Chapter 1: The Feast of Claimants¶
Prologue - Dravyn¶
The rain began as a patter on the hood, then thickened into ropes that hissed against stone. The road to Aldori Manor was swept clean but slick, the sort of surface where careless feet find lessons. I prefer lessons on my own terms. We arrived bearing letters and intentions, smoke still clinging to cloak and hair from the brief clash with the leshys along the way. It was an interruption, nothing more—a reminder that even roots can bite when disturbed. The eye upon my breastplate watched the storm and narrowed with me.
Manor light and heat lay ahead. Duty, too. I felt the old edge settle—the discipline that trims what is needless from a moment. The hall would be a theatre of blades sheathed in etiquette: rivals measuring reach, allies testing grip, the simple and the subtle alike. I touched the guisarme’s haft, not in threat but as ritual, then pushed the door and let the thunder announce our arrival. If the Stolen Lands were to be carved into order, it would begin here—in a room of wine and words—where the first lines are drawn and the first names are remembered.
I do not relish crowds. But I know their use. The storm outside promised patience. The storm inside required it .
The storm broke over Restov as the five companions climbed the freshly swept path to Aldori Manor. Thunder rolled across the city's rooftops, and rain swept the cobblestones in sheets that plastered their travel-worn clothing to their backs. Perry Marlowe tilted his head against the downpour, already cataloging details with the methodical eye of an investigator treating the evening as a case to be solved. Beside him, Rust Freelox peered wide-eyed at the manor's imposing facade, half awed and half overwhelmed by the grandeur before them. Dravyn moved with the ominous bearing of a scholar who'd delved too deep into forbidden texts, his robes lending him the air of a necromancer despite the life-affirming nature of his magic. Elroy Jenkins walked with a soldier's discipline, his shield never far from ready position, while Grotdor carried the quiet confidence of someone who could summon flames with a mere thought.
Two swordlord guards in Aldori livery stood at the great doors, impassive despite the weather. One by one, the companions presented their summons—the letters bearing Lady Jamandi Aldori's sword-pommel seal. The guards gave each only the briefest glance; clearly, they were expected. With a creak of heavy hinges, the doors swung open, and warmth, candlelight, and the murmur of many voices spilled out to greet them.
Inside, Perry mentally cataloged everything—guard positions, exits, the cut and quality of noble fashions—filing each detail away like evidence. The others shook rain from their clothes and paused to take in the grandeur of the reception hall.
The Great Hall¶
The reception area opened into a vast banquet hall dominated by a long central table surrounded by smaller tables and knots of mercenaries, nobles, and adventurers. This was no private audience; Lady Jamandi had gathered multiple would-be claimants to the Stolen Lands, and the competition would be fierce.
Perry drifted toward a table where five soldiers sat encased in identical heavy plate—matching red tabards, identical shields, helmets down even indoors. The symmetry alone was suspicious; mercenaries typically loved to peacock, but these looked drilled and disciplined. Elroy recognized them first: the Iron Wraiths, a mercenary company from Brevoy's orbit, famous for dealing with bandits through intimidation and swift justice—"with the rope or the sword, whichever reaches first," as their reputation held.
At the head of their table sat their commander, Lord Hannis Drelev, a Brevic noble and Aldori-trained duelist who treated swordsmanship as art and rank as destiny. He wrote in a leather-bound book, occasionally lifting his helmet to sip wine, his knee bouncing with constant impatience—a man who already saw a map in his head and was annoyed the ink wasn't yet dry.
Perry wandered closer, ostensibly to study the murals. Drelev's gaze snagged on the halfling investigator, took in his height, his coat, his lack of heraldry, and said flatly, "Can I help you, friend?"
He let the silence hang a beat, then added dismissively, "I didn't think so."
Perry arched an eyebrow. "Is that Lord Drelev? You said his last name is Drelev, and you said 'Lord'—is that his rank?"
A passing servant quietly supplied, "Lord—as in noble title," then moved on with professional discretion.
"So he's a muckety-muck," Perry muttered.
"Indeed," one of the Iron Wraiths said beneath his helm. "Our lord is a man of standards."
