Chapter 03 - Esse i yesse: In the Beginning

Image - Die Alten Hofs, Crew 1 - Left to right, Sundras Tilbarg - Assassin, Helga of Helgoland - Bretonnian Knight Maiden, Jederman - Barbarian, Gwendolyn Woods - Wizard, Erendriel Iluvatar - Drow Elf Bard

 

 It was a chilly October evening on the Reepers Way a district of the small settlement of Alter Hof known for its night life with a bustling bar and tavern. It was late and midnight had passed long before. Mist and rain filled the air, and in the Lehmitz Tavern, one of many in the district revellers were beginning to slowly drift away one by one as the night turned its weary head towards the morning. The tavern with its small frontage and a few tables and chairs scattered outside, for those with the strength to bear the cold and wet, led into a small warren of a place with its low ceilings and bare stone walls. It held a long wooden bar, well-worn and stained by generations of use and a backroom where a lone minstrel sang on a raised stage for the amusement of the drinkers who were still awake enough to listen.

An old broad stone hearth with a log fire slowly dying into its embers provided some glow and what little heat there was, and tables around hosted small groups of unlikely looking characters huddled in mainly hushed conversations. The tavern was known for its attraction to adventurers and story tellers, and locals seldom frequented the place for the tales of battles fought and monsters slain were too much for the heart of normal folk. One heard of groups banding together to venture off on perilous quests never to return and the shadows from the diminishing flames only added to the feeling of secrecy and danger as they flickered and danced over the strained and craggy faces of man and beast.

Gold was talked of. Huge mountains of trinkets and goblets and more than a thousand men could carry. Stories of monsters, demons and dragons. Tales of camaraderie and friendship that can only be cemented by facing tyrannies unknown to the rest of us. Of bravery and strength unparalleled, and of courage and deeds that rivalled the tales of the ancient Dragon Slayers.

On one table close to the centre of the room a card game had been playing for some time. One of the players, a wiry old man who had heard more tales of gold and glory than he had ever lived out, was losing heavily and getting agitated and angry as a result. He cursed the cards, he cursed the other players, and he cursed the inn keeper and his wife, but it was only when he insulted the beer, claiming the landlord watered it down, that the inn keeper stepped in and told him to ‘mind his ways’. The player was drunk, very much so, and swaying precariously and shouting.  All his remaining money was on the table and in the game, he had no more. He held a paper above his head. ‘A map’ he said, ‘a map to the caverns and mines in the mountain.

A Quest he said, of great significance, to deliver the Holy Relics to the Tomb Chamber and to lay to rest the Necromancer. And treasure. So much treasure as to make a man rich beyond his dreams’. ‘No’, he said, ‘to make ten men richer than all others. He had seen it he said. He had touched it’.

The other players looked sceptical. But he leant into the table and spoke low and firm. ‘Gold, as much as any man could want, as much as any man could carry’. He had been there, in the Tomb Chamber. He and five others had entered the tunnels and been through the maze and faced the dangers. ‘I have seen it’ he kept repeating. ‘I have felt it’. They had set out to seek fame and fortune not two moons ago, but on their way through the caverns his friends fell afoul of greed and mistrust and broken their fellowship, and each had tried to make it out alive, alone. They had faced monsters, and great trials to reach their goal and place their Holy Relics on the Tomb. itself. He was the only one to make it out alive and had left all behind to save his own life …. But he ‘had seen it all’, he said. He had ‘seen it all’.

He offered up the map to anyone who would listen. All he asked was his final stake in the game, and to cover his tavern bill. ‘I have seen it’, he repeated, but he lacked the courage and strength to return to the caverns to face more monsters and recover the gold. The tales of his comrades and their unfortunate endings were left unspoken but showed in the heaviness of the features and the hollowness of his face. He had no more strength within him. He had ‘seen it all’, but it was worlds away and he slumped on the table, the paper falling from his hand.

A Barbarian dressed in light armour and carrying a thick fur snatched up the paper stepped forward. His face was rough, and battle hardened. He carried a sword and a lantern. He was a strong man and clearly an adventurer, but he had the eyes of a killer and suffered the blood lust. He threw gold coins on the table for payment and as they rolled and scattered the innkeeper scrambled to gather them up before they disappeared over the tables edge.

The man remained slumped on the table. His face curiously outlined by beer spilled from a tankard where he fell. No one disputed the Barbarians claim to the paper and the game continued ignoring both his presence and the man’s unconscious state.

The Barbarian turned away from the table, lifting the paper high above his head. He addressed everyone present, though his words were directed at no one in particular. His voice was harsh and rough. "He claims to have seen it," he said with a mix of scepticism and disbelief, yet there was a hint of longing and hope for truth in his words. He repeated the statement, half-mockingly and half-challengingly, daring anyone to dispute it. "He has seen it… in the labyrinth," he added scornfully, scanning the room. "Are there four among you willing to join me on this quest? There is fortune and glory, so much gold it would take a hundred men to carry. Or are you all too weak and frail to take on such a challenge? Who will journey to the Tomb Chamber in Harksheide with me? I bear the Lantern of an explorer to light our path, but who will follow for fame and riches?"

