Setting
Northern G'ael
Those that live within G'ael are largely divided into one of two divisions. Northern G'ael, and Southern G'ael.
Northern G'ael
Northern G'ael is a dark land, its people dominated by superstition and fear. Well known for its rolling highlands and vast woodland valleys, this region was once a place of great beauty before the land grew sickly. Currently a thick smog has settled over the countryside; overcast skies and heavy rainfall only add to the gloom and depression of the region.
Life in northern G'ael is centered around the scattered settlements that make up this region. With little to no contact with neighboring towns or travelers, each settlement is self-sufficient. Outsiders are viewed with great mistrust and only barely tolerated until they move on. With woodlands teaming with feral werewolves and vampires who prey upon the unwary, this land is not for the faint of heart.
Magic in Northern G'ael
Though once prevalent, the use of magic has not existed in northern G'ael for hundreds of years. During the peak of its uses, the nobles of northern G'ael began to delve into necromancy and the occult in search of the answers to immortality. Twisted by their misuse and dark purposes, the magic of G'ael grew tainted and with it the land. What magic still exists within these regions can no longer be wielded and simply serves to keep the undead scourges animated. Those reckless enough to try will typically find themselves overcome by its dark and twisted nature, and they themselves will soon join the ranks of the dead as shades and wraiths who haunt the night in search of magic to devour. Mages have long avoided the lands of northern G'ael.
Werewolves of G'ael
Within G'ael superstition runs rampant, but the nature of these superstitions can vary from region to region - as is seen with the werewolves of G'ael. While the people of southern G'ael retain a strong fear and aversion to the vampires of northern G'ael, werewolves are accepted and even revered for their ferocity in battle, and they play a significant role in keeping the southern lands free of undead influence. However, once their affliction has taken hold of them and they become a threat they are typically killed or simply driven into northern G'ael to join the feral populations. This systematic relocation serves to perpetuate the animosity towards werewolves by the northerners who view them as no better than the undead scourge that plague their lands.
See the Ulfhednar for more details.
Vampires of G'ael
The origin of the vampires within G'ael can be traced back to early necromancy at the hands of nobles. In their search for immortality, they delved into matters of the occult and dark magic. Their twisted experiments gave rise to the early vampires, a twisted abomination caught somewhere between the living and the dead. These creatures fed upon the flesh of the living and were soon ravaging the countryside. These creatures became known as the draugar (singular: draugr). Infused with the same greed and amorality they contained in life, these creatures can typically be found lurking in graveyards, looting the dead or feasting upon the corpses.
Despite early failures, the nobles of northern G'ael were driven by their greed and a hunger for immortality. Regardless of growing pressure and resentment from the commoners, they redoubled their experiments so as to perfect the nature of the abominations. Their efforts proved successful with the subsequent creation of the vampires. Born out of dark magic and the greed within their human hearts, vampires are creatures driven by sinful desires and power. Almost all of the vampires living within G'ael are of noble birth, or descendants of nobles. This has given rise to the people of northern G'ael going to great lengths to hide their nobility for fear of the vampires discovering them.
Northern G'ael lives in a perpetual state of fear and conflict with the undead abominations that plague their lands.
(RP Notes: For those RPing within northern G'ael please be mindful that northern G'ael's culture and atmosphere is loosely influenced by a mingling of medieval western Europe, Romania, and fantasy. While other cultural denominations are present as well, they are often viewed as a peculiarity, and are few and far in between and often have quite the tale to tell as to how they came to live in such a place.)
Northern G'ael
Northern G'ael is a dark land, its people dominated by superstition and fear. Well known for its rolling highlands and vast woodland valleys, this region was once a place of great beauty before the land grew sickly. Currently a thick smog has settled over the countryside; overcast skies and heavy rainfall only add to the gloom and depression of the region. Life in northern G'ael is centered around the scattered settlements that make up this region. With little to no contact with neighboring towns or travelers, each settlement is self-sufficient. Outsiders are viewed with great mistrust and only barely tolerated until they move on.
Minimap
northwest |
north |
northeast |
west |
You are here. |
east |
southwest |
south |
southeast |
Northern G'ael is a part of 
G'ael.
