Contest #2 - Valorbook of the Vale: The Courage of the Outlanders

Prologue​

Outside the small stone keep, the snow fell slowly and silently in the still, cold mountain air. Within, Manicaverda sat by the fire and played a solemn strain upon her lute — a fine, old, mellow-toned instrument that had been in her family for generations, handcrafted long ago by a bardlord and his ladybard wife, the bravest balladeers to ever strum a song.​

Across from Manicaverda sat her husband, Fortezzo — broad-shouldered and barrel-bellied, with a patch where his left eye had been — a well-worn warrior, yet altogether distinguished in mien. He had been a great commander, in fact, one of the greatest ever known. In the Battle of the Unliving Legion, he lead an army against an unrelenting horde of skeletal soldiers as they marched down the Kingsroad toward the city by the sea. Fortezzo and his men would battle Death itself that day, and in the end, they won — though barely. Moved by the valor of his men, and the great sacrifices of the wounded and the fallen, there and then Fortezzo swore a personal oath: "So long as the lifeblood flows within me, no deed of courage such as I've seen this day shall ever go forgotten." And so it began — the Commander's chronicle — The Valorbook of the Vale.​

"Manicaverda," he said to his wife, as she played her song, a tune that had been written even long before the Cataclysm, "a new force is rising in the world — heroes and heroines, bold of heart and strong of will. Perhaps it is time for a new chapter." He turned to his writing table and in the most elegant of hands — the big man had always made his letters with great beauty and precision — he put ink to parchment: Valorbook of the Vale: The Courage of the Outlanders.​

Your Avatar's Novian exploits could be the next addition to the Commander’s chronicle.​

Contest Instructions (the basics)​

Avatars of New Britannia, we, the Scholars of Novia, once again bring you a special request for your tales, stories, and accounts. This time, the request is from Fortezzo, a retired commander from the battlefields of Novia. Have you witnessed acts of bravery and courage on the part of your fellow Outlanders? Have you yourself, as a newcomer to Novia, taken up sword or staff in defense of another? Are you willing to share your stories with Fortezzo to help him continue to honor his personal oath?​

Commander Fortezzo seeks accounts of scenarios such as have happened or as are possible within the Hidden Vale and parts of Novia as they currently exist within gameplay. Specific details about the persons involved in these heroic deeds, the foes encountered, and the places where such acts of bravery occurred will be most valuable for his collection.​

For this contest, all winning entries will be packaged as though they were written by Fortezzo himself as part of his chronicle. He writes in 3rd person in highly descriptive prose using dialogue where appropriate. Fortezzo's accounts do not read like facts-only news reports — he writes boldly and vividly, and his stories are powerful and riveting yet easy to read.​

While Fortezzo will be considered the overall "author" of the Valorbook, authors of submissions will still have their authorships recognized, as stories in the book will be clearly labeled "as related by name of entry author." For your attribution, you may choose your usual character/avatar name, your usual SotA Forum name, the name of some theoretical Novian personage (not an actual in-game NPC), or you may choose to have had the valiant tale reach Fortezzo anonymously by rumor, or report.​

For this contest in particular, authors may wish to tell tales of events which occurred when fighting alongside fellow Avatars. References to fellow Avatars are acceptable so long as the as the author has received permission from the players of all Avatars mentioned. Moreover, in this contest, authors may naturally find it necessary to refer to NPCs, particularly hostiles, such as are encountered and with whom Avatars interact in game. Such references will be considered acceptable so long they describe the actual words and/or actions of said NPCs as they occur within current gameplay.​

Since all winning entries will be included in the Valorbook as if they were penned by Fortezzo, contestants are advised that for this contest only, the Scholars will need to translate all non-English entries into English and to regularize certain spelling conventions and vocabulary choices so as to give the semblance of a single authorship. This is not an indication of the Scholars' preference for one language over another, or even for one spelling convention over another in English. It is simply to maintain the roleplay of our frame story of Commander Fortezzo and his chronicle.​

Entries should be 733 words or less. One entry per player-author, please. Style is 3rd person, prose, and can include dialog and description.​

This contest is open to all player-members of the SotA Community, with the exception of those members of the Scholars of Novia who have agreed to work on this particular contest. Members of the Scholars of Novia wishing to submit entries to this Contest may do by publically declaring on this thread that they have recused themselves from all Scholars duties for the duration of this Contest.​

