Athald Alfgeirsson the Dedicant of Duty, Godfather of Voralian City, Marshall of the Fortress

Role

Chapter 5

Thus far he has avoided doing anything seriously heinous. That's what he
tells himself, at least. Sure, he has stolen, smuggled, and leaned on the
Kingpin's debtors, but he's never actually hurt anyone. Yet.

That might change tonight.

He is in Voralian City under cover of night, disguised as a beggar, with
two other thugs sent by the Kingpin to assist with their mission. That
being to subtract one finger from a certain Voralian nobleman who has
elected not to pay his debts. Perhaps he thought the Tribunal would
protect him? A foolish thought.

Their mark approaches, returning home from a dinner party, exactly as his
intel told him he would. Athald hears the two thuds that mean his
companions have knocked out the mark's bodyguards. He stands up from
where he'd been slumped, pretending to be unconscious, and approaches.

The mark's eyes are wide with fear, and he desperately tries to plead with
them despite the gag that's firmly lodged in his mouth. Athald can't make
out any of the words. Looking down, he sees the man's hand stretched out
on the cobblestone street; one of his companions holds it in place,
waiting for him to do the deed.

He feels sick to his stomach.

Is this what it has come to? Attacking sad old men at the order of a mob
boss he's never even seen? Is this really who he is now? He pauses,
unable to continue.

It is then that he feels the arm clamp down around his neck, feels the
cloth cover his face, and inhales the sweet-smelling vapors that rob
him of consciousness.

"That's odd," he thinks to himself as he succumbed to the fumes.

"Why is that arm so hairy?"

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Role

Chapter 1

"Athald, what the hell are you doing!?" his father asks.

It is not the first time Alfgeir had asked this question, and it surely
won't be the last. He stands in the doorway of Athald's room fuming.

"What does it look like, father? I'm playing the lute."

It is true. Athald sits on his bed, cross-legged, still dressed in his
night clothes, lazily plucking at the strings of the wooden instrument
that lays across his lap.

Upon hearing this Alfgeir turns an even darker shade of red. "Where is
your SWORD? Why are you not DRESSED? Have you even BATHED? Do you not CARE
that today is your brother's Sverd-dagr?!?"

In all honesty Athald does not care, but he is smart enough to not say
that out loud. Instead, he merely grunts, sets down the lute, stands up
and begins to dress himself. This seems to satisfy his father, who storms
off in search of someone else to vent his spleen upon.

As he dresses, Athald thinks about the ceremony that lies ahead. It is
the day of his brother's sverd-dagr; literally, his "sword day". It is
the day Hathuld will leave their petty kingdom and begin the journey
southward toward the land in which he will carry out his service to some
southling lord.

It is a tradition dating back to before any of them can remember, and over
the years has grown in significance from a simple money-making venture to
a rite of passage. Specifically, it is a rite reserved for the first-born
sons of the ruling class, of which is father, as Jarl, is chief.

Jarl Alfgeir loves his two sons, but they could not be more different from
one another. Where Hathuld is practical, Athald is a dreamer. Where
Hathuld is dutiful in his martial training, Athald prefers to spend his
time on wine, women and song. He quietly thank the gods that they blessed
him with at least one son suitable to rule some day...

Role

Chapter 2

It is around the noon hour, five years later, when Hathuld finally
returns. Athald and his father had only received limited reports over the
years, but they understood that he had risen to a position of some power
within the household of the southling whom he served. If only that had
been the extent of it.

The horns sound, long and loud, to announce the return of the Jarl's heir.
They are pure agony to Athald, he being still asleep and very much hung
over. Awake at last, albeit unwillingly, he quickly dresses and stumbles
out of his room to locate the site of his brother's reception.

It is a short reception indeed.

