Mikhail Serulgar-- "Opening Gambits"

[GameMaster]

Evening of the Second day of Tarsakh, in the Year of Wild Magic.

In the hallowed halls of the Church of the Red Knight in Cimbar, a young cleric named Mikhail stood, his gaze piercing the ornate tapestries that depicted ancient battles. There was a chilling silence in the air, as if the very stones of the church whispered of treachery and deceit.

Mikhail, a prodigy both in divine and arcane arts, found himself surrounded by high-ranking priests, their faces etched with barely concealed envy. These priests, threatened by Mikhail's prowess, had devised a plan to rid themselves of this uncomfortable thorn in their side. Chessenta, a nation that revered warriors and despised the cloistered intellect, saw Mikhail as an aberration. His lack of martial prowess, juxtaposed with his immense magical abilities, made him an outlier in a society that celebrated physical might over mystical intellect.

They dispatched him to a tiny village, Valiant's Rest, perilously close to Luthcheq... a city notorious for its vehement disdain for magic and its brutal treatment of magic users.

Luthcheq, to Mikhail's mind a dark shadow on the horizon of Chessenta, was a place where freedom was shackled, and magic was a crime punished by death. A vocal opponent of Chessenta's practice of slavery and a beacon of magical talent, was walking into obvious danger by going anywhere near Luthcheq's oppressive atmosphere.

As the orders were handed to him, Mikhail's keen mind unraveled the sinister undertones. He was to assist Fenric Varholm, a name that for some reason resonated with a vague sense of foreboding, under the orders of providing protection. But Mikhail knew better. The priests expected him not to return from Valiant's Rest, a sacrificial lamb to the altar of their jealousy and fear.

As Mikhail prepared to leave, he pondered the true motive behind this quest toward his own death. Was it merely the envy of the priests, or was there a deeper, more sinister plot at play? Why were they so eager to see him fail, and very likely, perish?

Like most things in Chessenta, the answer was probably very obvious and simple, but Mikhail could not help but think there was something else going on here that he just wasn't aware of.

[GameMaster]

Pre-Dawn of the Third day of Tarsakh, in the Year of Wild Magic.

Rested, prepared, determined, Mikhail hands an apple to his mare, Old Maude, who promptly takes it in her teethe and begins enjoying it.  With a pat, he climbs up into the worn saddle and begins the arduous journey out of the stables, and out of the city.  The guards pay him little attention as he leaves, and for a short moment Mikhail wonders if he should stay this course or turn back and beg forgiveness and more chores?  What if something happens to him after all, how will Old Maude find her way back?

Bitter anger steels his resolve, however.  He would rather die than go back and face those backstabbing priests and fall upon their mercy.

Onward at a steady if somewhat slow pace, the lone figure rode into the coming light of the dawn.

[GameMaster]

Late Morning of the Third day of Tarsakh, in the Year of Wild Magic.

In the late morning bustle of Cimbar, within the stone walls of the Church of the Red Knight, in the private quarters of Priest Gavril Noran a disturbing portent materialized. The early morning light, seeping through the stained glass, splashed the stone floors with a myriad of colors, setting a stark contrast to the grim discovery that awaited each of the four conspiring priests. At the foot of their beds lay a sinister symbol of their betrayal: a gray-white knight chess piece, its presence an ominous portent. As they reached out with trembling hands, the pieces crumbled to dust, a chilling metaphor for the fragility of their scheme.

High Priest Armandus Valtor, his complexion pale and ghost-like, gathered the others in a secluded chamber. The terror in his eyes was unmistakable. "The Red Knight knows," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "She has marked us for our betrayal of Mikhail Serulgar. We are in grave peril."

Priestess Calistra Mirene, usually composed and calculating, struggled to maintain her poise. Her hands shook as she clasped them together, trying to mask her fear. "We need to be decisive," she said, her voice laced with panic. "Our conspiracy cannot be exposed for all to know... We must find a way to contain this!"

Priest Dorian Ellesar, who often played the role of the level-headed scholar, was visibly shaken. "The assassin... we must intercept him before he fulfills his task," he stammered, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "If Mikhail perishes and the assassin speaks, we are doomed."

Even the old former knight Gavril Noran, known for his stoic demeanor, was now showing cracks in his iron facade. "We must leave immediately," he asserted, his voice firm yet tinged with a sense of urgency. "Let's concoct a story, a mission of great importance. Perhaps, seeking information on a sacred artifact... something to justify our sudden departure."

