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aknightout · 4 years

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An exerpt from Manfred Fingle’s biography of one Pigsly Pillbottom

Pigsly Pillbottom had lived a very happy life which is more than most could say. From a young age the Florien boy had loved music. During festival he would follow the musicians around listening to every note. He would simply stand and stare some times tapping a hand or foot but ultimately trying to absorb the music as much as possible. When he had grown a bit an old merchant retired and spent his days playing a flute at the local tavern. Pigsly began to pester the man every day asking for lessons on how to play. At first the man had turned him away believing his interest to be a simple childish fad that would fade the moment he realized how much work it would take. But after several days of the boys insistence the man gave in and began to teach him. The old merchant was surprised by the boys tenacity and his aptitude for music. Before long Pigsly began to draw his own crowd to the tavern to hear him play. The young man began to grow restless. The flute was fine but he wanted more. Scrapping together what coin he could manage Pigsly left his home to seek out the Palace of song. The Palace was known to be a bastion of learning and art. It was said the finest painters, sculptors, and musicians were to be found there. The journey was long but he manged to pay his way by playing in taverns here and there. Wherever he traveled he did his best to learn a bit more about different instruments and styles of music. Before a year had passed the Florien lad finally stood before the Palace of Song. It rose up before him in strange shapes and curling architecture. Here made of stone and there of wood. Strange sails and pulleys hung from towers while doors and windows seemed to be open or closed at random. But as he stood there with the wind blowing in from the sea a haunting melody began to play. Pigsly watched as the palace seemed to breath with life at the music. He would of course learn later that it was the opposite, as the various mechanisms were operated and rooms were opened and closed the wind would whistle through the halls to make music. He had found where he truly belonged. The Meisters of the palace were impressed with Pigsly’s skill as untrained as it was and his training began immediately. These were his fondest years. The days spent mastering the craft of song. Learning to feel the music in his very soul. He learned to play any instrument the set before him. When he felt he could learn no more he sought to travel once more but always returning to the palace to share what he had found or made. In the years that followed those that knew Pigsly the most would come to be concerned about his well being. While he seemed to be as happy as ever it became quite clear that something was bothering him. Pigsly himself would explain it away saying that there was a song that was eluding him. No matter how much he tried the music remained discordant in his mind. He would laugh and say that it was driving him mad. But every time he did he laughed a bit less. One day in his middling years Mr. Pillbottom returned to the palace quite disheveled. His hair a mess, clothes in tatters, and blood shot eyes. When the Meisters came to see what was wrong he simply handed them a thin book before promptly falling over. Dead. With a smile on his face. It was a sad day for the palace of song and those for miles around could hear the melancholy songs they gave to the winds. But more than that it was a bit of a mystery. They could find no reason for Pigsly’s death. He seemed in fairly good health for his age despite the disheveled appearance. Not to mention the odd book he had given them. A children's book titled “Vole The Way Home”. He had authored it and so they felt the right thing to do was to publish it. But Pigsly had never written anything but songs before now and it really did show. The palace of song made several copies and did their best to sell Pigsly’s final work. A few of them sold but most just found themselves shoved into a small box in a corner where they would become forgotten in time. It would be many years before anyone would even guess at the secret of Piggsly Pillbottoms final work. And many years after that before anyone would finally decipher the song hidden within the pages of the children's book. A song that had driven the poor Florien quite mad. Pigsly couldn’t bear to let his genius work die with him but it was far to dangerous to just leave open to the world. So he had hidden it away in a hastily written children's story. But he died happy knowing that truly he had crafted music the likes of which the world had never known before.

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aknightout · 4 years

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Pukwidge

Small hairy men that make a nuisance of themselves. Generally lazy and more willing to steal and scrounge to make a living than do an honest days work. The Pukwidge are not particularly bright but will strain their intellect to its limits when a hefty prize is on the line. A single Pukwidge is rarely anything to worry about, easily scared and not much stronger than a child of 10 years. Their true danger lies in collaboration. Pukwidge are very loyal to each other. This sets them apart from many of their goblinoid brethren. They will often share for the common good, caretake the young, elderly, and sick. A group of pukwidge consider themselves family even if they are not actually related. They do not form tribes or other collectives, it is always simply a "family". They generally have fairly simple settlements, often they will move into old abandoned structures (mines, cabins, camps, ghost towns). If that is not available they will just find a simple cave or the like perhaps construction simple tentlike structures. If there is any difference between male and female Pukwidge no one has manage to identify it by any means. They appear to be a genderless species. This also begs the question of where do new Pukwidge come from? From what people have been able to witness two Pukwidge go to a private space, one as dark as can be found, and several hours later the two return with a baby.

