It's about Phlarpin' Time

When I was a child, I grew up on a small elven island. The elves told me that my parents had left me in the forest near them and the elves felt they couldn't leave me. One day I overheard the elves talking about me and I realizes that in fact, my parents had not left me, and instead, I was stolen from a great wizard, and I was not even in fact even originally a human. In some sort of experiment, I was created. Now at the time I did not understand all of this and was confused. Something else the elves had discussed was that they were afraid of me in fact, and they wanted to get rid of me. So instead of waiting for them, I got rid of myself. I packed my things a sword and my shield and some supplies and left to never to look back. I wanted to find out more about myself more about this wizard or if I was even human. So, I got on a small boat and left the island, but I knew nothing about boats and nothing about the sea, but I had no other choice. So, I left and then ran into a storm and when I had awoken, I was here.

Born in Greece, daughter of Kyreene and Hypseus, Cyrene grew up humble royalty. Learned hunting and tracking as her mother was chosen huntress of Artemis. After growing up to being of age was sent to Bubastis to train further. Being trained as the ultimate huntress by the priestess of Bastet.

Cyrene found she a special gift for hunting and killing monsters of all kinds. She put her full focus into the hunt...

Cyrene continued to hunt both men, beast and monsters for the betterment and protection of the people. Clearing most areas of threats in the Great Nile Delta she moved to travel back to Greece and around the sea to remove other threats and monsters . Hearing of possible deadly monsters across the sea to the west she headed that way. Being tossed about at sea by an unknown beast.

After arriving at Darvishan-

Recruited to clan during fight in strange land against werewolf.

 My name is Erik “The Red” Bloodzerker. I am a Norse God. I am brother to Thor, and Loki. I am over 4,444 years old. I was entrusted to protect the lands of Daftpunklemore. My father Odin entrusted me to carry the knowledge and wisdom of militia and strategies with me onto the lands to help train those that are in need of help and battle.   I have many battles upon which I have helped overcome and defeat enemies in which tried to invade my lands. I have called upon the Valkyrie to take those men who have fallen to the Halls of Valhalla.   It was upon the eve of the Battle of Cork, in which the winds blew hard, enough that my Mohawk was matted to my head, and my eyes would have to squint just to see. The sky was the color of pink and violet. The sun was fading behind the rolling hills. A few whispy clouds could be seen, nestled amongst the lovely colors. The smell of cinnamon, apples and wood could be smelt above all the ripeness of the assembled masses. I adorned with tabard, armor, and sword in my sheath. Upon my belt were a few pouches to hold treasures and loot. I felt a strange feeling overwhelm me. A feeling of uneasiness, as if something was not right. Looking over the tents, and the masses; I could smell a quite different but particular smell. This was a smell of something that I knew had powers of devastation against me. I had to run, and run fast. The boats to the farther shores would assist me into getting into an area of protection, or so I thought.   I reached the boats and demanded the Captain sail immediately. I knew my armies that were at Cork would win the battle so my mind would be at ease. My best men were there in my stead. Sailing upon this vessel, I grew weary and tired. The sheer exhaustion of sleep depravation, hunger, and battle hardened stress, and a concussion from a fall the day prior; lead me to lay upon the captains bed for rest….. 

 A Rose’s Thorn

Snow crunched quietly under boots making light, careful steps through the underbrush. A large hand reached out to carefully shift foliage ahead. A veritable mountain of a man crept through the forest, making almost no sound. Gregor Dragnov had done many things in his life, but today he tried his hand at the craziest.

Gregor was a mercenary, but he preferred the term ‘sell sword.’ He always told people it sounded more fantastical and less terrible of a profession. He’d worked all kinds of jobs; he’d travelled across the countryside fighting wars for kings and earls, he’d been a bodyguard for rich men, and he’d even taken jobs so simple as hunting for small villages on hard times. He was a good man, happy to share a drink with anyone. He was everyone’s friend, until he’d been paid to kill you.

Today, he was in a village called Noyadny. He’d done work for the town before, hunting small game for the villagers when a plague was passing through. Many of the able-bodied men had been laid low, and Gregor was the only one who would help them. He charged them only a pittance, but he still took their coin. That had been a few years ago, and the town was thriving again. But there was one problem: something had been killing the men sent out to hunt, absolutely slaughtering and ripping them apart. Gregor, loving a challenge, told the villagers that he would resolve their issue for a thousand Rubles and a hearty meal. It would be tough for the village to raise that much that quickly, but Gregor neglected to tell them that he’d take what they could pay when he came back victorious.

That’s what led him into the woods that day. His blade had been sharpened the night before, and he’d filled his flask at the small tavern. The best way to keep warm was with harsh liquor burning your throat and stomach. A quiver full of arrows rested across his back. More likely than not, after defeating the monster he’d been sent out to handle, he would bring some game back to Noyadny.

He’d been in the forest for several hours, searching the gristly scenes of gore that signified where the Noyandians had fallen. He’d seen plenty of trampled snow but since the white flakes seemed to never stop falling, he’d found no discernable tracks. Until a quarter hour ago, when he came upon the great depressions in the white powder. They were shaped like bear tracks, but were easily twice the size of any normal bear’s tracks. Gregor’s eyes had widened in surprise; paws like these would have claws as long as a dagger at least. It would be easy for something this size to kill him, probably several times over. Then, Gregor smiled. This would be the most exciting hunt he’d ever been on.

He’d followed the tracks and it wasn’t long before he heard a tremendous growling, accompanied by the sounds of something heavy hitting one of the trees ahead of him. He looked up to the treetops and watched as one of the wooden spires toppled over. Gregor crept as close as he dared, looking upon a newly made clearing.

A rough circle around fifty feet across had been cleared and was ringed with trees that had been pulled up by the roots. The ground had been ripped apart and trampled back down to a relatively flat surface. To Gregor it was obvious that the earth had been packed back down by the massive paws of the largest bear he’d ever seen. The monster was pacing around the clearing it had made, and Gregor swore he could feel the ground shake with every step.

The biggest bear in Russia, under normal circumstances, is the Kamchatka. This large brown bear is near 10 feet tall on its hind legs, almost 1500 pounds. This beast had to be at least 15 feet tall standing, and had to be 2500 pounds. One good swipe of those paws would kill anything. Gregor knew he’d have to be very careful if he was going to take this thing down.

The mercenary pulled an arrow from his quiver, careful to keep the arrowhead from scraping against the leather. He looked around at the trees that were still standing, to see if there were any branches low enough for him to climb to that would hold his weight. Unfortunately it seemed that the bear had been rubbing up against the trees it hadn’t decimated yet. Many of them were stripped of their bark, and the lower branches had been snapped off.

