Season 3 Role Play Snippets

As Talina navigated the bustling markets of Turan Cove, a frantic call for aid cut through the din of merchants hawking their wares. Though not a licensed physician, her years as ship's medic and surgeon under Captain Harris on the Siren's Call had honed her skills. At the mention of a returning ship and injured crew, her instincts took over. Hastening towards the infirmary, she shed her cumbersome robes of concealment as she went.

Inside, a grim sight awaited. A man in charred clothing lay on the table, a jagged splinter of boat rigging protruding from his side. Dark-skinned Veris, clearly part of the injured man's crew, alternated between hovering anxiously and pacing the room. Talina's focus narrowed on the patient. "What happened here?" she demanded, already scrubbing her hands clean as she assessed the wound.

Veris's explanation was disjointed, but the gist was clear - an attack by Stygians on their return to the cove. But it was what came before that made Talina's eyebrows shoot up. Veris spoke of a place called Vargor, a land of abundance and contrasts, where Commander Zephon had met with a man called Tatanka and his companion Rose. They had warned of Stygian uprisings, of empty lands ripe for the taking due to false rumors of a volcano's eruption. The Stygians, it seemed, sought dominion over all they could grasp, including Vargor and World's End.

Zephon had pledged to return with aid, but the Stygians had ambushed them at sea. As Talina prepared a paste to treat the wound, she dispatched Veris to spread the word throughout the cove and to the other cities. Her attention then returned to the dying man before her. Could she save him? And what would be the cost if they failed to heed the warning he had brought? After a long day of raiding, looting, and pillaging, Sir Illicit trudged wearily through the streets. His quest for the elusive armorer whose name escaped him had proven fruitless once again. Just as he resigned himself to a night of empty-handedness, the heavenly aroma of fresh bread wafted through the air. Following the scent, he came upon a bakery, and within, the stout form of Bragoras, his flour-dusted face a picture of concentration as he worked his magic.

Illicit's negotiations were as rough as his manners, but there was something about the promise of a warm hearth and the lure of sweet pastries that swayed the baker. Before he knew it, Bragoras had agreed to join them at the Vargor teahouse. The promise of his culinary delights for the Masters, the Free Women, and perhaps even a few lucky beasts was too great to resist.

As Illicit led the new recruit back to Vargor, he couldn't help but imagine the looks on his comrades' faces when they discovered their latest addition. Who needed arms and armor, after all, when you had the power of freshly baked bread on your side?

Kasiana, a woman of the Torvaldlanders, had lost much in the shipwreck that stranded her and her companions in this unfamiliar land. Raised in the harsh beauty of the north, she had been brought to the wagons as companion to the Kassarian Ubar. Now, with resources scarce and their people scattered, the task of rebuilding fell to her. She had spent precious time learning of the surrounding lands, the resources they offered, and the dangers they held. Her kailla was packed, her guard at the ready. The time had come to venture forth and prepare for the future of their tribe.

As a red-haired Torvaldlander woman with a pierced septum, Kasiana knew she would draw attention in these southern lands. But she was undaunted. With a fierce determination burning within her, she set out to find the nearest town, to forge the alliances and secure the supplies that would see her people thrive. The journey was uncertain, the challenges ahead many, but Kasiana was ready. For the sake of her companions, her son, and all the wagon people, she would not falter.

With a clang of hammer on anvil, Lexis emerged from her forge, a sheen of sweat on her bronzed skin. Today was a day for more than just shaping metal - today, she would take her business to the people. A sturdy tent was quickly erected outside her cliffside home, her slave, Rik, positioned within. Displayed upon him was a dazzling array of Lexis's handiwork - gleaming collars, intricately wrought bracelets, swords and daggers that seemed to drink in the sunlight.

A wooden sign, freshly painted, was hung about Rik's neck. "Klink Metal Workers - Finest Steel Goods" it read, along with a list of prices that made even the most hardened warrior raise an eyebrow. Satisfied with her setup, Lexis set off into town, her voice ringing out across the dusty streets. "Metals, steel, steel goods! Collars, bracelets, blades of the finest craft! Find all your needs at Klink Metal Workers, cliffside! Lexis, the master smith, at your service!"

As she walked, her call echoed off the buildings, drawing the curious and the interested. Her mission was clear - to make the name of Klink Metal Workers synonymous with excellence, and to secure a future of prosperity amidst the fires of her forge

After the slave uprising that ravaged Tharna, Krolina, once its Tatrix, found herself a fugitive. Hiding in the woods with a dwindling band of loyal Silver Masks, their goal was the nearest port, and escape by sea to the legendary edge of the land. There, she vowed to rebuild, to create a New Tharna with herself once more upon the throne. But the gods had other plans. A tempest seized their ship, scattering her people. Krolina and but two guards washed up on an unfamiliar shore, the rest lost to the fury of the waves.