#lore #Story Writing #Writing #Original Story #HeroesOfBrehill #AKnightOut #Fiction #Fantasy #Writer #Book #Novel #OC #WIP

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aknightout · 4 years

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Chapter One

Theadoria glowered hands on hips at the hand cart sitting askew, one wheel nestled comfortably in a previously unseen pothole. The bloody thing was too heavy to pull free fully loaded so with a sigh she set about hefting a few casks onto the ground and freeing the cart from it’s hole. While reloading the cart Fiddle Dyley approached from the direction she had been going. It was clear he was returning from the Temple where Theadoria was headed, judging by his own cart, likely leaving his family’s offering for the harvest festival. “Need a hand?” the boy asked, his voice cracking. He coughed as his cheeks reddened from embarrassment. Despite being over twenty years old his people, the Floriens, seemed to age a little slower than Humans. So the more embarrassing stage of growing up took a little longer and started a bit later.

“You needn’t trouble yourself on my account Fiddle, nearly done here.” the young man's face turned a deeper shade of red and Theadoria sighed inwardly. She wasn’t sure quite when it started but for nearly a year now Fiddle had become quite infatuated with her and her brogue. Most of the villagers paid her speech no mind but to a young man who grew up here all his life it certainly seemed exotic and alluring. Fiddle was nice enough but younger than her, barely half her height, and about as interesting as a boiled potato.

“No trouble at all to help a… ahh… a… “ the boy answered in a falsely deepend tone that trailed to his normal voice as he began to fumble.

“Damsel in distress?” she finished for him while dropping the last cask back into the cart. With folded arms she leaned on the cargo and gave a smile to Fiddle. His embarrassment threatened to boil over and he quickly averted his gaze while still trying to juggle a coherent sentence in his mouth. Taking the opportunity Theadoria quickly picked up the handles and began pulling her cart down the road. From behind her Fiddle finally shouted “Will I see you at the Festival?” She snorted at that. Brehill had barely a hundred people in it and they would all be at the festival. She wouldn’t be hard to find. Not to mention Fiddle knew full well she worked at the tavern and Lance would need her help slinging drinks all day long. “Gods only know Fiddle, Gods only know” she shouted back without turning round. It was several seconds more before she heard the rumble of his cart. It was hard to say if he was just watching her, or if he needed the time to decipher what she had said. ______________________________________________________

Grund felt something snap beneath his fist, satisfied with the result he stood over his victim and stared at the rest of his clan. Thin and sickly the lot of them. They had been promised fresh meat and whatever loot they could carry. But that was months ago. The others were beginning to question if the Chief had made the right decision sending them here. Having been declared Spear Bearer of this mission they were under his command, and if they started questioning the Chief it wouldn’t be long until they started questioning Grund’s authority as well.

He had felled the dissenter with a decisive blow and following him to the ground continued savaging him to make a point. The display had made the others cower and chuff in deference. For now.

It would not be much longer. Two more days if he was to believe the armoured sow. Grund winced and rubbed the scar in his midriff. She had taught him not to call her that and left him with a reminder in case he forgot. She had earned his respect by using proper teaching methods. But he still felt that sows did not belong on the battlefield. It was not the way of things. It was hard to argue with results however as he felt the three inch seam in his flesh.

He sneered at his brethren. They were his people but it still disgusted him how afraid they had become. A few months of hard living and they become nearly… human. Revolting just to think of those squishy fangless cowards.

“Eat” he commanded, stepping away from the body. He watched them tear into their fallen former comrade with some small satisfaction. At least they still ate like true Yotnar. Tusk, fang, and claw rending grey hide to taste still warm flesh. His nostrils flared at the scent of fresh blood. This was the freshest meat they had eaten since coming here. It took all his self control to keep from forcing his way back into the feast. But they needed it more than he. Grund would stay hungry. ___________________________________________________________

Erevandrel could hear the voices outside from his position kneeling before the shrine to Heclarod. More offerings for the festival. He peered to the alcove across the way where Scalendi’s shrine was chocked full of offerings. Bundles of grain, baskets of produce, wreaths of herbs and flowers. All of it would be used to cook or stored with the rest for winter on the day of the festival of course, Scalendi did not abide wasting her bountiful gifts by just leaving them out to rot.