Unbeknownst to them, the southling Harhuld had served was the governor of
a minor Imperial province and a former member of the Blade Sect who was in
the habit of offering the blood oath to whichever of his northmen guards
distinguished himself from the others. That was Hathuld, who, perhaps
swayed by his liege's shared love of discipline, order and the martial
pursuits, was quick to accept.

His father and his retinue are gathered just outside the inner gates of
their fortified residence when Athald finally arrives. Hathuld approaches
slowly, still mounted, before reining in just shy of Alfgeir and his men.
He does not dismount, nor does he show any warmth toward his father.

Instead, he unfurls a scroll and begins to read from it in a rather bored
monotone. Alfgeir is to swear fealty to the Emperor, his kingdom to
become a vassal state, and in exchange he will be allowed to retain his
position as Jarl at the Emperor's pleasure. By the grace of the Emperor,
he is given one day to respond.

Welcome home, brother?

Role

Chapter 3

What a mess.

Athald's relationship with his father is strained, but he does love the
old man, and it pains him to see Alfgeir this way. His father is
simultaneously wounded to his core and livid at the demands his son has
issued on behalf of the Emperor. It is the Jarl can't decide whether to
weep or scream out loud.

That's what Athald thinks to himself while tuning out the actual content
of the meeting his father has called and to which he is supposedly a
party. The older men blather on about how best to handle the situation,
but Athald can't focus; his mind is elsewhere. He trusts that Alfgeir
will resolve the situation. After all, he always does.

If not, then the Imperial Lands are leagues and leagues away. What can
the Empire possibly do to them here?

His thoughts turn instead to the diplomatic mission he has agreed to take
to visit one of his father's Karls. He enjoys these trips, which Alfgeir
assures him are necessary to maintain the Karl's allegiance, because they
chiefly consist of drinking copious amounts of mead and carousing with the
women of the Karl's court.

Athald manages to wrench his mind away from that pleasant thought just in
time to hear the conclusion of his father's council. He will embark on
the diplomatic mission as planned, while Alfgeir and his advisors treat
with Hathuld. The old Jarl's advisors assure him that some agreement can
be reached which is mutually acceptable, but that does not include
him swearing fealty to the Emperor.

And so he sets off, irritated that his brother should so perturb their
father, but confident that the situation will be fully resolved before he
returns home.

Role

Chapter 4

Athald's confidence proves to be completely misplaced.

He discovers this only accidentally, for, if things had gone according to
Hathuld's plans, he would have died instead.

Absentminded though he is, Athald has always shown a certain skill for
noticing minute details. What cards had already been played in a card
game, for instance, or the fact that the pull cords for the curtains in
his quarters are slightly out of place from where he'd left them.

Curious about this more than concerned, he happens to be staring directly
at the position of his would-be assassin when the man leaps from behind
the curtains and lunges toward him, dagger in hand. Staggering backwards,
by sheer luck he trips over the leg of a brazier, tipping it over and
throwing fire and ash into his enemy's face. Later, Athald would recall
that the man's face was covered by a silver mask, which, unfortunately for
his assassin, had eye holes that did nothing to protect him from the ash.

While the man paws at his eyes, trying to clear away the ash, Athald
regains his footing and grabs the nearest object at hand, which happens to
be a metal poker conveniently placed next to the brazier. This he swings
with all his might at his attacker, catching him with the pointy end
directly in the temple and killing him instantly.

The whole fight can't have taken more than ten seconds.

Still in shock, Athald surveys his surroundings, clears his mind and tries
to think through what he should do next. A man dressed in all black,
wearing a silver mask, lays dead at his feet with an iron poker stuck in
the side of his head and a halo of blood blossoming from underneath him.
He is clearly an assassin, and it seems quite likely that his father's
Karl was party to the treachery.

Were he to go to the Karl, the man might finish the assassin's job and
blame it on the dead man. No. That is not an option. He can see only one
path forward: flee, and go to ground. Not back to his ancestral lands,
however, as it is a near certainty that his father is now dead.