The room fell silent, and eyes shifted from one person to another waiting to see if anyone would have the nerve to join him on such a Quest. As he scanned the room, he weighed up each of the characters present.

The silence that followed the barbarian’s challenge was heavier than the stone walls enclosing the Lehmitz Tavern. The only sounds were the hiss of the dying hearth and the faint strains of the minstrel's ballad — a haunting tune about lost kings and forgotten gods.

The barbarian stood tall amidst the flickering candlelight and shifting shadows, the map in one hand and the Lantern of Valdros in the other — its glow steady, unwavering, like the heartbeat of the earth itself. It was not an ordinary lantern. Those who knew the old lore recognized the etched brass work and strange pale light. The Lantern of Valdros could pierce illusions and reveal hidden doors, a relic from the Age of Pilgrims when the great labyrinths were still new.

As his voice faded, a figure shifted in the gloom.

From the back corner of the tavern, cloaked in ash-grey robes and shadow, a wizardess rose. Her eyes glinted with knowledge and burden. Gwendolyn Woods, once a scholar of the Silver Lyceum, now in exile. She stepped forward with a grace that belied the rapier sheathed at her side and the spell-pouch clasped to her belt.

“I will join you,” she said softly. “The Tomb Chamber is no myth. The relics are real. I have read of the Ritual of Sealing… and the Necromancer must not be allowed to rise again.”

The room stirred again — a breath inhaled. The mention of the Necromancer shifted the tone. This was no longer merely a gold-seeker’s ramble.

At another table, a maiden in dented mail muttered a prayer to Ysolde, Lady of the Edge. She rose, face pale but determined.

“If what you say is true, then this is no quest for riches alone. I am Helga, Shield Maiden of Helgoland and Knight Maiden of Bretonnia, descended from a long line of Viking Shield Maidens, I wear the steel blue armour of the Bretonnian Empire, and my shield carries their Fleur de Lis as a symbol of allegiance. I am skilled in the use of the broadsword and bound by their strict code of chivalry to fight tyranny and injustice wherever I find it. “

The barbarian grunted approval.

An assassin lurking in the shadows stepped forward into the light of the fire momentarily. He was clearly a man who lives in the shadows of the dark alleys and hidden corners of the city, where the shadows whisper secrets and the moonlight casts an eerie glow, Sundras Tilbarg was born to a lineage of skilled assassins and spies and was a member of the Nightshade Guild. Without word he nodded his acceptance of the challenge. The Barbarian returned a searching start and with barely a blink of an eye, his place on the quest was accepted.

The minstrel, a Drow Elf Bard, who had been quiet through it all, finally changed his tune. The strings of his lyre shifted to an old marching song — one sung by warriors of Harksheide long ago. The few remaining patrons of the Lehmitz stirred as the five stood together, cloaks drawn, weapons ready, eyes toward the door and the path beyond.

The barbarian looked over them, weighing them not by size or sword, but by something deeper — will.

“Then it is done. Five to begin, as it always must be.”

He turned to the slumped gambler at the table.

“And what of him?” asked Helga quietly. “Do we leave him to rot in ale and shame?”

The barbarian paused. Then he knelt beside the man and rolled him gently. His breathing was shallow but steady. In his pocket, the barbarian found a small locket. Inside, a painting — a woman and child, faded with time. He pocketed it gently, then stood.

“He made it out once. That is no small thing. But he’s given all he has — and that is enough. Let the fire keep him warm.”

As the adventurers left the tavern and stepped into the cold October rain, the mist thickened around them. The streets of Reepers Way were still, the tavern lights flickering like old ghosts behind them. But none saw the figure watching from the upper window across the square — a pale-faced boy no older than twelve, with dark eyes and a single glowing Sigel on his palm. He watched until they vanished into the rain, then whispered to no one:

“The Lantern is lit… the path begins again.”

The road to Harksheide's Tomb Chamber is not merely through stone and shadow — it winds through memory, madness, and myth.

The map speaks of many trials within the labyrinth before the Tomb Chamber where the last of the Holy Relics must be placed to rebind the seal that holds the Necromancer’s spirit, will be reached.

But they are not the only ones seeking it.

A rival party, The Crimson Mantle, has already entered the labyrinth — mercenaries under dark patronage, seeking to awaken the power below instead of seal it.

In the caverns below Harksheide, old runes glow again. The spirit of the city, wounded and twisted, still remembers its glory. And the question remains:

Can five strangers undo what betrayal and war have wrought?

Can relics alone bind what darkness has learned to love?

Or will the last light of hope flicker out in the deep… and leave the world colder than before?