“Gregor not find high ground here. Will have to be quick. And quiet.” It would be difficult; much of the forest floor around him was covered with splintered wood. As stealthy as he was, the big man would still make noise trying to creep over the dry branches. He reached down with a free hand and took a drink from his flask. Warmth seeped through him, and with the warmth came courage. “Gregor will only have one shot, so it must be good one. Will have to fight bear claw on blade, so must weaken bear as much as possible first.”

He nocked the arrow and pulled the bowstring taut to his cheek. He waited for the bear to present its side to him, took a deep breath, and released the arrow as he let the breath out. His first instinct was to be moving as the arrow flew its course, so he could find another hiding place or fire another arrow. But he knew that if he bolted the bear would be drawn to the noise and his arrow would miss its mark. He forced himself to be deadly still, right hand hovering above his quiver to pull another arrow.

The projectile flew true and sank halfway up the shaft dead center in the bear’s side. On any other animal that arrow would likely have gone straight through, and would definitely have been a killing shot. But Gregor knew that even if he’d pierced one of the great beast’s lungs he would have to either try and hide, or engage long enough for the clock to run out. His best bet would be for the arrow to have done enough damage to weaken the bear.

The bear roared and it seemed like the very air rang with its ferocity. No amount of liquor in Russia would have been enough courage for Gregor to not bolt when the beast’s head snapped around and those eyes locked onto his with a vicious intelligence. Gregor immediately turned and started to run, but the ground shook behind him and he could almost feel the hot breath of the bear on the back of his neck. He darted to the side into the trees and started to circle back to the clearing. There was no way for him to outrun this thing for long, even with it bleeding into its lungs.

Gregor dove into the clearing and in one fluid motion he tossed his bow aside, unstrapped his quiver, and rolled to a crouch with his sword drawn. The bear barreled into the clearing and stopped when it saw Gregor at the ready. The bear had never encountered anything that tried to face it head on. It could feel the pain in its side, and its breath was already ragged. It would kill this man like it had killed all the others, and then it would rest and recuperate. The bear charged, grunting and splattering blood with every step.

As the bear got close, it pounced. The intention was to crush the man beneath its weight, or knock him down and rip him to pieces with its wicked claws. Gregor pushed off with his back foot and rolled under the bear as it soared over him. As he rolled, he pulled a knife from his belt. He came up and threw the knife, hoping to score another wound to inconvenience his mighty foe. Sparks flew as the bear deftly knocked the knife aside with its claws.

Gregor’s eyes widened in surprise. “Knife should not make sparks when hit claws of bear. What are claws made of…?” He had time for no other thought as the bear launched itself forward again. Gregor leapt to the side and the bear skidded to a stop as it tried to correct itself and catch the man in his claws. Gregor knew he wouldn’t be able to keep this up for long. The bear was huge, so he was able to maneuver better. But the bear was still as fast as he was, if not faster.

“Bear will get lucky soon. Will grab Gregor and will be end of him.” The bear moved forward again, slower than before. “Maybe Gregor get lucky instead. Bear is slowing down.” The bear got in close and swiped at him, and Gregor knew it was his best chance to start ending the fight. He slid back a little, hoping to make the deadly claws pass right by him. At the same time, he brought his sword up in an underhand slash that caught the bear in the muzzle and continued upward to ruin the beast’s eye. The bear roared again and reared back.

After a second, Gregor felt a sticky heat spreading across his stomach. He chanced a look down and saw his leathers were torn in two places where the longest claws had caught and ripped him open. Adrenaline pumped through his veins. But while that kept him from feeling pain, it also caused his blood to flow quicker with each beat of his heart. “So…this is end of Gregor. It was good, but could always have been better…” The bear stood on his hind legs, still roaring, and prepared to drop down on him.

Gregor saw it in slow motion. The bear brought both paws down in what would be a devastating blow. It would obliterate every bone in Gregor’s body. But Gregor wasn’t yet immobilized by pain. A quick step to the side and an upward swing with every bit of the strength left in his body was all it took. As the bear’s paws slammed into the ground Gregor’s blade came up in a deadly arc and bit into the bear’s throat. Blood splattered down on Gregor as his sword passed above his head. The bear tried to roar again, but all that came out was a gurgled growl as it tried to keep on its paws.

Finally, with the blood spilling from its neck and the blood filling its lungs, the beast toppled over. Its sides heaved and its eyes burned into Gregor’s as its blood steamed on the snow. Massive paws scrabbled as it tried to gain footing again, but they soon became still. Gregor only stayed standing for a moment longer before the adrenaline wore off and he collapsed. Rolling over onto his stomach, he began dragging himself back into the woods. “Maybe Gregor…can…get back to town…”

The longer he struggled the harder the going became for Gregor. The snow packed his wound for him as he pulled his body through the powder. Between the cold and the blood loss Gregor could already feel nothing below his waist. Even if he got back to town, it would take a miracle for a healer to just keep him alive, much less have him on his feet again. He wanted to die cleanly, hired to be just a body years from now when he didn’t have the strength to help anyone anymore. He’d wanted to die on his feet, fighting for the greatest cause he’d even fought for; money. He’d wanted to die on the battlefield side by side with Borvik one more time. His eyes were getting hazy and memories he’d buried deep were forcing their way to the surface.

Sergei Dragnov was a single father to two young boys, Gregor and Borvik. He was a brutal man who’d very likely driven the boys’ mother to her death with constant beatings and violence during her pregnancy with the younger Dragnov boy. Gregor did his best to protect Borvik from their father. It was easiest when Sergei was away. He was a soldier, often away on conscription. Russia was a wild, nearly lawless place and there was always some militant group trying to overthrow the Czar.

It came to a head when Gregor was 17 and Borvik was 12. Both young men were considered huge in their village. No one knew how they grew so large and so strong with so little food to go around. Gregor had made a name for himself by bringing back game from the surrounding forests to make things easier on the townsfolk. Sergei had just come back from a tour out east, fighting around the border with a country called India. It was a long skirmish; the Indian combatants weren’t the most skilled warriors, but there were so many of them that they each Russian soldier had to kill 10 men per battle to come back alive.

Sergei had been gone for 2 years, and they were the best years of Gregor’s short life. He’d been patrolling with the town guard when he wasn’t hunting for the people, and his size and strength made him a capable fighter. When his father came home, it was obvious that Gregor would no longer be pushed around. Gregor could no longer be pushed around. Their clash that night would haunt Gregor’s nightmares for years to come. He killed Sergei that night.

Devastated, he turned himself over to the town guard. He’d never killed a man before. Borvik was horrified to see his older brother shackled. Gregor was in that cell for two years. Borvik left that village after six months.

While Gregor was incarcerated he met a man named Ludovic. He was a jovial man, and Gregor took an instant liking to him. “What you need, Gregor, is a profession!” He laughed. “You are big, you are strong, honestly if I wasn’t as confident in my ability to kill you with my bare hands, you’d be terrifying!”

