The Blood Stained Sand of Caravanserai and The Secret of the Scribe

The Blood Stained Sand of Caravanserai and The Secret of the Scribe


The hour is late as Mordred moved slowly through a hall still crowded with various scholars, diplomats and others seeking an audience with the king. The dusky evening sun slowly retreats, casting long drowsy shadows across the cold stone floor of the Kings forum. The buzz of discussions and arguments continues as Mordred passed unnoticed to the center circle of the hall, struggling under the bulk of various sized scrolls and business reports from the past few days activity.

It is hard to distinguish Mordred's age: His appearance seems older than the manner in which he carries himself. The skin on his face is pale, with pronounced shadows lying beneath two vivid blue eyes. His hair all but gone. A sharp angled nose was skewed to one side, surely the result of a fight or some accident during his youth. Yet for his age, the Kings Scribe seems to carry his fragile frame with a degree of pride, suggesting he was once as fit as any of the young council scattered around the room before him. He has the air of a once successful gladiator in decades past, still managing to command the respect of his younger peers. Perhaps it was due to the nature of the scribes work as a constant captive of Kings court, the bureaucracy and politics slowly leaching the life from the Kings aide, for Mordred had certainly seen better days.

Mordred slowed as he entered the center of the large cavernous hall with its tall center pillars arcing into the expanding roof. His powerful blue eyes quickly scanned the room for someone he expected to see. His eyes darted between the colorful, excitable crowds, an agitated expression forming across his brow yet all the people in the kings lobby seem to blend into the same voice there petty pleas, arguments were indistinguishable from the next. It was then he heard the words only once whispered before into his ear, sending a chill though his elderly body. He had hoped that he would never hear this words uttered again despite obviously or fearfully expecting the culprit to make an appearance this night.

'Ardo ab chao... I trust you have not had to wait long my diplomatic friend...' The stranger whispers.

Mordred choose to ignore the individuals comment and reflected that it would be unwise to make a sudden movement to draw attention to the conversation. Instead he whispers almost inaudible in reply.

'How dare you have the audacity to turn up here Luca... if that is even your name! I could not believe you would dare show me your face here of all places! If any of these people were to find out....'

'Scribe watch your tongue, your purse is ladened with twice its weight for what we do and do not presume there are not friends among this crowd who answer the same higher purpose. Besides the way your beady eyes were scanning this floor I assumed your intrigue had finally overcome you. But do not worry you will not see my face today' declared Luca in a short punctuated whisper.

'I take it you are hear on other business? Or are you here to make sure I deliver this message? What else do you want me to do?' exclaims Mordred with a bead of sweat running down the side of his head.

'Nothing more than than to make sure the king gets this message. I could not overlook this opportunity to look in on a trusted friend Mordred. Do not worry we expect him to do little but certain economic certainty's will be favorable to our friends.' Whispered Luca, the last words fading into the hum of the crowed hall.


Mordred felt the rush of wind from the traveler as his cloak brushed the back of Mordred's head. The scribe could not help but slowly turn his head ever so slightly to catch a glimpse of Luca as he left the hall. From the corner of his eye he spotted the long black cloak move steadily through the crowd unnoticed by all. The scribe let out an audible sigh of relief and wiped the sweat from his brow. A quick glance around the room suggested no one had noticed the quick shadowy conversation yet Mordred eyes clearly betrayed a sense of guilt as his paranoia took a strangle hold. Composing himself he hurriedly made for the Kings Throne Room to make his daily report.


Mordred entered the throne room and found the king's concentration over a stained map of Hyboria. The servants bowed politely to the scribe as he slowly makes his way down the length of the hall to address the king. Despite the Kings furious reputation and physical presence Mordred found his usual composure and addressed the King with his usual business like tone. Where the most hardened warriors would dare not look the King in the eye for fear of all manner of gruesome ends. Mordred had always found a careful and respectful way of performing his duty to the King. For it was by no means unusual for him to bare the kingdoms worse news or reports to the Kings ears. He had seen the Barbarian King kill individuals instantly with his bare hands in the very spot he now stood. He had seen Black Dragon guards plummet to into the Slum districts below the citadel as they were thrown from the very window he now glanced out off. Yet unlike his discreet meeting with Luca only an hour before he felt no unease. This was his job after all...

He had left the news he was instructed to deliver by Luca to last maybe out of fear but he showed no signs of discomfort in the kings presence. This surely the reason he was recruited by the mysterious Luca. The scribes ability to act the part unequaled and he managed to convince himself that such a pieces of news were in the interest of the King to hear. He never questioned the kind of gain Luca or who he answered to would get from the the Kings intervention and nor did he want to know. At least the way Mordred had always calculated, knowledge was like a game of dice. Too much could get you noticed for all the wrongs reasons. Besides the King himself knew well enough to surround himself with trusted men and Mordred had forever been that man and he was forever careful to simply deliver news unbiased and for his master to interpret how he wished.

'Sire, there is one last piece of news I'm sure you would like to hear. You may be away that activity in the southern lands of Stygia have been awash with rumors of a growing power, a dark cloud sweeping through the lands of Khopshef. There are rumors of a trail and execution in the trading town of Caravanserai My lord. While this is not uncommon in these parts, eye witnessed place the victim of Northern appearance. I was told that the warrior wore this around his arm.'

Mordred handed the King a thin piece of rough cloth died blood red. The King said nothing but turned away from the scribe motioning to the northern segment of the map on the table before them.

'Yes, I have seen other less desirable people wear that ribbon in these parts yet I understood the Clan that answers to the name of Fearghal had abandoned its hostilities in the southern states. There last foray into those parts cost them dearly if I'm not mistaken.' sneered the Scribe in a sarcastic tone. He quickly changed tact noticing the Kings unease at the mention of yet another unsuccessful champaign into his enemies hostile lands.

'I believe the news has not yet reached the ears Athair Tyrnan my lord. He would be concerned if this execution involved one of his number I wager. A rouge trader who witnessed the trail told of the growing power the one who calls himself the Prophet and his menace and cruelty to those that stand against him. Whatever the reasons this so called god had for committing the murder of the Cimmerian I believe does not concern my Lord... However we know very little of this prophet and his intentions in the lands of our enemies. We do know his influence in in the key trading towns such as Khemi and Caravanserai increases. I believe we can safely assume is that the market of southern states of Shem and Stygia shall see more blood in the near future...'

'What of the Cimmerian My Lord? Well as far as we know he was taken out to a tree his final breathe to be slowly drawn by the baking desert sands if he indeed survived the torture bestowed upon him by the cur that calls himself a prophet... There was another who witnessed the act my Lord though her appearance does not mean anything to me... The trader mentioned a woman scarred with many wounds on the unclothed parts of her body and her face... Apparently she stood and witnessed the torture without a trace of glee expressed by the surrounding locals... However she disappeared shortly after the trail concluded. Who she was or where she went I do not know...'

Story written by Caspian, Clan Fearghal

Based on In-game events. Read Imotpeh's account

to find out what happened during this event.