Morveth - Dark Fantasy RPG

03/17/847 A.S., Thursday / Time: 09:42 am / Location: Outer Gate, Greyhaven, Vaelgard

The road widens as it nears the city, packed earth giving way to worn flagstones that click under boots and cartwheels. Heat already rises from the stone in the morning sun, carrying the thick smell of dust, horse piss, hot leather, and woodsmoke drifting over the walls. Somewhere behind the battlements a forge is working — the sharp ring of hammer on metal cuts through the low murmur of the crowd.

Greyhaven’s outer walls loom ahead, dark and rain-streaked, the stone rough and pitted with age. The main gate stands open between two heavy towers. Iron-bound doors are drawn back against the walls. Murder holes stare down like empty eye sockets. A pair of ballistae sit angled along the approach, their iron heads dull in the light. The air near the gate tastes faintly of oil, rust, and the river’s metallic bite.

A line of people and carts waits in the sun. Sweat darkens collars. Flies circle a mule’s twitching ears. A merchant’s wagon creaks as the animal shifts its weight. Two sellswords stand close together, voices low and edged, the leather of their scabbards creaking when they move. A hooded traveler further back keeps a careful distance from everyone else, boots planted in the dust.

Up ahead, the gate guards work with the flat rhythm of long practice.

A broad-shouldered man in a faded Greyhaven tabard lifts a hand at a merchant’s cart, shield slung tightly across his back. The wood of the wagon is pale and dry; the cloth bales stacked in the back smell of dye and damp.

“Papers. And state your business.”

The merchant passes over a creased travel writ. His fingers leave a faint smear of sweat on the edge. “Cloth and dyed thread for the river market. Same as last month.” He offers the guard, with a broad smile despite the already overbearing sun. The guard’s eyes move from the document to the wagon and back. He grunts, then jerks his chin. “Move through. Keep right.” The merchant nods as his cart moves along slowly and once past the guard, he calls back over his shoulder, "Make sure to stop by! I'm sure your wife and daughters would love some new colors!" He calls behind him as his cart disappears behind the heavy looming doors. The guard, for the sake of appearing professional doesn't respond save for a tiny smirk appearing on his face for a second. Then he looks up, beckoning the next person up to the gates.

Behind the cart, a young man tries to square his shoulders as another guard steps in. The boy’s boots are caked with the pale dust of the Amber Plains. “Name. Origin. Purpose in the city.” The guard asks, same questions, hundreds of times a day.

“Tomas, from the Amber Plains. Looking for work at the forges.”

The guard studies him a moment longer than needed, then nods once. “No weapons past the inner checkpoint without a writ. Next.”

The line inches forward. Stone scrapes under shifting feet. A cartwheel groans. Somewhere inside the walls a bell rings once — iron and distant. The smell of hot pitch and horse sweat thickens as the sun climbs.

Another pair is cleared. A woman with a child is waved through after a short exchange; the child stares at the ballistae until the mother pulls her onward. One of the sellswords is ordered to unsling his blade. The steel catches the light as he presents it across both palms for inspection before being allowed to pass.

The space between you and the gate narrows.

When the last person ahead is waved through, the nearer guard turns. His eyes settle on you with the flat, practiced attention of a man who has already done this a hundred times before noon. One hand rests near the pommel of his short sword. The other is held out, open and expectant. Dust and old sweat stain the cuff of his tabard. “Next. Step forward!” His voice is rough from use.

“Name. Origin. Business in Greyhaven.”

03/17/847 A.S., Thursday / Time: 11:26 pm / Location: River Gate, Veyrn’s Rest, Vaelgard

Rain falls in a steady, cold sheet that turns the cobbles black and slick. It drums on canvas, hisses in the torch flames, and runs in thin streams along the grooves between stones. The air is thick with wet stone, river mud, horse sweat, and the sharper reek of pitch from the docks somewhere to the left. Every breath carries the taste of rust and damp cloth.

Veyrn’s Rest rises ahead behind its river wall. The stone is dark with rain, the battlements uneven against a low, starless sky. Torches burn in iron cages along the gate towers, their light smeared by the downpour. The River Gate itself stands half-open — enough for a wagon, no more. Shadows move behind the murder holes. A single ballista sits under a dripping tarp, its crew silent.

