most_precious_blood
Newbie
They came in the dead of night, five men and one woman. They smashed in the door to the his house, and butchered his entire family in just a few short moments. They killed the family as a warning to other representatives of the law, or so they said.
Hulreathe came home to find his wife and family dead in his house. He stood paralyzed with horror in the center of the living room, surrounded by pools of gore that were once his whole life.
After a time, feeling returned to him, numb fingers began to burn with the heat of rage.
In the full grip of rage, he took anything valuable, burning everything else right then and there. He then traveled quickly to the tower of Maerissa, where he hired powerful wizards to craft him a blade worthy of exacting his revenge.
The wizards indulged him and crafted that day the last of the Graedess blades. They quenched the blade in dragon's blood, and named it Wrath.
With that, Hulreathe set upon the trail of the murderers. He had no more ties, nothing more to lose, his wife and children were nothing more than ashes now. He forced the pictures of his gore-streaked house from his mind, and focused on the task at hand.
He found their trail in the bazaar at Na'zaa, and from there, he laid waste to anyone who harbored or assisted them. Hulreathe went from lead to lead, killing or maiming until someone anyone came forward with any information about his quarry.
Eventually the murderers were ratted out, and out of friends, supplies, and places to hide, the final stage of the chase was on.
But what he did not know, was that his enemies numbered much more than just six. Hulreathe chased them down, and in their own camp he slew three....
On he went, after the other half of the assasssins. He rode for days, finally reaching the northern kingdom of Colear.
He finally found them on the southern plains of Colear, and it was there that he learned the depth of his betrayal at the hands of his lord... It did not matter, for his heart had already ceased beating, his mind long since shattered.
All that this knowledge brought was a further strengthening of his will; He knew he would die this day, but he would make those bastards pay. He walked down into the grassy valley that was their encampment, and thus the killing began.
He clove his way through their ranks, in rage unchained he was a terror to behold. Hulreathe's skill was great, but he was no legend.... Nay, it was his wrath that carried him that day.
His wrath knew no pain of body or of spirit. He shrugged off hits that would have felled a horse as if it were the mere sting of a mosquito. Yet to one such as he there are limitations, only so much blood can be lost before the muscles begin to slow. The armor can only take so much punishment before it begins to crack. The wounds began to mount as more of his blood was spilt.
His enemies were falling before his unstoppable onslaught, yet it looked as if they would surely win the day; and then, a mighty blow slipped past his defenses, slamming him to his knees.
He waited for the killing blow even though he still clutched his sword. As the blade fell his sword rose to meet it. His enemies weapon could not handle the impact and shattered. Up Hulreathe rose, though his eyes were glazed, and movements slow.
He staggered forward and the killing began anew. It was always a legend that a Graedess blade would never fail its master, this time I believe the blade would not let its master fail it.
Hulreathe carried on by his wrath, and his blade, slew the rest of the enemy host that day. Like a wrathful Fae, he rose up and slew all that tried to make escape or stand ground... including the lord who had betrayed him. As his lord's head rolled to a stop Shallu ran down to hold him, he was ghastly pale and looked right through her yet he knew she was there. He uttered to her a poem of which I still remember each word. Then despite her considerable skill in both medicine and magic, his spirit would not stay in his body. From this existence he did pass. She wept for him, and for her sister and their lost children. Then she carried out his wish and burnt his body, but she did not finish his instructions, and his soul was left to wander, trapped between life and death, a souls existing only to feed from the wrath of the blade.
Of his enemies, Shallu left them for the crows... and his wrath she left there, for she went to touch it and it would not have her.
This is his song, so that it might no longer go unsung.
Beneath the stone I breathe so slow
I'll say a prayer to all held dear
Even now, with not far to go
The time of my return draws near
The years pass by, just like my dreams
I've slipped to depths you cannot know
Tiny currents in dark streams
And now it's time to start the show
Time to retake what was lost
at the hands of a host so fell
It's time I show them all the cost
It's time to send them back to hell
Dirge for the fallen, wrathful and brave
Carry me safely on shield, to my grave
Bury my body, that my soul might rest
And set with the dying sun to the west.
The night will bring the Shadow-call
The ancient rises in his wrath
A hero backed against a wall
and forced to walk this bitter path
An enemy that will not yield
For the fallen blood, and flesh of elf
In wrath, his blade will clear the field
the truest test is to deny the self
Though he will fail by arcane art
By shield and blade he'll bring
The hope of dawn into his heart
And peace, of which the bards will sing
Sing for those who believed the lies
Burn my bones, let them char the skies
Release me from this pain, and my beast
to join with the rising sun to the east.
Hulreathe's last words issued from trembling lips, stained crimson from the blood of his foes. Singing his own dirge, his instructions to her on how to prepare his body for the afterlife, he began to come apart. His body simply failed him, the blade had finally let him go. It would be decades before the blade would find its way into the hands of a boy named Marcidius, and longer still until Hulreathe and I were made one. To this day, only four have ever wielded the blade: Myself, Marcidius, Hulreathe, and Laros Sonus.
It will only accept those who have lost their true family, and have offered to the blade in sacrifice their heart's desire.
