Author's note: This storyline takes place a generation after Storms Over Ashkelon that I had written months ago. I've attached a map of Ashkelon as a reference. Enjoy!
Call me Malachi. I have chronicled the events in Ashkelon to the best of my abilities as a scholar, no longer a boy but an aging grandfather blessed to see two generations of his family grow up healthy in spite of everything that’s happened.
Ashkelon: a vast land teeming with elemental and supernatural forces where light, fire, water, earth, and even death itself can be harnessed. Here great heroes and epic legends once lived. Valiant knights and heroes commanding great armies fought against vile evils that threatened the land. Mages soared through the sky on magical beasts. Demons and dragons fell before shining sword and lance. Wondrous cities and palaces filled the countryside. It was a time of high adventure and sorcery, a time of abundance. I remember their legendary names like it was yesterday: Lord Ultim of Lanceor, Sir Faeric, Sir Taiburon, Master Thorin Apyrus, Lord Demetrio, Lady Melisande…so many others like them.
I was a young boy, a mere student scribe when it all changed. Feuds became battles. Battles became wars. The land bled as hundreds of thousands perished from the onslaught of war and the pestilence that followed. Kingdoms and empires fell. Alliances faded and friend turned against friend. The days of adventure became a time of madness and hunger as a generation seemed lost to war, famine, and disease. Even the continent itself broke apart from the magical fury unleashed from the constant wars. The Archmage Iser Abiram’s attempt at reconciliation and peace failed, ultimately costing him his life.
A brief respite followed in Ashkelon under the tenuous watch of five archmages: Ojare Agkeidon, Shifra Neriad, Alderik Einarion, Prerana Sethos, and Chiram Tavi. This, too, did not last beyond a few seasons as Ojare Agkeidon waged a crusade across Ashkelon, plunging it into war once again. The last of the great cities were destroyed along with the vainglorious archmages that ruled them, leaving only scattered remnants of a once wondrous era throughout Ashkelon.
How I’ve survived a generation of war, I don’t know. Perhaps it was divine intervention or dumb luck. All I know is that I’ve seen the fall of greatness that became buried under overgrowth with the passage of time as the land healed itself. The primal energies that flow throughout Ashkelon remain, but who is there to wield such power?
Who, indeed? Once, a vast array of races populated Ashkelon: Elves, Dwarves, Orcs, Goblins, Trolls, Ogres, Humans, Centaurs, Fairies, and a host of others, great and small. Sadly, it appears that now only the humans remain, their numbers significantly depleted from a generation ago. The wondrous races of old are now virtually extinct, decimated beyond repair.
The wide array of monsters, however, seems to prevail in Ashkelon, taking up residence in the abandoned remnants of fallen cities, shrouded in the overgrowth. However, their presence has not detered a newfound generation of treasure hunters, seeking lost riches abandoned by their previous owners among the palatial ruins. Feeding on carrion and the unlucky treasure seeker, these great beasts are the new residents of kingdoms lost to antiquity.
Small towns and hamlets miraculously spared from the destruction have gradually grown into reminders of a once bountiful era. Crops grow once again, but only in small slivers of farmland. Lydda, Magdala, Hesbon, Cadasa, and others like them may have been small villages of no consequence before, but they’ve become the foundation of Ashkelon’s rebirth.
It is the year 1034 in the recorded common history of Ashkelon. A generation has passed since the deaths of the five archmages, but their respective houses of Agkeidon, Neriad, Einarion, Tavi, and Sethos have endured on Ashkelon. New champions will soon emerge, and I hope, no, I pray, that they exercise more wisdom than their forefathers…
Continuation to this story arc that explains what happened to the diverse races that once inhabited Ashkelon.
I was blessed to see the strength of my clan prevail, yet I find myself cursed to be the witness of its fall, and with it the race of Dwarves on Ashkelon.