The line is short and quiet except for one voice.

A broad man in a soaked leather jerkin is arguing with the gate guards while his wife and young son stand a few paces behind him. The boy’s hood has fallen back; rain plasters his hair to his forehead. The woman’s hand is locked around the child’s wrist.

“I’ve told you three times,” the man snaps, jabbing a finger at the papers in the guard’s hand. “We’re listed. Look again.”

The older guard doesn’t raise his voice. Water runs off the rim of his helmet in a thin unbroken line. “And I’ve told you the writ is out of date. You’ll wait until morning when the clerk can verify it.”

“We’re not sleeping in the mud.” The man’s voice climbs. “My boy’s already sick from the road—”

“Then you should have checked the date before you left.”

The man takes a half-step forward. Two other guards shift at once, hands settling on weapon hilts. The sound of leather and metal is small but clear under the rain.

His wife moves first. She steps in, voice low and urgent, one hand pressing against her husband’s chest. “Stop. Just stop. We’ll wait.” She turns to the guards, rain running down her face. “Please. He’s tired. We’ll stay outside until morning. Just let me get the boy under a roof. He’s cold. We don't need a room, just somewhere where the rain won't keep us wet all night.” She looks at the guard, wide eyes dark in the night. "For the boy, if anything..."

The older guard studies her for a long moment, then the child. Finally he gives a short nod. “You and the boy. Through. He stays out until the writ is sorted.” He moves to the side, creating a small opening between the guardsmen for the two to pass. "The stables are just inside. Tell the stablemaster that Joras of the night's watch guard sent you for the night. It'll be cold, but the stalls are at least dry. Best we can do for you, miss."

The man starts to protest again as his wife and son start to enter the city. One of the younger guards steps in close and says something too quiet to catch. Whatever it is drains the fight out of him. He stands rigid in the rain while his wife and son are waved through the gate. The boy looks back once before the dark mouth of the passage takes them. Separation, even for a night could be dangerous for woman and child in a new city. The man knew this, though he was powerless to do anything about it. Until morning. He only needed until morning.

The line moves again.

A quiet woman with a heavy satchel is processed next. She answers every question in a flat, careful voice and is allowed through without trouble. After her, a pair of river sailors are checked — one is told to leave his club with the gate sergeant and collect it on the way out. They go in laughing under their breath, the sound quickly swallowed by the rain and the walls.

An old man leading a single mule is turned away entirely after a short, sharp exchange. He does not argue. He simply turns the animal around and walks back into the dark without a word, hooves and boots fading on the wet road. The unending dark seems to swallow him and the animal whole once out of range of the torchlight.

Now there is no one left between you and the gate. Somewhere in your mind, you faintly noticed you were the last one in line asking for entry.

Rain ticks against stone and leather. The torches spit. Somewhere beyond the walls a bell rings once, low and muted by the weather. Joras, older guard turns the lantern slightly so the light falls across you. Water runs down his tabard in dark streaks. His eyes are flat and tired under the dripping helmet rim. Eyes never leaving you he twists to the side, quickly addressing the men guarding the wall with him. "MEN! Get ready to set the gate, last one to come for the night is here, get ready to pack it up!"

Swiveling to face you fully once more, he holds out a gloved hand, palm up.

“Next.”

Joras's voice is rough from the wet and the hour. Dark rings of sleep deprivation or grime laid heavy under his eyes.

“Name. Origin. Business in the city. And keep your hands where I can see them.” He warned, clearly in no mood for any tomfoolery.

03/18/847 A.S., Friday / Time: 02:14 pm / Location: Main Docks, Haven’s Landing (Port Eastmere), Kethara

The gangplank flexes underfoot with every shift of the ship. Hot, damp air rolls in from the city, thick with salt, tar, fish guts, and the sweeter undercurrent of spice and cheap perfume. Somewhere close, meat is frying in oil. Somewhere closer, someone is shouting about berth fees in three different languages at once.

Haven’s Landing hits the senses all at once.

