Master Manual

( Version 1.2 )

In Watford, Ontario, on 50+ acres of rolling forest we have named the Graven Woods, within the defended town of SunderWall, there be Epicness.
A full out HARP ( a Heavy Action Role Play ) with 7 different schools of magic. Ranging from traditional spell casters, to those summoning powerful creatures and bending them to their will, and to the most powerful of them all, the magic of the Runes.

A combat system where screaming Barbarians rush in with fists swinging in savage rage, where Archers lie in wait hidden in deep shadows, and Paladins bellow their war cries as they fearlessly charge and send flying the blasphemous.

We are The MMA, a fantasy as real as it gets.

~ A History of the Lands of SunderWall and of the Graven Woods beyond ~

This region of land has held many names over the years. A small colony of Dwarves, at some time in history first, carved into a mountain that was the central feature of this otherwise flat and fertile woodlands. Within a few generations, long as they are to the Dwarves, the mountain played out as the bearded folk claimed the most of the ore that the mountain could offer. The Dwarves named the solitary mountain Dun Krykin-Rol, the Rock of the Lone Shadow.

The mountain also lay in the borderlands of the forests claimed by Aleiarond, High King of a society of Elves, and they named it Gaia-Zapar-Ti, Natures spear tip. Because it was on the very edges of High King Aleiaronds ranges, the Elves had rule around the mountain. They maintained the woods and the order of things in these lands, but they had little permanent presence in the area. The closest Elf community was weeks travel through wood and bog away. The Five Green Blade Tribe, a fair sized family clan of elves which claimed these lands as their hunting grounds were more southerly in their range where the lands sported richer gains. This tribe was lead by Patriarch Livinodar, who allowed the Dwarves their access to Gaia-Zapar-Ti, and prospered greatly from it. When the Dwarves left, the region fell into the ways of old, of being monitored, but not really watched. This lax vigilance did not go un-noticed.

In the night and sticking mainly to the swamps, her Supreme Savagery Tromp, High Priestess of Grelm, the Goblin God of pain and profit, led her foul folk kin to the mountain renaming it again, to Kur-Serript-Kur, the rock of stabbing rocks. The Goblins found the abandoned work of the Dwarves, with all of the fortifications that came along with it for no respectable Dwarf would ever live and mine in a place for so long with out thinking to defend it. These bearded folks craft at fortifications proved true to form to the race and were thick and expertly made. The Goblins met no resistance and swarmed into the mountain.

Running in the southern shadow of the mountain a major trade road was built in the time of the Dwarves to speed and hurry their manufactured goods to market, and to bring the wagons of gold back. Trade still prospered in full on this route after the days of the Dwarves for it connected two major ports in the area together with a route three days shorter than any other. The Goblins following the Edicts of Grelm felt that they had suffered the pains of reaching the mountain and claiming it, now they wished to take its profits as well. With the mountain as their stronghold, Tromp and her hordes preyed mercilessly upon the major trade road with heavy fines and taxes for passing through their realm for the lucky, theft and murder for the unlucky.

This carried on for some time before Patriarch Livinodar heard word of it, and then more time passed as he rallied and gathered his scouts and warriors to the mountain. When he arrived, fierce was the fight that he waged with her Supreme Savagery. Tromp had no choice but to call her foul kin back into the mountain and behind the walls made by Dwarf. The Patriarch sought to stop this. The high priestess of Grelm ordered her General, the Mercenary leader Skrab Skullbiter to order the retreat and buy her forces time enough to crawl back to the mountain. Skrab, easily the largest Goblin ever bred in this or any other region, took the order with murderous glee. He gathered his personal warriors, 100 strong Goblin, Orcs and Ogres around him and lead them straight for the red and green banner of the Five Green Blade Tribe, and Patriarch Livinodar who fought under it.