1 Places in Northern G'ael:
2 Characters Here
Alister Royce ("The Mapmaker") [0] Acolyte of The Remnants of the Circle
Cello [0] An unnatural mix of blood
Start Character Here »
It was the acrid tang of urine that finally awoke him. Early morning sunlight filtered through the cracked shutters illuminating tiny speckles of silver dust floating lazily in the air. Behind the wooden shutter the window was wedged open by a block of wood and a cold draft swirled a soiled drape. A shiver ran up his spine and he realized that he was naked beneath the thin gauze of his bedsheet. A groan escaped between parched lips as he propped himself up an an elbow that protested loudly beneath his weight, muscles too confused and tired to function properly. Quiet voices filtered in through the window, livestock grunted hungrily and the odd raven cawed at the winds. A dull throb had begun in his temples and he clenched his eyes tightly shut as though he could force the ache from his pores by sheer will alone. Deprived of his eyesight he could only focus on the strong smell of the place. Beyond the stench of human waste was the huskier waft of wood-smoke and the sweet aroma of lavender battling valiantly against the odds. Fresh pain caused his eyes to water when he finally mustered the courage to peel away his eyelids, and he had to blink a few times as he swung his head left and right to clear them. Warm tears trickled down his cheeks and dripped onto the curls of hair on his bare chest. Crina had hung the pouch stuffed with lavender beside the window and each fresh breeze carried with it the softening scent. Once he had taken pleasure in it but this morning it only reminded him how worthless he had become. A lead weight had settled in his chest and no strength he could muster would shift its bulk. Just to stand took a great effort and each stiff movement was acompanied by the pop of joints or the heat of an overused muscle. He rubbed away the sleep from his eyes and focused again on his surroundings.
It was a modest home even by the standards of Marga. Two tiny rooms. One in which to cook and eat, and one in which to sleep. What few precious items they owned were carefully stored inside a heavy leather-wrapped chest that was kept beneath the bed. Dried leaves had fallen from the torn mattress and now littered the floor around the chest; he would have to re-stuff it soon, he knew. Slowly he folded his sheets and smoothed out the crease in the pillow; a rough mold of his young daughters head. A bitter smile tugged at the edges of his mouth, for what rose in his throat was as much sorrow as love. Swallowing a ragged sigh he tugged on a cotton tunic and fastened his belt. A rub of his face and a run of fingers through his hair reminded him that he must bathe soon; a weeks hair now covered his face and his dark curls had become greasy and lank against his scalp. With little fresh water a bath meant travelling to the streams, though - those had not been safe in recent weeks. Beyond the walls of his hovel he could hear the scuffle of feet entering the toilet built only meters from their walls. Only the knowledge that never again would he awake to the walls around him gave him the strength to open his door and greet the world beyond.
"Da'!"
Of all the sounds in the world only one could serve to steady his heart even as it squeezed his heart into a thousand pieces. It was early moring in Marga and the town was busy with people beginning their labours. Through the thick of the crowd he spotted the owner of the voice. Ginger curls framing a thin, delicate face bounced as she skipped towards him with a smile that dazzled him even more than the sunshine. Crina had dressed her in a pretty brown frock today; knee-length and with green and white thread sewn into the hem to mimic ivy in bloom. It was to be a special day for Doina; her first beyond the borders of her village. She jumped upon her last step and flung herself against him. Dorin held her against his chest and craned backwards so he could look her in the eye. A weave of lavender had been weaved through her curls, and for once the smell did not remind him of their poverty. Bright blue eyes stared back at him with a startling clarity that never ceased to unnerve him. They were a perfect reflection of his own eyes.
"Da' you were snorin' again las' a'night," he drawled. He voice was thick with the villagers accent, unlike his own. "Ma' tol' me you swallowed a'nuther mouse bu' I dun believe 'er." She scowled at him. "You should n'ae drink so much, Da'!" Her tone was mock-seriousness, but there was a pleading behind his eyes that made him look away.
