(This is an episode written by @Music and me. (@SirGeorgar). We first wrote it in the Northern Realm’s
discord, and are now posting it here. Enjoy reading!
Georgar was tired. He’d spent all day working on the walls, and he was exhausted. He still had a
mountain of reports to write.
“Yeesh, how many times do I have to request for a trade alliance…”
He grumbled to himself. Georgar’s study was a barren place. Other than the swords and shields on the
walls, there was only a desk and a large blue gemstone on it. He had not had time to move all his things
from his old home near Wyvernsdale. He yawned, and fell asleep to the sound of the guard marching
back and forth on the ramparts above him. Gradually, the castle grew quiet. Most of the men were
asleep, except for the endlessly tramping guards.
Outside it was freezing cold. In the high elevations of the mountain range the strong winds never
stopped, howling like a wounded animal, so loud that it muffled the crunching of approaching footsteps
on frozen snow. Atop the tallest tower of Winterkeep a lone soldier stood watch, peering into the
blizzardy whiteness that surrounded him.
“Can’t see a bloody thing!”
he thought to himself. The muffled footsteps were louder now, and the guard was beginning to notice.
He squinted, having to shield his eyes from the fast falling snow, and along a ridge of stone he noticed a
movement. The soldier made out the outline of five hooded men dressed in white trekking along the
ridge, but before he could shout out, a heavy knife materialized out of the blizzard, spinning swifter than
a blaze’ legs, and buried itself deep into the man’s forehead.
The silent intruders hastily made their way to the walls. One drew a hook and rope from his pack and
gave it a few swings, managing to hook it on the edge of the spot where the guard had stood. When all
five of them reached the top of the tower, they slowly began to make their way downstairs to the
slumbering knight. The leading assassin slowly pushed open the door, barely making it creak. They all
slipped into the bedroom and surrounded the bed where the man could be seen, snug under the covers.
Two stood at either side of his head, one at the staircase, and one at the door leading out. The last
masked man strode up to the foot of the bed, and spoke:
“Sir Georgar, former commander of Wyvernsdale, now leader of the Grimguard mercenaries. You
stand accused of treason, for conspiring with Ebonsgrasp and instigating hostile relations with Kleriel.
You meddle in delicate diplomatic affairs with no thought for the safety of the realm, and are therefore -
dangerous. The Northern Realm demands its justice with the spilling of your blood.”
At that very instant, all five assassins drew their weapons.
Georgar woke up at the sound of a voice above him …Northern Realm…justice…spilling of your
blood… He was wide awake now, and spoke softly:
“Oh all right then. Don’t let me keep you waiting…"
He threw off the covers, and sat up as the masked intruders drew their various weapons.
“Very well then, get on with it.”
He bowed his head, while at the same time, unobtrusively drawing a small dagger from his leg scabbard,
which was covered by the blankets.
“Actually mates, I’ve changed my mind. I like life. I’m not dying here!”
He exploded from the bed, tackling the closest man, punched him twice in the nose, which crunched
satisfyingly under his fist. He rolled forward and flipped his dagger underhand at the man closest to his
These were no ordinary assassins, however. The man dodged with the speed of a striking snake, and
leapt at Georgar, drawing his knife back to strike. The other assailants closed, their blades ready to finish
the work. Georgar was no ordinary Ranger either, and his reflexes were every bit as good as his
opponents. He leaped at the oncoming knife-wielding assassin, blocked his strike, and smacked him in
the head, hard, with the palm of his hand. Whirling around, he dodged past the sword stab aimed at him
by another man, grabbed his arm, and threw him at his previous assailant. They both hit the floor hard,
but began to come to in a few seconds.
However, Georgar had only his fist, and the remaining men were fully armed. He dove and rolled away
from the first man, swept the legs out from under the leader, and seized a short sword and saxe knife
from the wall. He retreated toward the ladder, intending to make his way up to the top of the tower,
where he would have room to maneuver. The men in the room had no intention of letting him get a
better defensive position, and they closed in around him, once again attempting to kill the erst-while
ally of the Northern Realm.
A second before they attacked, Georgar noticed that there were only four men rushing toward him.
Where was the fifth? There was no time to think about it though, and he swept forward to meet
them, swinging his sword in a blindingly fast series of motions and feints. The would-be attackers fell
back in dismay at the sudden turn of the tables. Then they rallied and leaped forward, intent on
bloodshed. A terrible struggle followed, in which Georgar came as close to death as he had ever done
before. The men were well trained and incredibly fast, but so was Georgar. He managed to kill the man
he had stunned earlier with a lucky stab, but he nearly got cut in half by a charging swordsman. The
battle raged for almost half an hour. His bed was destroyed, his study was devastated, and a falling body
knocked over a lamp which set a small fire ablaze. But despite the assassins, fire, and whirling knives,
Georgar had one advantage. He didn’t have to worry about killing his own men.
Finally, it was down to the last swordsman and Georgar. The other man had been kicked out a window,
and the other man had been sliced so badly he looked like a piece of meat. Georgar had nothing but his
saxe knife left, while his opponent had a razor-sharp sword. They circled around each other, both
looking for an opening or weakness. The man must have seen something, and he lunged forward,
stamping his foot forward to give some more impetus to his rush. Georgar side-stepped however, swung
his arm, deflecting the blow with his arm guard. The man staggered, and Georgar used the opportunity
to run his knife up to the hilt in the man’s chest. He collapsed, and Georgar clenched his chest. He had
taken a blow to the chest in the confusing melee he had just exited. He exhaled, and walking over to the
closet, withdrew two hand-and- a-half swords from it. He slung the double scabbard on his back, and
walked to the ladder. There was still one man left to deal with, and knowing these men he could not
count on there being any guards for him to call on. He walked to the ladder, and began to climb.
