The Moon Psalm Chronicles

So I felt like writing a story set in my D&D/Pathfinder setting about the first adventurers. I may do more if I'm feeling up to it, and who knows. If enough people feel interested in it, perhaps I might run an online game for you lovable nerds. (Also, I'm going to have to post it in several parts because of how low the max character count on this website's posts are.) This is set in a time before adventurers changed the culture to be more anime/fantasy trope-ish, we had a properly functioning medieval society. And this is a short story about two of the figures responsible for turning that on its head. And yes, there will be homocidal bunnies. So, please enjoy a page from the history of my world. https://justhistoryposts.files.wordpress.com/2018/03/82458_original.jpg

Tales of adventurers and their deeds are as abundant as the stars in the skies. Stories of steel, stealth, and sorcery interwoven into a single group arrayed against the dark denizens of the dungeons flood into many a taverns in even the coldest nights of the year without fail. Adventurers are the heroes of our day. And their reasons for taking the risky path are as plentiful as the number of exotic spices in a Treviventian merchant city. They range from fortune finders, fame mongers, treasure hunters, thrill seekers, and knowledge hoarders. Such an exciting life tempts those of all the mortal races, almost without exception. Bands of Dwarves travel the surface world to find new mountains. Wood elves leaving their forests in search of nature’s most secretive locales. And humans leave their communities to fulfill their wildest dreams. This is truly the golden age of adventure, as a radical new culture routinely shuffles and shakes the edifices of once isolated, and rigid societies. As the mortal races cast away their differences to band together, bleed together, conquer dungeons together, and in some cases, even die together, the magics, riches, and stories solidify them more than ever before. Nowadays, you’d be hard pressed not find a board of quests with a monthly crew of sell swords collected around it, seeking a job to fill their coin pouches by hunting a pack of boars from a farm, or poachers from a sylvan forest. Indeed, our society has grown to depend on these brave and skilled men and women. To worship their deeds, and sing their songs. But our story today is of the times before this golden age. It is of a time when religious dogma held men conscious and accountable for their piety. It is an age when the songs they sang rang of knights and kings, rather than sellswords, thieves, and sorcerers. But by the Foster god, our story just so happens to be the start of it all. Of the first band of dungeon divers who decided to trade many of their noble privileges, and start the first guild to market off of their unique talents. The saga starts with one. A knight errant, famously referred to by many heroic titles. The dungeon crawler. The Wyrm Slayer. The Greenfrost knight. And last, but not least, the Esmari Champion. A curious title to be held by a reputedly devout Fosterin. But I tell you not the embellished tales you’ve likely heard regarding Sir Bareswilt. The story I tell is true. Recorded from the personal travel log of his first companion, the golden bard herself, Lady Ouring. Once thought to be lost to history, and far from her tall tale songs, it is this log which became the first instruction manual that all aspiring adventurers recant as fervently as the Foster Priests did with the parables of Sol, from the holy white book. Sure, the version many find in print is a stripped down version with many of the human elements at the heart of the story separated into her poems and songs. But you could say, the original journal is a family treasure of mine. But forgive my gloating, for I digress. It runs in the family, as you may have guessed. Here, free from lyric and rhyme, is the true story lost to time.

Back in the day, a quest was not contracted work waiting to be picked up by any old adventurer in the tavern or guild hall. Only two powers can issue a quest. The earthly powers, in reference to the crown, the royal family, lords and Castelons of a certain status, or the occasional High Elvin court, and then there’s the heavenly powers, being Fosteric Church, a seer of the Esmari Faith, and in even older traditions, the plentiful old gods themselves, who at one time were much more active in shaping human destiny. Only one social class was allowed to take such quests. And this was only done in times when there was a lapse in war. That was the knights. And I can assure you, the term quest was not thrown around as lightly as it is today. These days, clearing rats out of a basement is considered a quest. But in those days, the quest was neither given, nor taken lightly. A quest had weight to it. To find a lost holy relic. To challenge a rampaging dragon. To survey distant lands and untamed wilderness. And to find a missing figure of considerable importance. In most peaceful kingdoms, you would be more likely to find the knights participating in jousting tourneys or participating in a hunt. And yet, our young knight, freshly out of squirehood had no other business for traveling as far south as he did other than just such a task. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ The ground was soggy on that morning. The air still retained its damp moisture. With the puddle ridden trail laid out before him, Cliff Bareswilt was glad to be atop his horse, Dusty. Dusty was no magnificent war steed by any beholding eyes who caught a glimpse of the shaggy old sumpter horse with matted grey fur. And yet for his humble appearance and advancing age, the old peasant stock horse made up for it with character, loyalty, and stoic stubbornness. And in that sense, he was a prize for the young knight errant. The horse silently cantered through the forest with the silent knight on top. Were the ground less muddy, normally Cliff made it a habit of walking beside old Dusty. But Cliff could see the town in the distance, and he had to make sure not to get his expensive pair of boots dirty. Not that he cared so much about hygiene, but as some nobles had taken offense to the dirt he tracked into their homes, he had grown to accept basic fashion in such urban centers as a practical thing, more than a frivolous joke. The least the stranger in the foreign land could do was at least feign that he was no country bumpkin from the heaths of Casland. (A kingdom which existed before the nations fully consolidated. It is now part of Edren.) He had just one problem in that endeavor. Cliff was impoverished. As in despite his knightly status, he had trouble distinguishing himself from the city artisans, who in many cases had more wealth than he did in these parts of the world. They had a name for knights like him. Hedge knights. And Cliff had to make due with what little he had inherited from his family and his late mentor to keep the illusion that he was not one of those. As a traveler in a foreign kingdom, Cliff’s only forms of income came from freelance hire for short campaigns, to tournament jousts. Both of which slipped beyond his reach the moment they saw him for what he was. In most cases, old Dusty herself was the dead giveaway, but in a few cases, they found out too late to remove him by the time he had slipped into the company or the tourney. Cliff had no known titles in the region either. Or no flattering ones at least. He performed well in the jousts and melees he did enter, but nowhere near as good as many of the regional kingdom favorites, who lived up to the hype of their popularity with skill. Thankfully, he wasn’t expecting to see any of them in Cobbleton. This was a smaller affair, meant to celebrate the long standing pease of two neighboring kingdoms. Meaning only the knights of the two kingdoms, and a few traveling freelancers were likely to be seen. At least that’s what he had heard from the knight who bested him in the last one. Sir Roster, who was a fine man, despite irking Cliff the wrong way by taking condescending pity on the hedge knight. There seemed to be an uncharacteristically spry bounce in Dusty’s canter, all of the sudden. And Cliff’s copper eyed gaze lifted from the sodden trail when he too detected the change. Although even when lofted by his saddle, sir Bareswilt could hear it before ever catching a glimpse over the hill. The forests and fields of Willroe Fief were abuzz with life just after the late spring showers. And yet the sound of mortal laughter and the strumming of a lute in the distance made the sense of life that much more tangible. Upon seeing the lot resting at the road side, he lifted the damp green hood of his cloak off of his head, revealing a crown of brown hair. A trait common to the Tamien peoples. Pilgrims it would seem. He thought to himself, noting the white that seemed predominate in their outfits. But there was one among them who didn’t seem dressed for the occasion. For in contrast of the crowd of white, the one pink haired girl who happened to be the minstrel of the group easily popped out. If not only for her unnaturally saturated hair color which like all of her race seemed to possess, then by the green elvin silk tunic with short sleeves trimmed in golden fleece. Asmians were always the race to push the boundary of fashion, but given the amount of leg showing as the lower part of her belted tunic stopped just above the knees, she was clearly dressed too immodestly to be a pilgrim. That said, as Cliff Bareswilt glanced down at his own dress, she certainly was the victor in status among her station. For his own muted colors consisted mostly of white and brown. A white tunic layered under a short sleeved chainmail, which too lay under a damp dark brown padded gamberson, still in the process of drying from the morning showers. And a green woolen riding cloak. It should be noted in those days that plate armor was much more expensive than it is now. “Ah! Milord!” One of the pilgrims exclaimed as he rose from the circle. Cliff shifted his copper gaze toward the man, with attention The pilgrim bowed once, as the knight slowed his horse to a stop. Then with a cheery smile, the pilgrim spread his arms widely. “A fine day, is it not?” Cliff looked at him dryly as a drop of water fell from his damp mail sleeve. He couldn’t find himself to respond negatively to the pilgrim, so he admitted “I suppose. At least the spring’s warmth is finally with us.” “Aye. Must have been a cold spring so far where you’re from” The Asmian chimed in. She inclined her head, opening her emerald gaze upon the knight. Asmians were a rare breed of human in those days. They had only just begun to return to the world. And the ambient energies of the fae realm have rendered them a much more beautiful people than the Tamian stock they are descended from. Which is why, when she beheld sir Bareswilt, in her emerald orbs, he felt himself shift nervously for a bit. “Uh, Yes, winter tends to linger in Casland, even after the snow has melted. How did you know, though?” He asked. “Edrish knights from the lower peninsula generally travel by boat, then take the southern roads to get anywhere in Falamore. You however clearly hailed from the north if you’re passing through Willroe Fief. And the coat of arms you bare on your shield. Its obscure, but only Caslanders and Scarlic knights bare the heathland flowers.” Cliff looked back at her incredulously. Then looked back at his shield. Four squares of green and brown in the background with a foreground containing a golden gryphon baring a bundle of heathland flowers in one claw and a shield in the other. Even among Caslanders however, his certainly was an obscure coat of arms. “Don’t be too surprised. I’m an Esmari bard.” She stated humbly. The pilgrim male looked to the fire and then back to him. “Why don’t you come dry off with us? A knight would be good company.” He stated graciously as he sat back on the log.