I am Angus Skeldheim, last chieftain of the Dwarven clans. I sit in a vacant hall of a once glorious citadel. There are five, maybe six other Dwarves that occupy this empty, vacant stronghold with me. They are older than I am, and their final days are few and numbered, just as mine are.
We endured the wars waged by prideful heroes and vainglorious wizards. We defeated demons and dragons. Yet, after all the triumph we succored on the battlefield, we will ultimately lose the most basic of wars: the war of survival.
My beard was once red and thick; it is now white and thin. Our halls are empty of the mirth and song that once filled it nightly. The wars on Ashkelon have taken their toll on my people, and a generation was lost as parents outlived their children. This would be the omen of our downfall that was not from the sword or to dragon fire, but from the passage of time.
We grew older and our numbers grew fewer with no Dwarven children. The only children seen these in the last generation were that of the human warrior Deianara when she took refuge with us. She and her family would eventually leave to return to her people after the deaths of the five archmages.
We foolishly allowed our youth to die, and in so doing, the Dwarven lineage on Ashkelon will end with me. While it’s possible to have half-Dwarven/half-human children, there isn’t enough gold in all the Dwarven citadels combined to make human women of childbearing age come here to sire them with a handful of wizened Dwarves.
These stone citadels of my forefathers were built to last generations. Shamefully, they and the golden trinkets within them shall outlive our race.
I am Malachi Eiden. I have chronicled the events in Ashkelon through two generations. Some I witnessed, some I learned from others, and the rest I survived.
At one point, dozens, if not hundreds, of legendary heroes walked the earth of Ashkelon. Wielding mighty enchanted weapons and aided by clerics, rogues, and wizards of all types, these heroes lived in a time of epic adventure.
Now, they are gone, and with them, their names lost to antiquity save a few recorded by historians such as I. For some, though, their legacy remains, but not in written word, but through their descendants who have risen to prominence in Ashkelon:
Ardon Neriad is a distant descendant of both the archmage Shifra Neriad and the nomadic hero known as ‘Dar’ of several years past. Not surprisingly, he is exceptionally strong and quick, and seems to have a natural affinity with the animals. I’ve even heard that he can communicate with them, so that the hawk is his eyes, the lion his strength, the wolverine his endurance, and the badger his cunning. Would that I could meet him in person for myself.
To my knowledge, there are no longer large standing armies of knights or soldiers at arms on the grand scale of generations past anymore. The closest thing now is that ragtag band led by Talon Adrastus, Master of the Free Company. A warrior, a general, a buccaneer, and freebooter, Talon has amassed quite the following as a liberator of towns and villages in plight. How many number in his group? It varies. Sometimes there’re as many as five hundred, other times no more than say, twenty or so.
Talon has organized his free company into two wings, each with different purposes and members. The first is for all intents and purposes, his military wing, made up of all sorts of warriors, knights, scouts, archers, and skirmishers. They spend most of their time roving from place to place, liberating some unnamed village from a petty tyrant or band of raiders. The pay isn’t much and at best, they receive some supplies from the town or village they rescue. The seasoned veteran soldier Gilead Henda leads this wing, second only to Talon.
The second, more interestingly, is his wing of freebooters: thieves, treasure-seekers, bards, and other related unsavory sorts of that kind. They are led by the expert treasure hunter Keren Einarion, a distant descendant of the archmage Alderik Einarion. Given the number of ruined cities that exist on Ashkelon, the opportunities are plentiful for her to seek out lost antiquities with her fellow freebooters.
From what I’ve heard, the going average is that for every five freebooters that go into an old city, only two or three come out alive. Those that perish are often eaten by the monstrous denizens of the fallen cities. One would think that ratio would deter others from joining Talon’s group, but on the contrary, his numbers swell when those survivors tell the tale and show off their newly gained affluence with Keren at the helm.
What has lacked in quantity in recent years has been made up for in quality, personified in Talori Agkeidon, a warrior mage of epic scale. Some even go so far as to call her, “the Warrior Goddess.” Although her lineage is directly that of the archmage Ojare Agkeidon, she has thankfully not inherited his impulsive temperament, self-righteousness, or his overconfidence. Quite the contrary, Talori Agkeidon has proven humble and wise beyond her years and is a guardian of maintaining peace in Ashkelon. Perhaps it is the shame of her forefather than drives her as such.
