Callista was pleasantly surprised at Orlaa’s Armageddon’s sudden appearance earlier in the evening. She had not seen her distant cousin for quite some time and had never expected to run into her in such a place as Bloodstone Village, so close to the Vaasan frontier. Their meeting was, she had learned, because Orlaa had specifically sought her out. After pleasant greetings, they went into the village’s inn and found as quiet a table as they could amongst the gathered throng.
Once they were seated, Orlaa pulled a thin scroll from the folds of her frock coat and unfurled it before her sword-sister. Callista watched and listened with interest as the sorceror began to read its contents aloud:
Severin and Turbran Armageddon were born in the 1220s by the Reckoning of the Dalelands, in the Vaasan wastes, to a small tribe of mountain orcs. Their mother was a young human shieldmaiden of the White Wyrm Tribe that had been captured in a raid and subjected to brutal slavery and debasement. After the birth of her unwished-for children, and before attacking her captors and bringing on her own demise, she cried out to Heimdall for retribution to make her twin offspring the instruments of her vengeance. The Vigilant One was only too happy to oblige.
The brothers survived into early adulthood, forged into living weapons in the harsh wastelands. Sharper than steel. Harder than stone.
When the appointed time had come, Heimdall filled them with hatred and wrath and a small spark of his divine power. They took up arms and slew all of the members of their orcish clan, without hesitation or mercy.
It proved to be the auspicious beginning to an infamous career. The Brothers Armageddon spent the next several years running roughshod over the North. Thieves. Slayers. Pillagers.
It was oft whispered that the brothers left their seed behind wherever they marauded, branding the lands of the North with bloodlines that endured long after the memory of their misdeeds had faded into legend. The price of Heimdall’s momentary favor was that all of he descendants of the brothers would be half-orc, whether the parents be orc, human, or some combination of the two.
It was also said that their path took the brothers even unto the City of Doors, where they forged an alliance with Gith exiles who skulked there in the shadows, concealing themselves from the ever-seeking gaze of their Lich Queen.
In time the brothers returned to the Realms and fell in with a band of ruthless mercenaries who fully lived up to their namesake—the Reavers. This group of adventurers cut a swath of mayhem and ruin across the Bloodstone Lands before settling into a ringed tower complex meant to set a watch on each other as much as to set a watch on their foes, for it was well-known in the North that the Reavers’ contempt for their many enemies was exceeded only by their contempt for each other.
And so, it was not long before the Reavers’ internal vigilance and distrust proved to be well-founded, for in 1254 DR, the Year of the Fallen Hall, the Reavers turned their warlike natures upon each other. The dread dark elf priestess and her Ilrigger paramour initiated the final reckoning by tunneling from their own tower stronghold down into the dungeons of their most despised rival, a Reaver whose name remains lost to the mists of time, unleashing a horde of undead monstrosities upon him and his minions.
With this commencement of hostilities, the vile eldritch warrior Alystaire in turn assaulted the tower of his own despised rival, Loddfafnir Thiassi, a northern barbarian of great mirth and great melancholies. These two brought their full might to bear against each other, smiting the very air with all their fury and power.
And then, at the height of the conflagration, the Brothers Armageddon appeared suddenly over the skies of Reaver Hall astride powerful Gith-allied red dragons, seizing upon the unleashed chaos and pouring all of their accumulated rage and hatred down upon their companions, attacking all indiscriminately, for no greater purpose than to revel in the destruction.
What ultimately became of the Reavers as a result of this great conflict is unknown. All that is known is that when the battle concluded, none of them remained. They had vanished without a trace. Some legends intimate that their unleashed power had torn reality open and caused their mutual destruction. Others hold that the gods were so disgusted by the Reavers' senseless and unending bloodshed that they merely allowed them to obliterate each other, thereby ensuring that the world would suffer no more of the adventurers' unbridled aggression.
No matter the cause, the Reavers have never been seen nor heard from again. Only their Hall remains, unexplored and untouched to this day, seemingly warded by rumors of a great curse that lies over its environs, waiting to be unleashed upon an unsuspecting world.
Orlaa rolled the scroll back up after her recitation and waited for Callista’s response.
“That was . . . SO AWESOME!” Callista exclaimed breathlessly, clearly smitten with the tale of their mutual ancestors.
“I know, right?” Orlaa agreed. “My grandfather wrote this particular history. I found it after I learned that you were joining a group hired to seek out and explore Reaver Hall. There’s also a genealogy for my family that he added at the end. I’ve added your family’s line myself, based on your clan’s oral histories. It seems our people were once feared adventurers and the place you are going to explore was their stronghold.”
“Thanks for letting me know about all this, especially that part about a curse, although I have no idea what it’s supposed to be,” Callista said, truly grateful for her sword-sister’s efforts. “Will you at least stay for a bit this time? It’s been way more than a season since we’ve caught up with each other!“
“I wish I could, but I’ve pressing business awaiting me back home,” she replied. “I only happened to be visiting at Candlekeep to consult with an old colleague on some of my research when I overheard that you'd been through on your way from Heliogabalus on your way to this Reaver Hall. That's how I found out. Pure coincidence, really. I thought you would want to know all of this about our people before you set out.”
“Who knows? Maybe it was more than coincidence. Anyway, we are setting out for a settlement called Reaver’s Rest in the morning.”
“I’ll not hold you up then,” Orlaa remarked ever so slyly. “After all, I also hear that Sir Rikkard of Kinnery is the Commander of the Vaasan Gate now. I’m sure you’ll be finding some way to keep each other warm as the cold winter approaches . . . Me Callista, Me big warrior, me mash hooman!”
“Ugrukh . . .” the burly warrior muttered in feigned disgust, shaking her head.
The sword-sisters burst out in laughter and toasted each other before draining their tankards. They'd stood up together to part ways, when Orlaa suddenly handed the scroll to Callista.
“Keep this token, my sister, and carry it with you into the wastes. Let something of both Severin and Turbran Armageddon return to their ancient dwelling place.”
The half-orcs embraced warmly, then Orlaa turned to make her leave. Before she could go, however, Callista put a final query to her—
“Do you have any idea what your ancestor was referring to about that City of Doors or these Gish or Gith or whatever?”
Orlaa turned back to reply, momentarily lost in thought.
“Not exactly . . . no. I have some suspicions, though. Well, more like educated guesses, really. But who knows? When you get back, let me know what you find out and we can see if we can see what’s what. I’d especially like to talk to you about your family’s silver sword, should you ever find it.”
“Deal,” Callista agreed, and the two embraced again.
At that moment, Orlaa spied a familiar figure making his way toward them through the evening crowd that filled the common room. Convinced that she had not yet been spotted, she hastened to make her exit.
“Until next,” the sorceror said.
“Until next,” Callista replied, guessing at the source of Orlaa’s hasty withdrawal.
The sorceror disappeared just as Torvaagh arrived.
“Everything is prepared for tomorrow’s journey,” the ranger stated. He looked down at the empty tankards on the rough wooden table, then off into the crowd, uncertainly.
“Wait, was that—”
Cutting him off before he could ask the question, Callista issued a brisk set of orders to be executed before they left at first light for the place called Reaver’s Rest. Unconvinced by the misdirection, the half-orc ranger nevertheless nodded his assent and moved off to inspect their gear one last time before retiring for the night.
Callista looked down at the
scroll in her hand, then at the empty tankards.
She flagged down a serving wench, ordered another tankard and sat back
down at the table. While she waited, she
unfurled the scroll and read and reread its contents, reflecting on what
secrets might be concealed in its inscriptions until the fires in the common
room had burned low.