The Kingdom of Ophir was the most ancient of kingdoms existing in the Hyborian Age, dating back to the time of sorcerous Acheron itself. It was a place of mystery and power, dark forests, haunted mountains, black crypts steeped in gloom, where horrors and treasures laid rotting beneath the soil.
Yet it was also a place of life, ruled by kings and feuding nobles, peopled by sturdy peasants and cunning city-folk, ravaged by bandits, defended by mercenaries and armies alike. It was a country isolated by its own stubbornness, suspicious of the world beyond, and lacking real allies. It was friendly to Aquilonia and Corinthia, distrustful of Nemedia and Koth, disdainful of Argos.
Ophir’s troubles were growing. Childless King Valdric was dying, his physicians had found no cure. He had faith in their powers to restore him and refused to name an heir, fearful that any heir might be eager to hasten the king’s departure. His nobles were sure that no cure would be found and that the country would soon be left without king or heir. They maneuvered for the throne, amassed private armies, plotted. No noble had yet dared to kill another, but the mercenaries had ridden past burnt villages and fields, past plundered warehouses, past murdered captains laying in stained fields while vultures circled overhead. The king’s army hid while bandits raided freely, and the Ophireans became refugees within their own land, fleeing to the safety of the cities.
It was through this land the Crimson Wolves journeyed for there were reports of good work for any who could swing a sword or cut a purse. The only catch was to avoid having their own purse or throat cut, for that is what the parties’ fellow freebooters were paid to do.
The mercenary company recently crossed the Nemedian border and traveled toward the Ophirean capital of Ianthe where, according to rumor, rich employment awaited them. The roads were thick with refugees, their carts piled high with the few humble goods which escaped flame and bandit.
Meeting in the Sarellian Forest
The 50 hardy Nemedian Adventurers traveling with the party were trained in war’s ways, and were a company the party could confidently lead into battle. But the parties’ silver was fast disappearing and the troop’s contract was nearly over. It was quite clear to Tullweim den Morder, leader of the Crimson Wolves, these were men who fought for coin, not honor or glory. According to their guide, the party was in the Sarellian Forest, a half-day’s ride northeast of Ianthe. As Tullweim, Cuana, Dhak, and Xacksmith mused over their nearly empty purse, the company rounded a bend in the forest-darkened road. Ahead they saw the remnants of a caravan, most of the travelers laid dead beneath the dark trees. Twenty horsed bandits were amusing themselves by taunting the four survivors who were still trying to fight. Two of the survivors looked to be from Argos, judging from their apparel. One was a blond-haired woman who, as the company watched, skewered a bandit on the end of a sword, then leapt astride his vacant horse. The fourth appeared to be a madman from Khitai, a berserk warrior frothing at the mouth. The bandits kept their distance from him.
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Know, o prince, that between the years when the oceans drank Atlantis and the gleaming cities, and the years of the rise of the Sons of Aryas, there was an Age undreamed of, when shining kingdoms lay spread across the world like blue mantles beneath the stars – Turan, Zamora with its dark-haired women and towers of spider-haunted mystery, Corinthia with its city-states and deadly intrigue, Nemedia with its haunted woods and bloodthirsty mercenaries. Hither came Cuana, soldier-of-fortune from the dark hills of Cimmeria, Dhak, the Stygian man of steel and sorcery, Tullweim, barbarian from the northern wastes of Asgard, and Xacksmith, archer and thief from the hordes of Hyrkania, each with gigantic melancholies and gigantic mirth, to tread the jeweled thrones of the Earth under their sandaled feet.