The four priests, each grappling with their own fears and the realization of the divine wrath they had possibly invoked hastily prepared for departure. They mounted their horses, the animals' hooves striking the cobblestones with urgency as they rode through the busy streets of Cimbar. Their flight from the church was not just a physical escape but a desperate attempt to evade the consequences of their own misdeeds, a race against an inescapable fate.

[GameMaster]

Dusk of of the Fifth day of Tarsakh, in the Year of Wild Magic.


Two days into their frantic race to stop what they had themselves set into motion, the four priests finally caught up with the assassin.  The meeting, intended to be clandestine, was fraught with tension. The assassin's eyes narrowed as he assessed the situation, his instinct sensing the priests' desperation.

"You've exposed me with your carelessness," he hissed, his voice a blend of anger and contempt. "My price has tripled. Hand over payment to me at once, or face the consequences of your sloppiness and poor planning!"

The priests, already ensnared in their web of deceit, were cornered. With no means to pay the increased fee and their plot unraveling before them, they found themselves at the mercy of the very assassin they had hired.

In a moment of chaos, a violent skirmish erupted.

As Priest Gavril Noran stood in the dim light of the moon, his heart raced with a mixture of fear and determination. The four priests had finally cornered the assassin in a secluded glade and belived they had the advantage, but he couldn't help but notice the shadows of the trees casting long, ominous silhouettes on the ground. The assassin, a lithe figure clad in dark leather, stood calmly, his eyes glinting with malice.

Armandus Valtor, his mind clouded by desperation, stepped forward with grim resolve. Whispering a prayer to the Red Knight, his voice a low murmur, he extended his hand towards the assassin. Dark energy crackled at his fingertips, the air around them growing colder as he channeled the power of his deity.
 With a sudden thrust of his hand, he unleashed the negative energy towards the assassin, attempting to envelop him in a wave of life-draining force. The spell, a manifestation of divine retribution, sought to leech the very vitality from its target.  The assassin, sensing the impending danger, twisted away with a swift, agile movement. The dark energy grazed him, a look of momentary pain flashing across his face, before he regained his composure. The deadly spell, though powerful, had failed to achieve its full devastating effect.

Calistra Mirene, her voice laced with fear and fury, conjured a shimmering barrier of magical energy around them. But the assassin was swift, drawing a pair of gleaming daggers and lunging at Dorian Ellesar. Dorian, caught off guard, parried with his own blade, the clashing of metal echoing through the night.

Gavril, clutching his mace tightly, joined the fray, swinging with all his might. The assassin, however, danced away from each blow with terrifying agility. In a fluid motion, the assassin hurled a dagger, its blade finding its mark in Dorian's chest. Dorian staggered back, a look of disbelief on his face, before collapsing to the ground.

Armandus, enraged, chanted another spell, sending a wave of searing flames towards the assassin. But the agile figure leaped high, avoiding the flames, and landed behind Calistra. Before she could react, a swift strike from the assassin's dagger silenced her forever.

Now, it was only Gavril and Armandus left standing against their fate. Gavril, his faith in the Red Knight burning fiercely within him, charged at the assassin with a battle cry. The assassin met his attack, parrying Gavril's mace with a dagger. Sparks flew as steel clashed against steel.  Armandus, seizing the opportunity, prepared a final, desperate spell, but the assassin was the quicker. With a swift, fluid motion, he threw his last dagger straight at Armandus. The dagger found its target, and Armandus fell, his spell dissipating into the night air.

Gavril, now alone, faced the assassin. Blood from his comrades pooled at his feet, their eyes staring blankly at the moonlit sky. In a last act of defiance, Gavril swung his mace with all his remaining strength. The assassin parried and plunged his blade into Gavril's side.

Pain exploded through Gavril's body, his vision blurring. As he fell to his knees, the world around him began to dim. The assassin's face, a visage of death, hovered over him. Gavril's grip on his mace loosened, the weapon clattering to the ground.

In his final moments, as darkness enveloped him, Gavril's thoughts turned to the Red Knight, seeking forgiveness for his transgressions. He thought of Mikhail Serulgar, the innocent target of their envy, and prayed desperately for his safety. Then, with a final breath, Priest Gavril Noran succumbed to the darkness, the echoes of the battle fading into the stillness of the night.

[GameMaster]

Moondark of of the Fifth day of Tarsakh, in the Year of Wild Magic.