Drelev deigned to notice Perry properly. "It seems Lady Aldori will hire anyone, hm? Anyone with a mind, or the... courage. Tell me, I hope you've come as a servant—have they really started inviting anyone to take on a task this great?"
Perry smiled pleasantly. "You confuse good breeding with good behavior. Curiosity killed the cat. I'm merely performing an autopsy."
One of the Wraiths leaned toward his neighbor and whispered, loud enough to be heard, "Did you hear that? He kills cats."
Drelev snorted. "All right, friend, well, listen here, little boy. If you need a stuffed animal before heading into the big, scary woods, I hope you packed one. They're not going to have a toy store anywhere out there."
Perry tilted his head, examining the noble as one might a particularly confident fungus. "Ah. The sound of certainty unburdened by thought."
Another Wraith muttered, "I think he's calling us dumb."
Perry felt his pulse tick upward—the tug of a good argument turning toward a bad decision. "I'm going to sit down," he said to no one in particular, "before I start a brawl."
He withdrew, but the encounter had been educational: the Iron Wraiths were disciplined and dangerous, their leader already planning his settlement—Fort Drelev—down to the map and coat-of-arms. Drelev saw the evening as prelude, not partnership, and viewed the rest of the assembled company as background color to his inevitable triumph.
Among the other guests, the companions soon identified several notable figures:
Maegar Varn, a sharply dressed, charismatic noble with a polished presence, surrounded by his own band of hardened adventurers. He carried himself with the confidence of someone who knew Lady Jamandi personally and had already drawn plans for his future.
Amiri, an imposing woman with a massive greatsword, already several pints deep and laughing loudly at her own table.
Harrim, a dour, heavily armored dwarf draped in holy symbols, his expression perpetually grim.
Tartuccio, a richly dressed gnome with an immaculate mustache and the smug confidence of someone convinced of his own brilliance.
Valerie, a half-elf woman with a scar and Aldori dueling sword, her bearing poised and stoic.
Linzi, a halfling bard clutching a notebook, her eyes shining with curiosity as she sketched and scribbled observations.
Jaethal, a pale, reserved elf whose bearing and jewelry whispered of uncomfortable truths about death and undeath.
Rust inadvertently sat in someone else's assigned seat and received a scolding from another halfling for his lack of decorum. His cheeks burned as he found his rightful place. Elroy traded seats to position himself closer to the warriors he understood, while Rust gravitated toward Linzi—someone closer to his size, if not species. Dravyn and Grotdor positioned themselves where they could best observe the spellcasters and schemers.
Lady Jamandi's Call¶
As servants began circulating with drinks and appetizers, conversation dipped. An elegant half-elven woman with a long ponytail and an Aldori blade at her hip entered alongside a middle-aged man in blue-and-gold noble finery.
The man introduced himself as Yosef Seliamus, Lord Mayor of Restov, and presented his companion as Lady Jamandi Aldori herself. She was striking and commanding, every inch the warrior noble her reputation suggested.
Lady Jamandi delivered her call with practiced authority: the Stolen Lands, long a haven for bandits and monsters, would finally be tamed. Whoever could conquer and hold a portion of it would be granted the right to rule, with Restov as ally and sponsor. The details of charters could wait; tonight was for feasting and taking measure of one another. Tomorrow, business would begin in earnest.
She raised a toast to the assembled heroes. Servants flooded the room with platters of suckling pig, fruits, pies, cakes, and plenty of drink. The real work of the evening—sorting friends from rivals—commenced.
The Social Currents¶
First Impressions¶
Perry opened with Lord Varn himself, introducing himself as an investigator, alchemist, and occasional optimist while gently probing the noble's plans. Varn was courteous but impenetrable, his polished surface revealing nothing of substance. Instead, he lectured Perry on his pedigree: he knew Lady Jamandi personally, his family had long ties to the Aldori school, and as a third son with no inheritance, this charter represented his singular chance at power. He'd already drawn up full town plans for a future settlement called Varnhold. He considered being offered a free room for the evening an insult—"What am I, a peasant who can't afford lodging?"—and clearly regarded those without noble lineage as lesser.