Upon reaching the top, he drew a deep breath. He had already had a tiring day, and now he had a
wound and a large amount of stress to live with. He could feel the blood seeping through the rough
bandage he had fashioned.
He gazed around him, looking for the last man. Then a dark shadow that had at first seemed to be a part
of the stone work stepped forward into the torch light. Georgar peered at the newcomer tiredly. He
hoped this man was only as dangerous as his now deceased comrades.
The man was tall, and well built. He looked somewhat familiar too…Georgar frowned. The adrenaline
that was attempting to take his body over was making him see things. After a moment, the man spoke:
“I’m sorry old friend. This is the only way.”
He snatched up the rope hook that was still hanging on the wall, and swung it with blinding speed,
wrapping it around Georgar’s legs. The he fell with a solid thud, but immediately cut himself free,
lunging at the cloaked assailant.
Old Friend? Old Friend??! Georgar thought to himself as he slid the two swords from their sheeth on
his back. Then he slowed, and backed away from the mysterious assailant.
“To the death then?”
he called, as he circled around slowly, looking for a weakness.
The man said nothing, but reached over the wall, and drew up a long battle scythe. Before Georgar
could express his shock, the man leaped at him, swing his weapons in long arcs, aiming for Georgar’s
legs and head. Georgar ducked and wove and blocked, striving to find a weakness he could exploit. One
blow managed to get through his guard, slicing down his arm, cutting through the armguard like soft
cheese. Georgar gasped the sudden pain, but he had no time for a respite. Back and forth the battle
raged, with both men straining to murder the other. Georgar was still bleeding from his chest, and he
was beginning to tire. Darkness began to close in, and he was fighting with instinct alone. This man was
different from the other assassins. He was stronger, faster, and way more skilled. He fought with a
controlled ferocity that Georgar had seen only in the Dragons that used to walk the earth. But, as chance
would have it, it began to snow. One had to tread with care, lest a slip would cost them their life.
Suddenly, seeing his chance, Georgar ducked under his opponent’s guard and tackled him to the ground.
The scythe went flying off the edge, and the man kicked both of Georgar’s swords after it. They
struggled, using their fists, feet, and heads to pummel away at one another. Finally, Georgar, who was
measurably stronger than the killer, grabbed him by the back, whirled him up and brought him down
with a sickening crunch on his knee. The man dropped, and groaned softly. He whispered something.
Georgar bent over him, his chest heaving.
“Who are you! WHO ARE YOU!” he roared. “Why did you call me friend?!”
The man gave a sickly chuckle. “I…I’ll miss you buddy. I’m sorry…aaahhhh.”
Georgar frowned, not daring to believe what he had heard. He bent over, and removed the cowl from
the man face, to reveal the face of his friend, Muzwall Frostwither.
Stunned, Georgar sat back on his heels and looked up at the sky and roared:
“WHY! In the name of all the gods, WHY?!”
then, bleeding profusely, he collapsed. Sometime later, He awoke to find the face of a guard anxiously
peering into his face.
“Sir? What’s going on? We heard your yell, and came running. We found bodies, blood, and what
appears to be the king of the Northern Realm lying dead up here next to you. What happened?”
Georgar shook his head.
"Leave me. Send a raven to Ebonsgrasp asking for their protection. Lord Gerrey and Lord Davos will
have their revenge. Oh, and clean up the mess below."
Georgar shuffled over to the body of his erstwhile friend. He bent, and picked him up, and carried him
down the ladder with the help of the guards. They carefully took the body to a clean bed in an ante-
room. There Georgar had his wounds dressed while he gazed sadly horror stricken at Muzwall’s body.
“What have I done. Ohh, what have I done?”
He groaned. After he had wept, he walked to the door and called the guards, ordering them to build a
tomb on hill overlooking the land. From there, one could see the snowy realm where Georgar dwelt, and
far in the distance the beginning of the Northern Realm’s border.
They took his body, slowly trudged up to the new-made tomb. Georgar placed it in it, and walked out.
He gazed at it for some time, and then walked down the hill. His grief and horror at what he had done
would haunt him for the rest of his life.
Walking back into his shattered study, he found a small scroll that had fallen from one of the assassin’s
bodies, authorizing the attack on him. It was signed by Lord Davos and Lord Gerrey. He felt saddened,
but not surprised.
…a few days later…
Georgar was once again sitting in his study, but this time he was preparing for a war. A war he hoped
would not happen, but one he had to prepare for anyway. The Winterkeep was almost finished, it only
remained to finish the southern walls and stock a sufficient supply of food and supplies.
His study had been repaired, the bloodstains cleaned from the walls and floor, the bodies buried, the
weapons cleaned, but it would take a lot more than cleaning and ale to wipe away the memories of that.
Georgar needed allies. He knew he could expect nothing but contempt from the pitiless Keelish, but
perhaps Emperor Xial would be friendlier. Georgar turned over command to his lieutenant, left orders
for the walls to be finished, and rode toward Ebonsgrasp with a small cohort of cavalrymen as a
bodyguard. Gone were the days when he would break into a castle single-handed. He had learned from
his mistakes in Kleriel. Georgar disappeared into the mountains.