Survival became their immediate focus. Resources were scarce, the wilderness unforgiving. Yet, it was in this desolation that they stumbled upon an abandoned silver mine, its tunnels a glinting promise. "A sign," Krolina thought, her determination reigniting. "Here, we will lay the foundations of New Tharna."

Yet, the reality of their situation was stark. Three people could not build a city. Their New Tharna would be but a shadow of the old, a small settlement eking out a living from the silver-laced rock. But even this modest dream presented challenges. Who would toil in the mines, if not slaves? And who would join the Silver Masks, now that their power was broken? Would they find new recruits to guard and rule alongside them, or would they stand alone against the dangers that lurked in this untamed land?

For Krolina, there were still more questions than answers. But she was undeterred. For she was a Tatrix, and this would be her rebirth.

Seated in her new office, amidst the hum of a revitalized Vargor, Kyra forced her mind to the task at hand. As the newly appointed Head of Caste for the scribes, the needs of the growing community took precedence. The ghosts of her past - Drystan, Gyr, Totonka, Rose, even her beloved dire wolves Nighteyes and Warg - were firmly pushed aside. This was not their time. Chances were, they lived their lives, as she must live hers, in the here and now.

Yet, the present held its own distractions. The city pulsed with energy, a melting pot of cultures that threatened to pull her focus. But she was resolute. Vargor needed scribes, and she was but one person. As the city swelled with new arrivals, it would take far more than just herself to meet the burgeoning demand.

With a steady hand, Kyra set to work. Notices would be posted throughout the city, at caravan stops and gathering places. A call to all free persons, of or aspiring to the Blue Caste. The opportunities were many - clerk, teacher, accountant, historian, litigator, magistrate, record keeper, cartographer. Apprentices welcome. The city of Vargor was not just building structures, it was building a future, and the scribes would be its backbone.

As she finished the final notice, a sense of pride and purpose washed over her. This was her new path, one of service and leadership. And though the ghosts of her past still lingered, it was the promise of tomorrow that now drove her forward.

The woods of New Sardar had lain undisturbed for so long that the birds had grown bold, their songs the only soundtrack to the stillness. The feral beasts of the hills had roamed unchecked, their dominance unchallenged. Yet, rumors began to circulate, whispers of a return, of a reclamation. It was said that a few women, those who found freedom in the wild, had established a camp deep within the forest's heart. One among them might be familiar, a figure known from journeys to the very limits of the known world and back again.

For those with ears to hear, the sounds of the forest were changing. The rustle of leaves, the snap of twigs, took on a new rhythm. The whoosh of fletched arrows, the solid thunk as they found their mark in unsuspecting flesh - these were the sounds of a hunt, of a return to a way of life thought lost. The animals of the forest would provide - their hides for leather, their bones for tools. The cycle of life and death, so long absent, stirred once more.

To some, the forest would always be a place of fear, of shadows and unknown dangers. But to others, to those who called it home, it was a cradle, a sanctuary. And they had returned, their footprints a promise etched into the earth. New Sardar was awakening, and with it, a new era would dawn.

Through the bustling streets of Vargor, a heavily armored guard made his way, his footsteps echoing off the buildings. As he walked, he cupped his hands about his mouth, his deep voice booming out across the city. "Citizens of Vargor, hear me! Your former Ubar is no more! By the will of your warriors, Anchin Foxclaw has been chosen as your new Ubar, and Kasiana Foxclaw, his companion, shall serve as your Ubara!"

The words hung in the air, a declaration that seemed to still the very heartbeat of the city. Yet, even as shock and curiosity rippled through the populace, there was a sense of acceptance, of a new chapter being embraced. For in Vargor, strength and honor were not just ideals, but a way of life. And in Anchin and Kasiana, the people saw leaders who embodied those principles.

As the guard's words faded into the wind, the city began to stir once more. The markets hummed back to life, the clang of hammer on anvil resumed, and in the hearts of all, a spark of hope and anticipation was kindled. For though the face of leadership had changed, the spirit of Vargor remained unbroken. And under the guidance of their new Ubar and Ubara, the people knew they would continue to thrive, to grow, and to forge a future worthy of their city's name.

After the revolt that shattered Tharna, Krolina, once its Silver Mask, found herself a survivor, clinging to life at the Edge of the Land. Alongside a handful of loyal Silver Masks, she had discovered a silver mine near the Hyperborean city of Sumer, a glimmer of promise in the wilderness. Yet, when she sent two scouts to investigate rumors of a Gorean city to the east, they vanished, leaving her alone to face the unforgiving wild.