Sir Bareswilt swung his leg over his horse, then dismounted with a drop onto the wet wagon and hoof rutted mud. Then led his horse by the lead off the trail. Before he approached however, he searched a sack a saddle bag before producing another kite shield. Two gold stags on a background of blue. Surrounded by a red banner with golden diamonds. He then approached and presented the shield to the Asmian female. “I actually happen to be on a quest. Would you by chance happen to know anything about this coat and the knight who previously bore it?” He inquired. The pilgrims shifted to get a better look for themselves, but the bard studied it. “Hmm…” Then, pursing her lips, she inclined her gaze upward as she placed a hand to her chin. “Hmm…” Eyes furrowed as she gazed back downward. “Hmm…” She looked back at the artifact as some sort of realization dawned on her face. “Ohhh.” She mused. “I’m not entirely sure, to be honest. Your best bet would be to head to the Lavontian kingdoms, I would think.” She admitted. Cliff’s shoulders sagged as he exhaled in defeat. He then took a seat on a rock cropping rom the ground. Then, began to strip the layers of his armor, which one of the pilgrims put to the clothing line behind him. After leaning the shield against him, another of the pilgrims then handed him a cup of coffee. “Thank you.” He responded, then blew on the liquid’s steamy surface. “So you’re the questing sort of knight?” The male pilgrim from before, likely the leader of the party, curiously inquired. “Yes, I am.” Cliff affirmed. The Asmian and the pilgrim looked at one another, sharing a certain smile. “Oh, the necklace!” She chimed. The man nodded as the Tamian knight looked up from his drink. “Oh, well, I’m a mere commoner. If only we had someone of a certain faith that had the authority to grant quests.” The pilgrim said slyly. The Asmian continued. “Oh, I actually happen to have that authority. Even if I’m of the golden faith, and not the Foster god.” She played along. Cliff nearly choked on his coffee at that comment. There was no way a woman like her was a nun. “What are you two going on about?” He asked, cutting through the pretenses they were so deliberately weaving in front of him. The bard stood, brushing her pink hair to the side of her face. “Good sir, I happen to have a divine task to ask of you. For these pilgrims may be of the Foster god, but those of the white faith have always been kind to we who walk the golden path. And I, as an Esmari Bard, am granted dominion of such duties as to pass along such quests to those of the knightly class. Would you so kindly take it?” “She has to be bending some rules.” Cliff thought to himself. Then again, he didn’t confess to knowing much about how the Esmari faith was structured. Only that they were a group who insisted on continuing worship of the dead goddess who’s work the foster god had been bequeathed. “I uh… Don’t normally take quests from faiths I am not a part of.” Cliff admitted. But seeing the look in the hopeful eyes of the Fosterin pilgrims, then the Esmari bard who leaned in with a smile so charming it nearly stole the blood from his heart, Cliff looked downward to the shield. The coat of arms of the knight reflected in his copper eyes. Then, resolve reinforced his voice. “What is my task? And what would the esmari faith offer as a reward?” “Sir knight. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Calliope Ouring. You may either call me lady Ouring, or Cloe for short. Its a childhood name. And should you find the pilgrim’s necklace, I will offer all my skills to aid you in your ongoing quest. My skills as a lore keeper, an as your personal herald to help cultivate a reputation to you and your quest.”