Looking around, he gathers a few things, then slips out the window and
into the night. Following the same road Hathuld did five years prior,
Athald begins his own journey southward.

Whereas his brother departed under the auspices of the Sverd-dagr, for
Athald there is only the Rytingur-nott: night of the dagger.

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Role

Chapter 6

Jirash stands at a table upon which rests a mortar, pestle, and various
other devices used in the distillation and synthesis of poisons. The old
felar seems to be wholly consumed with the tasks before him, but Athald
knows better. He stands quietly, hands clasped behind his back, waiting
for the guildmaster to speak.

"What's your plan, boy?" he says at last, eyeing him critically from
across the table.

"Plan, sir?"

"Did I stutter? What do you plan to do with your life?"

Silence. Athald is usually good with words, but, for once, he has no
idea what to say.

Jirash continues, "Are you going to keep moping around here, doing odd
jobs for me to make up for whatever it is you think you've done, or were
about to do, had I not intervened?"

Athald pauses to consider the question, and the more he considers, the
more indignant he gets. He opens his mouth to say something, thinks
better of it, then closes it again without saying anything. Surely
Jirash, of all people, knows the depths of his wickedness?

"Oh ho! That one hit home, did it?"

A smile creeps across the old felar's face, revealing his many sharp
teeth, but it is not unfriendly.

"Boy, you've got a good heart. That much is plain to me, even if you
can't see it just yet. My eyes pierce the shadows, but by the light's
grace they pierce more than that. I know you ain't no murderer.
I knew it even as you stood there in that alley, frozen in place and
about to get a knife in the back because of it. So I ask again: what's
your plan?"

Athald's can only answer honestly: "I don't know, sir."

Jirash considers this, staring at the concoction he'd been stirring for
what seems like an interminable amount of time before finally speaking.

"Well, I reckon I was no different when I was in your place. You're gonna
want to head northwest from here, up into the mountains..."

Role

Chapter 7

Athald grew up as an entitled, layabout prince, far to the north, in a
setting not unlike that of the real-life Vikings. His father was the Jarl
of a small kingdom and his older brother was next-in-line to the throne.
His father's rule ended when he defied an Imperial decree, issued by
Athald's older brother, that he swear fealty to the Emperor. Athald
himself, through no skill of his own, narrowly escaped death at the hands of
a Shadow Sect assassin.

He was briefly employed by the Galadon Thieves' Guild and came very close to
doing something terrible before he was stopped by Jirash, guildmaster of the
Voralian Thieves' Guild and a former Maran. Jirash subsequently took Athald
under his wing, provided him with a vision of how he might use his skills
for good, and eventually pointed him toward the Fortress.

Athald is generally cheerful and well-spoken, but he harbors some unresolved
guilt over the sequence of events that led to his father's demise. He also
mourns the loss of his brother to the Empire. At the time, he was
dismissive of the Imperial threat and selfishly focused on his own
hedonistic interests. Possibly as a reaction to his earlier ambivalence, he
is now wholly dedicated to the cause of the Holy Brigade.

Role

Chapter 8

Business was slow as Athald turned off Knight Street and into The Long
Voyage. He could hear the sound of the rain drops as they collided with
the building's stone shingles, flowed into ancient stone gutters and
eventually poured out onto the street below. A fog had rolled in from the
north river and very little could be seen outside the bar's windows.

The noise level inside was decidedly muted. There was a young bard with a
standing gig, but he had rightly estimated his tips would be meager this
evening because of the weather, and chose to stay home. Hanigan didn't
even look up when Athald approached the bar; he was busy methodically
drying a row of freshly washed pint glasses. He did a double take when he
finally did, though, having immediately seen through Athald's half-hearted
attempt at disguise. A sly smile crept onto the old man's face and his
still-bright eyes twinkled with amusement.

"Ahoy there, Marshall! You thinkin' of changin' guilds, eh? What's that
strapped across yer back?"

