meet some of the mountain's prominent denizens and get acquainted with the neighborhood with maps and in-depth features on the setting & cast
The Bastard Warchief
“The pinkskin is our Warchief, hu-man. And today he brought us victory without even picking up a weapon. He may not be one of us, but he is good for us. Who are you to say he isn’t?” ~Rhurzak dur Guul, Clan Maneater
Stolen from his home and pressed into service as a figurehead to sort out an internal power struggle, we all do what we can to stay alive and make the world a little safer. But when your captors are the Clan that burnt your hometown to the ground, and survival means becoming the best king they've ever had, you're guaranteed to never know how boredom feels again.
The Orcs are going to take some fair convincing if he's going to survive.
The angels don't know what to make of his unlikely path to power.
Meanwhile the world at large is wondering how to use him for their ends.
It's not easy being green, but we don't get a lot of choice.
The Conflicted Spy
The world is a song. That song was written by somebody, and performed by someone else. Very likely it was written at the behest of someone suffering the burden of a heavy purse and hoping that the song inspires its weight to grow a little. But there are better goals to sing a world toward. Peace - the lasting kind - the kind where rivals find a mutual advantage, would be one.
These Orcs aren't mindless animals. They're nothing like the stories we've been told. They say a bard can't serve two masters, and they might be right. If spying on them for my barony, as their 'ambassador' is really the only way that I can learn more about who they really are, how can these people ever really trust me?
The Steward of Tradition
It wasn’t that Gunthar didn’t love his people. The tragedy was, in his estimation, that they didn’t. Here among those the Song of the Allseer called the Conquerors of Every Sky; those the traditions named the children of Krog, chosen-among-clans, Man-eaters, Mountain-tamers, Power Overwhelming, you could hardly find a handful of grunts knew what half the words meant, let alone aspire to any of them. The best you had were scads of ingrate heritors. Beneficiaries, who mistook the greatness of their forefathers for their own, as if without a single story of their own for future generations to remember, they had something individually to crow about. Gunthar knew different. He would lead them back onto the path, but first the halfbreed had to be dealt with.