Contestants will have an opportunity to work with the Scholars to produce a finalized version of their submission before final judging. Final judging will be carried out by a panel of judges comprised of the Grand Masters of the Scholars of Novia.​

Reply to this SotA Forum thread with your submissions. Only replies made to this thread will be considered contest entries​

Prizes for Contest Winners​

Contest winners will receive free in-game publication by Portalarium of their winning texts. Winners will also have the titles of their winning submissions placed on the Scholars of Novia Recommended Reading List and will have their winning submissions copied to the Scholars of Novia Library area of the SotA Wiki. Finally, the Scholars of Novia will devise some in-game method for recognition after game launch.​

Have fun! Good luck! Get writing!​

Contest #2 - Valorbook of the Vale: The Courage of the Outlanders

 

This contest is accepting submissions:

• Start: December 13, 2014
• UPDATED: End: January 15, 2014 (at 11:59 PM GMT)

Please make all book/story submissions to this thread.

See the Sample Story thread for more details and to discuss anything about this contest.

 

Ok i hope the following meets requirements because i am a bit tired but i wanted to get this done XD


Deep within the crypts of Ravensmoor, Themo crouched before a wall sconce and fumbled with a tinderbox by the dim light that radiated from the cloak about his shoulders. A shudder ran down his spine and he failed to shake off the feeling that he was not alone in the almost unnatural darkness that seemed more like a solid wall than a mere alliance of shadows.

He had been lured into the depths of this neglected tomb by a less than healthy sense of adventure and an unrelenting curiosity that would shame any cat. His pack brimmed with rancid, ectoplasmic muck that he had harvested from the frail animated skeletons which had challenged his entry in the upper rooms and the smell of it now assailed his nostrils and tested his stomachs fortitude.

The damp torch sputtered to life with exaggerated brightness, forcing back the darkness to a more comfortable distance and causing the adventurers eyes to water. A faint echo caused his breath to catch in his throat, and he spun on his heel, torch outstretched ... probing the corridor ahead of him for signs of life.

Was that movement he saw? or perhaps it was just smoke from the torch being drawn along by a draft. Fatigue was calling his otherwise keen senses into question and his back ached from the weight of his pack. He stumbled slightly as his legs trembled and weakened and his light-source slipped from his hand, noisily clattering to the stone floor.

Something was not right... he had felt fully rested and hearty just minutes earlier but now struggled to remain upright and alert. A noise he could only describe as an otherworldly gust of wind alerted him to a threat he now recognised... somewhere in the darkness ahead, a ghost was draining him of his very life-force. He knew he had to act and he had to act fast.

Feebly he juggled with his pouches, plucking out reagents as he mouthed arcane syllables that merged and brought his spell into being. A fleeing rat squealed into lifelessness at his feet, dying insects rained from the ceiling and ahead of him in the darkness the ghost let out a piercing shriek. Themo was no stranger to death magic, this creature had robbed him of his vitality but by the gods he would have it back!

The spectre came into view, drifting towards him as he chanted a second incantation. The air crackled with raw energy as a bolt of brilliant blue light leapt from his fingers, piercing the ghosts insubstantial form and splitting the stone bricks beyond. His foe hesitated and he took full advantage with a combination of life draining magic that revitalised his limbs whilst crippling his would-be assassin. The ghosts form faded and dissipated as the tortured soul once more found rest.

Themo kicked the torch further down the corridor to scout the pervasive shadows for more signs of life, illuminating the section of wall that had been struck by his arcane lightning. The brickwork had crumbled and fallen away, revealing a passageway that had lain hidden beyond. "Now i wonder what is in there." he voiced aloud, grinning from ear to ear and shouldering his pack.

 

-They are coming!

The cry made Halmar look up. Dan the Scout came running.

No. Not so soon. Halmar felt a cold panic grip his gut. They were too fatigued. After all, they had been fleeing for two days straight. The horrors of the past week caught up with him.

The original order to Halmar and his squad had been simple; fetch the folks from the surrounding farms and bring them to the safety of Solace Bridge keep before the rumoured undead attack. They had quickly followed through. But those left in those farms were the stubborn, the elderly and women with small children, everyone else had left of their own accord. Their mission had soon devolved from Halmar's original plan of quickness to a quagmire of weeping, coaxing, delays and a growing sense of dread. Finally, three ox-wagons and almost as many dozen evacuees in a sorry caravan of sorts were heading back.