Gregor had been keeping to himself for the first few months, but he’d been an absolute hellion after he’d learned that Borvik left. He was currently in a three-by-three cell with barely enough room to turn around and chained with a shackle around each ankle and wrist. He’d beaten another inmate half to death in the work camp and it took three guards to wrestle him to the ground. The walls to the sides and behind him were brick and mortar, but there were only bars separating him from the other prisoners. Dozens of other prisoners had already passed by to see who they were calling the ‘Bear of Selesnya Prison.’ It was how Gregor and Ludovic met.

“Who are you being? And how do you know Gregor’s name?” Ludovic smiled wide. “Everyone knows your name around here, Gregor. You’re very popular. Many other prisoners know how you’ve brought food to the people of the village. Many of those people have family in here. Then there’s the fact that you almost killed a man a few hours ago. And that you are as big as a house. They are calling you the Bear, you know.” Gregor scoffed and spit at the floor of his cell.

“Gregor does not care anymore. Gregor only care about brat (brother) Borvik, and he is gone from Gregor.” “That’s why I said you need a profession, Gregor. You need something to focus on. Something to bring together the two things you seem to be best at; helping people…and killing them.” Gregor raised an eyebrow in confusion.

“You mean you want Gregor to be soldier?” It was Gregor’s turn to laugh. “Army not take Gregor! Gregor kill one of their soldiers. Worst, Gregor kill own father!” Ludovic shook his head. “Not soldier, Gregor. Mercenary. Mercenaries are soldiers, yes. But soldiers of fortune. You can do everything a soldier can do; kill for your Czar, steal from the enemy, loot their corpses, but you are also not beholden to the army. You can leave any time. You get a smaller commission, yes; you get no respect from the army, yes; but you get freedom. Call yourself a ‘sell-sword,’ if it will make you feel better. It makes the job sound more respectable. More fantastic.

“You are a hero to the people of this village, Gregor. They will not keep you here long. And I will be out of here soon, too. When we leave here we will build a great mercenary company. You’ll get to see the world. You’ll get to make more money that you ever dreamed you’d see in this poor village. You may even get to see your brother again.” It was all Gregor needed to hear. 

It was two years later. Gregor had spent the first six months of his freedom traveling from place to place with nothing but the clothes on his back and his weapons. A family friend had held onto his bow and quiver and passed along his father’s service sword. Gregor wasn’t exactly happy to have it, but he was happy with the security it brought him on the road. After six months trying to track Borvik down Gregor was out of money and out of luck. 

He’d heard that Ludovic had gone through with the mercenary company he’d pitched to Gregor all those months ago, and that the company was set up in a larger town in the east so they could be close to the action. That was something Ludovic had always said: you had to go where the money was. The money was apparently in a town called Zhivat.

It was six years later, and Gregor was 25. Ludovic was right when he said Gregor could make some money. He’d never been so well off in his life. He never wanted for food, or drink, or a warm bed. Things he’d never dreamed he’d have when he was a child were easily within reach for him now. He’d been very valuable to Ludovic and his company, ‘Synov’ya Materi (Sons of the Mother),’ and he had risen through the ranks. The Sons were still based in Zhivat, and Gregor was well known in taverns. He spent much of his earnings on vodka and, when he needed to be mostly sober in the morning, kvass. He’d been drinking heavily to cope with the life of a hired killer. One of the worst things he’d ever done, his worst memory, had become his profession.

He knew the Sons were marching out the next morning. They’d been hired out by a local baron who’d been having a lot of trouble with a rebel uprising in the town of Shugrosk, where he ruled. With an iron fist, if the locals were to be believed. The baron had hired the Sons because his petition for a garrison of soldiers from the army was denied.

A week’s worth of travel put the Sons in Shugrosk, and put Ludovic and Gregor face to face with Baron Vladimirovich. Gregor hated him immediately. He was fat, with a bushy moustache, dressed in rich velvet robes. He had a crown perched on his large head and each sausage like finger had a gold ring wedged on it with a different stone gleaming.

“I want them dead! Dead, you fools, dead! And for the money you’re charging me, I want his family dead, his ancestors dug up, and thrown in the river!” Gregor’s patience was wearing thin. He’d been standing at Ludovic’s side listening to this idiot for an hour already. Ludovic bowed smoothly. “Of course, my lord Baron. It will be done.” Ludovic stayed hunched, signaling Gregor to bow as well. They stayed for a moment as the baron ran out of steam.

“Oh, very well then. You’re dismissed.” He waved them away, sending shimmering color across their faces as the rings moved in the candlelight. They left at great haste and before long they were in the common room of the guard house that had been provided for them. Ludovic laughed boisterously.

“That’s how you do it, Gregor! Make them think you leaving was their idea. That’s all they want, my friend. Someone to bow and kowtow to them.” Gregor frowned. “Bah. Gregor hate people like that baron. He is loud and irritating.” Ludovic chuckled. “Gregor, you’re loud and irritating.” Gregor smiled at that.

“No, Ludovic, Gregor is fun.” He pulled out his flask of kvass and the two shared a drink.

Gregor’s sword met another blade, throwing sparks and briefly illuminating the frantic eyes of his adversary. The attack happened that evening, three weeks after the Sons took residence at the baron’s manor. His money was being well spent. The assailants struck at dusk, hoping to confuse the mercenaries. The courtyard was dimly lit by torches. If Gregor had planned the attack, it would probably happened just like this.

The Sons were made up of around 20 men, each with a reputation for their combat ability. But none of them were as well-known as Ludovic and Gregor. He still heard people calling him the ‘Bear of Selesnya Prison’ on occasion, and Selesnya was at least 200 miles away. The rebels seemed to have enough information on the Sons’ numbers and movements, because they had a force of at least 40. But there shouldn’t have been anyone with as much notoriety as the Sons. There would be a few tough fighters, maybe a few former guardsmen, but for the most part they’d be dealing with farmers and merchants who’d been convinced to take up arms. Gregor had already killed three of them.

The other people in the courtyard were giving him a wide berth now, having seen him literally cut a man in half through the skull as soon as he came outside. He was head and shoulders taller than just about every man who’d come over the wall and through the gate. The man who he’d just clashed with wasn’t as big as Gregor, but he was fast. Gregor was fighting with just one sword, and this man had a short spear in one hand with a blade in the other. Gregor had just come out of the guardhouse after having a drink, and so he carried a large wooden mug in his other hand. Gregor had been using the mug to bat the spear’s tip away from his ribs, and he’d been lucky so far. As soon as the spear tip hit that mug straight on it would splinter.