Hanigan had noticed the unmistakable outline of an instrument hidden
beneath the plain gray rain coat with which Athald had chosen to wrap
himself lest he attract undue attention.

"Not quite Cap'n, but I thought I might play a tune or two, with your
leave. Looks like your regular man took the night off?"

Hanigan spit on the ground at this, only realizing belatedly that he was
the one who'd have to clean it up. He grunted his irritation.

"Aye, he did at that. Good-for-nothin' lad. Don't know why I keep
lettin' 'im come back. Maybe this'll be the last time!"

Athald paused then and seemed, from Hanigan's perspective, to look through
him at something very far away, or perhaps long ago. "Don't be too hard
on him, Hanigan. He may may yet amount to something, Light willing."

"Aye aye, Marshall. So what'll ye have? Yer usual?"

"Yes, that will do. Thank you, Hanigan."

The old man busied himself behind the bar, filling a shot glass with
whisky from a bottle he withdrew from a locked cabinet. Athald knew it
was the best he had available. He dropped a couple of gold coins on the
bar; it was easily a hundred times the cost of his drink.

"Ach, Marshall! It's too much! I'll not have ye thinkin' I'm in need'a
your charity!"

Athald smiled. "Nothing of the sort, Hanigan. Consider it compensation
for the loss of revenue."

Hanigan looked confused, but it wouldn't last long.

Role

Chapter 9

Athald noticed them when he first came in from the street. They were
obvious even without the abilities granted him by the orb. They sat at a
table in the corner where the light from the fireplace and lamps only
barely reached. Though they were dressed like sailors, Athald knew they
were not. Even as they outwardly joked with each other and fondled the
local whores who were plying them for business, he could see the subtle
hand movements that indicated an entirely different conversation was
happening. It was the cant. Maybe they belonged to Tago, or Vesestu or
Phas. It didn't matter; he knew they were up to no good.

Leaving Hanigan to finish preparing his drink, Athald walked across the
room to the far corner where the group sat. He stood in front of them,
not saying or doing anything, until they finally noticed him.

"Oi! What's your problem old man? Can't you see us and these fine ladies
got this table reserved? Why don't you head back to the bar, eh? Before
me an' the lads have to teach you a lesson?"

Athald still said nothing, but leaned down and placed both his hands on
the table. Staring directly a the one who had threatened him, he quietly
asked, "Don't you have somewhere else to be?"

As he did so, white, otherworldly flames blazed to life where his eyes had
been, illuminating the table in a pale, wavering light. As it turned out,
both both the leader and his companions did, in fact, have somewhere else
they'd rather be. They quickly stood up and left the bar, followed by
their hangers on, who were no less glad to be free of Athald's baleful
gaze. Their hazy red auras followed them out the door.

Satisfied, Athald let the flames die, retrieved his drink from the bar and
chose a spot on the hearth next to the fire place. He removed his rain
coat and hung it next to the fire to dry, then lifted his lute, tuned it,
and gently strummed it as he began to sing.

Role

Chapter 10

His skill with the instrument was rusty, but the unnatural speed granted
to him by the bracers he wore allowed him to more than compensate for that
deficiency. He sang many songs that night. Most were in the common
tongue, spoken in the streets and markets of the city, but others were in
a strange tongue with which only Hanigan was familiar, even though even he
wasn't fluent with it. It was the tongue of the North, of Athald's
people, and he marveled at how good it felt to hear it from his own lips.

He sang of great battles won and tragic defeats. Of ferocious orcs and
valiant knights. Of devilish magi and stalwart warriors. He sang of the
Northmen and of hunting stag across the fresh-fallen snow. Of a son's
love for his father and of the bond between brothers. He sang of
betrayal and loss; of things that once were, but are no more. Of old
friends lost and new friends gained.

The few patrons in the bar that night listened in rapt attention, but, as
the hour grew increasingly late, one by one they drifted off into the
night. Most smiled at Hanigan as they settled their tab, but they said
very little. Their mood was somber, reverent, as if they were aware they
had witnessed something significant but didn't quite grasp what it meant.

