Dissolution of Pneuma
Paragon of Mynbruje (Justice) traveling, reluctently, with the self style "Necro-singer" Rothe
Paragon of Mynbruje (4)
Wears Heavy Armor, carries the Scales of Mynbruje and wields a standard longsword. A staunch defender of justice and balance.
If contemporary sources can be trusted, Bridin (Brih-deen) and Rothe’s (Roath) complicated relationship
can be traced back to an obscure Paragon ascension ritual.
Bridin, who had been training as a Paragon of Mynbruje (they call themselves the “swords of justice”,
but this moniker is highly circumspect, especially considering the events that occurred later…) and had
reached the Fourth Circle. According to Merrox’s documents, which contain an unauthorized interview with
Paragon Janussen, the ascension ritual for a Journeyman of the Faith includes a quest to hunt an enemy of
the Order and bring him (or her!) to justice—still breathing.
Bridin, who had basically been a member of the Order in Travar since being weaned from her wet nurse,
was given the important task of bringing in a dangerous enemy, a man with connections to the recently
defeated Calamity, a seeker of the forbidden knowledge of the dead. Travarian scouts had last spotted him
at the entrance to a perilous Kaer, recently opened and potentially filled with untold relics of the ancients,
and magicks lost since before the Scourge.
And so Bridin set out alone, into a labyrinth of waterways and stone tunnels, bottomless pits and magical
traps, tainted creatures and the shambling dead, to bring this dangerous man before the gods to face their
judgment. (She had a three-day head start on the usual opportunistic adventurers set on picking the place
She found Rothe about twenty yards from the entrance caught in a basic trap. He was screaming for his life
in six different languages.
Rothe loved Bridin instantly. Sun-kissed skin and flaxen hair, curves in all the right places, a mighty sword
and a shield emblazoned with religious simulacra… He swooned. But as she freed him from said trap and
hauled him roughly, pack and all, back to the entrance (and Kaer floors are coarse and pointy!), he feared
his feelings would be unrequited.
Rothe, Bridin soon discovered, had never been an Acolyte of the Calamity. His father was a Nethermancer
in their influence, and his older brother to boot, but embarrassed at Rothe’s differing viewpoints regarding
how death magic should be employed, they punished him by doing the cruelest thing in their power,
the power of those invested with the spoils of a malevolent order of Horror constructs intent on global
domination—they sent him to University.
There, Rothe studied the History of Barsaive. The trouble was that the dead people he held congress with
in the grim hours of the night told stories that contradicted his tomes. In point of fact, Rothe discovered
that most the of upper division coursework being offered to Troubadours at the University of Travar is a
heaping pile of Thundra Beast shit festooned here and there with chunks of socio-religious propaganda.
Rothe left the University and set off on a quest to speak with legendary heroes and dead poets. History, he
discovered, is written by the profiteers, and the profiteers are very seldom dead.
When the Calamity attacked Travar and was defeated by the skilled warriors of the Calamity’s End, the city
ordered that all those affiliated with the cultists be brought in for questioning. Rothe’s family connections
were laid bare when Gram killed his father in the Green Spire and John, having been stabbed, burned, and
hurled from a tower, was wounded too badly to loot the corpses in his usual fashion. The dull glint of a
pendant on the stairs, and his secret was out.
But Rothe was gone. His chambers in the Tower of Knowledge were searched. The guards found his
manifesto along with some femur bones. They just assumed.
Poor Bridin. Despite Rothe turning away those nasty hordes of undead that came after them (she wanted to
slay them, although she would say, “Put them to rest”), she found him a pathetic excuse for an enemy. He
wasn’t fit to meet the gods’ justice, or even to meet the gods. He was worthy only of pity.
Bridin had spent years training for this moment, when she would finally ascend to the rank of Journeyman
(a term she believes is sexist) and attain a finer attunement with Mynbruje, her pre-packaged, spoon-fed
Passion that she claims to be able to commune with. (I mean seriously, she talks to this mythic figure more
than she talks to me. To me. I think she’s just talking to herself!)
Bridin threw Rothe to the floor (so rough, though she could have tied me up first and I wouldn’t have
minded) on the Temple of Mynbruje, where they met with Paragon Janussen, her mentor. Janussen was
under the Order’s scrutiny for having revealed their secrets to Scribe Forrim in that scandalous interview
Merrox later placed in the Hall of Records. Though he agreed that capturing Rothe was not a worthy trial
for Bridin, he took pity on the young Troubadour perhaps due to the possession of a similar sensibility—
Janussen had let the truth of the Paragons out, but Rothe wanted to let the truths of the ages out, and was
willing to speak with the dead to do it.
Bridin, Janussen had discovered some years back, came directly from the Tethran line. The Tethrans were
a disgraced noble family, out of favor for a century due to their alleged betrayal at the battle of King’s
Twilight. The Warrior-King Ansuldra, who had heard rumor of an impending attack from an Orkish
armada of assembled tribes, took his mightiest airship, the Storm Wing, to meet the enemy as they emerged
from a region near the Twilight Peaks. The Tethrans, who were later branded Orkish sympathizers, sent a
cadre of saboteurs to delay the conflict by disabling the Storm Wing. Their intentions, good or ill, were met
with disaster. The Storm Wing crashed into the Scarlet Sea, lost forever to Travar, and the Orkish armada
decimated the King’s escort. They flew on to Travar unchallenged and were granted lands in the Thunder
Mountains as a bribe.
The Tethrans, disgraced, have been on the run ever since.
Janussen revealed this to Bridin. She took it in her usual stoic fashion, rather well if all things are
considered, until the Paragon explained his plan to amend her family name and ascend to the rank of
Journeyman: Rothe was now her charge and her responsibility. Her orders were to take him along on her
travels, safeguard him from harm, and discover all she could about her lineage. Triumph or fail, this quest
for justice would bring her deeper in her connection to Mynbruje and render her able to face whatever trials
Bridin nodded sullenly, dutifully, and then dragged Rothe out of the Temple by the collar of his shirt.
They regrouped at Rothe’s father’s estate, which offered an expansive library and kinder quarters than her
chambers at the Order.
At least it had before the guards had come and turned it upside down. The place was sacked.
“I don’t relish playing guard for a quill scratcher,” Bridin admitted. “You’ll be safer if you remain here
when I must journey to the Scarlet Sea.”
“Ah, but you’ve forgotten one important thing, Milady,” Rothe grinned. “The people you’re seeking are
dead. And when it comes to things that go bump in the night, I have the gift of gab. Drink? There’s got to
be something in the wine cellar the guards haven’t taken.”
“A drink,” she nodded, “but know this: we won’t count ourselves amongst those going ‘bump in the night’.”
“Perish the thought.”
Yes, Rothe loved Bridin instantly. And yes, his feelings were unrequited. But for a man who understands
that even death is not an end, there is always hope.