The man slashed at Gregor’s face and instead of parrying the larger man leaned back. The blade missed his nose by an inch. The man, whose main attack had just gone high, tried to capitalize on Gregor not parrying and stabbed forward with the spear. Gregor brought his sword around with his right hand and spun, snapping the head of the spear off and bringing the mug in his left hand crashing into the side of the man’s head. The mug exploded against the man’s skull and there was a sharp cracking noise as the man fell. Gregor took a moment to look down and saw that the man’s head was dented where he’d hit it with the mug.

Many of the other rebels were engaged with the rest of the Sons in the courtyard, but they were holding their own and pushing the insurgents back. Gregor noticed that the large double doors of the manor had been thrown wide though, and realized some of the enemy warriors must have made their way inside. Gregor knew there weren’t many of the Sons actually in the manor, but he knew Ludovic was. He was sure the commander of the Sons would be able to rally whoever was still in the manor and would likely repel everyone with no problem, but he dashed into the house regardless.

He walked in on chaos. About a dozen rebels had made it into the main foyer. Gregor knew this was where Ludovic would set up shop, because it would give him the most room to work. Eight of the men were already dead, along with several of the Sons. Gregor took quick stock of the situation. Between everyone in the courtyard and the bodies in the foyer Gregor knew there were no other members of the Sons inside the manor. The other four were circled around Ludovic currently, eyeing the mercenary cautiously. The reason was obvious.

Ludovic carried a large battleaxe that stood as tall as he was and almost as tall as Gregor. It was currently held aloft, and Ludovic made it look easy. The floor around him was splattered with blood, and the rebels barely lifted their feet from the floor as they circled to keep from slipping. Gregor was far enough back that he hadn’t been noticed yet. Ludovic met his eye for an instant and shook his head imperceptibly. Gregor held back, blade at the ready.

“Come on then, boys,” Ludovic taunted the four men still carefully circling, “what are we waiting for?” The four men were all dressed similarly, roughspun tunics and breeches, muddy boots with the soles barely attached, poorly stitched together leather armor. They’d been outfitted with fairly good steel. One held a longer spear. The way he held it reminded Gregor of a farmer with a hoe. There was a man with sword and shield, another with two blades, and another with a two handed hammer. Someone knew what they were doing with these rebels. Either a soldier…or a guard.

“We’re waiting for answers!” cried the man with the shield. “How could you support someone as vile as Vladimirovitch?! He sits on his little chair and pretends it’s a throne! He wears a crown like a king and gets fat on the grain and vegetables of the poor! The working class suffers! We can’t feed our families because of his taxes! And then he turns and takes our money and hires you mercenaries! And it’s just a fancy name for murderers and thieves! Why do you support him?! How do you sleep at night?”

Ludovic laughed again. “It’s for the money, gentlemen! I come from a small town hundreds of miles away from here. Your plight, while understandable, means nothing to me. I’m here for payment!” It whipped the men into a frenzy. They attacked. The man with the shield moved in for an overhead cut while the man with the two blades darted forward with his swords crossed and ready to slash. The man with the spear jabbed at Ludovic’s knee, and the fellow with the hammer brought the weapon across his body for a devastating attack at the side.

First, Ludovic stepped back with the leg the spearman targeted. At the same time, he brought the back over his left shoulder. He twisted at the waist to bring the axe around like the blade of a guillotine. The spearman, who didn’t look to have any real combat training, died immediately. His head soared into the air, throwing an arc of blood. Next in line was the man with the shield, who had to stop his slash and throw his shield in the path of the axe.

The axe cut the shield in half as if it didn’t have any banding holding it together. The rebel screamed as his left arm was cut. The axe bit so far into the arm that it dangled from the elbow by a few strips of skin. The man with the twin sabers ducked back, safely out of harm’s way, but the man with the hammer met the axe head-on. The two weapons clashed together with a massive burst of sparks and a sound of rending steel. The fore blade of the axe was entirely decimated. The force of the blow made the man with the hammer stagger back, slipping on the blood all around his feet. In that instant Ludovic drew back again, flipped the axe around, and buried the remaining blade in the man’s chest.

Gregor watched as the man whose arm was hanging limp slip to the ground and the screaming finally stopped as he passed out from shock. He also watched as Ludovic turned to the last man just in time for the rebel to dart forward again and sink both blades into his stomach, a few inches to either side of Ludovic’s belly button. Gregor knew it was fatal, the kidneys were probably shredded and his intestines were certainly ruptured. Ludovic gasped and dropped his massive axe. The rebel’s triumphant shout turned into a ragged scream as Ludovic brought his large hands up and started squeezing the smaller man’s head with all his remaining strength, thumbs jammed into his eye sockets.

Blood poured down the man’s face as he let go of his swords. With every ounce of power left in his body, Ludovic lifted the man by his head. The rebel’s feet kicked out frantically as his arms began jerking at his sides. There was a snapping noise as gravity tried bringing the man’s body back to the ground and all flailing ceased. The commanded of the Sons tossed the man aside and dropped to his knees. His hands were slick with blood as he struggled to pull the swords from his belly.

Gregor was startled back to action and ran forward, dropping to his knees and sliding through the blood on the floor to come to Ludovic’s side. He helped slip the blades out of his leader and lowered the mercenary gingerly to the floor. Ludovic’s eyes found his for a moment, already beginning to glass over.

“Don’t be so serious all the time, tovarishch (comrade). You should live like me. There’s no need to be so surly around everyone. Make friends. Until you’re paid to kill them, da (yes)?” He looked over Gregor’s shoulder, at something that wasn’t there.

“I lied to them, you know? The rebels. I told them I didn’t care about their problems. But they have the same problems people have all over the country. The life of a mercenary isn’t easy. One day you fight for tyranny, the next you’re hired to fight against it. The Sons may be hired to kill Vladimirovich tomorrow. Or next week. I lied about not caring, but I was honest when I said it was about the money…

“Life isn’t fair, tovarishch. The soldiers can’t fight back against the tyrants. They work for them. But us…mercenaries…we can set the people free…”Ludovic trailed off. Gregor closed his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest before placing his axe at his side. He wore a stunned look on his face, no tears fell.

Gregor left the Sons after that fight. He didn’t stop selling his sword, but he did stop selling it to the wrong people. He’d had ten years since leaving Shugrosk. Ten years of helping people; of trying to live like Ludovic would have wanted him to. He hoped it was enough. His vision was failing, and he didn’t have the strength left to drag himself another inch. He accepted that he was going to die.

He felt a strong hand grasp his shoulder and flip him onto his back. His eyes cleared enough to focus on the face of a large man wrapped in furs and leather. His head was shaved bald with tattoos on his scalp, and his jaw was covered with a thick beard.