Hunger and thirst gnawed at her, feral beasts stalked her, and still she persevered. And it was in this darkest hour that the Priest Kings extended their hand. Fleeing yet another scorpion, Krolina stumbled upon Lexis, a woman who offered her sustenance, killed the predator, and granted her a reprieve. But the aid of the Priest Kings was not yet done.

Luck, or the will of the gods, saw Krolina reunited with another survivor from her ship, a comrade who had endured as she had. Together, they built a fragile camp by the silver mine, a foothold in this untamed land. Their next quest was to find the two missing scouts, last seen in the Gorean city. The journey ended in Vargor, where Captain of the Guard Zephon revealed their men were detained, but would be released. With their band whole once more, the vision of a new Tharna could take root.

Upon their return to the camp, three veterans of old Tharna knelt before Krolina, acknowledging her as their Tatrix once more. And so, amidst the silver-laced hills, New Tharna was born. Krolina, her eyes aglow with determination, addressed her people. "This day, we lay the foundations of New Tharna, but the spirit of the old will forever live in our hearts. The Priest Kings watch over us, and with their blessing, we shall grow strong. Perhaps, one day, we will be mighty enough to reclaim our homeland from the rebels!" Her warriors met her words with a roar, their blades raised to the sky. For in this moment, they knew - as long as they stood united, their future was bright.

After escaping the lands of his past, Malachi had managed to gather a handful of his men and a larger number of thralls. These, he had taught the art of seamanship, forging a new crew from those once bound to the earth. Their vessel built, their stores loaded, they set out upon the Thassa, their hearts set on finding the fabled Vila's Freehold. Yet, the seas beyond World's End were unforgiving, and the whims of the weather soon saw them off course, their prow pointed at the shores of yet another strange and barbarous isle.

Malachi, now a leader of a different sort, made a choice as they made landfall. He would not hide behind a false name, for in this new world, what did a name signify? He was Malachi, commander of this ship, teacher of these thralls, and it was as Malachi that he would face whatever lay ahead. The island, with its lush greenery and the distant sounds of the unknown, waited. And Malachi, his footsteps firm on the foreign sand, led the way, ready to forge a new path, free from the shadows of his former life.

With the precision of long practice, Amaya swept the tea room, her movements a dance of familiarity. As the lamps flickered to life, their soft glow heightened the simple elegance of the space. Each item, painstakingly cleaned, shone with a spotless sheen, a testament to the care with which this sanctuary was maintained. The ancient tea caddy, its surface bearing the scars of countless journeys, rested serenely beside the brazier, a symbol of the traditions that had brought them to this place.

Once her preparations were complete, Amaya stilled, her gaze turning inward. Her breath came in gentle whispers as she centered herself, her very being attuning to the ritual that was to come. The rustle of her kimono was the only sound as she reached for the hai, adding the moist ash to the waiting firebed. Her fingers, deft and sure, lifted the aromatic wood, the tiny dragons carved into its surface seeming to stir as they took their place in the brazier. A touch of the taper ignited the kindling, a small flame springing to life, its warmth and fragrance wafting through the room.

As the scent of the wood enveloped them, Amaya spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. "The home of the Willow World is ready. I wonder, who shall be our guests this day, and what tales shall they bring to the Pani?" And with that, she and her followers waited, patience personified, as the tea room stood as an open embrace, ready to welcome all who would enter.

Krolina returned to her camp, her mood as dark as the shadows that had nearly claimed her. Her captain was dead, slain by the Vargorians, and she herself had only just escaped the horrors of torture and violation. Her warriors, their faces set with determination, spoke of revenge, of striking back at those who had wronged them. But Krolina, her mind racing with the lessons of their recent ordeal, stayed their hands. "We must reconsider," she told them, her voice firm but measured. "We need more than vengeance, we need strength. Some of you must go out, into the cities and settlements, and spread the word - New Tharna is rising, and it seeks those who would live under the just rule of women, as is the will of the Gods."

She paused, her gaze sweeping over the faces of her men, before continuing. "We offer not the lawlessness of the wilds, but the order of a civilized settlement. Free women of the mainland, weary of being mere playthings for the reckless, Hyborian warriors who would not be collared or ravaged - they will find a home among us, as Silver Masks, with their families by their side. And we will hire men, too, those who can fight and are willing to serve under our banner, for we have silver to pay them, especially those Hyborians untainted by the misguided male dominance of the mainland. Seek out the followers of Derketo, who know the power of the female divine - if they are interested in our vision, let them send a vulo to me."