"I know, floare," he replied quietly. His own voice held only a twang of Doina's accent; he reproduced the softer tone of his mother. It was the accent of the Eastlands she had told him once, though he had yet to taste its air. He set his daughter down. "It's a beautiful morning, isn't it?"
She sighed, still mocking him. "Ma' was lookin' for you by th' stable."
"Alright. Go inside and pack the rest on your things, floare." H tussled her hair, much to her chargrin and then stepped past her to head towards the stables.
"Di' you see Doina?"
Crina had paused saddling the horses when he had walked into the stable. It wasn't anger reflected in her eyes or her voice, though. It was fear, doubt and worst of all; pity. He offered her a sad smile and nodded his head. She returned the smile with a bare sincerity that twisted at his heart. He opened his mouth to speak but no words came. He took a step towards her but she shook her head and cast her eyes down to the ground. It sung. Not because she had rejected him, but because it was he who had rejected her. He paused, lost somewhere between the world and his thoughts all rushing through his mind. There barn had the strong smell of freshly turned hay and the familiar sweat of a horse; good smells, ones that calmed his mind. Crina looked up again with tears glimmering across the surface of her eyes. Green like the hanging mosses, and beautiful in their pain. He closed the gap and cupped her cheek in one hand. He brushed away her tears with the tip of his thumb and planted a kiss on her forehead. She nodded silently against his chest, and for a few fragile moments they were in love.
They were broken as soon as he dropped his hand from her face. She sniffled and used her sleeve to dry her eyes. "I set Doina to packing the rest of her things," he said, trying to fill the growing void between them. "I upset her last night, didn't I?" Crina turned to look at him, rose-bud mouth pressed together tightly. "Did I shout?"
"N'ae." A single world that contained more pain than any tear. "You cried," she whispered, one hand idly clasping the buckles on the saddle. "Doina wan'ed to know abou' th' Eastlands, abou'er Nana. Instead'a talkin' you jus' cried silently until she wen'a sit in th' kitchen. Din'ae come back 'til you'd begun t'snore." She buckled the final clasp on the saddle, whilst he stood in silence and hung his head against his chest.
"I'm sorry."
"I know." Silence. "I jus' hope tha' Doina un'erstan's tha'."
Unable to find the strength to cry Dorin simply nodded his head and filled the hollow in his chest with chores.
Few of the folk of Marga had assembled to wish them farewell. Most had turned their backs and thought bitter of a huntsman deserting them in search of greener pastures and myths of distant lands where no beasts stalked the night. They thought him a fool, and all the worse for dragging along a child and her young mother besides. Those that did turn out were the friends of Crina and Doina; a smattering of equally young woman, Crina's elderly mother and a handful of of the towns children. Dorin waited with the horses whilst they said their goodbyes. A light rain had begun to fall and it drowned out whatever words passed their lips. Dorin was left only with his thoughts and the toil of distant thunder. It would be a long, hard storm and a tough. By the time his family rejoined him his cloak was sodden and the ground around them had turned to thick, sludgy mud. The horses snorted their irritation, struggling to gain any purchase on the ground whilst their hooves sunk into the soil. He brushed calloused fingertips against ones nose to calm it.
"Are you alright?"
Crina smiled softly, a gesture that said more than a thousand words. Beneath the droop of the rain-soaked hood her blonde hair was plastered to her face and her cheeks were flushed with the cold. Doina was in little better state even though she was wrapped in elk fur. Her tiny figure shivered in the wind and rain.
"Will we see 'em again Da'?"
"One day, floare," he lied. He never expected to touch foot to soil in Marga after this day, much less taste the putrid air or wake with a dull, lasting pain between his eyes even when he had not fallen asleep drunk. Lying to his daughter left a sour taste and the bright smile she offered him only drove a nail deeper into the pit of his stomach, pinning his soul against a cold, barren bedrock.