“You must be quite the fighter.” The man rumbled. “I found a huge bear in the woods and followed your blood trail for quite some time. I was sure you’d be dead.” He spoke Russian but it was rough, accented with the strong sound of the northmen who lived even further into the tundra than his people. Gregor had skirmished with the northmen, and he’d fought together with them. The man called out in his language, but Gregor didn’t know enough of it to know what was said. But he felt those strong hands again, under his armpits, as he was hoisted off the ground and over this man’s shoulders. The jostling made black spots swim in front of his eyes, and he began to pass out again. He did know enough of their language to understand their reply.

“Yes, Jarl Rainwalker!”

Gregor awoke back in Noyadny. He was warm, draped in many fur blankets. The village’s healer was standing over him. “Ah, Gregor! We were very worried about you. It’s been a rough few weeks. We all thought you were done for. It took all my skill to clean those wounds and keep you from getting infected. It was a miracle, really.”

“What…happened to Gregor…?” the large man tried to throw back the blankets to stand, but he was very groggy. He saw that he was bare chested, with bandages wrapped around his stomach. “Easy, Gregor. Please don’t stand yet. You could tear your wounds again, and then you really may die.”

“Who…?” The healer looked puzzled for a moment, before realization hit. “Who brought you here? It was Rand Rainwalker, or that’s what he called himself. He’s one of those northmen. Very nasty business, those northfolk. They’ve pillaged and plundered from here to across the sea. He met with the town leaders here, and was going to take payment from us to keep them from attacking us.

“But that changed when he brought you out of the woods. He said you’d impressed him and he didn’t need any tribute from us.” Gregor shook his head, trying to clear it. “Gregor not understand…” The healer shrugged. “I don’t understand either.”

Several weeks passed before Gregor was back to decent health. He was able to stand and, even if he wasn’t able to fight, it was a miraculous start. He was eating in the tavern one day when several children stamped in. “Gregor, Gregor!” They called as they crowded around him.

“What is to be going on, children?” Gregor asked with a smile. “It’s about Jarl Rainwalker!” Gregor’s smile shrank a little. “What, little children?” They all chattered for a moment, but one spoke up after a moment.

“He’s gone missing!” Gregor stood abruptly, sending food and drink flying. “What?!” The children shrieked, and they all ran out except for the one who’d been speaking. “The news just came in from one of the port towns down the coast! He left in his longboat and then it just disappeared! They found the other northmen in the water but no boat, no wreckage, and no Rainwalker!”

Gregor was on a boat that afternoon. He owed his life to Rand Rainwalker, so he knew he had to find him. It would be the last time Gregor would lay eyes upon the Mother Land.

Born to the viking known as Ivarr Longbeard. Haestinn was destined for great things. For at birth, Haestinn’s fate was already set in the threads by the Norns themselves. Born to a man with such legacy that his path to Valhalla was already guaranteed.

Haestinn’s father Ivarr Longbeard died during a great battle against the Saxons. During the battle, he managed to charge through the shield wall and with a single throw of his spear managed to impale the one known as the King of all Saxons. Though suffering multiple lethal injuries, Ivarr continued fighting until his axe broke and his legs failed him.

Growing up under such a legend was taxing on Haestinn. His mother was a Seidr so he was always helping her with her rituals and magic. He learned a great deal about runes and curses. Despite Odinn himself learning such potent magic, men who practiced it were deemed as lesser. Mocked and looked down upon. With his father’s legend holding heavily over the young Haesteinn’s head, he vowed to one day not only live up to the name Ivarrson, but to surpass it.

Years later his mom, dying of old age, passed down the very spear Haestinn’s father Ivarr had used to kill the Saxon king, onto him. His father while dying on the battlefield had asked the spear be given to his son once he was of age. She told him to carry it always, and that the spear was blessed by the gods themselves.

Haesteinn still remembers his mom’s final words even to this very day…

“Your father wasn’t just a great man, he was a demi-god. The blood of Tyr runs within your veins. You are destined for greatness just like your father.”

After his mother passed, Haestinn devoted himself to learning all he could. Determined to see to it that his mom’s final words were to come true. Despite the glares and treatment, Haesteinn had an affinity towards magics. Perhaps his mom’s words were true and he did possess the blood of the gods?

Many long nights were spent staring over his father’s old spear. It was dulled, blunted, weathered. The armor of the king it slayed had flattened most of its bite when it pierced through his chestplate. It was no more than a walking stick anymore. But he refused to get it fixed. Haestinn wouldn’t fix his father’s spear until he finally lived up to his father’s looming legacy.

Years more passed, and finally feeling ready, young Haestinn set forth on his journey towards greatness. He joined a raiding party headed towards lands known as Airlann. He had heard many stories of the ones known as the celts and their ferocious nature. Seeing this as the perfect chance to prove himself. He boarded the longboat with his fellow vikings and set sail onwards towards whatever the Norns had woven into his fate.

An immense storm arrived during their voyage. It seemed to appear out of nowhere. As if Thor himself was furious at them. During the storm, Haestinn repeatedly tossed his runes to see what the gods were thinking, but he got no answer. The last thing he remembers is rushing out to help hold the sail stable only for everything to go black. 

Tales of the Rainwalker

Rand Halvarson (Hael-vaar-sun) was only 10 years old when he made the trip with his father, Halvar. Since he’d been old enough to walk, Halvar had worked with his young son to learn the ways of the northmen in the Scandinavian villages they called home. Halvar taught his son not only how to farm and live off the land, which was his primary profession, but also educated Rand in the ways of a raider. “Viking,” as they were called, was not a race of people, not a religious order, but just a job. Some men were blacksmiths, some were farriers, and some were farmers. But when the summer months came around and the ice that kept the northmen landbound began to melt, every man was a raider.

The trip in question was one that all young boys dreamed of making with their fathers. Once a year all able-bodied men from all the surrounding villages would travel to meet the leader of their region, their Jarl, to hear his decrees and learn his plans for the summer raids. Rand and his father were travelling with some of his father’s friends from their village, Lon, trekking to the largest village around called Galmastrond. This is where the Jarl of the surrounding villages took residence. He was a wise ruler, called Njord Olavson (Knee-rd Ow-laav-sun).

The reason all young boys dreamed to make the trip is because the first time you met your Jarl was when you would bend the knee, swear fealty, and be given your first arm ring. It was a big deal in a young boy’s life, because it symbolized becoming a man. A Jarl didn’t need the honor and support of a boy who he could not count on. No, a Jarl only gave an arm ring to a man; someone who he could send out to raid. Someone who would bring honor to him, and to the gods. Someone who could bring him treasure.

For years, Rand had looked forward to this meeting. He’d worked tirelessly to make his father proud. Not only had he strived to master fishing, hunting, and the working of a plow, but he had also been fervent in his training with his father to be able to sail a longboat, swing a sword and an axe, throw a dagger, and he could carry and defend himself with an iron banded shield that weighed half as much as he did. He was quickly becoming big and strong, and his father had told him these qualities would make him very valuable to Jarl Olavson.