On the opposite end of the spectrum are Tzion and Merav Tavi, who are the offspring of the archmages Chiram Tavi and Prerana Sethos. Not surprisingly, they’ve inherited their parents’ penchant for sadism and raw, uninhibited magical power. One would think they would rival one another but surprisingly, they compliment each other in the most effective way.
Unlike their father, Tzion has emerged as a fierce warrior, not a warlock. What little magic he knows, it’s to create brutish minions to aid him in battle. Merav is very much like their parents, however, commanding a deadly array of spells. Tzion’s raw skills and strength compliment Merav, just as she compliments his with her sophisticated command of the supernatural. A would-be upstart dared attempt to usurp their dominion, only to succumb to a most gruesome fate of blood and fire. Truly, Tzion and Merav Tavi have redefined the phrase, “assault and battery” to a whole new level.
Miraculously, the delicate balance that prevails in Ashkelon involves Tzion and Merav Tavi and Talori Agkeidon keeping one another in check.
The great kingdoms, nations, and empires of old no longer exist on Ashkelon. The closest thing to them is the Areszan Alliance formed by Micah Shamiran and his sister, Adara, among the hamlets, towns, and villages spanning a wide swath of Ashkelon. In its charter are basic agreements of defense, commerce, and rights among their people. Not surprisingly, Talon Adrastus and his Free Company are frequently employed by them, as is Talori Agkeidon’s help often requested.
Cadmus Cromwell may be the illegitimate descendant to his royal ancestor Titus, but he certainly inherited the power lust and cunning of his forefather. The empire that once existed long gone, Cadmus is seeking to make his name through another direction. Where that path lies, no one knows for sure…rumors circulate of him being a demonologist, or a warlock, or even a necromancer. Last I heard he was supporting Tzion and Merav Tavi, so anything is possible.
Truly, that phrase has been the enduring belief on Ashkelon in spite of everything that’s happened…
…anything is possible.
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Call me Malachi. I have chronicled the events in Ashkelon to the best of my abilities as a scholar, no longer a boy but an aging grandfather blessed to see two generations of his family grow up healthy in spite of everything that’s happened.
Ashkelon: a vast land teeming with elemental and supernatural forces where light, fire, water, earth, and even death itself can be harnessed. Here great heroes and epic legends once lived. Valiant knights and heroes commanding great armies fought against vile evils that threatened the land. Mages soared through the sky on magical beasts. Demons and dragons fell before shining sword and lance. Wondrous cities and palaces filled the countryside. It was a time of high adventure and sorcery, a time of abundance. I remember their legendary names like it was yesterday: Lord Ultim of Lanceor, Sir Faeric, Sir Taiburon, Master Thorin Apyrus, Lord Demetrio, Lady Melisande…so many others like them.
I was a young boy, a mere student scribe when it all changed. Feuds became battles. Battles became wars. The land bled as hundreds of thousands perished from the onslaught of war and the pestilence that followed. Kingdoms and empires fell. Alliances faded and friend turned against friend. The days of adventure became a time of madness and hunger as a generation seemed lost to war, famine, and disease. Even the continent itself broke apart from the magical fury unleashed from the constant wars. The Archmage Iser Abiram’s attempt at reconciliation and peace failed, ultimately costing him his life.
A brief respite followed in Ashkelon under the tenuous watch of five archmages: Ojare Agkeidon, Shifra Neriad, Alderik Einarion, Prerana Sethos, and Chiram Tavi. This, too, did not last beyond a few seasons as Ojare Agkeidon waged a crusade across Ashkelon, plunging it into war once again. The last of the great cities were destroyed along with the vainglorious archmages that ruled them, leaving only scattered remnants of a once wondrous era throughout Ashkelon.