Crina mounted one of the horses with Doina nestled in her lap and Dorin climbed the other. Both were good, strong horses that had cost him four months of hard labour. They would carry them to Wulfhaven within two cycles of the moon and still fetch enough coin to buy them fare on a merchant vessel. They had many miles to cover before then, though. He didn't see Marga disappear behind them. In truth he had not even thought of it until they had been on the road for an hour at least. Part of him wished he had offered a more tender goodbye even if he had few warm memories of the place. Instead as the weather had swamped any idle chatter he had drifted into his memories and allowed the time to slip by and the sky to turn from an overcast white to a fast darkening grey.
Birdsong lilted beautifully against the steady trickle of the stream. The first warm summer in years had turned the darkness of the forests into a verdant green backdrop punctured with bright, sensual bursts of colour as flowers struggled into life. A family of deer, bolstered by the turn in the weather, drank freely from the stream with no fear of the two humans dangling their feet into the same waters only thirty feet downstream. The youngest, a baby newly born, wavered on untested legs as it dipped its head into the water. The smell of a fresh, clean forest filled his nostrils and he could not help but smile broadly at the marvelous beauty of it all. It was the first time that he had ever marveled at the woodlands around Marga; the first time he had ever felt that small ball of warmth he would later could to recognize as hope.
Dorin, aged five, shuddered at the sharp contrast between the heat of the suns rays and the icy chill of the streams water. Beside him his mother dangled her own feet into the water with a smile as broad as his own. He watched her for a long time in silence, studying her features intently. She was so different from everyone else he knew; so foreign sitting in this forest. Even with its beauty it seemed indistinct when placed against her. Though his skin was dark her own was burnished copper and it seemed to sparkle in the sunlight, as did the fiery streaks in her auburn hair. Once his father had told him a story about his mother: He had said that one lonely night by the coast he had been struggling to light a fire, only for once solitary lump of soggy wood to magically spring into flame. He had laid a kiss against the branch and when he had opened his eyes, there stood his mother in the fire smiling warmly. At age five Dorin saw no reason to doubt this. Even now the sharpness of his mothers beauty, even in memory, made him wonder.
They had spent that morning simply enjoying the company of one another, free from the dreary village they called home and the superstitions and fears that went alongside it. His mother told him stories of her home, a land far across the ocean. She said that the whole of G'ael could fit into it a dozen times, but he didn't believe her. Even the moon wasn't that big! It was a memory of such innocence that he could not help but chuckle. She had told stories of great deserts, thick jungles and mountains that scratched the sky. Even in his wildest dreams he could not truly envisage these things, even with the boundless creativity of a child. They were wondrous stories, though; ones that filled him with aspirations and desires. It was the beginning of the journey on which he now found himself, he knew.
They spent that night huddled beneath a lopsided wooden shelter. Thick leaves piled against the branches served as a measure of waterproofing but even so the rain found its way to them. With no dry wood to be found anywhere Dorin had been unable to keep a fire going for more than a few minutes. In the end they had chewed on the end of a loaf of soggy bread and then huddled together for warmth, drifting in and out of fitful bursts of sleep. It was a miserable night in which the howls of wolves kept them all constantly on edge.
In the dead of night those memories of hope seemed more distant than ever.
It was a modest home even by the standards of Marga. Two tiny rooms. One in which to cook and eat, and one in which to sleep. What few precious items they owned were carefully stored inside a heavy leather-wrapped chest that was kept beneath the bed. Dried leaves had fallen from the torn mattress and now littered the floor around the chest; he would have to re-stuff it soon, he knew. Slowly he folded his sheets and smoothed out the crease in the pillow; a rough mold of his young daughters head. A bitter smile tugged at the edges of his mouth, for what rose in his throat was as much sorrow as love. Swallowing a ragged sigh he tugged on a cotton tunic and fastened his belt. A rub of his face and a run of fingers through his hair reminded him that he must bathe soon; a weeks hair now covered his face and his dark curls had become greasy and lank against his scalp. With little fresh water a bath meant travelling to the streams, though - those had not been safe in recent weeks. Beyond the walls of his hovel he could hear the scuffle of feet entering the toilet built only meters from their walls. Only the knowledge that never again would he awake to the walls around him gave him the strength to open his door and greet the world beyond.
"Da'!"