When Halvar and Rand’s group of men reached Galmastrond, Rand found himself in awe. He’d never been in a village so large. It could almost be considered a township. He walked down the main road, seeing hundreds of people going about their daily business. Fishermen called out, selling only the best from their catch. Hunters and tanners had beautiful pelts stretched across racks drying, and Rand could see inside the shops tables full of belts and jerkins and other leather goods. Warm air rushed to greet him from open-air smithies, making him sweat under his furs in the near freezing climate, as the sound of blacksmith’s hammers rang out all across the square.

“Father, everything is so impressive…” Rand caught his father’s eye. Halvar was looking down at his son with a small smile. “Jarl Olavson is a wise man. He’s ruled over us for many years and has had many successful seasons of raiding. It’s turned Galmastrond into a very important place. It’s the center of trade in the region, and the Jarl entertains very important guests quite often.” Rand was enraptured. He couldn’t wait to meet the man that made all this possible.

After getting settled in, Rand and Halvar made their way to the Jarl’s longhouse. “The longhouse functions much like the village square back home,” Halvar explained. “It is the seat of the Jarl’s power, where meetings are held, laws are made, and punishments are carried out. And most importantly it’s where the Jarl holds the ring giving ceremonies and reveals his plans for the raiding season.”

The longhouse was dim in the fading light of late afternoon. Warm fires crackled merrily in the centers of groups of tables where other men were making themselves comfortable as they waited for their Jarl. The light enabled the men to see, but threw harsh shadows across the walls and darkened the corners of the room.

“Don’t worry, my son,” Halvar said, noticing Rand watching the shadows move around them. “No one would dare raise a weapon in the longhouse without an order. The man, or men, would dishonor themselves before the gods. And would then be executed.” The afternoon moved to evening as the men and boys talked among themselves. Men were served horns of mead as they waited, while the boys were left to thirst; no mead would be served to them by the Jarl’s servants until they wore a ring around their bicep.

Not long after the last light of the afternoon sun dipped below the horizon, the Jarl made his way out of his chambers and into the flickering light. The assembled men began to hoot and holler as the man sat in a large carved chair on a slightly raised platform that the tables were gathered in front of.

Jarl Njord Olavson was a tall man who was probably 35-40 years old. His dark brown hair was beginning to streak with grey, but his short beard was still the beard of a young man. His face was starting to show wrinkles, and smile lines deepened as he beamed at the men he commanded. He was dressed in his best tunic and breeches, with very well made leathers over the top and a majestic fur cloak wrapped around his shoulders. His boots were so well made that though they were surely many years old, they showed very little wear. He wore a dagger at his belt, but was otherwise unarmed. He was, after all, in his own home.

“Welcome, my friends,” Olavson called out, clapping his hands together jovially. Rand noticed that he wore a fine gold ring on each finger, with the light of the fire making the gemstones sparkle. “I am glad to see so many of you were able to make it. It has been a harsh winter, but harsh winters mean warm summers! And that is a recipe for profitable raiding!” The men howled and banged their horns and cups on the wooden tables, making a great clatter. The Jarl allowed it to continue for a moment before he held up a hand for silence.

“But! That is a conversation to be had later this evening! First, I can see that there are many young boys here.” He smiled wider. “This is not a place for young boys, but a place for men! We’ll have to fix this!” More cheers came from the assembled men, though they kept in check. “Come,” Olavson gestured. None of the boys moved. Halvar smirked, giving Rand a prod between the ribs. The boy jumped to his feet, causing the seat he was on to move and make a grating noise. Jarl Olavson looked to the boy, still smiling.

“Halvar! I should have known that your boy would be the first! He looks strong! A mighty addition to our raiding parties in just a few more years.” With an encouraging nod from his father Rand moved into the firelight in front of the Jarl, where he’d indicated. The boy was smiling himself now. As if roused from a stupor, the other boys began to move to stand next to Rand. Though they were all relatively the same age, Rand stood at least a head taller than all of them. It was something noticed almost immediately as the gathered men began to whisper about Halvar’s progeny. Rand didn’t notice, as he was focused on his Jarl.

Olavson looked at each boy in turn, meeting their eyes for a moment before moving on. He seemed to be sizing them up, almost as if he was looking into the future to see the deeds they would do. He seemed to hold Rand’s gaze for an instant longer than the others’. He reached into his tunic and pulled out a half dozen simple rings of iron.

“These arm rings bind you in loyalty to me, your Lord. Your chieftain. Any oath you swear on these rings must be honored, and kept. Do you understand and swear to this?” The boys all chorused, “Yes, Lord!” eyes fixed on the rings in the older man’s hand. “And,” Olavson continued, “do you freely give your fealty to me, your Lord and chieftain?” Another round of “Yes, Lord!” followed.

“Good.” The Jarl passed the rings to the six boys in front of him. “You may put on the rings.” The boys slid the rings onto their arms as the assembled men cheered. They had just been made men. It wouldn’t be long, they each thought, before their names would all ring throughout history with great deeds.

Six Years Later

Rand spent the next couple of years after getting his armband helping to protect his village during the summer raids. There were always men who stayed behind when the warriors went off to pillage. These were men who were usually too old or too young to make the voyage, but were still virile enough to be able to keep the women, children, and infirm safe while they all waited for the other men to return.

But now, Rand was 16. He’d been raiding with the other men for the last two years, and they’d been easy raids thus far. There had been skirmishes, but nothing that had required any real effort. So, even though he was desperate to prove himself, he had yet to wet his blade with the blood of an enemy warrior. He was bigger than many of the raiding men now, most of them between 5 and 10 years older than him, which led many of the people they encountered to either throw their weapons and valuables down in surrender, or to turn and run away from him screaming. He had no idea how different this raid would be from the others he’d been on before.

Everything started off easy enough. The ships had gone further west than before, in search of unmolested territory for the Scandinavian warriors to pillage. Finally, after many days at sea, they made landing not far from a mid-sized town surrounded by a wall made of logs sharpened to points at their top. There was an open drawbridge currently leaving the walls of the city open to trade and business from other townships in the English countryside, but once the warning bells were wrung, the northmen knew that the drawbridge would be raised with haste. They would have to be faster.

The warriors stopped the boats while they were still far from the village, so they wouldn’t be spotted. An early spot would mean this village would be much harder for them to infiltrate. Or, more likely, they’d have to sail further on and leave this town behind. The northmen jumped out of the boats into the water and began pulling their vessels ashore. They found a stretch of beach that looked like it saw few eyes and stashed the ships behind a rock formation jutting from the sand. There was a wooded area that surrounded the main road and encircled the town they wanted to plunder. Hopefully, this would allow them to approach unseen.

