Recorded for posterity by Brace Skatterhawk, Priest of Deneir
Event occured on 23rd of Eleint 1438 DR Year of the Silent Waterfalls
Published on 12th of Nightal, 1438 DR Year of Silent Waterfalls
Keldroun Obarskyr surveyed the field of battle, his banners flapping in the wind as his soldiers gathered upon the ridge. It was a hasty formation, but the warriors of Valloryn had done so with order and tact. The Grand Duke of Valloryn and his Lionars were massed in the center along side several warriors of renown who had come from the Gildorym isles. Reinforcing the northern flank was Ser Thauglor the lesser, a Dragonborn warrior who was an old friend of Duke Keldroun’s. Upon the southern end of the ridge was Jorundhast, Valloryn’s Court Magician.
The army, though it could hardly be called such as it was, had gathered on word that a large horde of kobolds, mephits and Fire newts were on the march. Hoping to gain favorable terrain, Duke Keldroun Obarskyr commanded that a party of riders with the finest horses on hand be sent out to lure this horde into a low basin surrounded on three sides. With sufficient numbers the Duke’s armies could have lined the whole of the ridge, but they were few and thus needed to fight with a ferocity rarely seen in those so untested. Without ample numbers to mount an immediate attack the enemy was able to organize themselves with the aid of their Dragonborn commander and his elite guard. Knowing that he needed to break his foe’s power so as to prevent a counterattack, Keldroun Obarskyr commanded that his archers maintain a steady pace of fire whilst he and the ground soldiers charged. The volleys of arrows flying towards the foe’s back ranks when the ground forces met the monsters in the melee.
The battle was hard fought lasting well into the night. In an effort to deal a blow to enemy morale, the elven bard Aryevan Laran conjured up many illusions of war horns blaring and sights of figures with armor glinting in the moonlight. Meanwhile to the Grand Duke’s right members of the elven clergy fought alongside Ser Thauglor The Lesser, wheeling around to catch the enemy in a three pronged attack. Upon the opposite ridge of the field of battle amassed an army of dragonborn warriors, armored in plate and mail, wielding sword and shield, led by their general Yrjixtilex Yorzavur.
It was at this point that the battle began to turn in the favor of the Obarskyr Forces. Realizing their dire situation the enemy commander and his elite guards each drew out thin, charred branches pointing them each at the grand duke before snapping them. With that act six fireballs were hurled directly at his grace the duke, killing all but one of his Lionar guards. In response to this attack on their liege, Frufire Cupshigh and the Court Magician Jorund has sent furious arcs of lightning jumping through the commander and his guard, killing all but the enemy general. Although Lord Obarskyr had sustained great wounds the assault from the magicians is what turned the battle in the favor of the purple dragon, a rout of the enemies swiftly developing.
Thauglor snapped his jaw open and shut several times, his large draconic feet thudding on the wooden planks as he made his way up the stairs of the keep and into the Ducal chambers. Usually Thauglor the Lesser made a habit of always being punctual but today he’d been busy overseeing the clearing of the field of battle. “Damn Jorundhast and his karshoji lightning!” he swore when he looked upon the burnt and smoking corpses of the enemy commander’s honor guard.
The Court Magician of the Grand Duchy of Valloryn had, alongside his gnomish counterpart, had scorched their bodies so badly that the guard captain had been unable to learn anything but that they’d been killed by lightning, a fact he already knew.“My apologies,” he rumbled upon entering the chambers. Grand Duke Keldroun Obarskyr’s chambers took up half a floor of the keep; his book shelves decorated the walls, with maps and old history tomes displayed on tables. Keldroun himself sat propped up in his large sprawling bed, his midsection and forearms heavily bandaged..
“No matter, Thauglor.” Keldroun said, amiable enough. The Grand Duke of Valloryn grunted as he propped himself up further. Although he’d been hit with six fireballs at once, the Grand Duke of Valloryn appeared to still be in good spirits. Thauglor turned his attention to Jorundhast, nodding to him respectfully, doing the same to Arnauld of Wheloon, the duke’s financier. Once the dragonborn’s eyes fixed on the ancient cleric Brace Skatterhawk however, his features hardened. For as long as Thauglor had known Brace, the man’s god had been lost, or dead, or silent; Thauglor himself didn’t care enough about the gods to know the particulars, but what he knew for a fact was that until that day Brace hadn’t been able to cast even the smallest of spells. “What in all the Nine Hells was that?” the dragonborn spat out.