Of all the sounds in the world only one could serve to steady his heart even as it squeezed his heart into a thousand pieces. It was early moring in Marga and the town was busy with people beginning their labours. Through the thick of the crowd he spotted the owner of the voice. Ginger curls framing a thin, delicate face bounced as she skipped towards him with a smile that dazzled him even more than the sunshine. Crina had dressed her in a pretty brown frock today; knee-length and with green and white thread sewn into the hem to mimic ivy in bloom. It was to be a special day for Doina; her first beyond the borders of her village. She jumped upon her last step and flung herself against him. Dorin held her against his chest and craned backwards so he could look her in the eye. A weave of lavender had been weaved through her curls, and for once the smell did not remind him of their poverty. Bright blue eyes stared back at him with a startling clarity that never ceased to unnerve him. They were a perfect reflection of his own eyes.
"Da' you were snorin' again las' a'night," he drawled. He voice was thick with the villagers accent, unlike his own. "Ma' tol' me you swallowed a'nuther mouse bu' I dun believe 'er." She scowled at him. "You should n'ae drink so much, Da'!" Her tone was mock-seriousness, but there was a pleading behind his eyes that made him look away.
"I know, floare," he replied quietly. His own voice held only a twang of Doina's accent; he reproduced the softer tone of his mother. It was the accent of the Eastlands she had told him once, though he had yet to taste its air. He set his daughter down. "It's a beautiful morning, isn't it?"
She sighed, still mocking him. "Ma' was lookin' for you by th' stable."
"Alright. Go inside and pack the rest on your things, floare." H tussled her hair, much to her chargrin and then stepped past her to head towards the stables.
"Di' you see Doina?"
Crina had paused saddling the horses when he had walked into the stable. It wasn't anger reflected in her eyes or her voice, though. It was fear, doubt and worst of all; pity. He offered her a sad smile and nodded his head. She returned the smile with a bare sincerity that twisted at his heart. He opened his mouth to speak but no words came. He took a step towards her but she shook her head and cast her eyes down to the ground. It sung. Not because she had rejected him, but because it was he who had rejected her. He paused, lost somewhere between the world and his thoughts all rushing through his mind. There barn had the strong smell of freshly turned hay and the familiar sweat of a horse; good smells, ones that calmed his mind. Crina looked up again with tears glimmering across the surface of her eyes. Green like the hanging mosses, and beautiful in their pain. He closed the gap and cupped her cheek in one hand. He brushed away her tears with the tip of his thumb and planted a kiss on her forehead. She nodded silently against his chest, and for a few fragile moments they were in love.
They were broken as soon as he dropped his hand from her face. She sniffled and used her sleeve to dry her eyes. "I set Doina to packing the rest of her things," he said, trying to fill the growing void between them. "I upset her last night, didn't I?" Crina turned to look at him, rose-bud mouth pressed together tightly. "Did I shout?"
"N'ae." A single world that contained more pain than any tear. "You cried," she whispered, one hand idly clasping the buckles on the saddle. "Doina wan'ed to know abou' th' Eastlands, abou'er Nana. Instead'a talkin' you jus' cried silently until she wen'a sit in th' kitchen. Din'ae come back 'til you'd begun t'snore." She buckled the final clasp on the saddle, whilst he stood in silence and hung his head against his chest.
"I'm sorry."
"I know." Silence. "I jus' hope tha' Doina un'erstan's tha'."
Unable to find the strength to cry Dorin simply nodded his head and filled the hollow in his chest with chores.
Few of the folk of Marga had assembled to wish them farewell. Most had turned their backs and thought bitter of a huntsman deserting them in search of greener pastures and myths of distant lands where no beasts stalked the night. They thought him a fool, and all the worse for dragging along a child and her young mother besides. Those that did turn out were the friends of Crina and Doina; a smattering of equally young woman, Crina's elderly mother and a handful of of the towns children. Dorin waited with the horses whilst they said their goodbyes. A light rain had begun to fall and it drowned out whatever words passed their lips. Dorin was left only with his thoughts and the toil of distant thunder. It would be a long, hard storm and a tough. By the time his family rejoined him his cloak was sodden and the ground around them had turned to thick, sludgy mud. The horses snorted their irritation, struggling to gain any purchase on the ground whilst their hooves sunk into the soil. He brushed calloused fingertips against ones nose to calm it.