How I’ve survived a generation of war, I don’t know. Perhaps it was divine intervention or dumb luck. All I know is that I’ve seen the fall of greatness that became buried under overgrowth with the passage of time as the land healed itself. The primal energies that flow throughout Ashkelon remain, but who is there to wield such power?
Who, indeed? Once, a vast array of races populated Ashkelon: Elves, Dwarves, Orcs, Goblins, Trolls, Ogres, Humans, Centaurs, Fairies, and a host of others, great and small. Sadly, it appears that now only the humans remain, their numbers significantly depleted from a generation ago. The wondrous races of old are now virtually extinct, decimated beyond repair.
The wide array of monsters, however, seems to prevail in Ashkelon, taking up residence in the abandoned remnants of fallen cities, shrouded in the overgrowth. However, their presence has not detered a newfound generation of treasure hunters, seeking lost riches abandoned by their previous owners among the palatial ruins. Feeding on carrion and the unlucky treasure seeker, these great beasts are the new residents of kingdoms lost to antiquity.
Small towns and hamlets miraculously spared from the destruction have gradually grown into reminders of a once bountiful era. Crops grow once again, but only in small slivers of farmland. Lydda, Magdala, Hesbon, Cadasa, and others like them may have been small villages of no consequence before, but they’ve become the foundation of Ashkelon’s rebirth.
It is the year 1034 in the recorded common history of Ashkelon. A generation has passed since the deaths of the five archmages, but their respective houses of Agkeidon, Neriad, Einarion, Tavi, and Sethos have endured on Ashkelon. New champions will soon emerge, and I hope, no, I pray, that they exercise more wisdom than their forefathers…
I was blessed to see the strength of my clan prevail, yet I find myself cursed to be the witness of its fall, and with it the race of Dwarves on Ashkelon.
I am Angus Skeldheim, last chieftain of the Dwarven clans. I sit in a vacant hall of a once glorious citadel. There are five, maybe six other Dwarves that occupy this empty, vacant stronghold with me. They are older than I am, and their final days are few and numbered, just as mine are.
We endured the wars waged by prideful heroes and vainglorious wizards. We defeated demons and dragons. Yet, after all the triumph we succored on the battlefield, we will ultimately lose the most basic of wars: the war of survival.
My beard was once red and thick; it is now white and thin. Our halls are empty of the mirth and song that once filled it nightly. The wars on Ashkelon have taken their toll on my people, and a generation was lost as parents outlived their children. This would be the omen of our downfall that was not from the sword or to dragon fire, but from the passage of time.
We grew older and our numbers grew fewer with no Dwarven children. The only children seen these in the last generation were that of the human warrior Deianara when she took refuge with us. She and her family would eventually leave to return to her people after the deaths of the five archmages.
We foolishly allowed our youth to die, and in so doing, the Dwarven lineage on Ashkelon will end with me. While it’s possible to have half-Dwarven/half-human children, there isn’t enough gold in all the Dwarven citadels combined to make human women of childbearing age come here to sire them with a handful of wizened Dwarves.
These stone citadels of my forefathers were built to last generations. Shamefully, they and the golden trinkets within them shall outlive our race.
At one point, dozens, if not hundreds, of legendary heroes walked the earth of Ashkelon. Wielding mighty enchanted weapons and aided by clerics, rogues, and wizards of all types, these heroes lived in a time of epic adventure.
Now, they are gone, and with them, their names lost to antiquity save a few recorded by historians such as I. For some, though, their legacy remains, but not in written word, but through their descendants who have risen to prominence in Ashkelon:
Ardon Neriad is a distant descendant of both the archmage Shifra Neriad and the nomadic hero known as ‘Dar’ of several years past. Not surprisingly, he is exceptionally strong and quick, and seems to have a natural affinity with the animals. I’ve even heard that he can communicate with them, so that the hawk is his eyes, the lion his strength, the wolverine his endurance, and the badger his cunning. Would that I could meet him in person for myself.