The docks are a chaos of moving bodies. Stevedores bare to the waist haul crates and barrels, skin shining with sweat. Ropes creak. Pulleys screech. A crane swings a net of cargo overhead and the crowd parts without looking up. Gulls scream and fight over scraps between the pilings. The water below is dark green and littered with orange peels, broken crate wood, and the rainbow sheen of spilled oil.

A narrow street climbs straight from the waterfront into the city proper. It is packed. Merchants bark prices from under faded awnings. A woman with gold paint around her eyes offers a tray of candied citrus to passers-by. A pair of bare-chested men lean against a post, watching the crowd with lazy, assessing smiles. Music spills from an open doorway — stringed, fast, and a little too loud. Laughter rises and cuts off. Someone curses. Someone else laughs harder.

A dock officer in a salt-stained coat stands at the base of the main pier with a portable writing board and a locked coin box. A short line has formed in front of him. He works without hurry, collecting landing fees and checking names against a damp ledger.

A sailor ahead of you drops three copper coins into the box and gets a bored nod.

“Next.”

A woman in a light traveling dress steps up, pays, and is waved through with a glance that lingers a moment too long on her mouth. She disappears into the crowd without comment.

Behind her, a broad man tries to argue the fee. “I was told it was two copper for crew.” The officer doesn’t even look up. “You were told wrong. Three. Or turn around and swim.”

The man pays. The coins hit the box with a dull clink. He mutters and moves on.

The smell of hot oil and perfume grows stronger the closer you get to the street. A barefoot child slips through the crowd and brushes past several people in quick succession before vanishing between two stalls. One of the men who was leaned against the post watches the child go, then turns his attention back to the incoming passengers with mild interest.

The officer finishes with the person in front of you, makes a mark in his ledger, and finally lifts his eyes.

Sweat has left clean lines through the dust on his temples. His voice is flat from repetition, but his gaze is sharp enough. “Landing fee’s three copper. Name and last port of call.” He taps the open ledger with the end of his charcoal stub.

“Speak clearly. I only write it down once.”

03/19/847 A.S., Saturday / Time: 04:07 pm / Location: Harbor Approach, Frosthaven, Skarnor

The sea does not want the ship to reach the pier.

Black water slams against the hull in short, vicious chops. Spray comes over the rail in cold sheets that smell of salt and iron. The wind has been wrong since yesterday — not merely strong, but uneven, gusting in directions that make the sails crack and the rigging groan like something under strain. More than one sailor muttered about the way the clouds had moved the night before: long, parallel ripples that did not match the wind on the deck. An old hand had spat over the side and refused to say anything more.

Frosthaven comes into view under a low, bruised sky. The walls are dark stone against the grey, the roofs steep and white with old snow in the shadowed places. Smoke rises from a hundred chimneys, but it is torn sideways almost as soon as it clears the stacks. The harbor is smaller than it looked on the charts. Ice still clings to the outer pilings in dirty white collars. The water inside the breakwater is calmer, but only by comparison — it still heaves and sucks at the stone with a restless sound.

The ship comes in hard. The impact of the dock shudders through the deck boards. Ropes are thrown and missed, thrown again, and finally made fast with shouted curses. The gangplank is run out at a steep angle. It flexes and knocks against the pier with every swell.

No one is waiting with a ledger or a coin box.

Instead there are guards.

More of them than a normal afternoon should require. They stand in pairs along the waterfront, cloaks snapping in the wind, eyes moving between the newly arrived ship and the dark line of the hills beyond the town. One of them has a speaking-trumpet hanging from his belt. Another keeps looking north, past the walls, as if expecting something to appear on the ridge.

The usual dock noise is muted. Stevedores still unload, but they work faster and talk less. A woman carrying a basket of salt-fish stops when she sees the ship, stares for a long moment, then turns and walks quickly uphill without buying or selling anything. Two men on the pier are arguing in low voices. Only a fragment carries downwind:

“...third night in a row. I’m telling you the nets came up empty and the water was warm—”

A sharp gesture cuts the rest off.

Further along the quay a group of locals has gathered near a notice board. Whatever is posted there has already drawn a small, quiet crowd. No one is laughing. No one is calling wares. The wind keeps whipping cloaks and hoods hard enough that people lean into it without noticing.