When the last of them had left, Hanigan came out from behind the bar
carrying a bottle of whisky by the neck and eased himself down into a
chair near the fire. Propping his feet up on the table, he gestured to
Athald to continue.

Athald sang on. He sang of growing old. Of fond memories and of deep
regrets. He even sang about the sea. The salt spray, the beauty of the
open water and the joy of returning home to loved ones. He and Hanigan
took turns drinking from the bottle, Athald between his songs, until both
of them were rosy-cheeked and full of bliss.

Eventually he grew quiet and set the lute down on the floor beside him.
Neither he nor Hanigan moved, and neither of them said a word. They sat
there together for a long while, two old men listening to the crackling
fire, each lost in his own thoughts but nevertheless glad for nearness of
the other.

Role

Chapter 11

After a time Athald rose from his chair, slung the lute's strap over his
shoulder and retrieved his gray rain coat from the peg where he had hung
it earlier. He paused when he passed Hanigan, who was still seated, on
his way to the door, and placed a hand on the old Sea Captain's shoulder.
Hanigan said nothing, but lifted his arm to place his hand over Athald's.
He left it there for a brief moment, before removing it and releasing
him to go, which he did.

Outside the weather had grown cold and frost had begun to form on the
cobblestones of the street. A beggar was huddled nearby in a doorway,
shivering under his ragged blanket in a futile attempt to escape the cold.
Athald lay the gray cloak across the man and pressed a few silver into his
palm before turning south toward the city center. At first he walked
unsteadily, as one might who'd had too much to drink, but with each step
his back straightened and his stride grew more confident.

The wistful smile which had made its way onto his face lasted a little
while longer, but only a little while. He closed his eyes when it began
to fade, as if to commit the moment to memory, before opening them again
with a look of grim determination. Wings of white flame blossomed behind
him as he set down the lute and hefted a shining mace in its place.

He was once again Athald: Marshall. And he had a job to do.

Role

Chapter 12

So Hathuld is alive after all. Maybe? Athald isn't sure how to feel.
He had more or less made his peace, years ago, with his brother's betrayal
and probable demise. To find out at this late date that he is still alive
is...confusing. Old feelings of anger and loss, long put to rest, have
begun to surface anew.

But is it even true? He has reason to doubt. The gray one he employed to
extract information from the Empire on his behalf, Merthoc, has provided
him with an Imperial decree naming Hathuld anathema for stealing and for
the possession and use of "illicit substances". The question in his mind
now is whether the document is authentic or a forgery of Merthoc's design.
Two things cast doubt in his mind:

The first is Zanzar's reaction when questioned. Without telling him the
details of the decree, Athald asked what his brother's crimes were. The
Emperor's response was "spying". Athald now sees two possibilities. One
is that the decree is fake, the Emperor has no idea who Hathuld is, and he
made up the story about espionage charges. The other is that Hathuld was
indeed spying, the decree is authentic, but the Empire chose to publicize
the crime of "illicit substances" rather than lose face by admitting the
existence of a spy in its midst.

The second cause for doubt is the Herald called Lyeeth, who reached out to
inform him that Merthoc cannot be trusted. Lyeeth claims to have heard
Merthoc utter the words: "I haven't yet decided whether to betray Athald."
On the other hand, Lyeeth has proved unreliable and highly "dramatic" in
the past, and this report re: Merthoc might be an outright lie, or, if not
a lie, a twisting of the truth.

Athald is not sure what to think, and sees no straightforward way to
discern the truth without divine guidance. To that end, he intends to
consult with his patron, Baerinika. If she cannot divine the truth of the
matter, then he will petition her for permission to seek out the divine
Seeress, Rarywey, in the hopes that her ear has detected some whispering
in the spirit realm that might clarify his situation.

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