Book I: Chapter 1
They call me a hero.
They call me a leader of men. “They”, in this case, refers to my loyal subjects, all 850,000 of them, spread across the grottos, harbors and sparkling blue shores of a chain of islands no bigger than the Florida Keys. Shipwrights, fishermen, blacksmiths, nobles, commoners, men-at-arms— all of them drink to my health at the local taverns and regale each other with tales of my exploits, when I was a young man wandering the Oerth in search of fame and fortune. They wonder at my strength and courage. They spend coins with my profile stamped on them. To their eyes, they live in the most enlightened monarchy this side of Keoland. They go to sleep at night convinced that they rest under the watchful care of a courageous and noble king.
Bloody fools.
You want titles? I got ‘em. King Elberon, Lord of the Isles, Defender of the Faith, President of the Iron League, High Admiral of the Seven Fleets, Protector of the Adamantium Coast and Friend of the Dolphins. I most likely have other titles of which I am not aware, honorifics bestowed upon me by some High Council or another at elaborate ceremonies at which I may or may not have been present. Who knows? None of them mean shit to me. My Trophy Hall is filled with the dusty relics of my past triumphs. Tapestries recount great battles at which I led my armies and fleets to astounding victories. The hall is chock full of rare and powerful magical items: glowing armor that can turn a Frost Giant spear, shields that can withstand a freezing blast of White Dragon breath, swords that burn lustily with mysterious arcane powers. I hardly look at them any more.
My father, the illustrious and well-storied King Olderon II, once told me I have more wisdom than intelligence. It was the closest he ever came to giving me a compliment. I took it to mean that I lacked the sense to avoid making a stupid move, but had enough wisdom to feel guilty about it afterwards. When I first got my adventurer’s license, way back when in Redhawk, the Guild actually measured both my wisdom and intelligence, assigning number values to both: 15 for my wisdom and 11 for my intelligence. I never quite understood what those numbers measured or where upon what scale they lay. Wilberd told me to be thankful that I hadn’t tried to be a wizard. “Wizards need at least a 15 intelligence to stay alive,” he told me.
I never wanted to be a wizard. I was always a fighter by trade. The Wizards’ Code forbids them to wear armor or to use any weapons other than your standard-issue dagger, and so they have to lurk around in the back of a raiding party, hiding from whatever monster is trying to disembowel them, waiting for the right moment to launch a Magic Missile or a Fireball and then run like hell. Not my style. I like to knock down doors. Nothing gives me more pleasure in life than to feel the satisfying thunk of my battle-ax blade biting into the skull of an Orc warrior. I was always the first to wade into battle; my modus operandi was to stand like an unfaltering sea-cliff while wave upon wave of enemy orcs or skeletons or whatever crashed and broke against the rock of my great strength. My battle-axe cut a wide arc of death around me. It was not uncommon for me to behead three or more opponents with one blow. If I got into trouble, I could always count on the great sword of Amabored or the singing bow of that pointy-eared elf boy Lithaine to haul my ass out of danger. Man, those were the days.
So now I’m a King. I thought it was what I wanted, even though I was the younger of two sons and had no chance at all of ever inheriting the throne. I figured that I’d end up regent of some little kingdom looking for a man of stature to represent them at Elvish councils, someone to preside over feasts and revelries, someone to knock up a princess and produce an heir. I left my father’s kingdom and renounced my wealth in order to prove my worth to him, never dreaming that one day I would indeed take his place. Would he be proud of me? If so, he never would have dared to admit it, because that would have meant admitting that his opinion of my worth was ill founded. Now he’s dead, both he and my brother Eldernon slain at the hands of the assassin Garrin Grimmreaper, whom I personally beheaded atop the uppermost spire of the Crimson Citadel. Got my revenge, all right. Somewhere in Valhalla, my father is wondering why it took me so long.
They call me a leader of men. “They”, in this case, refers to my loyal subjects, all 850,000 of them, spread across the grottos, harbors and sparkling blue shores of a chain of islands no bigger than the Florida Keys. Shipwrights, fishermen, blacksmiths, nobles, commoners, men-at-arms— all of them drink to my health at the local taverns and regale each other with tales of my exploits, when I was a young man wandering the Oerth in search of fame and fortune. They wonder at my strength and courage. They spend coins with my profile stamped on them. To their eyes, they live in the most enlightened monarchy this side of Keoland. They go to sleep at night convinced that they rest under the watchful care of a courageous and noble king.
Bloody fools.
You want titles? I got ‘em. King Elberon, Lord of the Isles, Defender of the Faith, President of the Iron League, High Admiral of the Seven Fleets, Protector of the Adamantium Coast and Friend of the Dolphins. I most likely have other titles of which I am not aware, honorifics bestowed upon me by some High Council or another at elaborate ceremonies at which I may or may not have been present. Who knows? None of them mean shit to me. My Trophy Hall is filled with the dusty relics of my past triumphs. Tapestries recount great battles at which I led my armies and fleets to astounding victories. The hall is chock full of rare and powerful magical items: glowing armor that can turn a Frost Giant spear, shields that can withstand a freezing blast of White Dragon breath, swords that burn lustily with mysterious arcane powers. I hardly look at them any more.
My father, the illustrious and well-storied King Olderon II, once told me I have more wisdom than intelligence. It was the closest he ever came to giving me a compliment. I took it to mean that I lacked the sense to avoid making a stupid move, but had enough wisdom to feel guilty about it afterwards. When I first got my adventurer’s license, way back when in Redhawk, the Guild actually measured both my wisdom and intelligence, assigning number values to both: 15 for my wisdom and 11 for my intelligence. I never quite understood what those numbers measured or where upon what scale they lay. Wilberd told me to be thankful that I hadn’t tried to be a wizard. “Wizards need at least a 15 intelligence to stay alive,” he told me.
I never wanted to be a wizard. I was always a fighter by trade. The Wizards’ Code forbids them to wear armor or to use any weapons other than your standard-issue dagger, and so they have to lurk around in the back of a raiding party, hiding from whatever monster is trying to disembowel them, waiting for the right moment to launch a Magic Missile or a Fireball and then run like hell. Not my style. I like to knock down doors. Nothing gives me more pleasure in life than to feel the satisfying thunk of my battle-ax blade biting into the skull of an Orc warrior. I was always the first to wade into battle; my modus operandi was to stand like an unfaltering sea-cliff while wave upon wave of enemy orcs or skeletons or whatever crashed and broke against the rock of my great strength. My battle-axe cut a wide arc of death around me. It was not uncommon for me to behead three or more opponents with one blow. If I got into trouble, I could always count on the great sword of Amabored or the singing bow of that pointy-eared elf boy Lithaine to haul my ass out of danger. Man, those were the days.
So now I’m a King. I thought it was what I wanted, even though I was the younger of two sons and had no chance at all of ever inheriting the throne. I figured that I’d end up regent of some little kingdom looking for a man of stature to represent them at Elvish councils, someone to preside over feasts and revelries, someone to knock up a princess and produce an heir. I left my father’s kingdom and renounced my wealth in order to prove my worth to him, never dreaming that one day I would indeed take his place. Would he be proud of me? If so, he never would have dared to admit it, because that would have meant admitting that his opinion of my worth was ill founded. Now he’s dead, both he and my brother Eldernon slain at the hands of the assassin Garrin Grimmreaper, whom I personally beheaded atop the uppermost spire of the Crimson Citadel. Got my revenge, all right. Somewhere in Valhalla, my father is wondering why it took me so long.
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