The strange, long necked, wooly creature hailed sir Bareswilt with a grunt. “What in the world is that?” He asked. The ears flitted back as it erected its neck over him. “He is a Mezzoramian Dire Alpaca. And he takes offense very easily, so you might not want to call him a thing to his regal face.” Cloe said as she stroke it’s neck into a less agitated state. “I have seen Mezzoramians before, but I uh… This is the first time I’ve seen an alpaca up close.” Cliff admitted nervously. The creature’s gaze swished back towards him. Two large buck teeth protruded from its lower jaw upward. A thick curly wool fell over its eyes, masking the creature’s upper expression. “He’s kinda… well, how do I put it. Homely?” Cliff stammered. “Shield up.” Cloe said nonchalantly as she readied her saddle. But just as Cliff struggled to process what he had just heard, a projectile attack splattered right in his face, nearly dismounting Cliff from his horse. “Ugh!” He retorted, struggling to wipe whatever it was off his face. “It spits when its offended!?” He shouted. Cloe chuckled to herself. “Right. Saliva. Thats what it is.” She said, handing him a piece of burlap cloth. One she kept on her person for when this inevitable incident happened. The alpaca grunted, baring its flat teeth at him. Then turned back to the road as it trotted along. Once he was sure his face was clean, Cliff spurred Dusty along. Once he had reached her speed, he continued. “So, this Saint’s necklace. It was taken from them by a pack of pooka?” “That’s about the gist of it, sir Bareswilt. The pilgrims were held at ambush the night before I joined them. They said there were about four in the attack, which means wherever they’re hiding their treasures, there’s perhaps at least…” Cloe inclined her gase as she thought to herself for a bit before continuing. “Six or eight more of them. Then again, with how fast they repopulate…” She trailed off. “Repopulate? Its only been a day!” “You’ve never encountered pooka before, have you?” “Well, no.” “They’re much more common in Asmia, I suppose. But you have a lot of them migrating north an south.” “So they’re like boars or rabbits?” “They’re exactly like rabbits actually. Just much bigger, much smarter, about as strong as a human, stand on their hind legs, and some of them are very deadly with weapons. Oh, and homicidal. You’ve seen the illuminated images in books, haven’t you?” “I uh… Didn’t know they should be taken so literally.” “Some even ride giant snails to get a height advantage over mounted humans.” A nervous sweat began to conjure in Cliff’s hands. Exactly what had he gotten himself into, he wondered. “Having second thoughts?” Cloe asked with an empathic look in her eyes. Cliff closed his eyes and let out his tension in a sigh. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t scared. Humans are one thing, but monsters?” “Usually knights don’t go into these things alone, do they?” “The one who sired me would’ve.” Cloe paused at Cliff’s choice of words. Then considered something in her mind, then smiled brightly. “Don’t worry, sir Bareswilt. It sounds like you squired with a real knight. And you aren’t alone, either.” Cliff glanced at the Asmian’s calm expression. “Esmari priests can fight?” He asked. Cloe nodded. “I’m pretty handy with a rapier, a crossbow, I dabble in a bit of magic, and yes, Esmari priests are allowed to draw blood, unlike Fosterin clerics. Though I hear even your clerics can brandish weapons that break bones, can’t they?” Cliff considered for a moment. “Yeah, its not unheard of on crusade.” He concluded. “Exactly.” Cloe chirped. “And Esmari bards are always on crusade. Its just a very different type of crusade than you might have heard about.” She explained. Though as Cliff regarded her with curiosity, Dusty gave a curt neigh then stopped in his tracks. “Looks like Dusty senses something.” Cliff said as he patted the old stallion. “Casper? Would you please.” Cloe said to the dire alpaca. The creature stopped and allowed her to dismount. She then released her crossbow from its saddle strap, and grabbed a quiver for her waste. She looked up at the knight who hadn’t dismounted yet. “Are you perhaps considering riding that old creature into battle?” She asked, blinking. Cliff smirked. “Actually, I can guarantee you that Dusty has more combat experience than anyone here.” He said proudly. The old stallion didn’t respond. But one look into its old black eyes, and that not only was sir bareswilt serious, but also accurate as well. “See? You’re in good hands.” She said. Although truth was, it made her feel safer too. Still, Cliff dismounted. Shield poised, he drew his arming sword and advanced with dusty trotting along side him. “We’ll be behind the furrow.” Cloe said, walking off to the left of the path. The alpaca also following. And soon, they disappear in the wilderness. The open fields gradually were swallowed by the forest. And soon, the trail presented a problem for old dusty, when the tracks crossed into a steep muddy creek bed. Cliff however managed to work his way down, then back up the other side. But he came to a halt when he began to notice something wet smear on his forearm. Blood. It was all over the leaves to his right. Steadying himself, he pressed on. Until he noticed a decapitated body in the center of a clearing ahead. A sudden curse to his left startled him, until he noticed the pink hair. She held her hand over her mouth and was trying not to look down. It looked as though she had found the head. Perhaps even stepped on it. But she regained her reserve, silently hopped over it, then disappeared back into the grass. “Well, she’s no wood elf, but she really is pretty sneaky.” Cliff mused inwardly. But before he turned back, a pair of long furry ears passed by right where he had seen her. “Lady Ouring!” He tried to alert her, then felt something knock into his ankle, tripping him. It was about three feet tall. A gray furred hare, wielding a wooden stick fashioned into a club. And as it poised to strike, an arrow whistled through the brush, missing, but startling the creature. Cliff rolled off the ground to his feet, then made it into the clearing. Cloe soon joined him with her crossbow in her left, and a bloodied rapier in her right. “Thanks for the warning, that thing almost brained me in the back of the head!” She panted. But the two creatures were also both alive, despite one with a large cut on its forearm. As they were backed into the clearing, Cliff glanced to their left and right. He could see a cave on their left with a crude half sized wooden palisade around it. And to their left, one more on the hill with an arrow nocked and ready to release. Cliff barely had time to rase his shield arm. But the thud of an arrow on wood, had told him all he needed to know. “Lady Ouring, we need to get inside the cave. They have an archer.” He said. “I agree, sir Bareswilt, and that’s probably where they’re keeping their loot, but be careful. That is their lair.”