Solid shield work and savage brute force brought Skrab to Livinodar and the two met in battle. The sword of the Patriarch whistled with the speed of his skills, the club of Skrab screamed as it assaulted the air itself. Sheer strength unhorsed the Patriarch, but Skrab was bleeding out from any number of small but deep wounds from the Patriarchs stabbing blade. Weakening, and realising it, Skrab viciously hurled his club at the rising Patriarch who swatted it aside with his fine long sword, but in doing so he had no defence left to offer as Skrabs' body flew in directly behind the flying club and the Goblin tackled the Patriarch to the ground. Then as Skrab had many times before, so much so they named him for it, he opened his huge mouth as wide as possible and clamped down. Skrab bit hard on the face of Livinodar, covering the Elves mouth and nose and held on.

Skrab was huge and the Patriarch had not the strength left needed to wrestle with such an opponent. He grabbed a fine sharp dagger from his boot with a hand he could wriggle free, then set that dagger to quick efficient work plunging it again and again into the side of Skrabs considerable belly. Skrab fought hard and grabbed that plunging dagger and in doing so never lost his bite upon the Patriarchs face. Gradually, the blade softened in the grip of the Patriarch as Skrab was suffocating him with his own foul mouth. With a final hopeless heave at the beast, the Patriarch gave into the blackness, and lost consciousness. Skrab grabbed that knife and cruelly hacked the head from the Patriarch in victory. He stood as tall as his badly wounded side allowed and none too quickly either for he was dizzy from the many, many bleeding wounds suffered by the fine blades of the dead Patriarch. Skrab held the head high for Tromp to see from the mountain, but to Skrabs foul surprise he found the mountain barren and barred. All of the Goblin forces have retreated in full into the mountain with only Tromp herself still visible to Skrab. She was on a balcony high above the main doors that had been shut and barricaded. Skrab and his now only 50 strong, saw that they would not be allowed to re-enter the mountain, and that her Supreme Savagery planned to sacrifice them for her own safety. Skrab called his foul folk fighters around him and used the same shield wedges and overwhelming strength that brought them onto the battlefield to now run from it.

Tromp witnessed this lack of self sacrifice from her General and started to yell out a curse on the fleeing Goblin, but in doing so her voice was heard by Lelluwellin, wife to Livinodar, and Matriarch of the Five Green Blade Tribe. Lelluwellin raised her head from the chest of her dead husband where it lay heavy in sudden mourning. Tears streamed relentlessly from her eyes so much so that her vision was clouded. Blinded was she from the force of her grief, but her ears, her sharp Elf ears, heard the thrown curses. The hurled hatred of the High Priestess at her fleeing General. Using her ears alone to guide her she drew forth her bow, knocked arrow to string, drew and released all in between the space of two heaving sobs at the voice of Tromp. The arrow flew true with the speed of love and the force of vengeance, and found its mark.

Tromp, the Supreme Savage, High Priestess of Grelm, died as the arrow buried into her chest and destroyed her heart. Tromps forces took the loss of their Priestess with typical Goblin strategy, and they threw her dead body out over the balcony to appease the Elves. In doing so they hoped the Elves would rejoice at the death of their foe and allow mercy for the rest of them to flee. And indeed, that was exactly what the war chiefs of the Five Green Blade Tribe were negotiating, trying to decide amongst themselves the conditions of the Goblin surrender and retreat. In the sudden absence of their Patriarch, and in the presence of their Matriarchs heart wrenching grief, they felt the decision was, by necessity, theirs to make. All of the Tribe would surely abide by their judgement of the Goblins.

All, but one.

Matriarch Lelluwellin, bride of Livinodar for over two and a half centuries, and his souls mate for over three. Daughter of Jonduwellin, the former Patriarch of the Five Green Blade Tribe until he was slain in a Goblins ambush. That sad event raised Lelluwelin, his eldest heir, to Matriarch, Queen of the Five Green Blades, and thereby her husband Livinodar to Patriarch. Together they have led their prosperous Tribe to greater prosperity and happiness for nearly a century. They have made their lands grow tall and beautiful and kept it and their fine fair folk free from harm. 'Til today. 'Til a Goblin killed the second male she has ever loved. Just as a Goblin killed the first.