Skatterhawk raised his bushy white brows, his frail liver spotted hands running through his long, unruly white beard.“Do you speak of the spell I cast which saved our noble sire’s life?” he asks, his tone even but with a hint of a subtle jab. The lavender scaled dragonborn snapped his jaw shut once more, huffing through his large nostrils “For as long as I’ve known you Deneir has not once answered your prayers- no matter how many times you beseeched him!” he snarled in retort, “What in all the layers of the Abyss happened?”
The elderly priest shot the dragonborn a toothy grin. “My faith was rewarded friend, Deneir has returned to his rightful place in the heavens." Jorundhast cleared his throat. “And the Spellplague has ended.” With those words, each man in the room turned his head to the court mage.
The Court Wizard smirked “You heard me friends. The Spellplague has ended.”Keldroun looked puzzled. While he was a rather learned man, he was entirely unskilled in any form of magic. “I’m sorry Jori, you’re going to have to explain to me what any of that means. The Spellplague part I understand. But what does that mean for us?”
Jorundhast nodded, his hands running through his reddish beard. “For us it means that many of the gods thought lost forever have returned, both good and ill.”Keldroun Obarskyr furrowed his brow, strong fingers running through his thick brown beard. “Which ones exactly?” he asks in a foreboding tone
Brace Skatterhawk cleared his throat, taking a short step forward “Deneir you are already aware of but amongst them are Helm, Lathander, Tyr, Mystra and others.”The Duke nodded, “I have much to consider” he said, dismissing his court in favor of much needed rest.
As he slept Keldroun Obarskyr dreamt. In his dream he was in a glade in a forest, the tree line fading into mist. He was dressed in his finest armor, sword and shield at his side. Out from the mists stepped a man whose right hand was missing, both eyes having long since been plucked out. The man was old with long white hair and a shaggy beard. His craggy face suggested a great deal of stress had ravaged his once hard features. Laid across the man’s right for arm was the flat of a great sword whose hilt he held in his left hand.
‘The Sword of Justice,’ Keldroun thought, though he had absolutely no clue where that thought had come from. Upon his person this maimed yet powerful figure wore a suit of plate and mail, his tabard showing a set of scales balanced atop the head of a one-handed hammer. Keldroun recognized that symbol, where was it from?
An instant after he thought this the maimed man replied vocally “I have many names; Grimjaws, the Even-Handed, or the Wounded One,” the man said in a voice that rang out across the glade “But most… most simply know me as Tyr.”
The god of justice’s voice was old and weathered but it carried a weight that Keldroun Obarskyr found oddly comforting. The Grand Duke of Valloryn bent his knee before Tyr, offering up his sword and shield in a sudden display of loyalty for the once-dead god.
“I do not require your fealty Keldroun, of House Obarskyr. What I require is your service.” Tyr said, moving his right arm from the sword, planting the tip of his weapon into the dirt. “Before I was slain defending the Heavens from a foul horde of demons, I surrendered my divinity to Torm, a loyal friend and ally. I instructed my followers swear their oaths to him, for he was to carry my torch. But Lord Ao it seems is not done with me. First he took my eyes, and now it seems that he’s taken the peace I found in death. I awaken to find all those who once served me long dead, and I find myself in need of faithful. As such, it is my command that you, Keldroun Obarskyr, act as one of my heralds. You shall let the people know that I am returned to these lands, and that with my rebirth so too is reborn the Triad of old.”
For a moment, Keldroun could only respond to the god of justice with a shocked look, but soon his mind began to consider Tyr’s words. “I shall do as you ask lord. But... Surely, Lord Tyr, there must still be those in the service to Torm who once served you, it has been but fifty years, or near enough to make no matter.”Tyr’s expression hardened, considering the Grand Duke’s words for a moment. “All are gone.” He said cryptically by way of answer, before turning and pulling his sword from the ground - resting the flat of the legendary blade upon his shoulder as he walked back into the mists.