The story does not end there, but I must break for now, I am parched.
-TD, KBN
Hulreathe came home to find his wife and family dead in his house. He stood paralyzed with horror in the center of the living room, surrounded by pools of gore that were once his whole life.
After a time, feeling returned to him, numb fingers began to burn with the heat of rage.
In the full grip of rage, he took anything valuable, burning everything else right then and there. He then traveled quickly to the tower of Maerissa, where he hired powerful wizards to craft him a blade worthy of exacting his revenge.
The wizards indulged him and crafted that day the last of the Graedess blades. They quenched the blade in dragon's blood, and named it Wrath.
With that, Hulreathe set upon the trail of the murderers. He had no more ties, nothing more to lose, his wife and children were nothing more than ashes now. He forced the pictures of his gore-streaked house from his mind, and focused on the task at hand.
He found their trail in the bazaar at Na'zaa, and from there, he laid waste to anyone who harbored or assisted them. Hulreathe went from lead to lead, killing or maiming until someone anyone came forward with any information about his quarry.
Eventually the murderers were ratted out, and out of friends, supplies, and places to hide, the final stage of the chase was on.
But what he did not know, was that his enemies numbered much more than just six. Hulreathe chased them down, and in their own camp he slew three....
On he went, after the other half of the assasssins. He rode for days, finally reaching the northern kingdom of Colear.
He finally found them on the southern plains of Colear, and it was there that he learned the depth of his betrayal at the hands of his lord... It did not matter, for his heart had already ceased beating, his mind long since shattered.
All that this knowledge brought was a further strengthening of his will; He knew he would die this day, but he would make those bastards pay. He walked down into the grassy valley that was their encampment, and thus the killing began.
He clove his way through their ranks, in rage unchained he was a terror to behold. Hulreathe's skill was great, but he was no legend.... Nay, it was his wrath that carried him that day.
His wrath knew no pain of body or of spirit. He shrugged off hits that would have felled a horse as if it were the mere sting of a mosquito. Yet to one such as he there are limitations, only so much blood can be lost before the muscles begin to slow. The armor can only take so much punishment before it begins to crack. The wounds began to mount as more of his blood was spilt.
His enemies were falling before his unstoppable onslaught, yet it looked as if they would surely win the day; and then, a mighty blow slipped past his defenses, slamming him to his knees.
He waited for the killing blow even though he still clutched his sword. As the blade fell his sword rose to meet it. His enemies weapon could not handle the impact and shattered. Up Hulreathe rose, though his eyes were glazed, and movements slow.
He staggered forward and the killing began anew. It was always a legend that a Graedess blade would never fail its master, this time I believe the blade would not let its master fail it.
Hulreathe carried on by his wrath, and his blade, slew the rest of the enemy host that day. Like a wrathful Fae, he rose up and slew all that tried to make escape or stand ground... including the lord who had betrayed him. As his lord's head rolled to a stop Shallu ran down to hold him, he was ghastly pale and looked right through her yet he knew she was there. He uttered to her a poem of which I still remember each word. Then despite her considerable skill in both medicine and magic, his spirit would not stay in his body. From this existence he did pass. She wept for him, and for her sister and their lost children. Then she carried out his wish and burnt his body, but she did not finish his instructions, and his soul was left to wander, trapped between life and death, a souls existing only to feed from the wrath of the blade.
Of his enemies, Shallu left them for the crows... and his wrath she left there, for she went to touch it and it would not have her.
This is his song, so that it might no longer go unsung.
Beneath the stone I breathe so slow
I'll say a prayer to all held dear
Even now, with not far to go
The time of my return draws near
The years pass by, just like my dreams
I've slipped to depths you cannot know
Tiny currents in dark streams
And now it's time to start the show
Time to retake what was lost
at the hands of a host so fell
It's time I show them all the cost
It's time to send them back to hell
Dirge for the fallen, wrathful and brave
Carry me safely on shield, to my grave
Bury my body, that my soul might rest
And set with the dying sun to the west.
The night will bring the Shadow-call
The ancient rises in his wrath
A hero backed against a wall
and forced to walk this bitter path
An enemy that will not yield
For the fallen blood, and flesh of elf
In wrath, his blade will clear the field
the truest test is to deny the self
Though he will fail by arcane art
By shield and blade he'll bring
The hope of dawn into his heart
And peace, of which the bards will sing
Sing for those who believed the lies
Burn my bones, let them char the skies
Release me from this pain, and my beast
to join with the rising sun to the east.
Hulreathe's last words issued from trembling lips, stained crimson from the blood of his foes. Singing his own dirge, his instructions to her on how to prepare his body for the afterlife, he began to come apart. His body simply failed him, the blade had finally let him go. It would be decades before the blade would find its way into the hands of a boy named Marcidius, and longer still until Hulreathe and I were made one. To this day, only four have ever wielded the blade: Myself, Marcidius, Hulreathe, and Laros Sonus.
It will only accept those who have lost their true family, and have offered to the blade in sacrifice their heart's desire.
The story does not end there, but I must break for now, I am parched.
-TD, KBN