With a scream that was born from the now frigid abyss in her heart where all love once was, but was now lost. It was swallowed by darkness and slashing Goblin blades. From that pit of hate Lelluwellin screamed, and so primal was the sound of it that Elf and Goblin both stopped, instantly shocked and cowed by the fierceness in its tones. Sweeping aside the war chiefs with but a smoldering glance of her now so very dark eyes, Lelluwellin took command. On her orders, the Elves laid siege on the mountain. She commanded green bough fires to be lit at the door, and upon those fires she ordered vibrantly coloured and very poisonous plants plants to be burnt, their toxins adding to the endless choking clouds of billowing smoke. Her scouts searched for and found the strongholds ventilation shafts arranged all over the mountain, and were then ordered to plug them and seal them. Even the strongholds water source, a small river that wound its way to and under the mountain, was ordered to be fouled. Lelluwellin sent her hunters into the forest to collect carrion and dump them to rot in the river where it entered the rocks.

After many days the Goblins sent out a very nervous herald to have a parley with the Elves. Under the points of arrows, spears, and swords the Goblin was led to a large pavilion that was built in the middle of a field that offered a good view of the main doors of the fortress. It was built for the Matriarch, for she vowed never to leave this field til the Goblin threat was ended for good and for all. Her war chiefs could not persuade her, nor soften her tactics no matter how distasteful some of them were, they could not hope to harness the hate in her heart. The herald was led into the tent. Soon, those guards re-emerged, accompanied a half dozen other nervous looking elves. In hushed tones the elves in front of the pavilion were hurriedly whispering amongst themselves.

A scream heard only once before, when her husband was cut down in front of her, ripped wide open the strained silence. So powerful was it that its absence when the wail was just as suddenly over, made the new quiet that followed as deep as the silence of a tomb. Some moments later Lelluwellin appeared in the entranceway of the pavilion, and her elves gasped and drew back as one. Calmly the Matriarch walked to her bow, her fine green dress clinging and sticking to her, so heavy was it with sprayed blood! She selected an arrow from her quiver and held it with one hand as her other went to her fine silver hair. She grabbed a thick lock and without a whimper, nor even a blink of an eye, she ripped it out. Using the hair as rope she lashed something wet and leathery that had been concealed in her hand to the shaft of the arrow. In a fluid motion she drew and released the arrow that she fired towards the fortress doors, then she laid aside her bow, turned to face her shocked Tribe stunned into silence, and then re entered her pavilion with no word spoke at all.

The arrow was collected up that evening by a terrified Goblin scout. He was told his choices were to go get the arrow through use of the door, or from the balcony as Tromp had went. The scout was scared even more when he returned with the arrow to his nervous companions. The Goblins now knew their doom. Lashed to the arrow, by the silvery hair of Lelluwellin, were a pair of Goblin ears.

The Elven war chiefs grew nervous also, uncomfortable with the increased bloodlust of their Matriarch, and they quickly raced off several messengers to the High King of the Elves, Aleiarond, begging for his help, and soon. Messengers also flew to and from the Matriarchs pavilion with frequency as well, though what those messages relayed or requested was for none but Lelluwellin to know. Weeks passed with the Goblins too afraid to poke their heads out of their holes, and the Matriarch refusing to quit the field employing siege tactics that grew fouler and more distasteful as time dragged on.