"Are you alright?"
Crina smiled softly, a gesture that said more than a thousand words. Beneath the droop of the rain-soaked hood her blonde hair was plastered to her face and her cheeks were flushed with the cold. Doina was in little better state even though she was wrapped in elk fur. Her tiny figure shivered in the wind and rain.
"Will we see 'em again Da'?"
"One day, floare," he lied. He never expected to touch foot to soil in Marga after this day, much less taste the putrid air or wake with a dull, lasting pain between his eyes even when he had not fallen asleep drunk. Lying to his daughter left a sour taste and the bright smile she offered him only drove a nail deeper into the pit of his stomach, pinning his soul against a cold, barren bedrock.
Crina mounted one of the horses with Doina nestled in her lap and Dorin climbed the other. Both were good, strong horses that had cost him four months of hard labour. They would carry them to Wulfhaven within two cycles of the moon and still fetch enough coin to buy them fare on a merchant vessel. They had many miles to cover before then, though. He didn't see Marga disappear behind them. In truth he had not even thought of it until they had been on the road for an hour at least. Part of him wished he had offered a more tender goodbye even if he had few warm memories of the place. Instead as the weather had swamped any idle chatter he had drifted into his memories and allowed the time to slip by and the sky to turn from an overcast white to a fast darkening grey.
Birdsong lilted beautifully against the steady trickle of the stream. The first warm summer in years had turned the darkness of the forests into a verdant green backdrop punctured with bright, sensual bursts of colour as flowers struggled into life. A family of deer, bolstered by the turn in the weather, drank freely from the stream with no fear of the two humans dangling their feet into the same waters only thirty feet downstream. The youngest, a baby newly born, wavered on untested legs as it dipped its head into the water. The smell of a fresh, clean forest filled his nostrils and he could not help but smile broadly at the marvelous beauty of it all. It was the first time that he had ever marveled at the woodlands around Marga; the first time he had ever felt that small ball of warmth he would later could to recognize as hope.
Dorin, aged five, shuddered at the sharp contrast between the heat of the suns rays and the icy chill of the streams water. Beside him his mother dangled her own feet into the water with a smile as broad as his own. He watched her for a long time in silence, studying her features intently. She was so different from everyone else he knew; so foreign sitting in this forest. Even with its beauty it seemed indistinct when placed against her. Though his skin was dark her own was burnished copper and it seemed to sparkle in the sunlight, as did the fiery streaks in her auburn hair. Once his father had told him a story about his mother: He had said that one lonely night by the coast he had been struggling to light a fire, only for once solitary lump of soggy wood to magically spring into flame. He had laid a kiss against the branch and when he had opened his eyes, there stood his mother in the fire smiling warmly. At age five Dorin saw no reason to doubt this. Even now the sharpness of his mothers beauty, even in memory, made him wonder.
They had spent that morning simply enjoying the company of one another, free from the dreary village they called home and the superstitions and fears that went alongside it. His mother told him stories of her home, a land far across the ocean. She said that the whole of G'ael could fit into it a dozen times, but he didn't believe her. Even the moon wasn't that big! It was a memory of such innocence that he could not help but chuckle. She had told stories of great deserts, thick jungles and mountains that scratched the sky. Even in his wildest dreams he could not truly envisage these things, even with the boundless creativity of a child. They were wondrous stories, though; ones that filled him with aspirations and desires. It was the beginning of the journey on which he now found himself, he knew.
They spent that night huddled beneath a lopsided wooden shelter. Thick leaves piled against the branches served as a measure of waterproofing but even so the rain found its way to them. With no dry wood to be found anywhere Dorin had been unable to keep a fire going for more than a few minutes. In the end they had chewed on the end of a loaf of soggy bread and then huddled together for warmth, drifting in and out of fitful bursts of sleep. It was a miserable night in which the howls of wolves kept them all constantly on edge.
In the dead of night those memories of hope seemed more distant than ever.
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