Rand and the other raiders crept through the trees as quietly as possible, each of them carrying minimal equipment to minimize their noise and maximize what they could carry back. They’d separated into three groups of 10, each boat of men working together and making their own way to the town they were planning to sack. Most of them had a wooden shield strapped to their backs, but a few of them preferred to carry long bearded axes that required two hands. A few of them carried a sword and an axe. Fewer still only carried daggers. These men fought with speed unmatched and could kill up close, where an enemy warrior’s weapon reach was useless, and from a distance as they launched their blades with deadly accuracy.

Rand himself had a shield strapped to his back. It was a great, wide circle of wood that was banded in iron and painted black and purple, with a gold bear’s paw standing out in the center. He carried a sword that was shorter than the longswords favored by the English knights, but that was standard for the raiders. When paired with his shield, the Englishmen’s longer blades didn’t mean a thing. Also strapped to Rand’s belt was a small handaxe. It could be paired with his sword, it could be used with his shield, or it could be thrown. It was incredibly versatile, and could even be used to hook another warrior’s blade to disarm them. In Rand’s hands, even though it was smaller than many other axes carried by his fellows, it could be used to bash and cut through the wood of other shields.

The Vikings moved silently through the trees, and it looked like they would make it to the town without incident. But as Rand stalked through the trees, a sudden rush of feathers above him made him pause. Something had disturbed the birds in the trees ahead of them, and they’d taken to the sky. Each of the Scandinavian warriors stopped in their tracks, holding their breath. On the path, after a moment, they saw several armored men riding on horseback. They moved at a trot, obviously unaware of the men creeping through the woods. Rand would have preferred to leave the men alone. Attacking them could possibly alert the people of the town to their presence. However, not all of the warriors were as cautious as Rand.

One of the men let out a whoop as he threw a dagger with blinding speed. Rand could barely track the path of the blade until it hit its mark with deadly accuracy. With a sick gurgle and a spray of crimson the knife blossomed from the knight’s neck and he fell from his horse with a clatter as his armored body crashed to the ground. Immediately the horse the knight was riding on reared back and made a great commotion. At the same time, the other knights on horseback whirled their mounts around and began to take up a formation. The rest of the Viking warriors around Rand rushed from their hiding places with cries of excitement as the battle began.

There were only 8 knights left of this patrol. Two of them, each wearing a plumed helmet that set them apart as more capable warriors stayed on their horses as the other six dismounted to meet the warriors. The man who threw the dagger rushed toward one of the men still on horseback, followed by another. The other knight still riding also had two raiders to contend with, leaving the other warriors to face off with a knight by themselves.

Running up to meet Rand was a massive man with a greatsword as long as he was tall held in both hands out to the side of him. It was obvious why this knight had chosen to face off with Rand, as each was the largest man in their force of fighters. They were nearly even in size and strength, so Rand knew he’d have to be the bigger man in skill and cunning. His shield was in his hand before the man was halfway to him, as he knew that one wrong move and that sword could cut him in two.

Rand threw up his left arm as the knight brought the sword around and high up above his head. The knight grunted loudly and the air itself seemed to scream as the blade came down with enough force to behead a man and cut through the tree behind him. The blade bit into the iron band around the shield, making a terrible screech and throwing a spark of iron-on-iron. Rand spun, bringing the shield over his body, forcing the blade to slide off on Rand’s right side and burying its edge in the dirt. Using the momentum of his roll, Rand brought his sword arm around, intent on cutting off the knight’s right arm.

The knight was obviously very skilled, or very lucky, because Rand’s sword clashed against the huge man’s heavy bracer. Another spark flew, but the armor hadn’t even been dented by the powerful strike. The knight jumped back, freeing his blade from the ground. Rand eyed him warily, knowing that his shield could only take so much punishment. He also knew that he couldn’t even attempt to parry that huge blade with his shorter one. A downward strike onto his blade would snap the iron that he relied on to keep him alive.

The knight grinned smugly as he hefted his sword into a ready position. “You seem like a good warrior. I’m glad I get to be the one to kill you, northman.” Rand didn’t reply. He knew the knight was trying to goad him into action; into making a mistake. It was something that may work on some of the other raiders he travelled with. Some of them were impulsive and quick to strike, but Rand was patient.

“No reply? Are you able to understand my language, savage? Too busy rutting with your pig of a sister to learn? Or was it your mother?” The knight laughed heartily. Rand took a moment to survey how the battle was going around him. The other knights fighting on foot had been, or were in the process of being dispatched. One of the horsemen was pinned under his fallen mount, screaming in pain from what was likely a busted leg. The other horseman was fleeing, blood streaming out behind him like a pennant. One of the warriors let an axe fly with a perfect rotation, and it buried itself right between the rider’s shoulder blades, cutting right through the boiled leather back of this mail shirt. With a choked groan he dropped from the saddle as the horse slowed to a trot and then to a stop.

It was a momentary distraction, but it was all a skilled fighter needed to end a skirmish. The knight didn’t seem to care that his comrades were dead. Perhaps he thought he would fight his way through a whole party of savages and come back to glory. Regardless, he threw himself forward with a straight jab of his mighty blade. Rand caught the blade on his shield again, chiding himself for losing focus for that brief second. He brought his own blade up to leverage the greatsword back into the ground, but the knight twisted his sword deftly and Rand’s hold on his blade loosened. His blade flew off to the right as the knight leaped back again, and then rushed just as quickly with the intent to finish off his unarmed foe in one strike.

As he brought the blade around for a devastating slash from his right side, Rand threw out his shield arm, ducked down, and pulled his axe from his belt. As the blade caught the shield for the third time, Rand let the momentum roll the shield as he turned and allowed the blade to skirt off the top. His shield just an inch above his head the only thing separating him from the giant sword, he brought his arm up in a deadly sweep, burying the head of his axe into the knight’s armpit. The knight’s life-blood sprayed from around the axe-head, dousing Rand Halvarson in the sticky mess. 

The knight screamed out in pain and staggered back, freeing Rand’s axe in the process. More blood streamed out of the open wound as the knight fought to keep his sword up and level. But he was quickly losing strength. Rand, knowing the skirmish was over, collected his sword and stowed the axe back on his belt. As the large knight fell, Rand was examining his shield to make sure it was still able to be used. The other warriors eyed him with appreciation.

“An excellent finish, Rainwalker.” Called the raider with the daggers who started the whole conflict. He was kneeling over one of the knights, using the fallen warrior’s tunic to clean his blades. “Rainwalker?” Rand asked, raising an eyebrow. The raider grinned wickedly. “It has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it Rand Rainwalker? You look as though you’ve been doused by a storm of blood!”

That summer’s raiding was particularly fruitful. The three boats that landed shoved off stuffed full of silver goods and coins. Only two or three warriors from each boat were left behind, weapons clutched in their hands and souls soaring into the sky in the arms of the Valkyries. Their spots on the boats were used to carry even more treasure, which is what the warriors would have wanted. The men were welcomed back with much excitement, and the story of Rand Rainwalker started to grow.