Into the fourth relentless week of the siege on the mountain, one of the messages sent, received an answer. Few saw this messenger, save for a few sentries who escorted the stranger straight to the Matriarchs tent in the blackest of the night. No one at all heard the private conversation between Lelluwellin and this messenger that went long on past the rising of the sun. At noon that next day Matriarch Lelluwellin and the stranger emerged from the pavilion, though none could call him a stranger anymore. The Elf at Lelluwellin's side, for indeed he was an Elf, was tall and rakishly thin with long straight hair held back by a clasp that was as black as night. His skin looked delicately pale in comparison, but his eyes, his pupil-less eyes seethed strength and determination. He was dressed in the highest robes of an Earth Warlock, in flowing greens and browns and at his side strode a greater earth elemental. A towering mound of sentient rock empowered by a force from a different plane of existence to do the will of its little brother, the Warlock at its side. Full of confidence and purpose did both the Warlock and Lelluwellin look . As the master strode with his monster to near the front doors of the stronghold, the Matriarch was equally busy as she gathered around her all of her kinfolk and gave them specific instructions. Soon the elves, with uncertain faces, spread out in a long single line and spaced themselves out to encircle the entire mountain. Soon after they began to sing in long low tones, swaying with the cadence of their chant. The Warlock who was still in his place some distance in front of the main gates, chanted as well as he had his elemental lower itself onto the ground in front of him and hold out a thick book that the Warlock consulted constantly.

Fueled by the loss of their Patriarch, and by their love for their Matriarch, the elves sang long and loud. The repetition of the simple words focusing them and bringing them into perfect timing with each other as the hours passed one after another. Shortly before midnight the Warlock started to sing a counter melody to the chant, the words indecipherable to those who were near enough to hear them. Louder and stronger did the Warlock sing out alone against the hundreds involved in the chant. Suddenly in the Warlocks hand flashed a dagger, its blade curved and cruel, and as he held it did the blade start to heat. From orange to red through blue to the hottest white did the blade burn, but it harmed the Warlock not as he danced and shook with the fury of his chanting. A moment before midnight the Warlock raised his dagger and grasped it with both hands, firm and deadly high over his head and savagely screamed the last notes of his song. At precisely midnight the Warlock drove his enchanted dagger deep between the shoulder blades of the Earth elemental kneeling at his feet and the monster screamed. At first it was like the far off crashing of a distant echoes, but it soon grew in its intensity. Rising in pitch and screeching as the wind racing through rocky crags, the avalanche death cry continued.

Soon another sound started to overpower the scream of the greater elemental, and that was the sound of splintering rock. With a crack that mocked thunder with its volume and shook all of the Elves from their feet, the main doors crushed in on themselves as the entire mountain suddenly slouched forward. Barely audible and near lost in cracking and popping of massive stones were the screams of the Goblins from still inside the mountain. The mountain started to pull itself into itself, so that its middle grew over round and very mighty. The mountain cracked along fault lines that appeared from nowhere that soon split open to leave two massive pillars of rock, each as tall as any tower ever built by industrious man or by any race for that matter, each one massive and round and heavy where it meet the block of the rest of the mountain in the middle, but ending in cruelly sharp tipped stalactites of the hardest crystal. None but the Warlock and the Matriarch were prepared for what happened next.

The mountain grew eyes of fire.

Twin rips in its upper portion exploded into view, filled with lava, slag and fire. The balcony below the burning eyes where Tromp met her fate was over crowded with panicked Goblins trying to flee the interior chaos of the changing mountain. They were willing to risk the drop to solid rocks below rather than face being crushed and pulverized as the tunnels collapsed with the endless shifting of the mountain. So many were the Goblins in that mob pushing and clawing in terror that none seemed to notice when the interior passage that led to the balcony filled with magma and liquid fire. A mighty belch of liquid rock rolled out onto the balcony blasting many of the Goblins over the edge, burning as they fell. Many more were still trapped on the balcony, stuck in the gooey liquid rock and being burnt alive. Their suffering was brief as the balcony ripped it self open, then closed with a crack that deafened with its intensity. The balcony, and all the Goblins on it were now gone, replaced by a scowling line of a rough mouth that drooled lava and sizzling Goblin fat.