In the dark night of the dense forest near Valiant's Rest, Mikhail Serulgar, ever vigilant, anticipated the shadow of treachery. Though the priests' motivations were veiled in mystery, their intentions were not. As the silent *ping* of a small bell went off in his mind the assassin emerged, a silhouette too dark to be natural crossed the path behind him. Mikhail nodded slightly to himself, content that he had chosen the location of this ambush well.  He was ready.

The assassin, his figure then blending seamlessly with the darkness, approached with a quiet confidence. "We can make this painless, cleric," he taunted, his voice a low hiss in the night air. "You don't have to suffer before going to meet your Goddess."

Mikhail, calm and collected, replied not with words but with action. Though he had no real skill in it, he had read enough to set a series of traps.  They were each no doubt quite weak and might fail, and certainly would not skill this attacker.  Several of them placed in proximity would perhaps incapacitate the man though, especially considering he seemed to be moving with a pained limp already. All Mikhail had to do was manipulate the fight enough to drag his attacker into them.  The first was a tangle of ropes meant to ensnare, lay hidden in the underbrush. As the assassin advanced, Mikhail deftly maneuvered, trying to lure him towards the first. The assassin, skilled in his craft, sensed the danger and evaded the snare with a swift sidestep, a smirk of triumph on his lips as he launched a probing thrust to force Mikhail himself toward the very snare he had set.

Undeterred, Mikhail engaged in a calculated dance with his longsword, each movement as precise as he could make it, each feint and thrust a product of his keen intellect and long study of historical battles, not any actual experience as a warrior. The assassin, though formidable, was clearly hampered by whatever injuries he had sustained in pursuit of his target, and so his mobility was reduced and his focus imperfect.

Mikhail, observing this, adapted his strategy. He feigned heavy breathing and fatigue, a vulnerable moment in which he appeared to be slow enough for the killer to score a blow. As the assassin lunged, expecting to capitalize on this weakness, he instead found himself tumbling into Mikhail's second trap.  The assassin, agile but impaired by his previous wounds. As he pressed forward, his foot found the treacherous mudslide, nearly invisible under the leaves and brush. With a sudden loss of footing, the assassin's balance faltered. His arms flailed in a desperate attempt to regain stability, but the slippery earth offered no purchase.

With a muffled curse, the assassin slid and bounced down the muddy slope, tumbling over the edge of the sharp drop. His body crashed hard to the bottom of the hollow with a heavy thud, echoing through the quiet forest.

"Terrain itself makes the best snares" Mikhail said to himself under his breath, quoting a line from the scrolls known as The Wilds of War: Strategies and Tactics of Wilderness Battles.

Mikhail approached the edge of the ravine, looking down at the incapacitated assassin some forty or fifty feet below. The man, now a broken heap of desperation, looked up and pleaded, "Don't leave me to the mercy of the wild, priest!"

Mikhail, his expression resolute, replied, "Your actions have led you here. This is mercy enough." He chose not to end the man's life, nor to utilize his magical abilities. Instead, he would leave the assassin in his natural prison, a decision reflecting Mikhail's adherence to strategy and his aversion to unnecessary violence.

It took a few steps away from the drop to the ravine below, his mind grappling with the weight of his decision, for Mikhail to reconsider.  Closing his eyes, he stood in silent contemplation, the sounds of the forest surrounding him in a quiet embrace. After a moment of stillness, he turned back, his resolve taking a different shape.

With careful, deliberate steps, for he was not skilled in climbing and possibly not strong enough to get down without falling to his own demise, Mikhail descended towards the edge of the shallow water. The descent was treacherous, but his movements were calculated, each step taken with precision. As he reached the bottom, he approached the wounded assassin, who lay amidst the debris, broken and defeated.

From his pack, Mikhail retrieved a single healing potion, its contents glowing with a gentle green luminescence. He placed it within crawling distance of the assassin, ensuring it was close enough for the man to reach.

His eyes met the assassin's, cold and resolute. "Follow me no more," Mikhail spoke, his voice stern and imbued with a quiet authority. "You will find this mercy but once."

The assassin, pain and surprise etched on his face, looked at the potion, then back at Mikhail. It was a gesture he hadn't actually anticipated, a moment of unexpected compassion from his intended victim.  He nodded, but Mikhail didn't really linger to witness the man's response. He had already turned, making his way back up the ravine with the same careful precision. As he walked away, the forest seemed to close in around him, its shadows deepening with the approaching night.