The trip to Ogrekvania was far from swift and you journeyed for days with no sign of your goal, thankful at least that the trek had been uneventful. On the fifth day the terrain became steeper and the air cooler, and on the morning of the sixth day you awoke to find yourself covered by a blanket of snow. The temperature grew colder as the day wore on and by noon the snow was falling thickly, seriously impeding your progress. It was going to be a cold night, and you didn't want to spend it in the shadow of the mountains that loomed above you. Repositioning your pack, you quickened your pace as best you could, plodding onward through the snow as the sun raced ahead of you, threatening to leave you behind. One hour became two, then two became three and still you pressed on, not daring to rest. But the sun was swift and was beginning to slip behind the ice-capped peaks. Your muscles screamed for relief, for at least a brief respite from the pace you'd been trying to keep, but you ignored their pleas pushed forward. Eventually, your stoicism was rewarded as, exhausted and hungry, you entered into the outskirts of what could only be Ogrekvania.
You remembered reading about it while in Stormpoint's library. Its towering mountain ranges dominated the land to the North and West of the tempest port town, and served as a guardian and protector. It was an ancient, but thriving kingdom, as you recalled, and within its center, the capital and heart of the realm, Thrukal, beat strong. It was here, you suddenly realized, that the creature in the pit was spawned--an eternity ago in a darkness that had vastly receded. Now, the blood of four races ran through the land, striving to coexist under one rule. It seemed peaceful at present, but you had a suspicion that a fierce and vibrant spirit still raged just beneath the surface.
In the final pale rays of red dusk light, you breathed a small sigh of relief when you spotted a farm house, standing quietly against the night and snow. You were about to approach and seek shelter for the evening until you noticed a small group of people some distance ahead. They were traveling with three wagons and what appeared to be armed guards. A merchant caravan, perhaps? Surely they'd be headed for an inn. You followed them with renewed vigor and hope, and after a time found yourself at the door of a modest country inn. You had no currency with you, your belongings haven been seized by Stormpoint's Rangers, but the innkeeper and his wife were a kindly couple and looked upon you with pity. Thus, after providing you with a warm meal, a mug of stout ale, and much information on the Kingdom and her people, they gave you a room for the night.
~Ogrek the Undisciplined~ Standing over six feet in height, Ogrekvania's ruler maintains a lean appearance despite the muscular build inherent to his ogre blood. His dark hair is cut short, his eyes are hazel, and his features, despite his ancestry, are surprisingly human. Aside from his height and two small tusks just visible above his lower lip, there is little to mark his ogre heritage. A tiny scar marks his left cheek, together with the admiral's coat he generally dons, gives him a somewhat dashing appearance....an effect bolstered by a taste for the theatrical. It's rumored that he won his crown in a card game. If you ask him about it, he might just tell you, for there's little he loves more than recounting a tale of his vast exploits.
"........And that's how I came to be the most hated enemy of the Drow of five worlds."
~The Lady Dulcinea Nevaryl~ Soft auburn hair falls loosely about her shoulders, and, in the sun-kissed breeze, stray tendrils fly and brush gently against her face. Her skin is ivory, pale and fair, and her lips the color of a rich cabernet with all the warm and subtle promises their color suggests.
She was born to the lower nobility, gifted with only a modest title and little responsibility. But on the frontier, life had many challenges, even for the wealthy. Raids were common, as were territorial expansions--and as the kingdom expanded, so did its aristocracy. Many houses were given increased titles and holdings in reward for their service, and hers was no exception. The increase bred competition. Houses vied for prominence. And in an a land where the monarch remained unattached, those with unwed daughters gained a distinct advantage. Shocking? Perhaps. Medieval? To be sure. But it was game played by many houses, and once again, hers was no exception.
Exception came, however, in the form of Dulcinea. Raised only by her nurse and a doting father who had no sons, she was schooled not simply in art and music, but also in the studies typically reserved for those of the opposite gender—politics, strategy, and command. It was a distinction, to be certain, and one which was not lost upon the regent during their first and not-so-chance encounter.
A fairy tale? Perhaps. An illusion? To be sure.