With her words, a new path was set. Scouts were dispatched, each to spread the message in a different direction. And Krolina, her resolve burning brighter than ever, stood at the heart of the burgeoning New Tharna, ready to build a future where women were not victims, but the very architects of their own destiny.

Rumors swirled like the wind, each whisper painting a different picture of the group known as New Tharna. Some claimed to have seen them among the Hyborians, their allegiance seemingly sworn to these northern warriors. Another wanderer spoke of a sighting on the east shore, of New Tharna's hands building a ship, their stores laden with tons of silver. Snatches of overheard conversation spoke of a plan - to return to the mainland, silver in hand, and hire an army to retake the Tharna that was lost.

Yet, not all rumors hinted at martial ambitions. A shadow of suspicion fell over the wells of Vargor, where some claimed to have seen members of New Tharna. Poison, it was whispered, and the deadly dar kosis disease that had begun to claim the sick from the silver mines. But these were mere rumors, and only the physicians could say for certain if there was truth to the claim of poisoning the well.

One thing, however, was clear - the camp that had once been New Tharna's stronghold now stood abandoned, a ghost town in the wilderness. And in its heart, a lone grave, a silent testament to a sacrifice made in the pursuit of a dream. But was it a dream of rebirth, or one of vengeance? Only time would tell, as the echoes of New Tharna's presence continued to ripple through the land.

Stepping forward to the railing, a figure cut from the very granite of the North claimed the attention of all. Hafthor Wartooth, a Nordheimer of unmistakable stock, his blonde braids falling behind him like rivers of gold, stood tall. His armor, battered from countless battles with the beasts of World's End, encased his massive form, a testament to his unyielding strength. For a moment, he surveyed the gathering, his gaze meeting the eyes of those before him as he steeled himself to speak. A mug of ale, drained in swift gulps, served to wet his throat, the vessel discarded with a clang on the benches behind him.

"I am Hafthor Wartooth," his voice boomed out, carrying across the assembly. "Descendant of Kvedulf Wartooth, and his father before him. Though born of Nordheimer blood, my family adapted to the ways of Gor, making Vargor our home. My oath, when the time came, was only a matter of course. And so, I, Hafthor Wartooth, pledge my sword, my spear, my shield to the city of Vargor, and to the Scarlet Caste of Warriors. To those who would threaten our hearthstone, I vow to meet them with the edge and point of my blade. Skall!" With his oath given, the man stepped back, producing another mug from the shadows as if by magic, his celebration already begun.

Rumors of the Wartooth clan trickle throughout the city that Kveldulf Wartooth wants his son Hafthor to be the next Jarl of the Torvalds District and that a moot will soon be held at the next full moon of one of the three moons over Gor for people to put their names forward so that a vote can he held between then and the next full moon where the one with the most votes amongst the Torvaldslanders and any other Nordheimer free person will be declared as representative within Vargor. Then the District Long Hall's Jarl can see about appointing an Overseer as well seeing who qualifies as a Rune Priest to lead in the temple next door to the Long Hall.

Whispers of the Wartooth clan's ambitions began to circulate through the city's taverns and marketplaces. It was said that Kveldulf Wartooth, a man of unyielding resolve, had set his sights on the jarlship of the Torvalds District for his son, Hafthor. A moot, it was rumored, would be called at the next full moon, one of the three that hung low in the Gorean sky. It was there that any with aspirations to the leadership would be invited to step forward, to have their names entered into the running.

Between that moon and the next, the people would have their say, their votes cast for the candidate of their choice. Not just the Torvaldslanders, but any Nordheimer of free status would have a hand in shaping their future. And when the next full moon rose high, the one who had garnered the most support would be declared the representative of the district within Vargor's walls.

But the jarlship, it seemed, was only the beginning. The District Long Hall's leader would then take up the task of appointing an Overseer, a man to oversee the daily governance of the district. And more, a search would be undertaken to find one qualified to take on the mantle of Rune Priest, to lead the spiritual pursuits of the people from the temple that stood as a companion to the Long Hall. The Wartooths, it seemed, aimed not just for political power, but for a hold on the very soul of the Torvalds District. In the wake of the violence that had claimed their guards and driven their captain to abandon his post, the group was left with little choice but to pack up what remained and seek a new place to call home. The memory of Tharna, once a beacon of promise, was now tainted by the blood that had been shed within its walls. And so, they set their sights to the northwest, their wagons leaving behind the only home they had known in this new world.

