the countertop.

"What are you..."

The Man-in-White looks the Chef straight in the eyes. The Chef glowers
back. He takes a bite of the potato before coughing immediately.

"Not cooked yet."

"So it isn't. Regardless, I have eaten your potato without paying."

"Not a shop."

"Right. Your property then. Ruined. Which makes me..."

The Chef wrings his hat in consternation. "...A thief?"

The Man-in-White grins with a twinkle in his eye. "Precisely!"

"Report. How goes the work?" snarls the massive minotaur. Even seated, he
is eye-level with the smaller butler.

"It goes... enthusiastically. The newest inmate seems to have galvanized
the group toward their purpose. The Ring-Keeper reports complaints from
the original inmates about the incessant mystical musings between cells."

Mahn Tor grunts. "Good. Ensure they are not disrupted. Flog the others if
necessary."

"Sire, they have... requests. Extravagant ones. Magical tools, rare
materials. A forge."

"Give them what they need."

"Sire, if I may, this is suspicious. I tracked down this thief. He is an
officer of the Battle Zone. His purpose is not our..."

The Butler cuts off mid-sentence as the King fixes him with a fiery glare.

"I care not for the Battle Zone. As long as we get what we need, the Vale
shall burn. Give them what they need."

The minotaur frowned from his stool. As usual, he sat in his normal spot
at the bar by the square. As usual, two stools to either side of him sat
vacant. He took another swig as watched the bustle, his ire rising as his
drink descended.

"Leave it alone, friend," the bartender intoned.

The bulky minotaur's muscles tensed as he watched the girl twirl towards
another boy rushing towards her. The boy fell screaming and wailing to the
ground as soon as the girl's gaze fell upon him. Her lilting laugh rang
out as she spun towards another of the many children dashing towards her.

"Elves and Minotaurs," the berserker spat. "They mock our disgrace."

"It's a kids game. They're kids."

The minotaur's eyes burned hot as he downed another drink.

The Man-in-White took in his dank surroundings. He nodded. Sufficient. He
waited. The sounds of footsteps dissipated. The door scraped closed. The
lock clicked secure. He tapped the bars.

"Amyrok...are you there?" he whispered.

"Wha...who...Sumaron?"

"The same! Greetings!" the Man-in-White exclaimed.

"Greetin...my friend, whilst I rejoice to hear your voice, do keep it down
when executing a jailbreak."

"A jailbreak? Whatever do you mean?"

"I mean you. Freeing me. I...assume? Were you captured?"

"Hmmm. I suppose I was, of sorts. Volunteering proved surprisingly
difficult."

"Volunteering?"

"For prison!"

"For prison. So...we aren't leaving?"

"And waste the cleverness of your designs? I see your ploy. Solitude for
the mind, diversity of tenets, an army at your call. Indeed, this is the
perfect place to continue the work. I've brought the Brooch."

"My clever fellow! Perhaps... perhaps you are correct. We've top billing
and a patron here... let us begin anew."

Mahn-Tor turned his horned helmet while eying the globe lying before him.
Both items shimmered of magic contained.

Eyes still fixed upon the globe, he addressed his butler.

"Tell me truthfully. What do you see when you look at that globe?"

The Butler shifted with discomfort. "I see a bauble. A trinket. A
disgrace."

The King nodded before fixing his butler with an iron stare. "Then tell
me. Would you challenge me for the throne?"

"Mi'lord, I would never..."

"Why not?"

"Mi'lord, I..."

"WHY NOT?" the King roared.

"Because I would lose."

"Exactly. I would gut you instantly. That is no fight. When I look on this
bauble, I see no disgrace. I see a key. The key to our freedom. Freedom
from this prison. This peace. Push them harder. One for each warrior.
Lesser versions will do. The time is near.

"For vengeance?"

"For our birthright. For war."