Twelve Years Later

Life had been good for Rand Rainwalker in the years since that fateful raid. He’d gone on many more successful raids to the west, and even some to the east. His small village of Lon had grown exponentially in the years he’d been raiding, as he’d become a rich man. His family hadn’t wanted for anything in quite some time, and Rand himself was being eyed as a successor to Jarl Olavson, who was quite on in years.

Rand had been leading raids to the west for the last few years, and he’d built a group he could count on around him. Men and women who lived in his village that he could trust with his life. And they could trust him with theirs. It was those people he was with that day. He’d taken them all out fishing, working to bring in a large haul for the people of Lon. When they were done for the day, they brought their catch in and were startled to see smoke rising from the village. When they landed their fishing boat they saw Lon in flames with men, women, and children laying in the streets.

He felt a burning rage that was entirely alien to him as he commanded his raiders to ready his longboat. He set sail to avenge the village of Lon in the winter of 1028 A.D., and history tells no more tales of Rand Rainwalker…

Age: 17 

Race: Human/shape shifter/ Half blood 

Parents: Mother: Rebecca a human Father: Janus god of change 

Character Traits: Adventurous, Calm, Clever, Dangerous, Doubtful, Friendly, Helpful, Holeful, and Shy. 

Special Marks/tattoos: she has a fire tattoo on her arm and she a mark over eye and a mark on her lip 

Jewelry: Wears a crystal on her necklace to keep her from shape shifting 

Clothes: dirty and ripped clothes a side bag, more adventurous clothes 

Before Rose was born, her father was a god who fell in love with a human. When Rose was born her mother died during childbirth and Rose's father cursed her for killing the love of his life in his eyes. Rose is the bastard child of a god who cursed her to never have one shape and to forever be an outcast in society. She can't control her shifting ability. She was kicked out by her father and lived for years in the woods and became an adventurer and started her life new. 

An orc warrior with a thirst for battle. He was a mercenary before being betrayed by his employer. He woke up on the beach of an unknown land the remnants of a shipwreck all around him. He has vowed to find his betrayer and continue his life spreading violence for the highest bidder.

Trinity was the young leader of a mercenary band (no better than cutthroats really) in the Duchy of Westergate. After a time the duchy decided it was better to have the company under their employ than to have to continue fighting them. A legitimate fighting company the Pack became a well respected group in the Duchy but Trinity's bloodlust would not allow him to stay idle for long. Trinity would train, and train, but no amount of practice would truly allow him to feel the thrill of killing. Over the years his company had become lax, and one day Trinity lost control of his bloodlust and during training he killed them all. Friends, brothers, lovers, even the children they had started taking on as recruits. Tom between shame, and disappointment that his group had fallen so far they could not kill him, Trinity leaves the duchy to become a hermit to either learn to control his bloodlust or die by it. A quarter of a century later. Old, sore, and out of shape, Trinity had started to trade with a local shire, being careful not to make friends or pick up any weapons. Trinity was at last at peace. Peace like a gray rainy day bleak, boring. tiring. One day while shopping the town was attacked by the Fairyfolk wanting their grove back. Trinity forced to defend himself Trinity grabs a sword and helps defend the town. Seeing blood, smelling the viscera filling the air, Trinity felt alive again for the first time in such a very long time. Trinity, more rusty than his old sword, somehow lives the day. The town taking heavy losses convinces Trinity to stay, recover, train and help train recruits to continue defending the town. The fae with thier trickery and manipulation made Trinity start seeing the townsfolk as the enemies, and once again Trinity loses himself in the carnage. Did the Faes magic fade before he stopped killing? Trinity didn't care anymore. Knowing he cannot lead, and cannot follow, Resigned to a life of loneliness, and blood Trinity once again leaves. Heading to his old home up the mighty river a strange purple fog envelops the boat and Tninity passes out Waking up pieces of the boat littered around Trinity doesn't recognize his surroundings. He sees the smoke of a settlement rising and wonders if it is friendly or not. As Trinity is walking towards he hears the screams and clashing weapons of battle.... He wonders as he draws his weapons now long he can continue 

 She was never just a normal being, like a farmer's daughter, or a local merchant. She was always put above others, held in a high place among nobles. She enjoyed her life. That is all anyone could ask for.

Until the night the monsters attacked the kingdom. 

They were everywhere; hordes of demons raiding and pillaging until they found what they were looking for. Apparently what they wanted was the girl. She was captured and shipped off to their leader. He told her that her blood made her special. That he wanted to turn her to be like him and make her his bride. He made it sound like a fantasy, but she knew it would be trouble no matter what she chose to do. If she even had a choice. 

I'd like to say that this was my story, but it isn't, not really anyway. It was my mother's story. A human princess stolen away by a demon prince. Made to marry him and be ravished by him. I was the result of that union. My name is Vixie Rainehouse, and I am half demon. 

My mother had died during childbirth and my father being disgusted by me because I looked more human than like him, dumped me off with a priestess to raise me. 

I had a normal childhood, being raised in a peaceful home. I'd always assumed the priestess was my mother. She raised me, taught me all I knew. As I got older though, I had realized the woman who raised me, was not actually my mother when she sat me down to tell me the story of how she came to rear me. During all the years she was taking care of me, she had been looking for ways to suppress the non-human half of me. She delved into the occult, breaking her own oaths and laws to help me. Unfortunately, all she could find was how to make me fully like my father. She told me that we would work together from now on to find a way around my father's bloodline. I wanted to know how she knew my father in the first place, but she'd said it was a story for another time.

Several days later, we received a knock on our door. My adoptive mother answered only to scream in terror. I'd rushed to her to find out what was happening when she turned to me, telling me to run.

Two demons were standing at our door. They said my father wanted me to return to him, to become like him. I noticed my mother was reaching for the dagger we kept behind the counter in our home. I shook my head slightly, but she either didn't notice or ignored me. She'd grabbed the dagger and jumped between me and my father's henchmen, yelling at me to run away. As the attack began I fled through the backdoor. I ran as hard as I could as I heard her dying screams fade away. 

I ran until I couldn't run anymore. I was alone, and terrified; but I was mostly angry. How dare my father kill both of my mothers and just expect me to join him again. How dare I run away while the only mother I knew was killed. I kept walking until I came to the shore of the Lilac Sea. My mother and I used to get seashells from this beach to make paints. She taught me archery and sword fighting here. She was about to start teaching me medicine. 

As my thoughts raced, I began to hyperventilate and I blacked out. When I awoke, I was in a boat, resting on unknown shores.

That was my life up until this point. I have no idea where I am, but I do know this. I will do whatever it takes to get revenge on my father.