Grotdor made first contact with Tartuccio, leading with casual observations about grooming and battlefield readiness. The gnome preened instantly, bragging about his luxurious eyebrows and his regimen of shaving every inch of himself to be more aerodynamic. He launched into complaints about barbarians tracking crumbs on the floor. Grotdor played along, praising the gnome's refined sensibilities, and learned that Tartuccio loved discussing magic and his own talents, responded eagerly to flattery, and was deeply arrogant—constantly scanning for weakness in others.
Rust approached Linzi, the halfling bard scribbling furiously in her book. She lit up at the sight of a goblin hero at the table. "Oh my gods, a goblin! I don't mean that badly, I swear—it's just... a feast for heroes, and we have a goblin here. That's rare, right? What did you do to deserve a seat at this table?"
Rust admitted he wasn't entirely sure why he'd been invited—he'd just gotten the letter and had nowhere better to be. They bonded over the imposter syndrome of the newly recruited. She admired his hat; he confessed he'd taken it off a dead man, then hastily clarified he hadn't killed the man. She wasn't bothered either way and sketched him in the margins of her book, delighted by his honesty.
Dravyn turned toward Jaethal, the pale woman with the scythe who hadn't eaten, drunk, or blinked much. "You don't look like someone who wants to be here any more than I do," he murmured.
"Do I look that bad?" she asked, almost alarmed. "Do I seem awkward? Am I doing a bad job?"
She admitted she wasn't used to crowds; the noise, lights, and smells overwhelmed her. The scythe, she explained, was a sort of prayer—training with it a form of communion with her god. When Dravyn touched the all-seeing eye symbol over his heart and spoke of his own faith, she relaxed fractionally.
Elroy began with Harrim, the dour dwarf cleric, opening with a polite assumption. "A fellow of Torag, I see. I am pleased to make you—"
Harrim cut him off. "Torag? I piss on that." Then, with perfect deadpan: "Of course, when I piss, I do eventually stop. Much like this meal. Much like this festival. It will all come to an inevitable end."
Elroy apologized, explaining he'd grown up among dwarves in the mountains and had assumed the wrong god. Harrim shrugged. "That's fine. We're all going to die anyway. The world's going to end. It doesn't matter. At least for now. I apologize for being upset—but Torag? What's the point in glory? What's the point in valor?"
He delivered all this while eating ham and remarking that every bite brought him closer to the end of the ham.
Building Connections¶
As the evening progressed, Elroy approached Amiri with two mugs of ale. She was already bored and half drunk. "Two mugs? A bringer of gifts," she laughed. "No one's asked about my sword. No one's asked how many things I've killed. Gods, what's the biggest thing you've killed?"
Elroy answered with his ogre story—its spear glancing off his shield, his taunt about the ogre's mother and "the poke I gave her." Amiri roared with laughter and declared him good drinking company.
Perry circled back to Linzi, this time studying her more carefully—her margins, her questions, the pattern of her notes. Armed with better understanding, he introduced himself properly as an investigator from a more civilized time and place, painting their future charter as the opening chapter of a grand story. They swapped notes on narrative structure and the danger of unreliable narrators, particularly nobles. She responded warmly, genuinely interested in his perspective.
Then Dravyn approached and absolutely captured her attention, dropping references to obscure magical treatises and spinning fragments of his mysterious past into tantalizing beats. Linzi's quill flew across the page, her eyes shining with delight at having found such fascinating subjects.
Dravyn also made headway with Tartuccio, leaning into magic talk—arcana, theory, the finer points of spellcraft—and letting the gnome feel very seen, very clever, and very correct. The flattery landed perfectly.
Rust attempted to impress Tartuccio as well, but the combination of goblin table manners and the gnome's snobbery went poorly. Instead of seeing a brave frontier priest, Tartuccio saw crumbs and chaos, and his expression soured noticeably.
Elroy returned his attention to Valerie, the armored knight, and by talking about duty, law, and the burden of command without making it about himself, he began to understand her core values: she respected discipline, honor, and integrity, and disdained pointless recklessness and empty chivalric theatrics.
Deepening Bonds¶
As the feast wore on through course after course, patterns emerged.