"To each his Dulcinea ...Though she's only flame and air ..."
Man of LaMancha Lyrics by Joe Darion
The ogres are the unifying force of the land. From high atop their mountain holds these towering humanoids have used their great strength to forge an unlikely peace. They themselves are divided into three distinct clans.
The northern ogres, or Thursir, are rough of feature, standing anywhere from nine to twelve feet in height, with thick, course hair covering their bluish-tinted skin. Konungr Vafthrudnir, son of Skrymir of the clan Fjolsvid, comes down from their icy lands to speak for them in council.
The noble Amirda inhabit the middle ranges, their spires reaching ever higher. They are a handsome, intelligent, and cultured people from which two ruling families stand forth. Matron Daphne of the family Werninrik speaks for her people while the Regent King of all the land is drawn form the ranks of the Hemdarin family.
Lastly, to the South the Fomorians are the true giants of the race. Standing fifteen to eighteen feet tall, the dark-skinned warriors follow their rigid code of honor and immovable sense of right. Lord Kendorik brings the stubborn, down-to-earth beliefs of their various houses to the council chamber.
Trolls stand anywhere from six to seven feet tall on average, with thin wiry frames that belie their actual strength. Their arms are overly long for their bodies and easily reach the ground when they walk, as they remain perpetually hunched. They have green skin similar, to that of an orc, with a noticeable light blue tinge. Speculation exists that this coloration may be the effect of living in the polar tundra regions, as the trolls share this trait with the ogres that make their home in the northern mountains.
Their faces are narrow and elongated, giving them a feral appearance. The two tusks, which extend four to six inches from their lower lips, only serve to heighten this impression. Some believe this last feature suggests a link between trolls and ogres, as the latter also possess similar, but far smaller, tusks. One would be ill advised, however, to discuss this conjecture with an ogre, as ogres consider the epithet "Troll-kin" to be an extreme insult to their blood line. Outsiders who have voiced this speculation have often found themselves pummeled into jelly, and more than a few inter-clan feuds amongst the ogres themselves were begun over the rash hurling of this insult.
Returning to the subject of Trolls, however, they have long pointed ears that would put an elf to shame. Like their tusks, this feature too appears exaggerated, sweeping back and tapering into a point eight to fourteen inches away from their skulls. It is not unusual to see dozens of earrings adorning them. Oddly though, these immensely elongated ears do not afford a troll a commensurate sense of hearing. Research indicates that they hear only slightly better than humans, but not near so well as elves.
Another peculiarity of troll physiognomy is found in studying their hands. While they are of the same comparative size as those of a human, they have only two large fingers and a thumb. The presence of only two digits does result in a lack of some finer dexterity, but many are surprised by how nimble their hands can be in the crafts and arts they've developed. Like their hands, the troll's broad feet have only two long digits which give them great footing and balance in the icy climes they used to call home.
Aside from physical appearance, trolls are subject to the same forces as most mortal creatures, but possess a remarkable trait that makes them extremely dangerous foes --regeneration. Wounds that would spell death for a man death are mere minor annoyances to a troll, and it easily shrugs them off and heals in a matter of moments. Trolls can even heal from severed limbs, though this process may take several weeks. Interestingly, if the troll has possession of the limb, this process is reduced again to a matter of minutes. The only other known exception to a troll's regenerative ability is fire -- their greatest fear and bane. Trolls cannot regenerate from burns of any kind, and indeed fire seems to nullify their regeneration even against more mundane forms of attack, giving enemies a very brief window of weakness. Though this window is more difficult to exploit than one might believe, without this critical weakness it is imaginable that trolls would have overrun the civilized lands long ago.
You awoke refreshed left early, after thanking your hosts, hoping to find a find a way to acquire some currency and a new horse in one of the more populated cities of the realm. It took less than half a day's journey to find such a city, and you began to think that your fortune was improving -- that is, until two of the city guard's arrested you, explaining that you were wanted for criminal conduct and escape in Stormpoint. After placing you in shackles and gathering supplies and a small retinue, they thus began to escort you back to the city of Stormpoint via the Shattered Lands.