Both pressed a single attack at the two in front of them, and though neither connected, it gave them time to disengage. “Heavy armored people up front, milord!” Cloe advised mid-stride. “Right.” Cliff agreed. And with shield in front of him, he ran straight into the palisade, knocking part of it into a slant. Cloe pounced onto the wall, then scampered up the incline with relative ease. As soon as Cliff had lifted himself back off the wall, an arrow had struck home, right where his throat would have been. “This one’s a good shot.” Cliff admitted reluctantly as he scampered upwards. He soon however came face to face with a crossbow aimed right at him. And in a reflex, dove off to the side over the wall. One of the pooka let out an ungodly screech, flying back into the muddy forest dirt. Cloe smirked at her handiwork, then rushed over to help the knight back on his feet. Where the two successfully rushed into the lair. They took a brief moment to catch their breaths, while striking up a defensive on either side. “There’s no gate. How the hell do they get through that palisade?” Cliff asked. “Well-“ Cloe started, in the midst of reloading her crossbow. But she wasn’t given time to finish as soon two pooka sprang over the wall effortlessly. “They jump good.” She said, as she gripped his cloak hood and began walking him backwards. “Just keep facing the entrance. I’m your eyes up front.” She said. Something in her voice told sir Bareswilt that she was enjoying this. And as he looked up, he noticed the archer throw its arrows to the side, and draw a single edged hunting sword. The other prepared its club. Oh great. Cliff thought to himself. He rose his shield and lowered his posture to better narrow his vulnerable zones. He would have to be a shield for two people now. The two pooka didn’t allow them to get any further into the cave however. They both hurried themselves right at Cliff with nearly blinding speed. Luckily, with slight tilts to his upper body, he was able to block both strikes. The second time was easier, for Cliff was getting a better reed at their body language to tell when they would launch themselves, although one of the blocks had nearly knocked him into Cloe, though he managed to hold his balance. They were preparing for a third spring attack, though something was different with the one on the right armed with the thick stick. It’s angle had changed as it built up its next spring. “It must be trying to get ahead of us” Cliff thought. With that, Cliff adjusted his stance so that his blade raised over his shield, pointed overhead at his enemies. The one armed with the hunting sword predictably struck first, and its attack didn’t seem meant to penetrate him, but rather keep him locked into a rhythm. But when the second leapt… Blood squirted past Cloe’s face unto the walls and floor to her left as the stick tumbled and thudded its way down the cavern tunnel. The cave rang with yet another horrible bloodcurdling yelp of pain, and soon, the creature’s limp body slid from Cliff’s blade to the ground. The last one hissed, then backed off. “I hate the sounds those things make when they die. But good work, sir Bareswilt.” She congratulated, then came to a halt. “Ah. Good. This burrow isn’t too deep.” She commented. Through the low lighting, she could just barely make out the glint of some shiny trinkets covering the floor. Then, with a glance behind them to make affirm they were gone, she pulled a candle from her pouch, sat it down, and grew silent with her hands over it. Cliff’s guard remained for a moment longer, before he gave a look behind them. “What are you-“ He stopped as soon as a candle sputtered to life. “Just a little spell. Sure beats starting fires the old fashion way.” She chimed as she held the candle before her. It was a messy assortment of treasures. But there was some value in some of it. And as the Asmian began to kneel to get a closer look at things, Cliff noted something. A single necklace hanging from an iron mace. “You think that’s it? He asked, approaching it. Though out of paranoia, he kept his shield facing the corner. She looked at it, then scooted up to it. Untangling it from the mace, she held it in hand. “The pendant of St. Gina. I do believe this matches the pilgrim’s description.” “Great. Now all we need to do is get back ali-“ the sound of coins and treasures entering a sack began to emanate behind him. Upon turning, he saw the Asmian holding a transparent gem to her excited eyes before too returning it to the sack. “Those are other people’s things. I don’t feel right taking them.” He said. “And not to mention, there’s more of those things out there. Do we really have time for this?” Cloe looked up from the bag, then back at the treasure. She smirked. “They were stolen from honest people. Some of which as we saw earlier, are no longer among the living. The best thing we can do I… Oh, I dunno, but them back into the human economy? At least this way, we can get some money to travel on.” she remarked. “And I’m going to guess you haven’t been to a tavern in a while, have you, sir Bareswilt? You just have that “I’ve forgotten what a feathered bed feels like” look about