To my knowledge, there are no longer large standing armies of knights or soldiers at arms on the grand scale of generations past anymore. The closest thing now is that ragtag band led by Talon Adrastus, Master of the Free Company. A warrior, a general, a buccaneer, and freebooter, Talon has amassed quite the following as a liberator of towns and villages in plight. How many number in his group? It varies. Sometimes there’re as many as five hundred, other times no more than say, twenty or so.
Talon has organized his free company into two wings, each with different purposes and members. The first is for all intents and purposes, his military wing, made up of all sorts of warriors, knights, scouts, archers, and skirmishers. They spend most of their time roving from place to place, liberating some unnamed village from a petty tyrant or band of raiders. The pay isn’t much and at best, they receive some supplies from the town or village they rescue. The seasoned veteran soldier Gilead Henda leads this wing, second only to Talon.
The second, more interestingly, is his wing of freebooters: thieves, treasure-seekers, bards, and other related unsavory sorts of that kind. They are led by the expert treasure hunter Keren Einarion, a distant descendant of the archmage Alderik Einarion. Given the number of ruined cities that exist on Ashkelon, the opportunities are plentiful for her to seek out lost antiquities with her fellow freebooters.
From what I’ve heard, the going average is that for every five freebooters that go into an old city, only two or three come out alive. Those that perish are often eaten by the monstrous denizens of the fallen cities. One would think that ratio would deter others from joining Talon’s group, but on the contrary, his numbers swell when those survivors tell the tale and show off their newly gained affluence with Keren at the helm.
What has lacked in quantity in recent years has been made up for in quality, personified in Talori Agkeidon, a warrior mage of epic scale. Some even go so far as to call her, “the Warrior Goddess.” Although her lineage is directly that of the archmage Ojare Agkeidon, she has thankfully not inherited his impulsive temperament, self-righteousness, or his overconfidence. Quite the contrary, Talori Agkeidon has proven humble and wise beyond her years and is a guardian of maintaining peace in Ashkelon. Perhaps it is the shame of her forefather than drives her as such.
On the opposite end of the spectrum are Tzion and Merav Tavi, who are the offspring of the archmages Chiram Tavi and Prerana Sethos. Not surprisingly, they’ve inherited their parents’ penchant for sadism and raw, uninhibited magical power. One would think they would rival one another but surprisingly, they compliment each other in the most effective way.
Unlike their father, Tzion has emerged as a fierce warrior, not a warlock. What little magic he knows, it’s to create brutish minions to aid him in battle. Merav is very much like their parents, however, commanding a deadly array of spells. Tzion’s raw skills and strength compliment Merav, just as she compliments his with her sophisticated command of the supernatural. A would-be upstart dared attempt to usurp their dominion, only to succumb to a most gruesome fate of blood and fire. Truly, Tzion and Merav Tavi have redefined the phrase, “assault and battery” to a whole new level.
Miraculously, the delicate balance that prevails in Ashkelon involves Tzion and Merav Tavi and Talori Agkeidon keeping one another in check.
The great kingdoms, nations, and empires of old no longer exist on Ashkelon. The closest thing to them is the Areszan Alliance formed by Micah Shamiran and his sister, Adara, among the hamlets, towns, and villages spanning a wide swath of Ashkelon. In its charter are basic agreements of defense, commerce, and rights among their people. Not surprisingly, Talon Adrastus and his Free Company are frequently employed by them, as is Talori Agkeidon’s help often requested.
Cadmus Cromwell may be the illegitimate descendant to his royal ancestor Titus, but he certainly inherited the power lust and cunning of his forefather. The empire that once existed long gone, Cadmus is seeking to make his name through another direction. Where that path lies, no one knows for sure…rumors circulate of him being a demonologist, or a warlock, or even a necromancer. Last I heard he was supporting Tzion and Merav Tavi, so anything is possible.
Truly, that phrase has been the enduring belief on Ashkelon in spite of everything that’s happened…
…anything is possible.