The gangplank knocks again against the stone. The ship’s captain is already ashore, speaking quickly with a man in a heavier cloak who looks like harbor authority. Their words are lost under the wind, but the authority’s mouth is a flat line. He points once toward the northern wall, then once at the ship.

A pair of guards finally turn their attention to the passengers coming off the gangplank. They do not ask for a landing fee. They simply block the way forward with the casual solidity of men who have been told not to let anyone pass without a closer look.

The nearer one has ice crystals caught in the fur of his hood and a thin white scar that runs from the corner of his mouth into his beard. His eyes move over each person in turn with the flat assessment of someone counting potential problems.

When it is your turn the scarred guard shifts his weight and plants his boots more firmly on the wet stone. The wind presses his cloak against his back and then yanks it sideways again.

“You.”

His voice is rough, carried more by force than volume.

“Name and where you came from. And if you saw anything on the water that didn’t belong there, you speak now.”

03/20/847 A.S., Sunday / Time: 06:41 pm / Location: Eastern Gate, Zarael, Kethara

The sun sits low and heavy, turning the upper edges of Zarael’s towers the color of heated bronze. The air that spills out through the open gate is warmer than the road and carries a layered scent: expensive incense, citrus oil, hot stone, and underneath it something darker — spice and skin and the faint metallic sweetness of well-kept blood.

Zarael does not rise so much as unfold. Pale stone and dark wood interlock in clean, deliberate lines. Balconies overflow with flowering vines that have no business blooming this vividly so late in the day. Lanterns of tinted glass are already being lit along the main thoroughfare, throwing soft ambers and deep reds across the polished flagstones. Music drifts from somewhere inside — slow strings and a low, wordless voice that seems to know exactly how far it needs to travel.

The gate itself is wide and unbarred. No portcullis hangs overhead. No ballistae cover the approach. The walls are high and beautiful rather than merely defensive, their surfaces inlaid with patterns that catch the fading light and hold it. People move through the entrance in both directions with the unhurried confidence of those who belong.

A single figure stands just inside the threshold, slightly to the side so that every arrival must pass near him.

He is tall, dark-haired, and dressed in layered black and deep crimson that somehow remains immaculate despite the dust of the road. A thin gold chain rests against his collarbone. His posture is relaxed, almost idle, but his eyes track each newcomer with the calm precision of a jeweler assessing weight and clarity. When he smiles — and he does smile — it is slow and genuine enough to feel like a private courtesy.

A pair of travelers ahead of you receive a few quiet words and a graceful gesture deeper into the city. A woman alone is given a longer look and a softer greeting before she is allowed to pass. Nothing about the exchanges feels like formal inspection. It feels like selection.

Then the steward’s attention settles on you.

Up close his eyes are a clear, pale gold. The fading sunlight catches them and makes them look briefly lit from within. His voice is low, pleasant, and edged with something that might be amusement or appetite — it is difficult to separate the two.

“Welcome to Zarael.”

He inclines his head a fraction, the gold chain shifting against his skin. “You arrive at a good hour. The city is only just beginning to wake for the evening.” A pause, light as a fingertip on the wrist. “I can point you toward whatever you need... lodging, information, company, or something rarer. Most things are available here, if one knows how to ask.”

He does not step aside immediately. He simply waits, still smiling that same calm, attentive smile, as if the next words out of your mouth will decide which version of the city he decides to show you.

03/21/847 A.S., Monday / Time: 10:08 am / Location: Admissions Hall, Scholarium of Thorns, Kethara

The Scholarium does not announce itself with banners or open gates. The final stretch of road ends at a high black-stone archway set into a living wall of thorned vines that shift almost imperceptibly in the morning air. Beyond the arch the admissions courtyard is paved in pale grey stone that drinks the light rather than reflecting it. The air here is cooler than the road and carries the dry scent of old paper, crushed herbs, and something metallic that lingers at the back of the throat.

A long colonnade runs along the right side of the courtyard, open to the air but shaded. That is where the line has formed.

It is not a short line.

At the far end, beneath a wide stone lintel carved with interlocking thorns, two admissions officers sit behind a heavy desk of dark wood. One is an older Highborn woman with silver-threaded black hair and expressionless eyes. The other is a lean Demonkin man whose horns curve close to his skull and whose fingers tap an irregular rhythm against the desk. Several Scholarium guards in matte-black coats stand at ease along the walls, hands empty but never far from the batons and short blades at their hips.