Elroy and Amiri became fast drinking companions, trading battlefield banter and gruesome ogre details. She cheered and slammed mugs with him, declaring him someone she could trust in a fight.
Grotdor approached Jaethal with measured seriousness, speaking quietly of duty, death, and the discomfort of being observed like an exhibit. His willingness to treat her experiences as real and valid earned a flicker of respect. She responded to honesty about faith and personal conviction, and disliked shallow pleasantries or forced cheerfulness.
Perry approached Valerie with something she hadn't expected from a halfling investigator: serious political philosophy. They discussed what a just government in the Stolen Lands might look like—laws that protected without oppressing, structures that rewarded merit over birth, systems to constrain both mob and monarch. Perry spoke of reason as the first line of defense against tyranny. Valerie listened carefully, asked pointed questions, and did not dismiss him. She began to see in their party potential partners for a lawful, rational order.
Rust approached Jaethal gently, acknowledging her discomfort without trying to fix it. They spoke about loneliness, about living on the fringes, about divinity that didn't fit neatly into temple sermons. His simple honesty and lack of judgment earned her first genuine softening of the night.
Dravyn followed up with Jaethal, tying their earlier conversation about weapons as prayer into a more thoughtful discussion on faith and purpose. He didn't lecture; he shared. She appreciated being spoken with, not preached at.
Perry returned to Linzi with a more concrete offer: if she wanted a story, he would make sure she had everything she needed—maps, dates, case notes, even marginalia from his investigations. They discussed how best to structure a chronicle of a kingdom's birth: not as propaganda, but as a true account—flaws, mistakes, and all. Linzi was delighted, practically adopting their party as her preferred subjects.
Final Impressions¶
As the last courses were cleared and the music began to slow, Perry reinforced his connection with Valerie, drilling deeper into the idea of a government built not on a single strongman but on institutions: councils, checks, and the courage to admit error. He spoke candidly about his own tendency toward overthinking and how that could be turned from a flaw into a civic asset. She appreciated the honesty and seriousness of purpose.
Grotdor gave Amiri a final show: a controlled dance of fire, the kind that singed the air but left the table intact. Amiri whooped, slapped him on the back hard enough to rattle teeth, and declared him "good chaos."
Rust maintained his quiet, respectful conversation with Jaethal about what came after the feast, about solitude versus chosen company. She seemed almost relieved to have someone who didn't demand a performance from her.
Dravyn closed his efforts by reassuring Jaethal that not everyone meant to stare, judge, or use her. Some were simply curious, or lonely, or both. She accepted that with a small, wry smile.
Elroy toasted Amiri one last time, promising that if they ended up on the same front line, he'd make sure the ogres hit him first. She laughed, clinked mugs, and told him she'd hold him to it.
Where Alliances Stood¶
By the time the final notes of music faded and servants began clearing the hall:
Amiri had found kindred spirits in Elroy and Grotdor—sturdy, funny warriors she could drink with and trust in battle.
Harrim had opened up to Elroy enough to share his nihilistic theology and a bit of dwarven faith, finding in the guardian someone who took religion seriously even when it preached doom.
Jaethal had cautiously warmed to Rust and Dravyn, seeing in them fellow outsiders who understood faith, unease, and the weight of being different.
Linzi was thoroughly enchanted by the party's story potential, particularly by Dravyn's mysteries and Perry's promise of meticulous documentation. She would be their chronicler, and they would feature prominently in whatever saga she wrote.
Valerie saw in them—particularly in Perry and Elroy—a possible foundation for a lawful, rational kingdom, and people who might take governance seriously rather than viewing it as merely a path to glory.
Tartuccio remained vain and prickly: flattered by Grotdor and Dravyn's attention, put off by Rust's lack of refinement.
Maegar Varn stayed polished and opaque—a noble with detailed plans, but not yet someone they could confidently read or rely upon.
And somewhere across the hall, the Iron Wraiths and Lord Hannis Drelev watched, measuring the competition as surely as they were being measured in turn.
The storm continued to rage outside Aldori Manor, but inside, alliances had been forged, rivalries noted, and the first pieces moved on a board that would determine the future of the Stolen Lands.
Tomorrow, the charters would be distributed, and the real test would begin.