The Warlock commanded of the mountain to rise, and named it the Gaia Golem. He tried to force it through that name to rise, to rise and crush all the Goblins trapped in its body. To crush them and grind them and to do this in the name of the Matriarch Lelluwellin to avenge her insatiable grief on the race that stole so much of her heart. And so the mountain tried. The Gaia Golem slammed the heavy stalactites of its arms into the ground and started to heave its body up. It strained to pull the very roots of the mountain out of the ground so it could form its legs. But, it was stuck. The Warlock looked around him for an answer as the Gaia Golem slammed its impossibly heavy arms against the ground again to try to free itself. The answer was not long in coming. The gathered elves of the Five Green Blade Tribe were all scattered about on the ground from the violent heaving of the mountain, and were awestruck with the power of the magic they were witnessing. In being so amazed, they stopped their chanting. The chant was the focus and the fuel that the Warlock needed to complete his work, all of the elves needed to be in absolute harmony of mind and will to bring the Gaia Golem to being. They were scattered and confused, and the Gaia Golem still continued to beat the ground with a level of ferocity found only in nature. It was bound by the magic to rise, and rise it would unless it destroyed itself in the process, which was precisely what it was doing.

The Warlock recognized that the cause was lost and looked over to Lelluwellin, and her gaze was already locked upon him in return, a look filled with doubt and dread. The Gaia golem slammed the ground yet again and a massive mound of rock shot out. It started to crack and flake as soon as it raised, shattered from the terrible pounding it received when it was trapped. Slam, went another heavy blow and wide cracks started to rip through the torso of the Gaia Golem, its fierce strength began to prove too much even for it. As the magic fully started to fail, the Gaia Golem raised both of its heavy arms over its head for a final colossal blow. The Matriarch broke from her panic and raced to the Warlock and grabbed hold of him. She started to weave a complex spell as the wind started to howl from the force and speed of the falling arms of the Gaia Golem. She screamed her last syllable as the Gaia Golem finished its swing and met the ground with all of its unleashed might, and exploded into a million pieces that rained down death over an area of a hundred leagues.

It was the explosion that I saw. From many days away I saw it. Myself and mine companions, we all saw it. The good Bishop I was travelling with by the name of Friar Huchzermyer demanded that we investigate such a scene of destruction to see if we could lend aid to any who suffered. We agreed, myself and mine other companion, a Pirate by the name of Red Eye, and he ran off ahead to learn of the catastrophe we witnessed from afar and from his reports come most of this story. The wounded we tended, though there were precious few left to save, they added to the tale where Red Eye could only guess. After a period of some weeks we had what we thought was the whole story in full. And we even heard tales of Matriarch Lelluwellins successful teleport to safety, though of what fate happened to the Warlock we do not know. But she stills howls in madness and grief, swearing vengeance on Goblins, their Kin and any who would support them. We have also had rumours of Skrab Skullbiter raiding peasant villages, though no witness have lived to identify the Goblin. The dead left behind tell the story for themselves, for some were found with wide teeth marks on their faces, their necks swollen purple with suffocation, and that leaves little doubt that the mighty Goblin still stalks these woods.

And the Gaia Golem, the mountain made monster, still lives.

The power, the life magic and the spirit of the Greater Earth Elemental of the Gaia Golem still exists, and it will linger here for many years to come. Truly it may have been destroyed, but remember the magic! Still now the magic that started to pull together the Gaia Golem still seeks it to be complete! Every moment of every day in these affected lands inside the blasted rock radius of the explosion, the rocks are trying to reform! They slowly drag themselves back to the base of the blasted mountain, draining the land of its innate magic to make this possible. But it needs more. So the magic of the Gaia Golem takes everything it can to try to make itself whole again. It steals the power of faith from the holy to try to craft itself again. It plunders mana from the Wizards so that they can not storehouse it nor gather the ether to them for every rock and pebble drains them. It leeches the focus from the minds of the Mind Benders as well, leaving them so tired that they have not left the concentration to will their thoughts into reality. This insidious magic will even leech power from those of mundane professions, just as it does the arcane.