The first petitioner of the morning is already failing.

A man in travel-stained greens argues loudly, holding up a folded parchment that has begun to tear along the creases. “This writ was valid when I left the western coast. Look at the seal. Look—”

The Highborn officer does not take the paper. “The seal is six months out of date. The Scholarium does not honor expired documentation. Next.”

“I paid three silver just to have it notarized—”

“Next.”

Two guards step forward in unison. The man continues shouting as they take his arms. He tries to plant his feet; one guard murmurs a short phrase and the man’s boots slide across the stone as though the floor itself has decided he no longer belongs. He is deposited outside the archway with efficient force. The vines on the wall twitch once and settle.

The line shortens by one.

A woman in expensive but mismatched clothing steps up next, already opening a heavy purse. Coins spill across the desk in a bright, desperate clatter — copper and silver mostly, a single gold piece rolling in a slow circle before the Demonkin officer stops it with one finger.

“I can get more,” she says quickly. “I have property in—”

“The minimum demonstrated reserve for unproven applicants this term is eight gold,” the Demonkin says mildly. “You have four and some change. Insufficient.”

“That’s not what the letter said—”

“Then you were reading an old letter.” He slides the gold piece back toward her. “Next.”

She stares at him. For a moment it seems she might scream. Instead she gathers her coins with shaking hands and walks back down the colonnade in brittle silence.

A lanky youth tries to prove attunement without paperwork. He holds out his hands, palms up, and closes his eyes hard enough to tremble. Nothing happens. The Highborn officer rises, places two fingers against the inside of his wrist, and waits. After several long seconds she releases him.

“No responsive current. Not even residual. You have nothing for us to train.” Her voice is not unkind. It is simply final. “Next.”

The youth looks as though he has been struck. He leaves without another word.

The next applicant produces a letter of recommendation that the Demonkin officer examines under a small lens. The officer’s mouth tightens. “This seal was copied by someone who has never seen the original. The ink is wrong. The pressure marks are wrong. Attempting to defraud the Scholarium is grounds for permanent ban and possible binding.”

The applicant’s face goes pale. He begins to speak very quickly. One of the guards is already moving. When the man tries to back away he finds the air behind him has thickened; a low pressure holds him in place while the guard closes the distance. A short, precise application of force later and the courtyard is quieter again.

Not every petition fails.

A quiet woman in her thirties steps forward with a worn but authentic sponsorship letter from a minor house in Aelthir and a purse that meets the minimum. The Highborn officer tests her wrist, nods once, and marks a clean entry in the ledger. A junior attendant is summoned to escort her through the inner doors. She does not look back.

Later, a broad-shouldered man with the calloused hands of a laborer and a single, carefully saved pouch of coin is tested. The current in him is faint but unmistakably present. After a short discussion of terms he is also passed through, face set in grim relief.

The line continues to shrink through more quiet refusals, one further argument, and a brief scuffle that ends when the Highborn officer lifts a single hand and the aggressor’s voice simply stops working for the time it takes the guards to remove him. The silence where his shouting should have been is somehow louder than the shouting itself.

Years of odd, private moments have led to this courtyard. The strange pressure beneath the skin that never quite became anything. The half-understood passages in an old book that described an energy everyone carried but few ever learned to shape. The slow, stubborn accumulation of coin — five gold and a handful of silver — scraped together over seasons of work because the alternative was to keep wondering for the rest of a life.

At last the space in front of the desk is empty.

The Demonkin officer glances up. Pale gold eyes settle on you with the same measured attention given to everyone else. The Highborn woman has already drawn a fresh sheet of parchment and a charcoal stylus. The nearest guard shifts his weight almost imperceptibly, ready but not yet hostile.

The Demonkin speaks first, voice calm and carrying easily across the short distance.

“Step forward.” He waits until you have. “Name, origin, and purpose for seeking the Scholarium. State any prior formal training, any sponsorship, and the resources you bring. If you have never successfully shaped a working, say so. We prefer clarity.”

Both officers wait. The courtyard is suddenly very quiet. The thorned vines along the wall have stopped moving entirely.

.