Those delays had been a fortune in disguise.

The day before they were due in Solace, Halmar had dispatched Dan to scout ahead. From a hidden vantage point Dan had seen the vastness of the undead host and quickly deduced the outcome. The warriors and refugees alike had protested turning away when their goal was so close. But Halmar had looked Dan in the eyes and seen all hope for friends, families and homes snuffed out.
A seasoned veteran, Halmar had given the harsh orders with no hesitation and they had turned around immediately. That night when they rested briefly, a great light could be seen from Solace. One of the women had tearfully asked why the undead would burn their conquest. Halmar and his men had exchanged glances in silence.
The undead wouldn't, but men without hope would.

They had been fleeing ever since. Halmar and his men both harassing and helping, anything to get the slow moving caravan to get away faster along Solace river. All knowing how vain it was. Dan scouting behind, reporting the steady decreasing distance between them and pursuers who didn't need rest.

And now they had caught up. With a last glance on the wagons carrying the feeble and the small, on the ragged people struggling along and knowing their meagre reserves, Halmar knew what he had to do. Quickly he gathered his squad.

-You all know me. You all know what is behind. You all know staying is for fools. Each of you, take a child small enough to carry. Head for the coast. Go.

Halmar hated this part. Walking briskly towards the rear, ignoring the cries and shouts as his squad carried out his orders. Halmar picked a good defensive spot, above a brook with his back against some rocks. Here he could hold out for a while. Buy them time.
-How soon before they notice we are not there?
Halmar gave Dan a tired look but didn't respond, instead he drew his sword. They didn't have to wait long. A line of figures appeared in the distance. Oh how many they were. Halmar swallowed.

Suddenly someone ran past them.
-Wooohoooo, over here.
Halmar stared in disbelief as three warriors fully clad in steel crashed into the undead line. With quick strokes from axe, sword and halberd splitting fragile bones. Running from foe to foe, dispatching each with abandon.

Calling to each other all along.
-He's mine.
-Kill first, loot later.
-Quick, heal me.
Then something else passed Halmar, a stream of fire from one side, detonating into the host of undead. Engulfing and shattering wherever it stroke. Halmar held out his hand to shield his face from the heatwaves, blinking in the bright light.

Then a piercing unreal scream struck not only his ears but also filled his heart with dread,
-There's the lich, everyone on me.
-Coming.
-Leave some for me.

Halmar looked at Dan, but he also stood there with open mouth not understanding what legends had manifested themselves in front of their eyes. Defeating the unstoppable legion of undead.

Afterwards one of them strode over, removing his helmet.
-Hey. I'm sorry, you were here first. You don't mind do you?
Halmar just stood there. Staring.
The stranger smiled at him knowingly.
-Name?
-I'm... I'm Halmar, captain of the Guard...
The stranger started laughing.
-I'm Spoon, pleased to meet you. Your men are safe.
Grasping for something to say Halmar asked where they came from.
-Truthfully? Earth.

 

Oops I think it's after midnight in the UK... can you please accept this submission? If not that's ok!

----

Many will know of Evan the herbman, wandering with his pack mules laden full of healing remedies. Most wouldn’t know that in his youth he was apprenticed against his will to an army weaponsmith, a vicious man from whom he had escaped to follow his true calling of tending the sick.

Evan had drawn on his old skills to create a two-handed sword as the receptacle for an enchantment he was trying, to improve the blade’s defensive skills. For three days he labored, singing the magic and tracing the runes in copper, silver, gold and then steel as he forged the blade. Finally he finished the spell, shouting the words that would bring the enchantment to it’s climax and waited for the magic to fill the weapon. Nothing happened…

Evan sank to his knees, exhausted and bitterly defeated. He had failed. The enchantment he had been casting had fizzled and the sword was still just a sword.

After worrying at the problem and retracing every part of the spell Evan gave it up as a bad job. It was still a nice sword, though a little more fragile than usual due to the mystic materials used in its construction. Evan didn’t like to carry an obvious weapon, although he often visited dangerous areas, as he didn’t want to appear threatening to the poor people he tended. So he gifted the sword to his young friend GoldenWing Okhan, a hunter and trapper who was living in Owl’s Head at the time, in exchange for herbs GoldenWing collected for him during his hunts.