“Can I help ya with somethin Andrel?” he snapped back from his thoughts to find himself staring at the barmaid from the Broken turtle. She was rolling a cask along the floor and had paused between Erevandrel and Scalendi’s shrine without his noticing. From her perspective she likely looked up to find him staring at her. He continued to stare a moment longer at her long red curls and wondered briefly which side of her lineage those came from. “No… just thinking.” he answered after pausing far too long. He returned his gaze to the shrine before him. Each of the shrines would hold gifts this time of year though the focus was thanking Scalendi for a kind harvest. The casks were likely being rolled to Dynessar who should never be slighted just before a party. Erevandrel looked down at the meager offerings before Heclarod. A roll of parchment with an old story, an inkwell, and a stylized carving of the goddesses symbol in a clay tablet. All things he had brought he thought to himself as he traced the symbol with a finger. A circle flanked on either side by crescents facing away from each other. Symbolic of the phases of the moon from waxing to full to waning representing the stages of life as well.

He stood, it was getting late he should return home before it became too dark. He turned and walked toward the door and immediately bumped into Helmund, the temple priest. Instinctively he reached out to steady the man and apologised profusely.

“No, no entirely my fault lad, you needn’t worry one bit.” Helmund often called him lad or boy. It was often hard for humans to remember that most Elves were likely far older than they were or ever would be. But Erevandrel didn’t mind. The priest had always been very kind to him. Kindred souls in a way they both felt a bit like outsiders from the world. Helmund had a terrible hunchback and while the town had learned to love the man they still often gave him looks of condolences which were almost worse than the stares from travelers passing through. Erevandrel had never treated the priest any differently from anyone else and Helmund seemed grateful for that.

“I’m afraid I need to get going but I will return tomorrow.” he explained, though it required no explaining. The two saw each other nearly every day.

“Wonderful, you can help me lay the final offerings tomorrow evening. And then a wonderful Festival after that!” Erevandrel nodded in reply and left. He never was sure how to feel about festivals. The food would be good and the music would be nice. But he never did feel quite as comfortable in large groups as he did alone.

He let his mind wander as his feet carried him along the familiar path he had walked a hundred times before now. A few folk greeted him along the way returning to their own homes. A sense of giddiness pervaded as excitement rose for the coming festival.

At the outskirts of the village he took the winding path up the cliffside. He was the only one in the village who lived up here. He couldn’t fathom why, the view was breathtaking. But he wasn’t about to invite neighbors if no one wanted to. At the top he crossed a short bridge that spanned the river which fell as a waterfall back down to Brehill and made way to his hut.

Night had fallen during his journey and he peered up at the night sky and it’s myriad of stars. In his long life he had taken the time to study them as best he could and liked to note the movements of the constellations. He saw that Erabor’s Arrow was nearly set to pierce the Manticore's heart, the Trebuchet was aligned nicely, and… had it truly been five years already? The Nine Lanterns were close to forming their ring. It wasn’t quite there yet, perhaps the day of the festival or even the day after that. He nodded to himself at the pleasant omen as he went inside. Maybe the festival would be fun after all.

#AKnightOut #HeroesOfBrehill #Theadoria #Erevandrel #Book #Chapter One #Author #Writing #Patreon #Fantasy

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aknightout · 4 years

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An introduction to me

I figured maybe I should introduce myself a bit here before getting into the other stuff. I’m a guy that works in IT. I grew up really liking fantasy books but never really had an outlet for that. When I went to college I started getting into stuff like LARP and D&D. Eventually I started to branch out into telling my own stories in games. I ran a pretty neat game for a group of friends at one point and it seemed like a worthwhile endeavor to try and share that story with more people. I have a patreon for trying to right it, a few people I know have supported it which feels really great. I hope that one day more people will be able to enjoy it too. I plan to use this space to share some snippets of my writing as well as some art and other things from the story. I hope people enjoy it.

#Writing #Fantasy #Books #Fiction #Novel #D&D #tabletopgames #Author #HeroesOfBrehill #AKnightOut

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aknightout · 4 years

Photo

This is the continent of Aardest. I’m not much of a map maker, this was designed using an online tool called Inkarnate which I highly recommend. People have made much more beautiful maps then mine with it. This is the map for the Heroes of Brehill book(s) I’m writing. The story starts in the very very small town of Brehill in sort of the North east up there.

#Aardest #Map #Fantasy Map #Inkarnate #Patreon #AKnightOut #HeroesOfBrehill #Writing #Fantasy #Book #sword & sorcery #Fiction #Brehill

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aknightout · 4 years

Link

This is my Patreon if it is of interest to anyone.

#Patreon #Story Writing #Writing #Book #Author #HeroesOfBrehill #AKnightOut #Fiction #Fantasy

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aknightout · 4 years

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This is art I used from online as the basis for Endicott. He looks a bit different but it was pretty close for what I needed at the time.