As they traveled, whispers began to circulate, carried on the wind and passed from tongue to tongue. The masked people, it was said, were building anew, their encampment a haven for those seeking a fresh start. And so, the call went out, a silent summons to all who would join them, to don the mask and take up the mantle of their shared destiny. The future, though uncertain, held within it the promise of rebirth, of a chance to forge a community untainted by the trials of the past.

News arrived in Vargor, carried by the dusty wheels of a merchant caravan, of a ship full of mainlanders anchored near Buccaneer Bay. But Malachi, ever the opportunist, had been busy in the time since his arrival. He had spent his hands scouting the surrounding area, his small band of men striking at the camps of the local freebooters. Information had been gleaned from the defeated, and a map, procured from one of the fallen, had revealed the lay of the land. Buccaneer Bay, it seemed, was their current locale, and further inland lay the enigmatically named Refuge of the Priestking. Malachi doubted that the insectoid aliens had established a colony here, but he would not put it past a rogue brood or rebellious kin.

As he had skulked in the shadows, tales had reached his ears of ships, piloted by the less skilled, meeting their end on the unforgiving reefs and rocks. Hulls torn asunder, holds filled with treasure, sinking swiftly to the depths. Gold, he knew, was a prize without bounds, and he had begun to formulate a plan. The next camp they raided, he made sure to take a few of the animal tamers alive. After the first had been made an example of, the others were eager to cooperate. They spoke of breathing helmets, used to extend their time beneath the waves, and the potential for salvaging the sunken riches. And Malachi knew just how to make use of this knowledge.

News carried on the dusty feet of travelers to and from the Southern Aqueduct brought word of a new haven in the desert. House Jinmeiyō, of the Pani family, had opened a public waystation, a beacon of welcome for weary pilgrims and mendicants making the arduous journey between the Unnamed City and Vargor. Cool shade, soft pillows, and the alluring dances of slavegirls awaited those who sought refuge within its walls. Yet, even as travelers were drawn to this oasis, they were cautioned to be wary. The desert was not to be trifled with, and the shadows around the waystation were said to be home to spiders and salamanders, creatures whose venom was not to be underestimated.

A woman, clad in green, and her trio of guards, in the antiquated armor of Vargor, had been sighted roaming the lands that once hosted the old fair. Their journey had not been without incident, for they had fallen prey to a brutal attack. Yet, the woman and one guard had emerged unscathed, a testament to their mettle. The threat of the raiders, it seemed, still hung over the land like a sword of Damocles. And now, rumor had it that the woman in green had sought refuge, fleeing Vargor for the relative safety of the lands near Sepermeru.

Word came from the Builder's Caste of Vargor - the dock area closest to the Town Hall had grown too crowded, its capacity strained by the burgeoning trade. To alleviate the congestion, it had been decided that additional docks would be constructed, one near to each of the three districts. And with this expansion, a shift would be required. Merchants, who had long set up their stalls in the main docks, would be expected to relocate to one of the new, smaller merchant docks, making way for the continued growth of Vargor's maritime hub.

Word from the forest folk - a new En had taken the reins of a panther tribe, her name carved into the bark of a tree near the Northern Trade outpost: Se'Kehn Sadi. Yet, in the whispers that circulated, there seemed to be confusion, for it was said that Se'Kehn Sadi was not a name used in singular. Had this new En taken on multiple guises, or was her true name multifaceted as the woman herself? Only time would tell, as the panthers of Se'Kehn Sadi made their presence known in the lands around the outpost.

A productive training session had been had by the group of warriors and spectators at the sparring arena. But their return to the village proper was met with a shocking turn of events. Screams rang out, mayhem erupted, and it was said that a slave girl was the first to fall. At least one villager was slain, and the sound of the alarm echoed through the streets. Stygians, it was rumored, had been the first to sound the warning, and at least one villager had lost his life. The exact number of native troops was unknown, but many reported seeing the aggressors encroaching from the western side of the village, their presence a dark omen. And though the warriors of the village stood ready, the threat that lurked in the shadows cast long and ominous.

From the office of the Ubar, Anchin Foxclaw writes: “For the past few hands, I have been absent from the city, primarily training and preparing for our war against the Stygians. The attack on Vargor today may have been because of me finding out if they are indeed raiding the Stygians. Of course, we do not know for certain if it was definitely your Ubar, taking them out to shorten the number of small camps they have been setting up. But today, after finding out about our fine city being attacked, it is just a coincidence. Why would they attack so soon? We need to gather our hands in time. And plan a counter-attack. Before they start taking Vargor out again, it is time for the Warriors and I to sit down and perhaps plan a counter-attack. And plan our next move!