Goldenwing had always hunted small game; wild boars, foxes and hares, but the sword’s great reach gave him the courage to hunt larger animals. He took down a bear that had been wandering too close to the city’s farms, and was impressed by the large hide he took from it. He named the sword Bearbane. Slowly, beneath the steel edge, the blade’s power came to life, as over the years it tasted the blood of dozens, and then hundreds of bears. The blade took on a sentience of it’s own, deflecting ursine claws and teeth, which GoldenWing attributed to his own increasing skill.

As GoldenWing’s fortune grew from the fine bear hides he was selling, he took on apprentices, who grew into excellent hunters themselves. He settled in Radio City and rarely ventured into the wilds himself as he was occupied with running his business. Bearbane waited patiently, though a little dustily, in the corner of GoldenWing’s office, until a lady friend ordered him to clean his office up.

Bearbane was sold to a tinker, and then traded to a youth named Trevor who was out to seek his fortune as an adventurer. Bearbane was glad, for it had slept a long time. Trevor was fresh from his father’s farm and skittish being out in the world by himself, and in his nervousness he exaggerated his fighting abilities. He signed on as a guard for PaxLair, and his first task was to escort Governor Winfield to an important meeting with a group of bandits who had taken over a village, by the lake in North Ravenswood. The governor was trying to negotiate a treaty with the bandits to bring them back into civilized society, but their leader would have none of it, and sent the diplomat away.

During the night, the bandits snuck up on the PaxLair camp, and fell upon them unawares. The diplomat was taken hostage and the guards were ordered executed. One of the bandits, a huge man with blackened stumps for teeth and a matted beard running down over his hairy chest pulled out a great maul. He taunted the guards, describing how he would pound them as he passed his hammer, whomping, through the air. Trevor didn’t rise to the bait. As the bandit swung to crush Trevor, Bearbane, learning finally what it’s ultimate purpose was, flew from its sheath and blocked the blow, inches from the white-faced boy’s head. The great sword, ever fragile, shattered into a dozen pieces, and with it’s dying magic it exploded towards the bandits, impaling them all with its fragments. It had learned from its masters the meaning of courage - putting your own life before that of others.

Bearbane is no more, but its magic lives on in every blade that defends its master... perhaps even in your own sword.

 

Thanks for the Contest #2 submissions! All are entered into our contest.

We should have results by Friday, January 23, 2015.

We look forward to seeing more books published into New Britannia.

 

Heh, figures I noticed this now 2 days after it's done.

 

There will be another one.

 

We have not completed our Contest #2 review yet. Sorry about that. I'm at PAX South this weekend too so am out this weekend too. We will look to have the results by next Friday, January 30th.

 

*cough* suspense XD

 

Here let me fetch you something for that nasty cough. Hmm do you want the kobold granny's tincture, or do you want the dragon phlem cleanser?

 

My dear Themo Lock, I think it is time for a search party. I have found a trail of abandoned bottles and spoons leading into the forests of the hinterlands. So I think it is time we show them the courage of outlanders and bring those scholars back from their peril of spirits strong and company merry.

 

I believe we're just about done. The Grand Masters have been busy but shouldn't be long now.

 

We are almost done with the review of the books. We moved out smartly on the reviews when they came in last month, then we slowed down a bit and got behind. Sorry.

Now in the final stretch the books are being reviewed to fit into Fortezzo's Collection of books as if he wrote them. That is a big intent of this Contest. In the future, Commander Fortezzo will be asking for more stories -- all his volumes will not be published in this Contest (and not written yet by the players). So what we do now for Fortezzo's writing style with stories contributed by the player submissions will set the foundation for his entire collection of works over the coming months and years.

Our contest description included this:

"For this contest, all winning entries will be packaged as though they were written by Fortezzo himself as part of his chronicle. He writes in 3rd person in highly descriptive prose using dialogue where appropriate. Fortezzo's accounts do not read like facts-only news reports — he writes boldly and vividly, and his stories are powerful and riveting yet easy to read."​

So the authors will be reached again to ensure each author likes our suggestions to have their stories recorded into Fortezzo's Collection and his style for all time. Thanks for your patience. We know and respect the fact that the books in this Collection will be around for years upon years on the New Britannian shelves and in many stores and libraries.

Thanks!

 

We are not really worried, just super keen