you.” “How did you-” “It’s how your shoulders move. So tense.” Cloe had finished her looting, then slung the sack over her shoulder. She handed the pendant and mace over to the knight. “The mace doesn’t look like much, but I have detected a faint magical aura on it. I think it’s made to fight undead.” She said. Cliff put his sword away, to put the pendant in his pouch. He took the mace into hand and looked at it suspiciously. “Oh, a remnant of the black death?” He questioned. Cloe nodded. “That’s correct. Most weapons like this were discarded after a few uses, because they felt like slaying the infected would cause the disease. Until they found out of course that it only spread through a bite. The few that were left were confiscated by the Fosterin church, so what you have right there is somewhat of a collector’s piece. I’m sure your god would prefer to have people continue to use his blessed relics to push evil back into the darkest corners of the world, but who am I to question what your church does?” She explained. Cliff’s eyes never lifted from the antique however. He smirked, then fastened it to his belt. “I suppose this is worth hanging onto, isn’t it?” He asked. “Now you’re getting the picture.” Cloe cued as she poked him with her elbow. “However, the order in my religion is; help others first, then get rich. And sir Bareswilt, we have a semi holy relic to return.” She said, picking her candle from the ground.

“Semi-holy?” “Who could say if it actually belonged to a saint or not?” “Wait, how would you even know?” “It has no magical or divine auras.” When the two emerged from the burrow, Cloe snuffed her candle with a quick puff of her breath, then waited a moment for it to cool before returning it to her pouch. Cliff stepped beyond the entrance, then pilled the leaning palisade wall down further for the bard to climb up. After making it over himself, the two stood in the forest clearing, took in the surrounding, and hefted sighs. “Think we made it.” Cloe said confidently. That confidence shattered the moment an arrow flew right over her shoulder and thudded into the dirt. The turned toward the entrance, then looked over the hill to see more than thirty angry pooka, bearing their teeth and brandishing bows, axes, sticks, spears, and one hunting sword. “Uh, sir Bareswilt?” “Just go. Run now!” It was the fastest either had claimed to have ever run up till that point. First by foot, then by mount. But even upon their steed, the furry long eared hare-like fairies were hot on their heels. When they broke from the forest however, a row of archers lay upon the hill. “Formation, lads! Our query has been brought to us prematurely!” a cloaked man had shouted. And with swift speed and tactical organization, the archers flew seamlessly into their ranks, then aimed. “Oh crap! They’re gonna hit us!” “Don’t worry, sir Bareswilt! Just keep riding forward!” The wall of arrows let loose, and no single one managed an accidental landing upon the two riders. The sounds of dying hares rang out behind them. “Those men are the Falamorian rangers!” Cloe sang ecstatically. “And they won’t hit us!” Another line of arrows let loose, though this one angled over their heads to strike at the creatures that weren’t right on their heels. The cloaked leader smirked at the knight and the bard as they passed. Then addressed his men. “Be thorough as we comb these woods. Leave a single mating pair, and we’ll be up to our necks in pooka skins!” The mounts slowed as they rounded the hill. The riders caught their breaths. And the familiar group of white robes was there to greet them. “Thank the foster god, Sol! You yet live!” The leader of the group exclaimed. Another soon explained “We’d forgotten how fast pooka reproduced. When we remembered this, we started to worry. That’s when we met the company rangers who patrol this fief.” Cliff took it all in with a nod. So that’s what happened. He thought. Then, climbing down from Dusty, he gave his mount a quick assessment to make sure no arrows were poking out of its flank. Once satisfied, he approached the pilgrims. “So you thought were were goners, huh? I’m glade you’re not that confident in our abilities. By the way, I think this belongs to you.” Cliff said as he produced the Saints necklace from his pouch. The pilgrims let out a choir of astonishment. But after their leader took the saint’s relic in hand, he turned to his friends and family, planted a hand on Sir Bareswilt’s shoulder, and exclaimed “The Foster Father has blessed us with the two heroes this day! By Sol, what other incredible experiences await us on our sacred journey!” The pooka had been eradicated in Wilroe Fief. And Sir Bareswilt and lady Ouring bid the pilgrims farewell. As the day grew long, the two set up camp in the forest by the warm glow of the fire. “So we’re going to cobbleton next, sir Bareswilt?” Cloe asked. “I’m not sure we need to, lady Ouring. The prize money was all I needed from that affair, and well. It looks like we have found another way to put it together.” He admitted. Cloe smiled, shifting her gaze towards the stars. “Yeah. Who knew looting monsters would be so profitable. What if like… I wonder if