#AKnightOut #HeroesOfBrehill #Sir Endicott #Book #Story Writing #Novel #Fantasy #sword & sorcery

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aknightout · 4 years

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Prologue

Wiping the sweat from his brow Endicott sat back for a moment and admired the view from his vantage. If ever a place deserved to be called picturesque Brehill was it. Built upon a lush plateau between two waterfalls, one to the north rising above and the other falling below to the south. A snug village nestled between. Most of the autumn leaves still clung to branches lending a splash of color to the browns and greens but it wouldn’t be long before they began to fall in droves.

It reminded him of home which came with a pang of sorrow and thinking of home reminded him of what was to come and the illusion of a peaceful village was broken. The beautiful scenery soured in his mind at the thought of the destruction that was to be. To banish the darkness from his thoughts he returned to work. Taking a wooden shingle from a crate at his side and plucking one of the iron nails held between his lips he positioned the two with one hand and raised a hammer with the other. A small tap started the nail and with a mighty swing he drove it home. Another nail another shingle and on down the line he went until the crate was empty.

“I think that should do for today” called a throaty voice from below. Endicott carefully peered down to the ruddy faced man below. “As you say Master McDiggle” he replied with a nod. Collecting his tools and the crate the large man moved down the ladder with unexpected grace.

“A fair hand with a hammer you’ve got there Sir. If you should ever wish to change professions I’d be happy to hire a man of your skill.” Endicott smiled in and shook his head in reply. “Well you can’t blame a man for trying. I hate to lose your help but truth be told I can handle the rest of the roof in the morning myself. Word is your young man Mervin has ah… well… umm. Well despite his help the Dyley farm could use another set of hands to get their harvest brought in before festival if you have a mind to head that way tomorrow.”

Endicott shook hands with the old carpenter, each man's hand showed years of skill with sharp implements and a lifetime of hard work. “I’ll do just that.” the knight rumbled.

Mornon McDiggle drew a small smoke pipe and satchel of tobacco from his pocket. Old and plain as the pipe was some of the men in town would ask why he, with all his skill, didn’t simply make himself a finer pipe. He would laugh it off and claim to have far too much work to carve something for himself. But in truth it was his first attempt at a pipe and he had grown fond of it. After years of use the man and pipe resemble each other far too much for him to consider replacing it.

As he lit the pipe he watched Endicott collect his shield and morningstar mace. Mornon couldn’t help but think how differently someone would describe that man compared to himself. The Knight was no spring chicken either but the very definition of vitality. Despite a reserved nature it was clear Endicott was a lively man. Broad and powerfully built with ornate weapons befitting a man of his station. Mornon couldn’t imagine the knight had ever been called anything resembling ‘simple’ in his life. Yet here he was laboring alongside the common folk like it had always been his way of life.

Endicott had rode into town three nights prior claiming a desire to witness Brehills harvest celebration called the Festival of Crowns. It wasn’t unheard of for folk in the surrounding area to join the festivities but it had certainly never drawn the presence of one of Autumn Reach’s Knights and his squire.

The town had tried to dote on the man offering him a cottage all to himself and whatever food and drink he desired. But Endicott turned it all down instead paying for food and lodging at the Broken Turtle Tavern which kept simple lodgings for travelers. The following day he shocked the town again by rolling up his sleeves and offering to lend a hand wherever they could use it. Even the lanky squire with him had rolled up sleeves without complaint.

He fixed Dynna the Herbalists fence so the chickens couldn’t sneak out any more. Shifted stones out of the Rhosyn families yard, next year their garden will be twice as big because of it. Helped some folks fell a dying tree and almost single handedly kept it from crushing an outhouse on the way down. His squire had been over at the Dyley farm to bring in harvest. People were a bit leery of the man at first. It was hard for the common folk to feel comfortable around nobility such as him. But he always seemed to have a friendly smile and it’s hard to stay suspicious of someone who does a hard day's work with you.

But therein lay the problem, or so Mornon thought. Oh he was friendly enough. Quick to lend a hand or ask you about yourself to make friendly conversation. But the Knight never did offer anything about himself. Most of the town hadn’t noticed but Mornon was a skeptical man by nature and he kept an eye on the stranger. The Knight had a quick tongue behind his smile and easily side stepped any questions about his past or what his business here was. Autumn Reach was clear on the other side of Aardest. Certainly its knights were known to roam far and wide to lend a helping hand. But danger followed their lot and the old carpenter wasn’t about to let this stranger bring that to Brehill or his name wasn’t Mornon McDiggle.

But for now he simply watched. The man hadn’t done anything as of yet. Perhaps nothing would come of it and he would just leave once the festival was done with. He wanted to believe that. He truly did. But something deep in Mornon sensed trouble on the horizon.

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