The remnants of the Gaia Golem demand so much raw power to rebuild itself from its 100 league wide rubble field, that it steals the thoughts and life force of any who enter the ranges of it. Mercenaries can no longer focus to fuel and drive their long marches, Barbarians are weakened in spirit til they can't find their anger anymore, their fires of rage inside of them stolen by the cold relentless draw of the Gaia Golem. Assassins can't even concentrate long enough to remember where the major arteries are in their victims backs, so even this basic skill that defines their calling, is impossible for them to accomplish, so all consuming and hungry is the Gaia Golem for power. There is no release from this drain on these lands, no respite and no one is immune, the Gia Golem consumes all.

Every night at midnight, the power of the Warlocks spell is at its greatest as the Gaia Golem tries to repeat the night of its creation. It tries once more to stand up. In fact, so mighty is the enchantment, so powerful was the Warlocks faith, so great is the restorative powers of this massive spell trying to pull a mountain back together, that any being in the range of its far flung boulders also shares in the magic as well! In my early days in these lands a Goblin stumbled across my campsite in the early dark of the night. So surprised was he to see two sleeping armoured Dwarves upon the ground that he failed to notice the Pirate perched high in a nearby tree, his Flintlock loaded. A well placed round shattered the Goblins leg, and its shrieking fall roused the good Friar and I. The Friar was most upset for his interrupted sleep, and grabbed a rock. With a single blow the good Bishop crushed the Goblins face. Unable to sleep anymore we decided to withdraw into the woods a ways to watch and see if any companions of the dead Goblin would come by to find him.

At midnight, by all the Gods and on my beard I swear, that the dead Goblin coughed and stirred! The rock still embedded in its skull, glowed soft and started to lift itself out. The Goblin spasmed and flailed about as its leg straightened and stitched itself back together. Wet popping and grinding sounds came from its face as its bones reformed, its torn skin mending itself afore our very eyes. Soon the rocks glow started to fade, and it lowered down gently on the Goblins chest, moved a bit by the draw of the mountain. Then the Goblin sat bolt upright with a mighty intake of breath. He looked about frantically and nervously to see if it was alone. Not seeing us in our hiding, the Goblin then took out his dagger and chipped a flake of the rock off. He then took some twine and wrapped the stone with it securely, and hung the stone around its neck, and stalked off into the night. So amazed were mine companions and I that we were powerless in our shock to stop it from leaving.

We have since learned that this happens every night. Every night at midnight the dead slain in these lands will be made to rise back up once more unto life by the limitless power of the Warlocks lingering magic. This could be used for great gain by all, and should not be left for any single power to dictate its use. For this end I have altered the calling of mine life and now I have a new quest.

And whom am I?

I, am Jarl Magnamus Dwarfkin. In mine time I have been known by other names, Champion of Clan being one, the Hand of the Forge of the Gods being another. I have been named as Kin and Sword Brother by both the savage and honourable, I am known as the Oath-Keeper, and as the abuser of Dragons. The most Gloried name I ever embraced was when some of the most proud and powerful people that I have ever known or had witness to, paid homage to me as their King, Magnamus Rex. These names and honours I claimed in lands far to the west and across the sea, and there is where they will stay. I wish to be known by other names now, in these new lands that I find myself in. And the first of which shall be Jarl Magnamus Boon-Seeker, for of all the folks of all of the lands, both the fair folk and the foul, I beg a boon, a favour. Help me tame these lands! There is power here for the wise to use if we grow wise enough to learn how to use it! The potential for saving races and species in this the perfect nursery grounds of eternal life is too vast to ignore! The scholars would unlock the secrets of all things with their many many years of study as the magic may stretch the life span of a Man to that of an Elf! The wonders, the accomplishments, the miracles we could achieve would be wondrous beyond measure, but at the same time, worthless if it is dominated by only one power, one consciousness. For if that bleak day ever happens the measure for which this lands powers could be perverted for evil is beyond the comprehension of mortals. Come help me build a town in these lands of the Gaia Golem, a town built by all, defended by all, and owned by all, so we all may share in its bounty and the promises of splendour, wonder and glory to come!

Jarl Magnamus Dwarfkin, Barbarian and Seeker of Allies.