people could make a living just doing this.” Cloe mused. The knight considered it, then shrugged. “It’s certainly an alternative way to earn coin. I’m surprised nobody has thought of it before.” He admitted. “Probably because its a good way to end up dead.” He concluded aloud as realism won the day. Cloe rolled onto her wooly companion, then folded her arms behind her head. Then looked at the shield that was their real quest. “Let’s not skip the tournament, actually. I think we might be able to fish up something on this mysterious knight fellow you’re questing.” She said thoughtfully. “Plus, you don’t want to be a hedge knight who springs into wealth out of nowhere, even if its just a modest amount like what we’ve earned tonight. It would be troublesome for your reputation. Become famous first, then become rich. Thats the order we should go in.” “Why is becoming either important to the quest?” “Sir Bareswilt, have you ever heard of the moon psalm?” “No, I haven’t. Is this some Esmari faith thing?” “It is, and its something all mortals are intertwined in. It’s the song that the world goddess Esmeranda left to the mortal races to finish for themselves. But that feeling I got when I saw that coat of arms? Let’s just say, I feel like we’re going to change the world.” ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ The end for now. Feel free to post about any comments below. Not that I'm expecting any. I just wanted to post something here to prove I actually do write as my hobbies suggest.

http://i25.photobucket.com/albums/c59/Rubberpenguin/Moon-Psalm/Chapter%202.png CH 2: Part 1 In those days, there were two sorts of druids. The esoteric and secretive covens who weaved much superstition and fear around them as they honored the old pagan gods in sacrificial rituals. And the savage adversaries of all civilized folk who would stray from the beaten path. Both types were regarded as something to be avoided unless you had a very important reason. But after the Torii Wars ended with the closing of the ancient gates, many Ryujin men and women were stranded in Estellon. With no way to return home, they were faced with an ultimatum to save themselves from persecution. Assimilate, and rid themselves of anything that connected them to their past culture, or face the Eugencian courts and be judged unfairly for warcrimes that many of them didn’t even commit. The cultural purge had begun. However, a new way of looking at nature still managed to spread from the Refugees who would flee to Falimore, Valoron, and Nylathnore. And as these philosophies began to mingle with the druidic traditions of the wood elves in Nylathnore, a new kind of druid order would emerge to change the way we think of the wyrd folk from the woods. And they would brandish steel. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━  The ringing and clashing of steel filled the grove. But with every strike, the one eyed pooka seemed to grow stronger, overwhelming the young knight, Cliff Bareswilt. Their blades locked, and he felt himself back into a tree. The creature leaned in to assert its dominance by grunting right into the knights face, spraying frothy saliva with the gesture. It was gradually growing even taller than he was. But despite the panic welling in his heart, his knightly training had allowed him to keep his cool. With a flick of his wrist, he turned the blade on the creature, and delivered a false edge cut across the neck, then kicked against it to give him room to breathe. “My treasure! You stole my treasure!” The pooka yelled as gore began to spray from its neck. And then, the grizzled, floppy eared creature dropped. Cliff leaned against the tree, panting and dripping with sweat. But as his gaze inclined above the tree line, he saw it. Hundreds of them. Perhaps thousands. And all of them taller than the trees! Then in unison, they all opened their maws and spoke. “Rouse yourself, Sir Bareswilt. Rouse yourself.” A black mist then seized his lungs. And it became hard to breathe. He was now awake. Objectively, he understood this. But it was still hard to breathe without coughing. Finally though, his copper eyes gleamed with the morning sunlight through the trees. And he could smell the smoke of the fire. “Oh god.” He said, finally shifting out of the path of the smoke. Unfortunately as he rolled to his back, he found himself face to face with another creature whom had haunted in the nightmare prior to the other. And it was none to happy to see him. The dire alpaca’s teeth bared at him as it grunted. “Oh god!” He shrieked as he rolled evasively to avoid a drop of saliva. Though judging from the dampness on his face, it must had gotten him in his sleep. “Oh my, Sir Bareswilt. I haven’t heard anyone praise towards the foster god so passionatly since we bid farewell to the pilgrims. Now that you’ve said your morning grace though, I suppose you’re ready to eat.” A woman’s voice chimed from the direction of the fire. Cliff grumbled as he began to process everything with his face in his palm. “Right. That’s lady Ouring.” She’s traveling with me. He thought as he glanced at the familiar pink haired asmian off to the side. Then after the