1.4.4 Siraen Valar
elven rebellion
Opening Monologue¶
You all awake from your slumber in your cups. Heads pounding. The early morning light peeks through the curtains though the Tide smells of vomit and the stink of last nights festivities. Around the tavern slumps plenty of figures still sleeping off their celebrations. Varka is up and moving amongst the tables, you see her collect any remaining coins off a table and peruse the patrons pockets deftly before she slams a stein onto the table and viciously kicking them to standing. She tells them they haven't paid to sleep before escorting them to the door. The huge handsome hairy traveller, Heimdall, is nowhere to be seen. The last you remember was his bouyant joyous laughter and cheering. Trying to keep up with him in both song and swill was definitely reckless. Your eyes close sleepily again...
But not all rest soundly. Not all were welcomed at Midsommerblót. The elves were forgotten as the city feasted and praised the old gods. It was a last straw. A desperate people pushed to the brink...
Grom! Comes a call from deep within the Barracks. You stir but are confused, it hasn’t been a week since your last shift in the Shallows. Also you're still mixed up after the festivus last night. Still you daren’t wait for a second summons. You grab your handaxe and yesterday’s clothes and present yourself before the sergeant. A sinister smile graces his curved lips and small tusks. Sargeant Grumsh never did like you. Grom -“shallows distribution” he cries and claps you across the head for good measure. The ringing in your head subsides and you make your way to the district to the south. The Paupers, ne’er do wells and the remnants of elven society isn’t so bad. It’s just boring as hell. To be truthful there isn’t that much to distribute these days. There is a pecking order in Hammerfall and the elves ain’t on the scale. By the time provisions end up here they been passed over by the rats. T’isnt so bad. You console yourself, and report to Grumsh, tardy but in decent order. He walks you down from the mercantile district through the patched gates, by the gaping tomb, past a dozen slum houses and finally towards the distribution centre. It’s a fancy name but it basically boils down to an ork, a small ramshackle broken down house and a sack of “provisions”. The elves approach to get their distribution of rations. Everyone of them has a tale of woe to tell but you have heard them before and it falls on deaf ears. You understand their futility but it doesn’t matter, what could a single ork do to change the minds of the Pact. A hopeless endeavour. So you do your job. You distribute rotten bread and stinking fish to a crowd of starving elves like it was gold at the table of the Allfather but soon the well runs dry. A couple of folk need a cudgel to the head and a reminder to back off but mostly it is a simple job. You yell out a report to the other orks outside that s'all gone. When a stray Elf wanders in. He has a strange stagger about him, sort of a hobble and he is wearing an oversized cloak. It covers him head to toe. As he steps into the torchlight you hear that he is muttering some elvish. A repeating pattern of their sing song words.
Vael'seran. Caer'valan Vael'seran. Caer'valan Vael'seran. Caer'valan
You mutter at the cursed man. "Foods gone, come back tomorrow. Out before I have to give you a lesson."
The man stops, dropping his robe. Exposing bloodied runes carved into flesh. They litter the mans body. From head to toe and they glow in a subtle but burning blue flame. He lifts his head and spits the words.
“Sael’tharan vel Siraen.”
Blue fire explodes enveloping you. All you feel is heat...
BRAWN! BRAWN! BRAWN! The cheering suddenly changes, become more urgent. Then a rolling feeling as your celebratory litter topples over. You bang your head hard on the chair leg. BRAWN get up! Varka is shaking you. Word coming in that the elves are revolting. This is bad. Some how they are organised. People say explosions at the Distribution Centre. Humans Overseers and Ork shopkeepers being strung up and mutilated near the Tattered Loom and the elves've overrun the Weeping Veins. You have to go see if you can sort it out. This could cause the Pact to wipe them out....or who knows. You should go see Veylith....maybe he can still be reasoned with. Hopefully the honor Hrimgaldr bestowed upon you is respected for another day. Maybe you all can stop this city from ripping itself apart!
Scene 1¶
Distribution Centre (orks) - save the orks or don't¶
You push through a crowd of angry Elves, many carrying simple weapons. Clubs, daggers or perhaps simply flaming pieces of wood. Many seem malnourished and wan but their anger seems to be fueling them now. Years of oppression and slavery spewing out upon the three young orc guards who now represent all that suffering and pain. The mob wants blood.
Scene 2¶
The Tattered Loom (elves) - find Veylith¶
*You come to the street where you returned Veylith after his rescue from Bloodtooth. It is strangely quiet. Almost as if sound is forbidden. It is too tense for words. You pass by the Tattered Loom but it is silent there, and locked... in the middle of the day. The shop a small ways away glows with Red light. The Smiths, known as The Ember Chain, a cruel reference to the enslaved master elven craftsman. As you draw close you hear muffled cries, and the smell of burning flesh. An elf you don't recognise sits on a stool as you approach looking nervously up the street.
Scene 3¶
Trouble at the Weeping Veins (norsemen) - rescue Sten Halvardsson¶
The air shifts as you step into the mine—thick, metallic, and cloying. The scent of scorched stone and old blood clings to your throat like smoke. It’s silent, unnaturally so, save for the faint drip of water echoing through the tunnels and the distant crackle of rune-fire.
The walls pulse with heat. Glowing symbols—carved deep into the rock—burn like dying embers. Some flicker, unstable. Others hiss as you pass, their meanings lost to all but the most ancient tongues.
The path winds downward, narrower and steeper with each step. Charred bones lie forgotten in side passages, half-buried beneath collapsed beams. And somewhere below, muffled but unmistakable, a voice chants in Elven—measured, fervent, unrelenting.
The Weeping Veins are no longer just a mine. They've become a tomb waiting to seal. And you are walking into its fire.
Session Notes¶
Ended agreeing with Veylith to help the Elves get their demands. We didn't need to go to the Weeping Veins
The Party would take the demands to the Pact representative and try to halt their enforcers and counter-aggression when they arrive.
Learned some elven phrases.
Learned to activate the runes carved into their flesh the elves seem to incant some command words and then place their hands on them, invoking and triggering them.
Learned some lore and history about Hammerfall.
Norsemen & Orks are tribal and mostly nomadic they have none of the craftsmanship or civic understanding required to run a city. Their desires also differ, the Norsemen are interested in the protection and riches Hammerfall offers but the Orks are simpler and would rather just be done with the elves and their strange ways.
Hammerfall's stability relies on the consistent revenue and precious metals which come from the Weeping Veins and the labor of the enslaved elves. They also rely on the magical food production and trades of the elven craftsmen in order to keep the city well fed, clothed and maintained.
The Elven demands:
- Elves may own and operate their own businesses within the Elven ghettos. All human or Ork proprietors will leave the Elven establishments.
- Elves will be permitted to travel within the Shallows or to leave or enter the city.
- Elves may carry and spend money and attend the markets.