scent of the stew wafted in his direction, he found the will power to stand. The blood began to pump into his arms and legs as the knight oriented himself, wobbled a step and a half, and arrived at his equipment. Then after donning his gamberson and belt, he approached the fire, accepting the bowl that was handed to him. The bard watched the knight quietly as he began to consume his morning meal. “Looks like you had a rough sleep too.” She concluded s he went to the pot for seconds. “Yeah.” The man sighed honestly. “Was it the pooka for you too?” “Yes. But its only natural. I’ve been told as a squire that this is just the mind’s way of processing trauma.” “Processing trauma?” “When you’re in danger, the mind tends to shut out a lot of the details to focus on what is important. But the parts that get shut out get trapped in the soul until the time the mind is ready to deal with and accept them.” “Huh. So… If I dive back into a traumatic memory with the intent to resolve it, I’ll come out remembering something new about the incident. Interesting.” Cliff paused for a moment, then looked at Cloe. A half cocked smirk gripped the Tamian’s lower lips. “The knight teaching the esmari bard. Isn’t it supposed to be the other way around?” “Oh, sir Bareswilt. Esmari bards don’t learn in the scholastic colleges. We learn from people who live in the realms we merely dabble in. And warfare and battle psychology is one realm that I’m just starting to dip my toes into for the first time.” She explained as she started to fill her own bowl. “Speaking of which, where did you learn how to wield a blade?” “Indeed. Good question. In society, peasants do the work, nobles do the fighting, and priests do the praying. So they all learn what they can to become better at their duties. Well what, objectively, is a priest’s duty exactly?” “Hmm… Tricky. Are you talking about Esmari priests, or Fosterin?” “I mean any faith’s priests. What do they do for people?” “Even the pagon faiths, huh? Okay, I guess… I guess they provide healing service. And bring spiritual assurance to people in times of turmoil. They make sure that their god’s agenda can be fulfilled by guiding them when they stray too far from virtue. Or whatever it is that your god values.” “Indeed. A priest’s duty is to mediate between mortals and their gods to make sure neither looses faith in the other.” Cliff raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Gods can loose faith?” “Yes. You see, like you said, gods have agendas that they need to accomplish in the mortal world. And to do that, they need mortals who could place their faiths into that agenda. Therefore, a priest is one who studies the very nature of that agenda in order to resonate with the god they serve. These powers allow them to perform miracles and such in order to help people, to show them that the god is not uncaring towards their worldly plights. And should they subscribe to that god’s agenda or teachings, then both parties may benefit from the worship. So…” Cloe paused to slurp some more of her soup. “Since Esmari priests don’t have a god to grant them powers, we draw divine power from the psalms she left us instead. Hence why we perform the second oldest form of magic known to man. Bardic magic. And since I am of the priest class, I must learn all the skills and talents necessary to become a priestess. And since we’re travelers who aren’t bound to temples made from stone, we have to learn how to protect ourselves. So, lady Mistia, the elf who taught the teachings of the golden path, also took time to teach me how to poke dangerous things. That’s right. With the pointy end.” Cliff considered the theology lesson quietly. It made sense. But as with most of the woman’s words, it also kinda felt like she was bending rules and loopholes in the societal structure in order to get more wiggle room. Were all Esmari priests like this? “So what’s the first form of magic?” He finally asked, if only to break the silence. “Oh, that’s the primal magic that was instilled into the world when it was created. Its a mostly forgotten art. But apparently the druids can still tap into it. However, they hoard those secrets to themselves. And they will probably sacrifice you to the worldly pagan deities if you tried to ask them about it.” The Asmian chuckled. “And being an Esmari Bard who does all their learning through their travels, I take it you’ve tried.” Upon noticing two narrowed copper eyes bestowing judgement upon her, Cloe gagged and coughed on her stew, but managed to push it down. She masked her insecurity with an innocent, charming smile. It did nothing to change the knight’s disposition, however. And her shoulders sagged in defeat. She looked back down at her wooden bowl in silence. Turning the bowl to see the droplets of the broth churn with gravity. Then, as something dawned in her mind, she perked back up with an astonished expression. “Oh, hey, I just remembered something! Did you know that the druids despise unnatural materials like metal? They’ll instead use stone sickles and obsidian in their rituals!” ”Wow, wonder how long that one’s been banging around in your soul.” ((Part 2 will come tomorrow.))